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Safety within reach, she opened her mouth to scream for help; one of them tackled her from behind, knocking her to the ground, knocking the wind out of her. She tasted dirt and her own blood, pinpoints of light flashed behind her eyes.
In the next moment, a hand was forced over her mouth and she was being dragged, Ricky at her head and Tommy at her feet, from the side of road and behind a dilapidated shed. She struggled, dimly aware of Buddy following behind, dragging his feet.
If she had any hope, she realized, it was Buddy. If only Ricky would take his hand off her mouth, she could beg Buddy to help her; she could scream. But he didn’t, and his grip partially covered her nose, as well, and she felt light-headed from the lack of oxygen.
Dear God, she thought, struggling for air, this couldn’t be happening to her! The words played through her head like a continuous tape.
“You got the paper bag, Buddy?”
“This has gone far enough.” Buddy cleared his throat nervously. “I mean, joking about it was one thing, but—”
Ricky tightened his grip on her and glared at the other boy. “You going to be a pussy all your life, Wills? Or are you a faggot? Give me the goddamned bag!”
The boy hung back, his face white with fear. “What if we get caught? What if—”
“We’re not going to get caught.”
“What if she tells? Jesus, Ricky, we could go to jail!”
“You are such a fucking girl, Buddy.” Ricky laughed, the sound twisted and evil. “Who’s going to believe her? Nobody, that’s who. Our folks didn’t believe Miss Opal, they laughed at the thought that we would touch her. You think I would do this if I didn’t know I could get away with it?”
They were raping her because they knew they could get away with it.
And because they thought she was nothing.
“Now bring me the goddamned bag so I can put it over her head. Then help hold her down.” Ricky’s hand slackened as he faced the other boy.
They were going to put a paper bag over her head so they wouldn’t have to look at her. Sons of bitches! Bastards! Fury ate her fear, and with Ricky’s attention diverted, she propelled herself up, knocking him sideways. Enraged, she flew at Tommy, raking his face with her nails. He howled with pain. He pried her off him, then wheeling back with his fist, punched her.
His fist connected with her jaw, and her head snapped back, pain shooting with blinding intensity through her skull. She reeled backward and hit the ground, her head cracking against a rock. Pain shot through her head, then light. Brilliant white and blinding.
Everything went black.
When Becky Lynn came to, she saw only black, could only draw a shallow breath, closed as she was in the damp, tight box. Disoriented, she tried to move her hands but found them anchored, found her legs nailed down, stretched at a painful angle.
It took a moment to realize where she was and what was happening, a moment for reality to rudely reassert itself. The weight of a body pressed her into the damp, fecund earth, hands held her immobile. Her clothes had been pushed or torn aside, the night air chilled her skin, although she knew the iciness she felt had little to do with the temperature.
It was Ricky on top of her. She knew him by his stench.
Sounds and sensations flashed crazily through her head. The ooze of the earth against her skin, the smell of sweat and mud, the pain of an object being forced into her, sawing and tearing. The paper bag crackled as she flung her head from side to side in an agony of pain and shame.
A dog began to bark, a high excited sound that ripped through her head, drowning out the sound of Ricky’s labored breathing. Of Buddy’s fear and Tommy’s anticipation. Of her own mewls of despair.
Ricky grunted with release, like an animal, and fell against her. The sound turned her stomach, and she knew that guttural noise would feed her nightmares forever.
“Come on, Ricky.” Tommy’s voice shook, and she heard him frantically unbuckling his belt, yanking down his zipper. “You’ve had your shot, give somebody else a cha—”
The dog started its high-pitched barking again, and a light came on, spilling into the black, followed by the screech of a screen door being opened. “Who’s out there?” a woman called.
Becky Lynn opened her mouth to cry out, to scream for help, but nothing came out but a ragged whisper, so weak even the boys didn’t hear her.
“Oh, shit.” Buddy whimpered and released her legs. “Oh, shit, Ricky—”
“Shut the fuck—”
“I know somebody’s out there, and y’all better git. I’m callin’ the police. You hear me?”
The three boys froze. Becky Lynn could feel their sudden tension, could almost hear their thoughts— Buddy’s relief, Tommy’s disappointment, Ricky’s hatred.
“I’m callin’ the police,” the woman repeated, louder this time. “I’m callin’ ’em now.” The door slapped shut.
Buddy didn’t wait. He jumped up and ran, stumbling out of the brush and into the road, puking when he reached it.
“Come on, man.” Tommy sounded panicked, even though he didn’t release her hands. “We gotta go!”
“Thanks, baby,” Ricky whispered. “And don’t you fret none, I’ll make sure Tommy and Buddy get their turn.”
