by Jane Bradley
“You’re drinking my mom’s scotch,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s the good stuff.” He took a swig, sat back, stretched out his legs, and set the flashlight upright on its base, washing the room in a dim yellow light.
Molly pushed herself from the floor and sat up, looked around. She saw that the Lalique vase that usually sat on the table by the window was gone. And there on the coffee table between them was a tangled heap of her mother’s jewelry, not the good stuff. She figured the good stuff was in the backpack. “You’re a thief,” she said.
He nodded. “I’m a lot of things.”
Molly leaped up, tried to run across the room, but he lunged, grabbed her ankle, and brought her back down hard against the floor. She lay there, her jaw throbbing from the fall, waited for his hit, the smack, the knife. But nothing came. She could hear his breath. She could feel her heart pounding as she lay against the floor. She thought of how birds went still, played dead while the cat sat, watching for the flicker of life. She knew he was staring, could feel his gaze. She wished she hadn’t worn the tight black jeans. She tried to remember if you were supposed to fight or submit if you wanted to survive these kinds of things. Keep him talking. Let him know you are a woman, not a bird, not a mouse, not a bug. That voice. Under stress the mind scatters, scrambles for safety in other voices, other selves. Under stress, breakdown of personality begins. She had studied this. He is trying to break you down. Don’t.
She turned her face toward him. “My father will be home soon.”
He shone the flashlight into her eyes. “You don’t have a father.”
“I do,” she said. She heard the crying in her voice, tried to swallow it back.
He reached, grabbed her belt, turned her over.
“Well, he doesn’t live here anymore.” He looked straight into her face. Those eyes were familiar. He lifted her shirt, pulled at her belt buckle, unzipped her jeans.
She wondered how a man could look into your eyes when he was doing such things. It was supposed to be impersonal. She had read about that. Predators had to take the personality away from their victims before they caused pain. A sob broke from her throat as she realized this was really happening. “My mother . . . my mother.”
“What is it with you girls and your mothers?” Jesse pressed one hand on her thigh and with the other reached and yanked off her shoe.
Molly dug her fingers into the carpet to keep back the awful feeling that she was disappearing. “How long have you been watching me?” She thought of the guy with the dog. But he wouldn’t smell like leaves. They couldn’t burn leaves in this part of town.
“Don’t think you’re so special,” he said, “I watch everyone.” He lifted her shirt, poked at her ribs. “Damn, you’re skinnier than I thought. I bet if I cut you, you wouldn’t hardly bleed.” He cut her bra, tore it loose.
Tears streamed down her face. She sucked in a breath, a hard breath, wondered how many more breaths she had.
He laughed. “You want to go back in the kitchen, eat some of that Chinese takeout you brought home?”
She shook her head.
“You ain’t hungry?”
The guy who walked the dog wouldn’t say ain’t, but he felt so familiar. He kicked at her hip. “I said, ‘Ain’t you hungry?’ You’re supposed to answer me.”
“No, I’m not hungry,” she said. Molly couldn’t look into that masked face, seeing only those eyes gleaming like something in a movie, but this wasn’t a movie. She kept her eyes on the ceiling. “Why did you pick me?”
He smacked her. “Because I wondered how it would be to watch a princess bleed.”
She turned away, stared at the legs of the coffee table, wondering if that would be the last thing she would see. She kept her head turned to keep him from seeing the tears. Don’t cry; don’t cry. It’s what he wants, Molly. He wants you to cry.
He grabbed her jaw, turned her to face him. “How’s it feel to hurt? I didn’t get a chance to ask the last one.”
She shook her head and clenched her eyes shut to keep from seeing his eyes. She knew behind the mask, he was smiling.
He yanked the shoe from her other foot and threw it at the fire-place. Molly flinched, expecting the glass door to crash. But the shoe just bounced and hit the carpet with the smallest soft thud. He turned to her and grinned. His hand shot out, grabbed the waistband of her jeans, pulled them down, tore the jeans and panties off, and he slammed her back to the floor.
She tried to back away, but he grabbed her leg, straddled her. She froze, her head humming.
He leaned back to unzip his jeans, and she kicked at him, caught his hip. He rocked back. She kicked again, but he caught her leg, smacked her hard. She lay there panting. He leaned up, calm again. “You really want to fight me?”
