The Sacrifice by Joyce Carol Oates Page B

her “nasty words” and tied her up and left her in the factory cellar saying there were “other nigras” in that place who had died there.
    Starting to cry now, and Mrs. Frye squeezed her hand, and for a moment it didn’t seem that Sybilla would continue.
    Iglesias asked if she’d been able to see faces? Could she describe the men—their age, race? Were they known to her?
    Sybilla shook her head, they weren’t known to her. She seemed about to say more, then stopped.
    “You’re sure that these men are not known to you, Sybilla? Could you describe any of them?”
    Sybilla stared at the floor. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over her bruised cheeks.
    “Did they hurt you sexually?”
    Sybilla sat very still staring at the floor. Her face was shiny now with tears.
    Mrs. Frye said, gently urging, “S’b’lla, honey, you got to tell this lady, see? You got to tell her what you can. You aint told me all of it, has you?—you know you aint. Now, you tell her .”
    “Did they rape you, Sybilla?”
    Sybilla shook her head just slightly, yes.
    “More than one man, you’ve said?”
    Sybilla shook her head yes.
    “You told your mother—five men?”
    Sybilla shook her head yes.
    “Not boys but men.”
    Sybilla shook her head yes.
    “And not men you know?”
    Sybilla shook her head no.
    “Can you describe them? Just—anything.”
    Sybilla stared at the floor. Mrs. Frye was crowded close beside her now, an arm around the girl’s shoulders.
    “The color of their skin? You said they used the word nigra —”
    Mrs. Frye urged her to speak. “Come on, girl! Was they black men, or—some other? Who’d be sayin ‘nigra’ except some other?”
    Sybilla stared at the floor. She didn’t seem resistant or defiant now, but exhausted. Iglesias worried that the girl was about to faint or lapse into some sort of mental state like catatonia.
    Once, interviewing a stricken and near-mute girl of twelve, Iglesias had given the girl Post-its upon which to write, and the girl had done so. Iglesias gave Sybilla a (bright yellow, cheering) Post-it pad and a pencil to write on and, after some hesitation, Sybilla printed:
    WHITE COP
    “‘White cop’—”
    Iglesias tried not to show the surprise she felt.
    Mrs. Frye took the Post-it from Iglesias’s hand, read it and began to wail as if white cop was a death sentence.
    Iglesias asked if the “white cop” had hurt Sybilla?
    Sybilla shook her head yes.
    “Was just one of the men ‘white’—or a ‘cop’?”
    Sybilla shook her head to indicate she didn’t know.
    “How did you know the man was a ‘cop,’ Sybilla?”
    Sybilla wrote on the Post-it:
    WEAR A BAGDE
    “He was ‘wearing a badge’? When he raped you, he was ‘wearing a badge’?”
    Sybilla shook her head, she didn’t know. Thought so, yes.
    Her eyelids were drooping, her mouth was slack with exhaustion.
    “Were any of the others ‘wearing a badge’?”
    Sybilla shook her head, she didn’t know.
    “Could you describe him? The ‘white cop’?”
    Sybilla printed on a Post-it:
    YELOW HAIR
    “Could you say what his approximate age was?”
    Sybilla shook her head, uncertain.
    “Thirty? Thirty-five?”
    Sybilla shook her head.
    “My age is thirty-six. Was he older or younger than me, do you think?”
    Sybilla squinted at Iglesias. Her left eye seemed to be losing focus but her right eye was fixed on Iglesias. On a Post-it she wrote:
    AGE 30
    “Were the other men ‘white’ also? Could you see?”
    Sybilla printed on the Post-it:
    THEY WHITE
    Sybilla took back the Post-it and printed:
    THEY ALL WHITE
    “These men abducted you, kept you captive in a van, beat and raped you, intermittently for three days and three nights? Where was the van parked, do you have any idea?”
    Sybilla shook her head, she didn’t know.
    “Could you describe the van? Inside, outside?”
    Sybilla shook her head slowly, she wasn’t sure.
    Sybilla smiled, a nervous twitch of a smile. How like a child she looked, a badly