nothing.”
“But you’re everything to me now.” She could see his outline through the thin blue-checked cotton of the shorts.
“You’re better than my wife,” he said. “You’re beautiful.” He undid the noosed shorts and she tipped her head back in release. “Let me see your body,” he said. “Take those off your face. Take off your clothes.” She undressed fully for him. The ground was cold. He bit her shoulder and grabbed a fist full of her hair at the nape of her neck, forcing her head to the ground. He had her pinned by the hair, neck arched as far as it could go, chin pointing toward the sky. “I’m sorry I hit you,” he said, “but you made me do it.”
“I won’t make you do it again.”
“Will you marry me?”
“I’ll think about it,” she told him, as if she were actually thinking it over. She’d learned how to skillfully lie over the years, a quality she wasn’t proud of. Her knees trembled and her teeth chattered.
He entered her again. “Do you love me?”
Love would make it better, easier. Love is sometimes wrong, she thought, but it is love and love does not maim or kill or hurt. “I’m so cold,” she said.
He put her sister’s sweater over her tenderly. Time stopped. She was in his hands, he was in her body. She looked up at the trees, their leaves, leaping yellows and reds dancing down to the forest floor. This, she thought, this is what I will take with me if I am taken from here.
“I’ll never tell anyone about this if you let me go,” she said. “It’s getting dark and I think it’s about time we both get home.”
“How do I know that? Why should I believe you’d keep your big mouth shut?” He took his fingers and pried her mouth open, pushing a few fingers inside. He pressed her tongue until she gagged.
The girl cried, begged. “You have to know it because I’m telling you.” She thought of all of the crime shows she’d seen, how police got confessions by playing nice. “I couldn’t send you to jail—I don’t believe in jail. It’s racist and classist.”
“Don’t let me find you if you’re lying, girl.” The man pulled up his trousers. “Close your eyes and count to ten. I’ll be gone when you’re finished.”
She counted until she couldn’t hear his feet and dressed quickly. She sprinted up the hill, grabbing on to branches to make it to the top. The park was at the top of the hill where hours before she and her dog had played. She called for the dog. This time, she came, dragging her leash. She’d been afraid for the dog the whole time—the dog was confused and could have darted out into traffic. She began to run toward her apartment and crossed the street. A man campaigning for reelection for the Holyoke town board saw her and moved away in horror.
“I’m afraid of dogs,” he yelled. “Get that thing away from me.” He saw a girl with torn red pants and no shoes, her hair wild and wet with blood, her eyes blackened, but the aspiring politician was a coward before all else: he saw her pit bull before he noticed her need.
“She’s friendly, please.” She told him how to reach her husband. For the first time of many she said the words: “I was raped.” The girl fell at his feet. Her dog licked the blood from her face in long slow strokes. The politician called the police and then he called her husband.
The last thing she remembers is her husband running toward her, leaning forward to hold her. “Get the fuck off,” she yelled, and then more softly, “I’m evidence.” Nothing was ever the same again; she was someone else entirely.
“I was raped,” she repeated to her husband, in the same tone someone might say they had pasta for dinner the night before. It was like that, matter of fact, half-faced. She spoke the truth as though it was someone else’s.
* * *
This is what she learned: There is one road of control, and two choices: take control and kill the body, or live and struggle; ramble in
“But you’re everything to me now.” She could see his outline through the thin blue-checked cotton of the shorts.
“You’re better than my wife,” he said. “You’re beautiful.” He undid the noosed shorts and she tipped her head back in release. “Let me see your body,” he said. “Take those off your face. Take off your clothes.” She undressed fully for him. The ground was cold. He bit her shoulder and grabbed a fist full of her hair at the nape of her neck, forcing her head to the ground. He had her pinned by the hair, neck arched as far as it could go, chin pointing toward the sky. “I’m sorry I hit you,” he said, “but you made me do it.”
“I won’t make you do it again.”
“Will you marry me?”
“I’ll think about it,” she told him, as if she were actually thinking it over. She’d learned how to skillfully lie over the years, a quality she wasn’t proud of. Her knees trembled and her teeth chattered.
He entered her again. “Do you love me?”
Love would make it better, easier. Love is sometimes wrong, she thought, but it is love and love does not maim or kill or hurt. “I’m so cold,” she said.
He put her sister’s sweater over her tenderly. Time stopped. She was in his hands, he was in her body. She looked up at the trees, their leaves, leaping yellows and reds dancing down to the forest floor. This, she thought, this is what I will take with me if I am taken from here.
“I’ll never tell anyone about this if you let me go,” she said. “It’s getting dark and I think it’s about time we both get home.”
“How do I know that? Why should I believe you’d keep your big mouth shut?” He took his fingers and pried her mouth open, pushing a few fingers inside. He pressed her tongue until she gagged.
The girl cried, begged. “You have to know it because I’m telling you.” She thought of all of the crime shows she’d seen, how police got confessions by playing nice. “I couldn’t send you to jail—I don’t believe in jail. It’s racist and classist.”
“Don’t let me find you if you’re lying, girl.” The man pulled up his trousers. “Close your eyes and count to ten. I’ll be gone when you’re finished.”
She counted until she couldn’t hear his feet and dressed quickly. She sprinted up the hill, grabbing on to branches to make it to the top. The park was at the top of the hill where hours before she and her dog had played. She called for the dog. This time, she came, dragging her leash. She’d been afraid for the dog the whole time—the dog was confused and could have darted out into traffic. She began to run toward her apartment and crossed the street. A man campaigning for reelection for the Holyoke town board saw her and moved away in horror.
“I’m afraid of dogs,” he yelled. “Get that thing away from me.” He saw a girl with torn red pants and no shoes, her hair wild and wet with blood, her eyes blackened, but the aspiring politician was a coward before all else: he saw her pit bull before he noticed her need.
“She’s friendly, please.” She told him how to reach her husband. For the first time of many she said the words: “I was raped.” The girl fell at his feet. Her dog licked the blood from her face in long slow strokes. The politician called the police and then he called her husband.
The last thing she remembers is her husband running toward her, leaning forward to hold her. “Get the fuck off,” she yelled, and then more softly, “I’m evidence.” Nothing was ever the same again; she was someone else entirely.
“I was raped,” she repeated to her husband, in the same tone someone might say they had pasta for dinner the night before. It was like that, matter of fact, half-faced. She spoke the truth as though it was someone else’s.
* * *
This is what she learned: There is one road of control, and two choices: take control and kill the body, or live and struggle; ramble in
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