The Damage

by Caitlin Wahrer

  “It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  “Okay,” Linda said. “Let’s hope he’ll take a deal and we’ll avoid that. But even if it does settle, it normally happens a lot later on, closer to trial.”

  “Okay,” Nick said.

  “A year,” Tony said again. He glanced at Nick.

  There was an in-breath of silence, like everyone was expecting Nick to say something. He didn’t know what else to give them.

  18

  Tony Hall, 2015

  A year. The words kept repeating as they walked down the hall, out of the DA’s office. They might be doing this a year from now. Tony looked over at Nick.

  Nick was wearing Tony’s clothes. He’d brought a pair of jeans from his apartment, but that morning before they left for the meeting, Nick had grown anxious about his outfit.

  Tony thought Nick looked good when they met in the hallway upstairs.

  Nick grimaced. “I look like I’m not taking this seriously.” He gestured down at his cotton-and-denim ensemble.

  “You look great,” Tony said. He’d taken the day off work to go with him.

  “I should have brought something nicer,” Nick said.

  Tony tried to understand. “Are you worried they won’t respect you?”

  “Do you think we have time to stop somewhere?”

  Tony looked at his watch. No chance. “What size are you?”

  “Thirty-two/thirty-two.”

  Tony smiled. “You got Dad’s waist. Hold on.”

  Tony went to his bedroom closet and dug for a pair of pants he was sure hadn’t gone to Goodwill yet. He’d had Ron Hall’s waist once, too, but those days were gone. With parenthood came dad weight, and no amount of ab work seemed capable of scraping off the last of his new inches. He found the tan pants hanging in the far back of the closet. He selected his smallest dress shirt and a tie, just in case.

  When Tony came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, Nick was opening the door to Seb’s room. His tie hung open on his collar.

  “Can you tie this?”

  Tony stepped up to his little brother. He wasn’t so little anymore—Tony’s shirt was snug on his shoulders. He’d seen Nick in his hand-me-downs many times over the years, but never in clothes from Tony’s adulthood. The juxtaposition of this moment against his five-year-old son’s bedroom made his chest feel tight.

  He grasped the tie and began. Tony brought the knot up close to Nick’s throat; Nick gasped, stepping back as Tony let go.

  “I’m sorry,” Tony said, overlapping Nick’s rushed “It’s fine.”

  Nick brought his hands up to the tie, fumbled at the knot.

  “I can get it,” Tony said.

  “Let me,” Nick said. He worked at the knot, his eyes welling, and finally it came loose.

  He handed the tie back to Tony.

  “Just give me a minute,” Nick said, and closed the door.

  That was the thing. Sometimes Nick seemed fine. Looked like his old self. And Tony would forget what had happened. In that outfit, Nick looked like a man, but to Tony he was a kid again.

  Tony held the door as they left the DA’s office. “I’m proud of you.”

  “For what?”

  “Being so brave,” Tony said. “You could be like ‘this isn’t fair’ and not do anything. It wasn’t your fault, but you’re still doing something.”

  Nick groaned loudly. “Would you stop saying that?”

  “Saying what?”

  “That I’m brave; it wasn’t my fault. Do you know how many people have said that to me?”

  “We’re saying it because it’s true.”

  “But it doesn’t matter.” Nick tilted his head back and drained the last of his Coke.

  “It does matter,” Tony said. “It wasn’t your fault, Nick.”

  Just off the walkway, there was a large, covered trash can with returnables written on the side, and Nick walked to it.

  “You’re not helping,” Nick said as he lifted the lid.

  “Okay, so how can I help?”

  Nick tossed in the can and turned to face Tony. “How about you let me speak for myself?”

  “What?”

  Nick pointed at the building. “You couldn’t have talked over me more if you were trying.”

  “You weren’t talking! Someone had to.”

  “I didn’t have the chance.”

  “Fine. I’ll sit there in silence next time.”

  “Great. Now tell me I’m not a victim.” There was something in his voice that sounded like a taunt. Like he didn’t expect Tony to say it.

  “You’re not,” Tony said.

  “Then stop acting like I am.”

  Tony didn’t know what to say.

  Okay, he was babying him. But what was he supposed to do? Pretend it hadn’t happened? When Tony did that, he did stupid shit like hand Nick a tie after he’d been choked by a guy. Nick was a victim, something awful had happened to him. Was it such a big deal, that he had been a victim? Just in that one moment?

  “It was just a single moment,” Tony said. “I wish I’d been there.”

  “Goddamn it.” As Nick spoke, he pushed the trash can beside him, tipping it over and spewing cans onto the lawn.

  “Nick!”

  “You think you would have stopped him.”

  “I would have killed him.”

  “Shut up, Tony, just shut up!” The vein in Nick’s forehead was bulging. He kicked a can at his feet and crouched down, sat in the grass.

  Nick groaned, angry and raw, and buried his face in his hands.

  Tony stood for a moment, shocked at Nick’s display. He’d never seen Nick get angry like that before.

  Above Nick, he could see a pale face in the window, looking out at them from the DA’s office.

