But What About Me?

by Marilyn Reynolds

  All during the day, my parents reach out to touch me as I walk by, or one of them sits next to me when I sit down. “Are you okay?” they ask, time and again. Always I nod yes.

  Rocky doesn’t pester me to play any of her new games with her. Sometimes I catch her looking at me, not full on, but out of the corner of her eye—like Gregor Samsa’s sister must have looked at him when he first became a beetle.

  Just before dark Dr. Franz arrives with Kitty, who walks in and sits at my feet.

  “Will you have some dessert with us?” Mom asks.

  “Thanks, I can’t stay. I’ll just say hello to Erica.”

  Dr. Franz comes in and pulls a chair up beside me.

  “I’m sorry this happened to you,” she says.

  I nod my head. What is there to say?

  Rocky gets Kitty’s package from the tree, opens the package and rolls the ball to her. Kitty looks at it without interest.

  “She’s sedated,” Dr. Franz says. “I promised Dr. Roberts you’d keep her home for two weeks. Don’t even take her for a walk on a leash.”

  Chapter

  17

  I soak in the bathtub, shower after, and still I’m not clean. It’s as if I’ve been permanently stained by Joey. Brushing my hair, I feel the tenderness of my scalp, where he grabbed my hair and yanked my head backward.

  When I crawl into bed, Kitty climbs up and lies at my feet. I check out the stitches on her shaved neck—thirty-seven in all. I reach down to pet her and she inches her way up beside me.

  “Thank you,” I tell her, remembering how she didn’t let up on Joey, even after he hurt her.

  Shifting and turning in bed, I try to get comfortable, my bruises and the tears within me more intense than they were earlier. Why did this happen to me? I try to remember everything I’ve ever heard about rape, that it’s an act of violence, not sexual, that it’s never the victim’s fault, that women who’ve been raped are often treated as if they’re the guilty parties if a case goes to court. I also remember hearing that most rapes are perpetrated by someone who is known to the victim.

  Victim. Is that what I am? Someone who falls into the faceless victim category?

  What could I have done? Gone for the eyes? But I couldn’t get loose. Been stronger? It was a little late to start pumping iron right then. Not washed a coffee cup? Not been seen talking with Sinclair? Not have a drunk for a boyfriend?

  I turn on my side, my knees bent, my back resting against the weight of Kitty. Images of Joey keep intruding, his angry face over mine, the stench of stale whiskey, his grip on my hair, the tight clutching of his fingers around my wrist, his weight on top of me. I try to think of other things, to remove myself, and finally it works. My sad soul rises, detaches, and settles a safe distance above my bruised body.

  Long after traffic noises have died down and our house is totally quiet, I hear a pounding on the front door. Kitty jumps from the bed, barking, her bristles raised. I get up and open my bedroom door and let Kitty run down the hall to the front door, then I go back to bed and curl up like a ball.

  I hear my dad stirring around.

  The pounding is steady and loud.

  “Who’s there?” Dad yells, over Kitty’s barking.

  “Gladys Kendall! I need to talk to you!”

  “Gladys Kendall?—Shut up, Kitty—Erica, call Kitty.”

  I call Kitty and get her back to my room.

  “Joey Kendall’s mother!” I hear, and then more pounding.

  “Don’t open the door, Grant,” Mom says, but Dad unbolts the lock. Gladys comes in.

  “They’ve arrested my son. On Christmas Day they came and arrested my son.”

  I can tell from the fuzzy, running-together words that Gladys is in her usual half-drunk, or more, state.

  “You’ve got to drop the charges,” she pleads.

  “Not in my lifetime!” Dad says.

  Me. The words are about me, but I don’t let them in. I listen, but only on the outside.

  “It’s all a big mistake,” Gladys Kendall says through muffled sobs. “Where’s Erica? I want to talk to Erica.”

  “Erica’s been through enough,” Mom says.