She shook her head. But the voice whispered, Fight; fight him like a man. Don’t go down like a lamb.
“That’s it,” he said. He tore off her shirt.
She bucked up, kicked, tried to fight. He punched her in the face. She fell back, tasting her blood. “Want to fight some more, bitch? You won’t win.” He grabbed her chin, squeezed. She lay still with her eyes closed, her breath panting. Gather strength. Gather strength? How could she gather strength? She heard him tear a condom open. And all she could think was that he was careful as he yanked her legs apart. He was even wearing some kind of gloves. There’d be no fingerprints.
Her hands clutched at the carpet as if the floor could save her from falling. He pounded, and she cried as she felt her life flying by. He’s not as powerful as he seems, the voice whispered. You’ve got power, Molly. Draw on that strength; don’t give it away. The power of the world is stronger than this man. She tried to imagine the power of the world, its turning through space, the force of the oceans rolling and rising, strong enough to move islands that only seemed to be solid things. She told herself she was just receding for a moment. She told herself she would come back with power. Stay focused; don’t fear, the voice said. The Lord didn’t give us a spirit of fear, but one of power and love and soundness of mind. Hold on, Molly. Hold on. The Lord didn’t give us a spirit of fear. She’d hold on to that. If she didn’t fear him, she could fight him. If she didn’t fear him, she could take the pain, the way she’d taken the pain when she’d fallen once and broken her wrist. It’s only pain, she thought. And she lay there, her eyes on the ceiling. It’s only pain. The he stopped, leaned up. “You ain’t hurting enough.” He leaned back. She bucked up, kicking and swinging, and he kept laughing and punching, pinning her back to the floor.
“There you go,” he said. “Holler, little princess. Nobody gonna save you now.”
Next door the neighbors turned up the volume of the news. Marty Shorling shook his head at the screen and forked a bite of steak into his mouth. The president, that rascal, was at it again. Politicians thought they were invincible just because—well, they did have a way of getting away with things. Marty was a lawyer. He’d sat through enough dockets to see the repeat offenders. Sure, some slipped through the system, but if a man kept doing a thing, someone somehow would call him up, lock him down, make him accountable. That was the problem with this country, Marty thought. No one was accountable. Marty liked to keep count of the good things and the bad things in the world. The crimes that were punished; the crimes that got away. He glanced over at his wife. She was a good thing. Made him a steak dinner and didn’t mind at all if he wanted to take it to the den, eat in front of TV. She felt his gaze, turned to him, smiled, and said, “When did politics become a nighttime soap opera?” He shrugged and said, “There’s always been a drama, Sally. The Kennedys? Things we never know about, they happen all the time. Always did. It’s just these days, everything and anything is public domain.” He looked at the president’s handsome face as he stood tall, shaking his head, making that little gesture of authority with his hand.
Sally sighed as she left the room. “Well, at least it’s got everyone watching the news.” She didn’t
like the news but felt obliged to know what was going on. She walked out onto the porch, sat in a wicker rocking chair, and closed her eyes. She liked the sound of cicadas in the trees. She liked the sounds of night. A dog barking in the distance. Another dog calling back. They were all talking. All sorts of things going on in the world, and the human ear lacked the range to understand. She glanced at her neighbors’ house. All in darkness. Odd, she thought. Usually when Molly came home, she turned on every light in the house. Sally thought she had just heard Molly’s car pull in. She stood, studied the house. Felt something was wrong. She thought about going over but couldn’t think of a reason. She turned to go inside, figuring if Molly needed something, she’d call.
Molly lay curled against the carpet, naked, shivering, listening for the sounds of him in the kitchen. She prayed something, anything could happen that would prevent his return. An earthquake, a heart attack, the house burning down. She prayed to God, but it was the voice that answered. Get him to tell you the story. Maybe she was just going crazy. Maybe she should just give in, let voices go unraveling in her head, let him squash her and get it done with. But the clock chimed over the fireplace, and she remembered that her mother would be home soon. Her mother. It had to stop. She had to find a way to save herself, to save her mother, to save all the other women this man might hurt. She remembered his words: This would make a great story if you lived.
She was naked, and her hands and feet were duct-taped. She prayed that her mother wouldn’t come home, then prayed that her mother would come home and save her. She opened her eyes, not knowing what to pray for.