  He walked to Nick’s side and stooped down, pushing handfuls of cans and bottles into the trash can. Then he righted the bin and offered Nick his hand. They walked to the car in silence.

  * * *

  They were almost home when Tony apologized.

  Nick had been staring out the window, maybe watching the fields roll by, maybe stewing. He turned to Tony. “For what?”

  “I should have just shut up when you said I wasn’t helping. I’m acting like I think I understand, and I don’t.”

  Nick nodded. “I know you just want to make it better.”

  Tony said nothing. He wanted to tell Nick he was right—tell Nick it was killing him not to be able to just undo what had happened. Frustrating him beyond explanation that he couldn’t understand what Nick was feeling. He and Nick had always understood each other. Yeah, Nick was gay and he wasn’t—there were pieces there that Tony could never truly get. But on a base level, they understood each other like no one else did. It was pretty simple: they’d had the same dad. Heard the same slurs, felt the same cuff to the ear, been told—in Ron Hall’s varied but persistent ways—that they were worthless. So they understood each other. They even had a simple message in code. When Nick was little, Tony would take his hand and squeeze it three times: I love you, it meant. Nick would return four squeezes: I love you, too.

  To feel so clueless about this tragedy, so separate from Nick, made Tony’s chest ache.

  But he didn’t say any of that. He seemed to be getting everything wrong. And all of that might just make Nick worry about how this was affecting Tony when he should be worrying about himself.

  “I’m sorry, too,” Nick said. “I don’t know why I flipped out like that.”

  “It’s okay.” Tony paused. “It’s okay, and that’s all I’m gonna say.”

  “Ha,” Nick said. “Thank God.”

  * * *

  That weekend, Nick moved back to his apartment.

  19

  Julia Hall, 2015

 
Julia had always fought against the addition of a second television. “One in the living room is plenty,” she used to say to Tony every six months or so when he would mention how nice it would be to watch a movie in bed, or how he wished he could keep an eye on the game as they made dinner. When Chloe was born and Julia started nursing her, however, she quickly changed her mind about the TV in the bedroom. She and Tony had made a deal that he would pick up a small one at Target, and it would move out of their bedroom and into the kitchen whenever Julia stopped breastfeeding the baby. It sat on a small table in the corner beside the hamper and entertained them with episodes of Lost, CSI, and Tony’s secret favorite, The Bachelor. Then one day Chloe was done breastfeeding, but Julia said nothing, and eventually Seb was born, so the TV stayed. Tony had the luxury of a TV in his bedroom for four years before Julia finally moved it one day while he was at the office. He had feigned devastation when he came home to find it in the kitchen, collapsing on the floor to the giggling glee of his children.

  This was how, three years after that, Julia came to be packing lunches for the kids with the television on a local news program the morning that Raymond Walker made bail. She was shaking baby carrots into plastic baggies when she heard the words behind her: “A man from Salisbury who is accused of sexual assault posted $100,000 surety bail today.” Julia spun toward the television and moved closer.

  One of two local anchors looked grave as she spoke. “Local businessman Raymond Walker was arrested for gross sexual assault for an alleged incident on October second of this year. The victim is a twenty-year-old male from the York County area. His name is private in the court records at this time.”

  Julia’s heart pounded in her ears, and she exhaled hard at this line.

  “This morning, Mr. Walker was released after filing proof of a $100,000 bail lien on his home in Salisbury. The State plans to seek an indictment of Mr. Walker next month.”

  Julia heard heavy feet on the stairs. She unclenched her damp palms from the counter’s edge and switched off the television before Tony could see.

  * * *

  That evening, Julia left the TV off when she started dinner.

  All day she had resisted the urge to call Detective Rice and ask him how Raymond Walker had been allowed to post bail at all. If she’d known the prosecutor she would have called her to talk about it, but their paths had never crossed during Julia’s brief time in practice. Detective Rice was the only person on Nick’s case she felt any real connection to. But there would be nothing for him to say to her. Of course Walker had made bail. Unfairly, it was only the poor who had to wait out their case from a jail cell. Walker had offered up his house as collateral for his continued attendance in court. There was nothing abnormal about it, really. Under other circumstances, Julia would have acknowledged that it was a good thing: a defendant was supposed to be innocent until proven guilty. There was supposed to be a balance: the government couldn’t punish you without proving that you’d done something wrong. In theory, the public could be protected by bail conditions while the defendant awaited trial. But now that this was happening to her family, suddenly the whole concept of due process seemed dangerous.

  She knew there were bail conditions in effect now; she had texted Nick earlier that day to see how he was. When he didn’t answer, she called and he picked up. Nick promised her he was okay, not that she fully believed him. In the weeks he’d lived with them, she never felt he was showing how he truly felt about the situation. But yes, he should at least be safe. Walker would not be allowed to speak to Nick, let alone come near him, but court orders did not always prevent violence. And what if he ran away? What if he disappeared, leaving Nick frightened? Leaving Walker free to hurt other men?

  Tony got home while she was chopping root vegetables to roast. He had barely stepped both feet in the kitchen when Chloe came running in, followed closely by Seb. Both were hollering “Dadaaaaaa” as though they were missiles screaming by.

