Cicada Spring

by Christian Galacar

  “What’s going on out here?” a teacher yelled as Kara pushed open the heavy oak door to the bathroom and went in. It was the last thing she heard before the acoustics of the tiled floors and concrete walls of the lavatory enveloped her in cool silence.

  Kara entered the first stall she saw, shut the door, removed her bag, and sat down hard.

  Suddenly, everything that she had worked toward, all the inner peace she had managed to find in the wake of a shattered life, vanished like it had never existed. What a fragile thing it truly had been after all. It seemed her progress was only cosmetic, like a broken bone that had just started to set: on the surface it felt hard to the touch, but the depth of her wound ran profoundly into the composition of her sense of self, akin to a sprained soul. And that was where the injury was far too fresh to accept the applied weight of everyday life because, so far as she could tell, life was cruel and unfair. She had been a fool to think otherwise. She had been a fool to think she could handle this—that she could live with it.

  A dime-sized drop of blood spattered onto her knee as she stared down, trying to slow her breathing and fight her tears. Kara wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Pulling it away, she saw the familiar streaks of blood. Without meaning to this time, she had reopened the cut. She gathered a small length of toilet paper, bunched it, and pressed it against her lip to stop the bleeding, just as Catherine had showed her back at her house. But this time the pain seemed different. She tried to harness it as she’d done before, to use it to center herself, to pull her mind into the present, away from the dark thoughts, but couldn’t. Now it was just plain, dumb, useless pain, and it was overwhelmingly relentless.

  Kara heard the flat murmur of people talking outside the bathroom door. They seemed to stall for a moment, then slowly fade. Just some students passing by. Maybe they’d already forgotten all about her and moved on to the next thing. When it came to matters of adolescent bullying, that was how it often went. Kids had short attention spans when it came to teasing. Out of sight, out of mind. If she stayed away, maybe they would move on and forget about her.

  But Kara doubted it would be that way this time. This time, people were under pressure to choose a side, and whatever corner they decided on would have consequences that reached far beyond the halls of Heartsridge High School. It was her or the Golden Boy, Harry Bennett. Who they picked spoke volumes about who they were and what they stood for, so people were choosing the safe bet: Golden Boy. Kara was smart enough to understand that, but not strong enough to accept it. She wanted to be, but couldn’t force it if she tried. And she had tried. She just wasn’t built that way, and for the first time since Harry Bennett laid his hands on her—the ones he’s not afraid to get dirty, she thought (true to a sickening degree)—Kara Price longed for her father, for someone to protect her the way only a father could. But she had pushed him away, and now she had no one to save her.

  The first-period bell sounded. Outside the bathroom, students flowed into their classes. Teachers shut their doors, locking out latecomers unless they had a pass from the front office. Right on cue, the school fell into its silent state of production. For those wishing to escape and cut class, this was the best time to make a break for it—no one knew whether you were coming or going. Kara planned to be going. She was sure of that. There was nothing here for her.

  She stood and walked out of the stall, tossing the small wad of bloody tissue into the trash. She pulled a piece of paper towel from the dispenser and blotted beneath her eyes. No way in hell would anyone see her cry. Then she opened the bathroom door and stepped out into the hall.

  “Hey,” Ryan said, catching her off guard. He was standing a few feet away, his backpack hung in a too-cool-for-school way off his shoulder. “What’s up?” His tone was sullen, none too thrilled to see her.

  Kara froze in her tracks. “Hi,” she managed. But even that one word seemed to struggle to find its way out. Her throat had slammed closed. It felt as though she’d swallowed a fat marshmallow.

  “Can we talk?” Ryan asked, tucking a few strands of hair behind his ear. “I haven’t seen you in almost a week.”

  “Ryan, I’m sorry but now… now just isn’t a good time,” Kara said, and looked nervously down the hall beyond her boyfriend. The papers were still there, spilled out around her locker as if it had just vomited them out and hadn’t even had the decency to wipe its chin.