She heard his steps coming toward her and squeezed herself into a tighter ball, as if she could disappear like one of those roly-poly bugs she used to find under bricks in the backyard. The little bugs would squeeze themselves into tiny gray balls in the palm of her hand as if by curling tightly in on themselves, hiding their blind little eyes, they could make the hand that held them disappear. She never hurt them. She just rolled them around in her palm a while, then dropped them back to uncurl and crawl away in the dirt. Dirt. She could see dirt. Taste it. She was a woman dying into the leaves. But she wasn’t dead yet. You are stronger than he is, the inner voice whispered. Get up!
She pulled herself up to face him where he stood in the doorway. Keep him talking. She would keep him talking until she found a way to run.
“Don’t you have any Coke in this house?”
Be polite. Be patient. She swallowed the crazy giggle rising in her throat. Be patient?
She looked up at him, fully clothed and so relaxed. He was eating her shrimp lo mein, finishing it off as far as she could tell. “In the garage,” she said. “There’s a refrigerator where we keep party supplies. Beer, Coke, all kinds of stuff in the freezer. I could get up and make you something if you liked.” Where were these words coming from? She sounded so normal, offering snacks while she was duct-taped and naked, sitting on the floor.
He walked away. “If I want you to do something, I’ll tell you.” He likes to talk. Get him to tell you the story. Molly tried to remember just when her mind had started unraveling. He’d raped her. She had seen that from a distance. She had been at the end of a long tunnel, had seen it in a tiny circle of light in the distance, a naked girl being mauled by a dog. But you’re not dead. Keep fighting. Keep your head, Molly. He had taken a break at one point to eat her takeout, come back, and done it again as if she were no more than a workout. And now he was in the kitchen eating again. He plans to kill you. It was someone else’s voice. Not her own voice. She wondered if there really were spirits out there.
Panic swept through her. She was dying, crossing that line into the world where spirits came forward, offered their hands. No. She strained against the tape at her hands. She didn’t believe in spirits. She was losing her mind. She told herself, Stay in this world, this world. She pressed her feet into the carpet as if the very soles of her feet could help her hang on.
He came back, plugged in a lamp, and sat on the couch. “I like Coke,” he said, taking a sip from the can. “Settles my stomach. You got me all churned up inside, princess.” Then she saw it, a stuffed floppy-eared beagle she’d had as a child. She still kept it on her pillows when she made her bed. He had been in her room. He had probably put his hands in every corner of the house. What could he want with her stuffed toy beagle? He poked a potato chip in his mouth, chewed, looked at her. “Are you scared?” He looked like some kind of monster, poking food through the hole in the mask. She could see his mouth, his teeth.
“Is that what you want?” she said. The Lord didn’t give us a spirit of fear. . . . She cowered, wishing she could hide. But he didn’t even see her. He rubbed at his belly, leaned back, and looked up at the ceiling. He took a long, slow breath, inhale, exhale. She hoped one of her kicks had hurt him somewhere.
He must have felt her watching. “What you looking at? Want some more?” He’ll smash you like a fly if you let him. She could see herself as an insect now, trapped and dying on a windowsill while people moved in other houses, the sun set, the moon rose, the wind lifted, and the world turned away.
He stood, rubbed his belly. He walked to the window. “I am the devil, you know. Hurt a lot of women. I kind of have to. “
“But you don’t—”
“Sometimes you have to.” He leaned into the window, looked past the drapes, scanned the streets for traffic.
“What did you do to the other one?” She couldn’t believe her voice, speaking as if this were a normal conversation.
“Which one?” He came back to the couch, smiling. He sipped his Coke.
She didn’t know why the words came. “The blue-truck one.”
“Miss Positiv on her license plate? She kept trying to talk to me like I was some kind of friend. Thought she could talk her way out of things.” He laughed a little and went back to his Coke. He looked at her. “I see you trying to do the same thing. Talk to me. Keep me talking.”
The words rose: This will make a great story if you live. “I know what you’re going to do. I’m just curious,” she said. She wasn’t making any sense.
Jesse shook his head. “She had this old blue pickup—you know, that old kind, robin’ s-egg blue. Mike called it sky blue, but I know robin’ s-egg blue when I see it. No automatic locks. Went down easy. Didn’t bother to lock her door. Like you. You think you’re safe in this gated community. Why the hell they name a place like this Land Fall? Who wants to live in a place called Land Fall?”