  Julia set the knife on the cutting board and turned to Tony with a grimace.

  “Enough, beasts!” he shouted. “Let me kiss your mother!”

  Tony waded over to Julia, one child on each leg, and kissed her hello.

  She looked at her ridiculous, precious family and breathed deeply. This is perfect. Be happy.

  * * *

  After the kids were asleep, Julia and Tony stood on opposite sides of their room, undressing for bed. As Julia pulled off her earrings at the dresser, she contemplated whether she should tell Tony about Walker. He’d been in a good mood all evening, and now he stood behind her, humming. There was no way he knew. Was it patronizing to hide it from him? She’d saved him from one day of ruminating on Nick and Walker. Selfishly, she wanted to spread some of the bad news to someone else and to relieve herself of the guilt of keeping this secret from him. But she could carry this for him—the burden of knowing that the man who assaulted Nick was free again, for now. Christ, listen to yourself. Not telling your husband something that’s public news makes you some kind of martyr? Get over yourself.

  She turned to face him. “Ray Walker made bail this morning.”

  Tony finished pulling his shirt off. His hair was a pile of static; he looked electrocuted.

  “Oh, honey.” Julia laughed and moved toward him. “Your—”

  “He made bail,” he cut in, leaning away from her hand.

  “It was on the news earlier. He had to put up his house; it’s not like he’s going anywhere.”

  “That’s not . . . he—” Tony fumbled for words. “Have you talked to Nick? Does he know?”

  “Yeah, I texted him earlier to make sure.”

  “But not me.”

  Julia waved her hand at him. “I thought you’d get upset, and I was right.” She heard herself sound defensive, but Tony seemed unfazed by her tone.

  He was looking out their window, fists clenched, a tight frown clamped on.

  “Honey,” Julia said. “Nick knows, and he’s okay.”

  “He should come here, tonight, just to be safe.”

  Julia shook her head. “He doesn’t want that. There’s a no-contact order; that man can’t talk to Nick or go anywhere near him. He doesn’t know where Nick lives.” She had closed the distance between them and smoothed down his wild hair. “Nick is gonna be fine.”

  Tony hung his head.

  “I’ve had some of these same thoughts,” she said. “I have. But I talked to him, and he’s actually good. He’s happy to be back at school, hanging with his roommates. He just wants to get back to normal. We have to let him have that.” Her voice went to a whisper. “Okay?”

  Tony nodded.

  She kissed him deeply and guided him to their bed.

  20

  Nick Hall, 2015

  When Nick moved back to his apartment, the scab came with him. That weekend, he realized it had been two weeks since it happened—two weeks since that night—and still the small wound hadn’t healed. He resolved to leave it alone.

  The first couple of days he was restless, quick to tune out his professors’ voices in class. His mind was a tangle of thoughts: Why had he left with Ray? Why was he living like this? What had he expected? And his fingers were on the scab, rubbing, flicking, but each time he realized—goddamn it, I’m picking at it again—he sat on his hands to stop himself.

  On Wednesday morning, he awoke to a text from his sister-in-law: Hi honey. Hope you’re hanging in there. Just thought I’d give you a heads up that RW posted bail, better to hear it from me than the news. If you need anything we’re here for you. His hand reached back, and his fingers dove beneath his hair; this time, when the sting alerted him to what he was doing, he scratched harder. As he pulled the loosed scab through his hair, a couple of strands came with the skin. Maybe if he pulled out some of the hairs, the wound would breathe and heal faster; if it would just heal, he would stop picking at it. He pinched his fingers aro
und a couple strands and pulled; his scalp stretched and released the roots, which came free with a painfully satisfying pop. Nick looked down at his hand. The nail of his index finger was rimmed in light red blood, and a small tuft of his own hair was pinched between his fingers.

  Oh my God. I just pulled out my hair.

  It had all happened so fast. Nick crept from his bed to his door and listened. He didn’t hear any of his housemates outside, so he opened the door and scuttled across the hall to the bathroom. Mary Jo’s hand mirror was in the cabinet where Nick remembered it would be; he leaned toward the mirror over the sink, using the hand mirror to inspect the back of his head. There was nothing—wait, yes, there was something. “Oh shit, shit, what did I do?” Nick hissed aloud. The pristine landscape of his dark hair was marred by a pock of white scalp and red wound.

  His phone was ringing in the bedroom. He hurried back across the empty hall to his room. Julia was calling him.

  Was he okay, she wanted to know.

  Yes, he told her.

  Had he seen her text, she asked.

  Yes, he had, he said. He was fine—good, actually. Nice to be getting back to normal. He wasn’t even thinking about Josh. Raymond.

  Okay, she told him. Her voice was light, and she believed him. She didn’t know him well enough, apparently. She couldn’t hear the strain in his voice.

  The rest of the week, he wore a Red Sox cap his dad had given him years ago. It wasn’t his style, but he’d kept it out of sentimentality—a good day with Dad. It came in handy now, not that anyone seemed to notice the little patch of skin when he did remove the cap. The rest of that week, Nick occasionally found himself touching the spot, rubbing at it mindlessly, but he resisted damaging the area further.

  But then Ray gave a public statement.