  Ryan’s face fell, becoming dark and serious. “No. It can’t.” He adjusted his backpack with one arm.

  “Ryan, please. I’ll tell you everything later.” Kara just wanted to get out of there before some teacher tried to stop her and she was stuck there the entire day, reliving the embarrassment from fifteen minutes ago. People laughing, talking, whispering.

  “I can’t believe you lied to me… You lied to everyone. My dad’s friends with Harry Bennett. I’ve known him my whole life. Why would you say something like this about him? For fuck’s sake, you won’t even screw me and now you’re going around saying Harry screwed you? Raped you? What is that? You know how embarrassing that is? How embarrassing it is for someone like me?”

  Kara’s jaw fell slack. What he was saying didn’t even make sense. It just seemed belligerent. Who was this boy? It wasn’t the person she’d known. “What? How could you?” The words barely escaped her disbelief. “You’re just like the rest. Ryan… I… I can’t believe this…”

  Ryan stiffened. “We’re done, Kar—” But before he could finish the words, Kara reached up and caught Ryan across the face with the hardest slap she could muster. Her palm flashed hot with the satisfying, thick connection of flesh on flesh. The crack echoed down the hall.

  Disbelief quickly broke to anger. “You don’t know anything! You… you fuck!” she yelled, and then felt the onslaught of emotions threatening to burst out, starting to press harder on her weakened defenses, promising escape. She charged past him, trying to hold in her tears. Her shoulder connected with his and sent him awkwardly against the wall. His eyes peeled wide with surprise as he held his cheek.

  Kara continued running past her homeroom, past her locker, past all the cruel flyers strewn on the floor as a sick reminder of what she was running from. And then, finally, she was at the front entrance, her hands shoving with all their might to free her from this place. She would get out of that hellhole before anyone saw her shed another damned tear. In fact, she would never set foot in that school again. Isn’t that what they wanted, anyway? To close their eyes in the face of this monster and have it be gone when they opened them again? Children afraid of their own imaginations, unable to discern reality from dream… or in this case, nightmare.

  It’s a part of you now, Kara… it’s a part of you.

  But she didn’t want it to be a part of her. She didn’t want this to be her life. It wasn’t how her story was supposed to play out. Who would want to live a life like this?

  Somebody save me. I’m drowning.

  Before Kara knew it, she was home. She’d walked the whole way, never lifting her gaze off the ground, lost in thought, completely oblivious to the world around her. A half-hour had gone by like a second. Now looking up, the driveway was empty. Geronimo was sleeping beneath the picnic table, a half-empty water bowl beside him. The closed house was a lonely sight. Her mother had gone back to work to make up for the personal time she had taken off to be with her daughter and wouldn’t be home until almost ten tonight, and her father had pretty much been MIA since Monday. Kara had wanted space, not for him to disappear. He was supposed to know his little girl needed him.

  That’s your fault! a voice screamed in her head. You said you couldn’t be around him. What did you expect when you practically said he was as bad as the man who raped you?

  Recently her father had been leaving early for work and coming home late, avoiding her, not saying much to anyone. The shuffle of his slippers down the hallway in the little hours of the night was the most she had heard from him. It wasn’t much, but that little noise had become
a comfort to her. It was as if he was speaking to her through some weird code, a secret father-daughter talk that existed on some indestructible plane in a dimension beyond the fallout, a place life couldn’t touch. This wasn’t true; she knew that. He wasn’t really communicating to her with his footsteps, but if he was then she imagined shuffle-step… shuffle-step… shuffle-step meant “I love you, sweetheart. It’ll all be better soon. Don’t give up.” That was what her father would tell her. Yes. Those would be his words.

  That inner voice spoke up again: You’ve really made a mess of things, haven’t you, Kara? Wouldn’t it be better if the monster just disappeared so everyone could finally sleep?

  Sleep. Yes. Sleep was a good idea.

  Kara unlocked her front door and went inside. She wanted to sleep now. Let the monster close its eyes. Let it dream about a time when it was a little girl with hopes of being a princess. That was an easier time. That was a life worth living.