  “Please, give Joey a chance . . . He’s not a bad boy,” Gladys says, sounding like a drunken version of some mother from an old melodramatic movie.

  I hear my mom’s voice, and then Gladys Kendall’s, but their

  words aren’t clear to me.

  Then, louder, “What good does it do to arrest him? What’s done is done . . . please. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “He meant plenty!” Dad says.

  “It’s so hard on him to be locked up again.”

  “Hard on him?” my dad yells. “Do you think I give a shit about him? We’ve just spent hours at the hospital with Erica and it’s only the beginning . . .”

  And now, everyone is talking at once, no one really listening.

  “Grant, don’t bother, this woman won’t even remember . . .”

  “My sons are all I’ve got . . .”

  “She could be pregnant, or diseased, or God knows . . .”

  “Calm down. Grant, this won’t help . . .”

  “And the emotional scars . . .”

  “ . . . not such a big deal. Sex is just an everyday thing to your daughter, in case you didn’t know . . .”

  “Get out!” Mom yells.

  I hear scuffling, and then the door slams, hard, shaking the house like an earthquake. I pull the covers back over my head.

  Mom comes in to check on me early in the afternoon.

  “I thought I heard you up and around,” she says.

  “I got up for a bath, but then I got back in bed.”

  She checks the bruise on my arm and the one on my cheek.

  “How are you feeling, Sweetheart?”

  “Okay. I’m just so . . . tired, or something.”

  “Do you hurt anywhere?”

  “Not really,” I say, though that’s not exactly the truth. It’s more like I hurt in my deepest self, but I don’t know how to tell her that.

  “Dad and I told Gramma we’d pick up a few groceries for her. Why don’t you get up and come with us? It might do you good to get out.”

  I shake my head no. “I really don’t feel like it, Mom.”

  “Well, I hate to leave you alone. Rocky’s over at Jessica’s.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell her.

  “Do you want me to stay? Dad can take care of the groceries.”

  “No, really, go ahead.”

  “Someone’s been calling again today and hanging up when we answer,” Mom says. “Dad thinks it’s Danny and that he’s afraid to talk to either of us. Don’t answer the phone if you don’t want to.”

  I nod.

  She sits looking at me, worried.

  “Can I get you anything before we leave?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  “Well . . . we won’t be gone long. You’ve got your partner,” she says, reaching to pet Kitty. “What a good dog you’ve been . . . She’s hardly left your side all day, has she?”

  “Just once, to go outside.”

  No sooner have my parents backed out the driveway than the phone rings.

  “Pups?”

  “Danny. Oh, Danny,” I say, crying, wanting his arms around me.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you for the last two days. I had a Christmas present for you and everything . . . I tried to call . . .”

  “You did?”

  “Well, but your dad kept answering the phone. I wanted you to answer . . . Listen, Pups. What happened? All I know is Kitty got Joey good, and then you were leaving without saying good-bye or anything . . .”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “I just know something happened. I know Joey was arrested and that he’s charged with assault and rape and Gladys is going nuts.”

  I am beyond tears now, shocked. He doesn’t know what happened? The memory of Danny, drunk, standing in the doorway after Joe
y’d rammed inside me in that most personal, violent, way flashes before me—Danny, asking what was going on.

  “I guess I was a little out of it,” he says.

  “God, Danny. I was raped. Joey raped me. While you were just outside the door. While I was screaming to you for help! I was RAPED!”

  There is a long silence, then, “I’m sorry, Pups. I’m sorry. Are you okay now? I mean, he didn’t beat you up or anything, did he?”

  “Fine. I’m fine now. I was only raped. Not beaten—at least not too bad,” I say, all sarcastic.

  Another long silence. Then Danny says, “I told you he was crazy.

  didn’t I?”

  “You didn’t tell me he might just up and decide to rape me!”

  “Erica, I feel bad, I really do. But what can I do now?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing you can do,” I say, feeling defeated, wanting only to go back to the safety of my room, to curl up in a ball and pull the covers tight around me.

