The Leading Edge of Now

by Marci Lyn Curtis

  I say, “I need to be alone.”

  She says, “Grace?”

  I don’t answer. A couple of minutes later, I hear her walking away.

  Forty-Four

  I’m sitting on the floor in my room late that afternoon, my back flat against the wall, the hardwood slats cool and rigid underneath me. I can hear Rusty in the living room, in front of a baseball game, snoring loudly — the sound of a simple, uncomplicated life.

  I cry for a while, like some pathetic female character on the Lifetime Channel, feeling stupid and ashamed, because — Jesus — there are girls on Mr. McAllister’s track team. And I’ve wasted almost two years by not stepping forward. Who knows how many of them might’ve gotten hurt by now?

  Also, I’m trying to gather the courage to talk to the police.

  Talk to Owen.

  Talk to Janna.

  It can’t wait, really.

  My violin is on the other side of my room, propped against my bed. For the first time ever, I don’t want to play it. I don’t even want to look at it, actually. It’s the window I keep glancing at, like there’s some sort of magnet attached to it, drawing my attention from across the room, again and again. Finally I haul myself upright and step toward it. My feet, as I walk, feel heavy enough to crash clear through the floorboards.

  I brace both hands on the windowsill and look out. Mr. McAllister’s car is in the driveway next door. I don’t know why I find this surprising, but the sight strikes me dumb for a second. All I can think is, Why did he move here, of all places? I mean, the balls. To live and eat and sleep and love right next to the house where he raped me, right next to my uncle. Right next to me.

  It’s almost like he’s flaunting it.

  I’m crying again, everything inside me ripping open and spilling out, the humiliation I’ve clutched so tightly the past couple of years, the anger I’ve stuffed into my rib cage, the fear that’s cleaved to my cells. God — fear of everything. Of living and dying, of loving and desertion, of friendship and loneliness. The stupid truth of it all is that day after day I’ve been trying to protect myself from things that have been out of my control. I’ve been worrying about getting hurt or getting sick or getting abandoned. But the fact is, people like me get raped every day. People like Dad die every day. People like Owen are involved in accidents that are out of their control every single day.

  The world, with all its beauty and wonder and love, is a frightening place.

  I’m still staring out the window when Owen swings open his back door and steps outside. I freeze — trying to hold back my thick press of tears — and watch him walk into his driveway, toward the garage. It’s clear that Janna told him what happened this morning. He’s hunched and pale, his tension evident even in the waning daylight. Glancing my direction, Owen’s eyes meet mine. He jerks to a stop. For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other. Then he gestures for me to come outside.

  My chest constricts, suddenly and painfully. I nod once.

  This is it: the beginning of the end.

  And I’m propelled toward it, because I can’t be the person who gives Owen’s dad the freedom to hurt another girl. I can’t turn my back on this. Not anymore.

  So at long last, I scrub the tears off my face. I wipe my palms on my clothes. I draw in a deep breath. And I walk out of my room.

  I used to think bravery is something you’re born with, like blue eyes or big feet or a good sense of humor. But that isn’t the case at all. Bravery — it isn’t something that you have. It’s something you use. A bridge that you walk across when you want to get somewhere, no less accessible than the wooden planks of Rusty’s porch as I step outside.

  Lifting my chin, I stride down the steps. Suddenly I’m Faith, walking fearlessly into the unknown. I’m Eleanor, ready to speak the truth without filter. I’m Janna, writing my own story. I’m every girl, every woman, every female who has ever walked this planet in fear. I’m me, prepared to face the truth.

  Forty-Five

  Owen’s eyes are hooked on me as I approach. “Hey,” he says. His voice is scratchy and rough, like he scrubbed his throat with Brillo pads. Though he looks pale and strung out and stressed, I know I look much, much worse.

  “Hey.” I stand there for a moment, my hands dangling at my sides, wondering what to do, wondering what to say, wondering what the protocol is for destroying someone’s life in a couple of seconds flat. There might be proper words for this particular situation — a tactful way to lead up to the truth — but I don’t know what they are.