  CHAPTER 30

  It was just after four o’clock in the afternoon on Thursday when Harry Bennett took the stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you… thank you. Is it that time of year again already?” He waved slowly and appreciatively, flashing his thick smile, oscillating from left to right like a cheap desktop fan, acknowledging the applause. “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here. Thank you. My goodness. You’re too kind. Thank you.” The crowd continued clapping for their Golden Boy, drowning him out—and he loved every second of it.

  It was the opening act of the Spring Festival: the Mayor’s Speech. Mostly it was a local crowd today, but the street was still swollen with the energy of excitement.

  Harry looked out over the sea of native attendees and admired the scene, scanning row after row of upturned, smiling faces; hopeful eyes that stared out at him from the patchwork of bright, summer clothes donned by the crowd during this premature, springtime heat wave. It was a collage of whites, reds, blues, beiges, and yellows. Short-shorts and tank tops. T-shirts and low-cut sneakers. Khakis, not denim, because blue jeans were simply too hot for the occasion. Along the side of the street were the pastel boundaries of the crowd, where the elder Heartsridge women were camped in their beach chairs along the sidewalks, talking heads turned to one another, sunglasses dark against their paper-white skin. Too-clean, never-worn hats sat atop gray, permed curls. Behind these veteran women stood their husbands, wearing the flat, tired look of men who had come to terms with the fact that their lives were in their final stretch—sad-happy grins set hard into deep wrinkles, concerned less about what lay ahead and more about the way things used to be. The cicadas buzzed on, droning their seventeen-year song, reinforcing the notion that summer was here early. Their sound seemed to thicken the humidity, teasing the air with their electric noise. But no one seemed to mind. It was high times for Heartsridge. And at the head of it all, in the center of Pride’s Square, where the main stage had been erected, Harry Bennett stood at his podium, dressed in his white linen suit, looking out, smiling, prince of all he surveyed.

  But even as Harry enjoyed his applause and his admiration, his eyes were busy examining the crowd, searching, gauging, evaluating his people. Occasionally he would meet the eye of someone he knew well. He would nod and smile but then quickly move on. Because it wasn’t the people—the ones he might call friends—who he was concerned about; they would always stick by his side and believe what he told them. No, he wanted to see the faces of those who only knew him from a distance, knew him through talk and rumor, indirectly. Those whose opinions of him swayed with whatever way the wind blew. They were the people who mattered. They were his customers, the ones who bought or rejected the Harry Bennett product.

  He’d already been stopped in the street half a dozen times by someone who wanted to tell him they’d heard an awful rumor about some troubled girl who was trying to get rich by spreading lies about him, but that wasn’t enough. It was reassuring to hear, however Harry still wanted to see the loyalty on a grand scale. He wanted to see it in the face of the crowd. He wanted to see that he was still their Golden Boy. And as far as he could tell, he was. His wife had been right all along. They were a team, and she had managed to score, perhaps, the game-winning point. He couldn’t have done it without her. He had never held Allison Warren Bennett in higher regard than he did in that moment.

  “Okay… all right… thank you,” he said, trying to add an inflection of seriousness to silence the crowd. He placed both hands on the corners of the podium and leaned forward into his words. The applause slowly died to a murmur. “I’d like to thank you all for coming, although I have to admit, I think you’d all be here regardless of whether my ugly mug was up here or not.” He smiled and the crowd laughed. Then he took a sincere tone. “But that is what is so great about tradition, ladies and gentlemen. That is what I find so special about this town—that we care about the things that have made Heartsridge what it is today. We embrace our roots, and that is important. It speaks highly to what we stand for. It speaks to our strength as a community. In the face of tragedy, we still persevere. We still show up to ensure that the things that matter most to us won’t waver.”

  “That’s right, Harry. You tell ’em,” someone in the crowd shouted. There were a few laughs, which faded quickly.