“Was she rich?” Molly said.
“Who?”
“The last one,” Molly said.
“Nah, bought her clothes at Dollar Daze. Nothing like you, princess. But this one, man, she trusted me. Miss Positive Vibration, plays it cool when a guy jumps in her car. I could see her checking out my clothes. I was wearing good shit. She thought I might be a regular guy.”
“What did you do to her?” She trembled at the sound of the question in the air. She hadn’t even thought, and the words had popped out. Jesus, he could kill her just for asking that. But then, he would kill her if she stayed silent, if she talked; no matter what she did, he would kill her. No. You won’t let him. The voice whispered calmly now.
He leaned back, looked at her, swallowed. “You want to know what I did. Like you some reporter for the news.” He snickered, took a swig of beer. “We made her drive over the river and through the woods. God’s country, they call it, but when you get out that far, it’s the devil’s land. Nobody hears you scream. But she never screamed. Fucking brave all the way.”
Molly wondered if she could be brave, wondered how she would die. The voice cried inside, No, you will not die.
He sat back, scooped up the stuffed dog, looked at her and said, “This yours?” He squeezed the neck so hard it shuddered in the air. Then he dropped it. A silent, quick fall to the couch. “No pleasure in it when it goes so fast. That’s why I’m taking my time with you.” Molly sat shivering. No pleasure in it when it goes so fa
st. She realized he was waiting for her mother. He’d rape her mother. Kill them both.
He sat on the couch and tossed the stuffed dog from hand to hand. He stopped. He held the dog and patted it so hard that its head flattened against his chest. “I like dogs,” he said. He laughed and stuffed the toy into his backpack. “I’m keeping it. It’s a present for a friend. Don’t look so shocked. I do have friends. Nicki Lynn, she’s cool. Not like you, spoiled little princess. Nicki Lynn, she came up rough, and she knows how to love a man. You gotta be some woman if Zeke lets you stick around. And you know what?” He looked cheerful, but she could hear the meanness in the words. “She just had this baby today. A baby boy. Named him Jesse. Like me. She tells me they’re naming him for Jesse James. Could at least give me the satisfaction of saying the kid’s named for me.” He leaned close to her. “You bitches, man, can’t count on you for a damn thing. Jesse James. I don’t give a shit. So I’m taking her boy your stuffed dog here. Gonna get him to love it, and when he loves it so much he won’t let go, I’m gonna tell her where that little old stuffed dog came from.” He laughed. “She’s gonna flip, and hell, you won’t be needing it.” He sat snapping the flashlight on, off, on again.
“What’d you do with the girl and her truck?”
“The truck?”
“The girl in the blue truck.”
“Ain’t your fuckin’ business.” He threw a pillow hard at her, hit her in the face. He stood.
He means to kill you. She could see her mother crying, her things being boxed and given away. She closed her eyes, felt herself sinking through the carpet, the floor, the basement to be buried in dirt, covered in leaves. She couldn’t shake the thought of wind rippling through trees overhead. Black birds soaring in a dark blue sky. There was a world out there.
He stood suddenly, and she braced herself for him, but he bent over, then straightened, rubbed his belly. He bent, checked the duct tape at her ankles, saw where she’d kicked it loose, just a little but a start. “You are a fighter, ain’t you?” He cut the duct tape from her feet, pulled her up, pushed her into the dining room, forced her to sit, and duct-taped her ankles to the chair legs. He checked the tape on her wrists and ankles. “I can’t have you running away in case I need to leave the room.” He paused, studied her in the beam of the flashlight. “Look at that skin. So white, so soft, little-girl skin. Bet you ain’t got a scar on you.” He ran his fingertip across her chest, up to her neck. “I didn’t make you bleed yet.” He waved the knife in front of her, jabbed it at her, but she raised her hands, swung against his jabs, the blade stabbing where it hit. Her grabbed her wrists, held them, and took a jab at her neck. She swung away, but the blade caught her shoulder, and she gasped, nearly passed out from the pain. Don’t panic, the voice said. Stay calm. A crazy giggle rose up in her chest, and she couldn’t stop the laughing. Yes, this was madness, a voice saying, Stay calm. The Lord didn’t give us a spirit of fear. She looked up at him, grinning, felt the blood trickling down her chest. He patted her head. “You sit tight. I need another Coke.”