  The concrete is warm under my feet as I stare up at Owen. I can hear a plane whirring overhead. A dog barking somewhere down the street.

  You can do this, I tell myself, fully aware that once Owen knows the truth, it will be permanent. I look up at him, reach out and give his hand a brief squeeze. It’s probably the last time I’ll touch him, so I memorize everything about the moment. The shocking color of his eyes. The earnestness in his jawline. The half-moon shadow under his collarbone.

  I don’t have a clue what I’m going to do with my life or the wallets I stole or my smashed-up heart. All I know is that I’m the one in charge of it. Just me. So I look into Owen’s eyes.

  I take a big breath.

  I open my mouth.

  And I tell him everything.

  #

  Owen blinks. And blinks some more. His face is blank. I don’t know what’s happening inside him. Maybe he’s gone into shock. Then he says slowly, almost like the words are too big to fit in his mouth, “My dad was the one who …”

  I watch the color leach from his face. His right eye is twitching. I want to flatten a palm on it to make it stop, but I know that my days of touching Owen are long gone. There’s no way to fix this. No chance of stitching it back together. I try to draw in a breath. The air doesn’t make it past my throat. “Yes,” I say.

  Owen just keeps staring at me. “My dad,” he says.

  I can see pain in every angle of his face. He looks completely demolished, like I crammed a lit explosive inside his rib cage and blew him apart.

  I’ve done it. I’ve hurt him again, and this is something I can never help him through. Guilt kicks in, flooding my chest. I want to take my confession and shove it right back to where it came from. “I’m sorry,” I say, not even trying to stop the tears from coming, waiting for him to jerk around and look at me in disgust. But he just keeps on pacing.

  I feel so responsible for all of this. Why? I haven’t done anything wrong. For once, I’m doing something right. I fold my arms across my chest. “Owen, please,” I beg, although I don’t know what I’m asking of him.

  He seems to understand, though, because he straightens up, jams his hands in his pockets and says in a cold, closed voice that I’ve never heard before, “This is a lot to take in.” Then he turns toward me and our eyes meet. The moment lasts so long that I have to look away. “You’re the only girl I’ve ever loved,” he says in a voice so heavy that my heart collapses under the weight of it. “How am I supposed to deal with that?”

  But I don’t have time to reply, because just then, to my utter shock, Mr. McAllister opens the back door and steps outside.

  I can’t —

  I’m —

  Oh, God.

  I inhale quickly, the sight of him cold and sharp and painful. The instinct to run is overpowering. I wedge my feet together, locking myself in place. My legs are shaking so badly that the bones in my ankles knock together.

  I’m humiliated. Ashamed and embarrassed.

  But I’m also furious.

  Mr. McAllister doesn’t seem to notice. He’s twirling his keys around his index finger as he heads to his car. “What’s up?” he says, as casual as a pair of Chucks, sliding to a stop in front of us.

  Jesus, he’s smooth. I have to give him that. He looks like the epitome of a perfect father, standing here wi
th his brows furrowed in mild concern. His eyes slide to Owen and linger there a second, assessing the confusion and rage in Owen’s expression, and then they finally make their way to me. A prickle of revulsion skitters up my spine. I fold my arms over my chest, all of a sudden feeling completely naked.

  I remember watching him clap in the closing moments of one of Janna’s plays. I remember watching him hug his wife that day I went to the river to feed the ducks.

  I remember waking up bruised and bloody and terrified.

  Nauseated, I turn away, wishing I could slip right out of my skin and disappear forever. But in this moment, with the truth pressing down so hard on me, all I can do is whisper, “How could you?”

  His expression falters for a fraction of a second before it reassembles itself. Then he gives me a perplexed smile. “How could I what?” he asks, all earnestness and fatherly sincerity.

  His acting could give Janna’s a run for its money.

  Owen’s hands are balled into fists. His breaths are ragged enough to make his whole body lurch backward with each one. Pressing a knuckle to his forehead, Owen says, very distinctly, “You raped her.”