He bent his head and took her right nipple into his mouth, sucking it, swirling his tongue over it. She gagged, the tenderness of the gesture grotesque, obscene. He lifted himself from her, and she kicked out blindly and as hard as she could. She caught him in the groin. She knew by the feel and by the sound he made—a high whine of pain—and she wished she could see his face contort.
“Bitch! Cunt! I’ll—”
Tommy tugged on Ricky’s arm. “She called the cops, man! We’ve got to get out of here.”
Ricky must have agreed, for in the next moment, Tommy released her hands, and she heard the two boys run off.
Becky Lynn clawed at the paper bag, wrenching it off. She ripped at the stiff brown paper, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces, whimpering and grunting like a wounded animal. The paper cut her fingers; they burned and bled, but she kept tearing at the bag until nothing was left but pieces too small and broken to hold on to.
Shuddering uncontrollably, she slumped to her side and curled into a tight ball.
6
Light leaked from the edges of the small, haphazardly covered windows, spilling weakly into the darkness. With a strangled cry of relief, Becky Lynn crawled up onto the sagging front porch.
Home. She’d made it home at last.
She rested her forehead against the porch floor, struggling to even her shallow, ragged breathing. She hurt. Her belly, her head and jaw, between her legs. But the physical pain didn’t compare to the ache inside her, the ache that couldn’t be measured in physical terms, the damage that couldn’t be repaired or healed with bandage or salve. Inside, she’d been ripped to pieces.
She would never be whole again.
Shaking, Becky Lynn grasped the porch railing and pulled herself to her feet, trembling so badly she feared she would fall. She had no idea of the time, no idea how long she’d lain behind the outbuilding, bleeding and raw, waiting for the wail of the police siren that had never come.
Images, horrific and unwanted, flashed lightning-like through her head. She squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach pitching. She held the vomit back through sheer force of will. She wouldn’t be sick, she wouldn’t allow Ricky and Tommy to take anything more from her—they’d already taken the only things that had been truly hers, the only things that had been worth having. Her body. The last vestige of her girlish idealism. Her hope.
She crossed the porch to the door, thinking for the first time of her family. She had never been late before, had never failed to show up by dinnertime. She pictured herself, how she must look—dirty, bruised and bloody, her clothes ripped. She curved her shaking fingers around the doorknob. Had anyone worried at her absence? When they saw her, what would they think?
She opened the door and stepped inside. And smelled the whiskey. Its stench hung in the air like a cloud, and she realized dimly that her father had somehow scraped together enough money for a fifth.
She shifted her gaze. He sat slumped in front of the television, Randy beside him, pale and tense. Her father didn’t move, but as the door screeched, her brother turned his head. He met her eyes and for one electric moment stared at her, then slid his gaze guiltily away.
Her brother had known what his friends had planned to do to her.
She sucked in a sharp breath, the realization spinning through her, bringing her to a point past anger or disbelief, past hysteria. Had her brother encouraged them? Had he laughed with them when they talked about how they would put a bag over her head so they wouldn’t have to look at her while they raped her?
The sickness threatened to overwhelm her again, and she brought a hand to her mouth, fighting it back. Tears stung her eyes. “How?” she managed to say, her voice thick with tears and grief. “How…could you? You’re my brother.”
Randy lifted his gaze to hers. She had the brief impression of a deer, frozen in the shocking glare of headlights. His expression, pinched and frightened, took on an ashen pallor.
“When we were small, remember how we played together? None of the other children would come…near us. Remember?”
Randy shifted uncomfortably and lowered his eyes once more. She shook her head, her pain nearly unbearable. “I would have done anything to protect you. I did protect you. So many ti—” She curved her arms around herself. “And now you…you let them…do…this to—”
She choked this last back, unable to take her brother’s guilty silence, the damning truth of that silence, a moment longer. Turning toward the kitchen, she went in search of her mother.
Glenna Lee sat at the kitchen table, still as a stone, gazing at nothing, her eyes vacant, her hands working at a fold of her robe. Becky Lynn stared at her, at the way her fingers moved back and forth over the worn terry-cloth.
“Mama?” she whispered, clutching her hands together in a silent prayer. “Mama, please.”
Her mother blinked, focusing on her daughter for the first time. Shock moved across her mother’s expression, a dawning horror, then her features cleared, relaxing into an almost childlike mask. “Hello, baby.”
Becky Lynn swallowed. “Mama, look at me. Please.” She crossed to her mother and stopped directly before her. “I need you to see me, Mama.”
“Of course I see you, baby.” She tipped her head back, curving her lips into a small, simple smile. “Did Miss Opal keep you late?”
Becky Lynn shifted her gaze to the stove clock, its face cracked and coated with a film of grease but still readable. Nearly eleven. Five hours had passed since she’d left the Cut ‘n Curl. Five hours spent in hell.