  “How about if I bring your present over late tonight, after your parents are in bed . . . We don’t have to do anything, you know, sexy or anything, if you don’t want to.”

  “How sensitive of you,” I say, sarcastic again. “I’ve lost the Christmas spirit.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow then. Answer the phone, will you?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, and hang up.

  For the rest of Christmas vacation I spend a lot of time in my room. It’s where I feel safe. I listen to music and read a James Herriot book, All Creatures Great and Small. James Herriot was a vet in England who worked with pigs and cows and sheep, in addition to the usual dog and cat clientele. I’ve read all of his books at least once. They’re safe, too.

  I ask my mom to call the Humane Society and tell them I’m sick. I’ve never done that before, but I just don’t want to leave the house.

  Mom and Dad keep trying to get me to go out with them, to a movie, or for pizza, things we’ve always done together, but I have no heart for it. I know they’re concerned, and trying to be nice, but mostly I want to be left alone, in my room.

  The Sunday before school starts April drops by. We sit out on my front steps, talking. Kitty sits next to me, leaning her chin on my leg.

  “Here, I got this for you,” April says, handing me something that looks like a little hairspray can.

  “Pepper spray,” she explains. “After what happened to you, I decided never to be without it, and you shouldn’t either,” she says, dangling a can from her key chain.

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “My dad got it for me—one squirt and guys like Joey’ll be stopped cold.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Any news about the hearing?”

  I shake my head. “They haven’t set a date yet.”

  “You know who called me last night?” April says.

  It’s one of those questions that requires no answer.

  “Danny Lara.”

  “Oh?” I say.

  “He was all upset—says he can’t get through to you, you don’t answer the phone—he asked me to talk to you.”

  I pick up a rock and toss it a few feet away. Kitty bounds over and picks it up, then brings it back to me.

  “Are you breaking up with him, or what?”

  “I don’t know. It’s like I can’t think straight right now. When the phone rings, I don’t answer it. I’m not even sure why. I just don’t feel like talking.”

  “He was on this kick about how he was no good, he felt so guilty. I felt kind of sorry for him. We talked for a long time.”

  “Did he ask how I was doing?”

  April looks at me, thoughtful. “No, not really. Mostly he talked about how awful he felt.”

  “Do you think he’d been drinking?”

  “Maybe. He sounded all emotional when he was telling me how guilty he felt, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. Once I even thought he might be crying.”

  “He does that sometimes, if he’s had a lot to drink. Or . . .” I think about how he always cried after sex, like those were the only times he could express any emotions—with drinking or sex.

  “Or what?” April asks.

  “I forgot what I was going to say,” I tell her.

  “Anyway, he wants you to call him . . . Do you think you will?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, which seems to be my answer to almost everything these days.

  Monday morning I get up and get ready for school, but at the last minute I decide not to go. My bruises are gone, and I’m not so sore inside anymore, but . . . I just don’t feel like going. Rocky does though, and when she gets home she comes into my room. I’m stretched out on my bed reading All Things Bright and Beautiful. Rocky closes the door behind her and then searches through her backpack.

  “Here, this is for you,” she whispers, taking out a brown envelope and handing it to me.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “It’s from Danny.”

  “How’d you get it?”

  “He waited for me after school and handed it to me. He said to tell you he really misses you.”

  Rocky stands watching me. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  “Not until you leave,” I tell her.

  “Why not?”

  “Maybe it’s a bomb,” I say, sarcastically.

  “No way. You just don’t want me to see it.”

  “So? Leave.”

  “I’ll tell Mom you’ve got a package from Danny,” Rocky says.

  “Tell her. I don’t care.”

  Rocky leaves, reluctantly, and goes out to the kitchen. I hear the refrigerator door and know Rocky has other things on her mind now.