  Harry offered a good-natured smile, glanced down briefly, and then straightened his posture. “Now, I know all of you’ve heard by now the terrible thing that happened to one of our own. Many of you knew Sam Hodges. He was a good man who died protecting a tradition of this town, one that is most important above all, one that many of us, I’m sure—me included—take for granted: the right to feel safe on the streets of your town. He was doing his job, and unfortunately the good Lord decided it was his time. It’s a sad, awful thing, and it is with a heavy heart that I ask you all—whether you’re religious or not—could we please take a moment to pray for Sam Hodges? I ask you to offer a moment to pay your respects to a man who sacrificed himself so that others could walk the streets at night without having to look over their shoulders. Please take a moment.”

  The crowd went silent and Harry closed his eyes, dropping his head. They were still his, and he knew it for sure now. To follow a man into prayer is an undeniable show of faith, respect, and allegiance—three things not offered lightly and certainly not to someone who is guilty of rape. Yes, he still had them. He was still their leader. The crowd remained heads-down and would for as long as he asked them to.

  David Price stood silently at the back of the crowd as the town offered their prayers, his eyes remaining fixed on Harry Bennett. The mayor was barely an inch tall from where he stood, but David could imagine that smug, two-dollar smile just the same.

  He was so sick of it, seeing the way the mayor manipulated people with his blue-collar charm, like some discount southern gentleman, the way he shoveled shit and sold it as gold behind that fake exterior. He didn’t understand how anyone could fall for it. Couldn’t they see what he really was? It didn’t take a genius to notice it, to see what lay beneath. David had spent the last couple of days following Harry to and from his office, following him to bars and restaurants, on errands, meetings, learning his routines, learning when he was most vulnerable.

  David wasn’t so naïve as to think he would get away with what he aimed to do, but he could live with that. What he couldn’t live with was doing nothing and allowing Harry Bennett to get away with what he’d done to Kara. A part of him wanted to shoot Harry then and there, right up on stage—it was maddening to see how much praise and respect he still garnered from so many—but he couldn’t do that. There were too many people who didn’t deserve to witness something like that, especially the children in the crowd. It would scar them forever, and David didn’t feel he had the right to inflict that kind of damage on the innocent. Instead he would wait, and he would be ready when the time was right, like a hunter. He’d come this far, built the nerve, and made his peace with God. It was justified.

  As David watched, shifting his wei
ght from his heels to his toes, he thought two things: how much he missed his daughter’s smile; and how even in the heat, the revolver’s steel felt cool against his skin, tucked into his belt. And in that moment, he had a sudden feeling that some kind of end was near, some kind of resolution. It felt right. He would protect his family. He only hoped they would understand why he had to.

  “Thank you once again, ladies and gentlemen,” Harry said, his voice crackling through the speakers. “That was a mighty fine way to kick off the thirtieth anniversary of the wonderful tradition of Spring Festival. Such a marvelous, heartfelt show of respect, admiration, and gratitude for one of our own fallen friends. I truly have never felt more proud to be from the humble town of Heartsridge than I do right now, standing before so many friends and family.”

  The crowd began clapping again, and Harry let the sound drown out his words.

  David kept his stare hard on the mayor, wondering if Harry could feel just how close to his own end he was.

  CHAPTER 31

  Something wasn’t sitting right with Gaines as he walked through the crowd in Pride’s Square, listening to the final words of Harry Bennett’s speech. The name Bill Sexton still floated on the edge of his mind. A chord had been struck that would not stop resonating. It seemed like a waste of energy to continue chasing the alias after the case was closed—it had probably just been a spur-of-the-moment choice by Millis. It could just as easily have been Paul or Dan or John, but he would have bet his life on the fact he’d heard that name before, recently too. He didn’t see the point, though. They had a positive ID on the shooter. Sam was gone, and the gun had been sent to the FBI for ballistics, which could take weeks to return any information on where the gun came from. There just didn’t seem to be any reason to pursue the case any further at the moment. Yet Gaines could not shake the feeling he had missed something. It all felt too clean and tidy.