  Mr. McAllister’s eyes dart to me and then back to Owen, his face turning as ashen as the eastern sky above. Giving Owen a plastic-looking smile, he says, “What are you talking about, son?”

  “Don’t call me son,” Owen says, his voice disturbingly even. His father’s composure is starting to falter. I can see it in the tenseness of his muscles and the defensive way he plants both feet apart from each other as Owen goes on to say, “Let me refresh your memory. Two years ago, when Rusty had a bunch of guys over to watch the Gators’ season opener, you went into Grace’s room and raped her while she was knocked out on Ambien.”

  “That’s ludicrous,” Mr. McAllister sputters.

  Owen opens and closes his hands several times, and then he leans toward his dad and says, “Cut the crap, all right? Sawyer already told Grace everything, how he walked in and saw —” Owen stops for a moment and gulps, then begins again. “How he walked in and saw what you were doing to her, and how you threatened to expose him for steroid use.”

  Mr. McAllister shakes his head fervently. I can see a vein in his temple pulsing, the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. He says, “That boy is disturbed. All those drugs he’s been taking — his mind is completely fried. He doesn’t know what he’s talking abou —”

  “Sawyer walked in the room and saw you having sex with Grace without her permission! I think it was pretty goddamn clear!” Owen bellows. It’s so sudden and so out of character that I flinch and cover my mouth with my hand.

  Mr. McAllister holds up a palm. “Look, why don’t we go for a walk, so we can clear this up without making a scene?”

  Owen’s expression is brittle. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says. “We’re going to get into the car, pick up Sawyer and then we’re all going to drive to the police station and talk.”

  Mr. McAllister swallows. He glances toward me, his eyes shooting away before they can meet mine. “Owen, think about this for a moment. Going to the police would be a mistake.”

  It isn’t exactly a confession, but it isn’t a denial, either. And it feels surreal, a movie scene playing out in front of me.

  “Really, Dad? How would it be a mistake?”

  Mr. McAllister crosses his arms. “It was so long ago. There’s no evidence that bears weight. People will just think Grace is crying wolf. That could be dangerous for a girl’s reputation.”

  A flicker of indecision passes through Owen’s expression.

  And that’s when I find my voice.

  “That’s a load of horseshit and you know it,” I shout. Oh, I’m talking now. My voice is getting louder and louder with every word. I have no idea how I’ve gotten there, but I’m standing right in front of him, my finger in his face. “You aren’t worried about me or my reputation — all you’re worried about is saving your own goddamn ass. What you did to me — it was sick and it was brutal and it ruined me. Don’t you get that?!” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Owen turn away. I’m overwhelmingly aware that he can’t look at his father. Can’t look at me. “You were family to me,” I go on, and the enormous injustice of what he did, his absolute betrayal, has me sobbing and yelling at the same time. “And you went into my room that night and stole my life.”

  With my last words, I hear Rusty’s front door fly open. Rusty leans over his porch railing, hat in his hands, a bare look of confusion on his face. He says, “What’s going on? Everything okay?”

  Nobody speaks. Nobody breathes. We’re statues, staring at Rusty, who’s now taking the steps two at a time, who’s now walking quickly toward us, his brows crammed together.

  For the first time this evening, Owen’s father looks terrified. He takes a step toward his car, glancing at the door handle.

  “What’s going on?” Rusty repeats as he comes to a stop.

  Suddenly we’re four corners in a boxing ring, three of us looking at Owen’s father.

  I turn toward Rusty. I swallow hard, my mouth dry. “Owen’s dad —” I stop. Close my eyes. It’s easier, not having to look at him. It’s like whispering a secret in the dark, like lying in bed, muttering an embarrassing truth over the phone. The dark — it makes you bolder. I say the words slowly and carefully, so there’s no mistaking them. “He raped me.”

  Rusty doesn’t reply, and for a moment I wonder whether I only thought the words and didn’t speak them out loud.