  I open the package and take out my silver barrette and a letter from Danny. It says,

  Dear Pups,

  Here’s your barrette. I found it under the table. I’ve got to talk to you. Why won’t you come to the phone? I guess you think I let you down. I feel so awful about what happened, but that’s over now. I just want things back the way they were.

  I really need to talk to you. Please, Erica, I feel so lonely without you. Can I come to your window tonight? I’ll be way quiet, so the Green Beret man won’t hear a thing. I’m going nuts. I need to feel you next to me.

  I love you,

  Danny

  I read the letter twice. I’m suddenly so angry that every little bit of the floating feeling leaves me and I’m grounded in the reality I’ve been trying to avoid. I grab a pen and notebook paper and start writing.

  Dear Danny,

  I can’t believe you! I’ve just been through the most horrible experience of my life. And you didn’t even help me. You were too drunk! And now, in your letter, there’s not one word of concern for me. You feel, you want, you need, YOU, YOU, YOU, BUT WHAT ABOUT ME? WHAT ABOUT ME, DANNY?

  I’m hurt bad, and I don’t exactly know where to go from here but one thing I do know, what you feel or want or need is not coming first with me anymore. Another thing. Here’s your ring back. It feels like a lie to me. And don’t come knocking at my window.

  Erica

  I almost sign “love, Erica” out of habit, but love’s not what I’m feeling. I take my ring off and wrap the letter around it. I put them in an envelope and seal it.

  I take the scissors from my desk drawer and look in the mirror for a long time. Hardly an hour passes that I don’t feel Joey clutching my hair, pulling my head back, grabbing at me, ramming at me, overpowering me. I take the scissors and cut a hunk of hair close to my scalp. I watch the shiny black hair fall to the floor, then grab another clump. Never again. Never again, I think as I cut another handful, and another as fast as I can, with no regard for evenness, my only thought that no one now will be able to grab a handful of my hair and use that maneuver against me.

  When I’m done, I pick up the silver barrett
e, turn away from the mirror, and step through mounds of hair to get to my dresser. There I remove the T-shirt which wraps the can of foam and my one remaining condom. I add the barrette to the other two items and wrap the shirt back up. I place the bundle beneath my other shirts, in the far back comer of my bottom drawer, where it will remain unopened, a remnant from an earlier life, like the picture books stored on my closet shelf.

  “Erica?”

  Dad stands looking at me, shocked. He reaches to the floor and picks up a handful of my hair, and when he stands again I see tears in his eyes.

  “Why?” he asks, fingering the hair.

  “Oh, Daddy.”

  “E.J., E.J.” he says, holding me tightly while I cry against his chest, comforted by the rough fabric of his wool shirt, and the aroma of English Leather.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says, over and over, until I’m not certain if he’s talking to me, or to himself.

  Chapter

  18

  Walking into the Humane Society, I feel all eyes on me. I go from the reception desk, past the infirmary, out to the kennels and Beauty—always my first stop of the day. She stands on her hind legs, sticking her white-trimmed nose through the chain-link fence, wagging her tail frantically.

  “Hi, Beauty. Hi, girl,” I say, opening the gate to her kennel and walking inside. She runs in close circles around my legs. I kneel down and pet her, laughing.

  “You’ve missed me, huh? Has anyone exercised you this week?”

  She licks my face, not seeming to notice my lack of hair. I attach her leash and walk her out into the alleyway, where we go for a brisk walk. I used to have to urge her on, she would tire so easily. Now it’s as if Beauty has the stamina to walk forever. She sets the pace and I lag.

  We walk past a trash barrel that has a crusty old jar of mustard sitting on top of other trash. Joey’s house, the table, the helplessness, Joey’s intrusion into my body, all brought back to me, in a flash, by a discarded mustard jar. I stop, leaning against a cement block wall. Beauty looks at me, confused by my sudden halt, then strains at the leash.

  “In a minute,” I say, and she stands on her hind legs, her front paws on my upper thighs. She looks at me, wagging her tail, then gets back on all fours, again pulling at the leash.