“No, Mama.” Her chin began to quiver, and her eyes filled. “Mama, some boys…they… Mama, they hurt—”
Her mother shook her head and clucked her tongue. “She shouldn’t keep you so late on a school night.”
Becky Lynn drew in a ragged breath, her vision blurring. “Don’t do this, Mama. I…need you. Please. I need you so much.”
Her mother clutched her robe so tightly her knuckles poked out, stark and white even against the faded terry. “Go on to bed, baby. Everything will be better in the morning.”
Becky Lynn took a step backward, a cry slipping past her lips. Her mother couldn’t deal with this. She wouldn’t deal with it. Turning, Becky Lynn returned to the living room. She crossed to her father, stopping directly in front of him, blocking the TV.
“Daddy,” she whispered, twisting her fingers together, “please help me.”
He lifted his eyes to hers. His were dull and red from drink. He grunted.
“Some boys hurt me, Daddy. They—” Her throat closed over the words and she struggled to clear it. “They forced me…they—”
As if suddenly seeing her, her father moved his gaze over her. “Where’ve you been, girl?”
“I’m trying to tell you. Tommy Fischer and Ricky Jones—” She darted a glance at her brother. His head was lowered, his shoulders hunched. “They…they raped me. They knocked me down…and held my hands and feet—”
Her father lurched to his feet, forcing her backward. “Don’t you make up stories to cover your whoring!”
“No!” Becky Lynn shook her head violently. “No…they put a bag over my head and—”
“Randy?” Her father swung toward his son, weaving slightly. “Those boys your friends? The ones on the team?”
Randy glanced up, then away, looking like he wanted to puke. “Yes, sir.”
“They at the rally t’night?”
“Yes, sir.”
Becky Lynn fought for a breath. “It happened before the pep rally! They talked about how they were going to explain to the coach, they—”
“Lying whore,” her father snapped. “Get out of my sight, before I beat the hell out of you.”
Becky Lynn stumbled backward. Her mother stood in the kitchen doorway, white as a new sheet, visibly trembling. Becky Lynn met her eyes, pleading silently. Stand up for me. Mama, I need you.
But her mother didn’t stand up for her. For long moments, she stood gazing at her daughter, unmoving save for the way she clutched and released the vee of her robe.
Becky Lynn’s vision blurred. She had no one here. Not in this house. Not in Bend. No one who believed in her, no one who cared enough to stand up for her. Ricky and Tommy could rape her as often as they liked, and no one would care.
She blinked, clearing her vision, looking at her mother once more, a strange feeling of relief moving over her. Her mother had set her free. Now, truly, there was nothing for her in Bend.
Turning, Becky Lynn limped toward the bathroom.
“Don’t come cryin’ to me if you get knocked up!” her father shouted from behind her. “You hear me? I won’t have none of your ugly bastard brats in this house. You hear me?”
Becky Lynn closed the bathroom door behind her, muffling the sound of her father’s rage, and latched it. She crossed to the old claw-footed tub and turned on the faucets. Kneeling, she pushed the rubber stopper into the drain, then stood and stripped off her soiled clothing, avoiding her reflection in the small mirror above the sink.
They had put a bag over her head so the wouldn’t have to look at her while they raped her.
She stepped into the tepid water, then sank into it. It flowed sweetly over her, like a baptism, cleansing her of Ricky’s touch, his smell. His hate.
She rested her head against the cool porcelain and closed her eyes.
As if from outside her body, hovering above, she saw herself. Her body folded into the tub, scrunched down so she would be submerged, her skin so white it blended with the tub, the shock of red hair around her face, floating around her shoulders. The bruises. The blood that leaked from her and into the water, muddying it.
They would be back.
She wanted to cry, to howl with rage and pain, yet she had no tears, couldn’t muster emotion enough for rage. She felt…a numbness. A nothingness. A weird kind of void that was at once a sweet relief and completely terrifying.
As the water became almost too cool to bear, she opened her eyes and sat up. Carefully, she soaped her thighs, her bruised womanhood, washing away dirt and blood. She winced as she moved her hands over herself, knowing from experience that physical bruises healed. And that invisible ones did not.
There was blood underneath her fingernails, Tommy’s from when she’d scratched him, and she dug her nails into the soap, moving them back and forth on the slippery bar, not stopping until they were clear. Clean and free of him. She soaped her hair next, scrubbing it, rinsing it. Scrubbing again.
The water turned dark and ugly. Her stomach heaved, but she choked the sickness back. She drained the tub, then sat naked in the empty bath, her arms closed around herself, teeth chattering.
Thoughts raced dizzily, crazily through her head, like the twisted path of a roller coaster.
I won’t tell, Becky Lynn… You must promise me that if those boys do anything to you, you will come to me…
What did you hope to accomplish by telling Miss Opal… Who did you think was going to believe that we’d touch you… Our parents laughed…