  I open my eyes.

  Rusty’s hands are frozen in the air. He’s staring at me, pale and dazed. “What?” he says. There’s a quiver in his voice that makes me want to take off running.

  I can hardly breathe. There isn’t enough air out here. I say, “He came into my room that night I took Ambien, when …” My voice breaks and I clear my throat. “It was a couple of years ago, during that party you had for the Gators’ season opener.”

  Rusty blinks at me. “He what?”

  Every time this secret is shared, its horror seems to quadruple in size.

  I try to keep my voice even. It takes a lot of effort. My words, and all the truth and tragedy in them, come out softly, almost in a whisper. “Owen’s dad raped me, Rusty.”

  This time they seem to find purchase in Rusty’s head. They just … snag on something and stay there. Every muscle in his body tenses, and he turns toward Owen’s father, who takes another step backward. Rusty, though, he’s a mountain of stillness — except for the infinitesimal motion of his jaw tightening. To Owen, he says, “Take Grace home, please.”

  Owen just looks at him.

  Rusty closes his eyes for a quick second and says, “Now.”

  Taking me by the elbow, Owen leads me toward Rusty’s porch steps. I look over my shoulder just in time to see Rusty yank his phone out of his pocket and call the police.

  #

  I wake around two in the morning, curled up at the end of my bed, facing the window. After the deputy talked to me, and after Owen’s dad left in a police car, I lay in bed and watched Rusty and Mrs. McAllister as they stood in the driveway, wrapped up in quiet discussion.

  Now, as I wander toward the kitchen to grab a glass of water, I find Rusty, still dressed in the same clothes, standing at the living room window in a rectangle of moonlight. I come to a stop beside him. We stay like that for a while. Finally Rusty says, “How are you holding up?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure of much of anything right now.” Rusty reaches toward me with one burly arm and pulls me close. Looking up at him, I say, “Thank you for believing me. For calling the police.”

  His eyes widen a little, surprised. “No thanks needed, kid.”

  “I know, but it’s just —” I sigh and give him a small smile. “It’s nice to have family behind me, is all.”

  He closes his eyes, his expression disto
rting a little. “That’s something you should never have to thank family for, G. Real family — they’re supposed to be there for you. Always.” He seems to be deflating, right in front of my eyes. His shoulders sag. His mouth falls slack. And for the first time in my life, I see him break down and cry. It takes a long time for him to start speaking, and I wait him out. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he says, “I want to tell you something, and I want you to hear me out, okay? And when I’m finished, if you hate me, well, that’s my cross to bear.” I nod once. Everything inside me goes still as I look up at him. His chin is wobbling as he says, “Your dad’s death. It was my fault. He told me that weekend, Gracie. He told me when we walked over to watch the fireworks that he was having chest pain. And you know what I told him? I said it was probably heartburn. His death — that’s on me, kid.” He’s really sobbing now. He swallows and pinches his eyes closed with his fingers. “How could I even look at you, knowing it was my fault? How could I bring you into my home, knowing that it was me who caused you so much pain? So I didn’t. I was a coward. I left you to rot with those strangers.” He blinks several times and looks up at the ceiling. “Fact is, I didn’t deserve you. And I still don’t. I’m not a good person, G. That’s what I found out. Your dad, he was the good one.”

  Heartache and heartbreak grip my chest. “Rusty, no. No. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t. You didn’t know any better, and neither did Dad. What happened to Dad — it was devastating, and I miss him every day. But I’ll never blame you for it. You shouldn’t, either.”

  He gives me a weak smile. “Maybe someday.”

  “And you came for me eventually,” I whisper.

  He exhales and rubs the back of his neck. “Day late and a dollar short,” he mutters. Even in the dim light, he looks pale. “And look at you,” he goes on. “You’re still a good person. The adults in your life have either deserted you or hurt you, and you walk out of it like you’re fireproof. I’m proud of you, kid.” He squeezes a little harder on me, pulling me closer. “And I want you to know — I’m here for good.”