FOR SARINA, it had been a very bad day. Cold without release. Rotten for many reasons. It started with the funeral, which she had missed because of Joe.
That morning, he whispered “Stay in bed a little longer.” Kiss, kiss, kiss. His body warm. He held her down and made her love him. Turned the alarm off. Kept the blinds wrung tight. When she came back from the bathroom, she found him sitting up in bed. She was naked and on her period. He was stern, his lips curled down.
“I don’t want you running to the side of some ex-boyfriend.”
“I haven’t seen him since high school.”
“I don’t care. I still don’t like it.”
Joe pulled back the covers and patted the blank spot. He smoothed the wrinkles on the butter yellow sheets. There was a dent in the partial down pillow he had bought just for her. It did look comfortable. Sarina crawled in and felt him press his body into her back.
“I am the tablespoon. You are the teaspoon.”
Sarina purred as she always did when Joe flattered the two of them and the way that they fit. She pushed her back against his chest. She closed her eyes at the sound of thunder, not far off, probably in Northport. Reaching back, she ran her hand along his peach-fuzzed hip. She was comfortable with his jealousy. Grateful for an excuse to stay out of the rain.
They got out of bed when Joe went for the shower. Time for work. Up and at ’em. They ate cereal and Joe walked Sarina to her car.
“Late night, again?” she asked.
“ ’Fraid so,” said Joe.
“Call me,” she said. “I’ll be at my mother’s.”
Of course, Joe did not call and that’s the second thing that got on her nerves. If she were making a list, in order, it would be the third. The second would be thirteen cars parked on her lawn, twenty more curbed at the neighbors’, the cars extending two blocks over. Sarina had to hike from her Prelude to the front door. She was surprised by the Steptoe party; her house full like when her mother was married.
That was the biggie, the first strike, the pisser: a Summers gathering. Her mother making rounds. Stewart as the guest of honor. That Chickasaw freak all up in her face. She should have gone to that funeral. Prepared herself. Worn the right clothes. If she had gone, she wouldn’t have had to mingle like company. There would have been no surprises. She would have known what to say.
At one point Mrs. Summers asked about her boyfriend. “Where’s your boyfriend?” she said. “Where is our dear Joe?”
Sarina knew her mother knew, but was tough-loving for effect.
“You’ve got to keep control of him.”
“I’m trying.”
“Don’t try. Do.”
Throughout the course of the reception, Sarina willed him to call. To show her mother that she’d whipped him. To show her mother that she wore the proverbial pants.
But the guests soon left and the caterers cleared. The furniture was moved back into place and her mother retired to her room to lie down. Sarina was left by herself in the living room. Not a chirp, not a murmur. Not a boyfriend who cared.
Through the window, she saw Willamina at her green Chevrolet. She had a trunk full of clothes, extra ironing done at home. She slung two dozen shirts over one arm and carried a stack of sheets on the palm of one hand. She moved steadily, her knee-highs rubbing at the elastic. Sarina waved and wished she could live like Willamina. Sort, press, fold. Spray, rub, wash. No complications. No wants. Not the smallest of desires.
Willamina plowed past her. Sarina followed, spouting details of the party Will had missed because she was helping caterers in the kitchen: some kid fingering the Swedish meat-ball platter; Stewart up close after so many years.
“What happened to him?”
“I don’t know. I guess he went home.”
“Home where?” said Willamina.
“Home home,” Sarina said.
Willamina patted the tight gray curls that fit her head like a cap. “That’s a lot to happen to such a young man.”
“Hey, Meena, are you cooking dinner tonight?”
“Not my night. You forget. Your mother’s had me on a schedule for over a year. She likes the house to herself. Come tomorrow. I’ll do something with that left-over shrimp.”
Sarina said she would, but she knew that she wouldn’t. It was the weekend which brought new movies. Alabama vs. Georgia in a women’s gymnastics meet. It was a time to be seen. Tomorrow, date night.
Sarina left her mother to sleep, and she beat every red light back to Tri Delta. Inside, dinner was being served, but Sarina snuck up the stairs and locked her bedroom door behind her. She kept the lamps on low settings. She ate two cherry-frosted untoasted Pop-Tarts. She drank a Coke from the mini-fridge, but wanted a beer. She watched a string of sitcoms and did not answer when sisters knocked or called her name. When Joe phoned, she refused to pick up. She just stared at the answering machine, the button blinking as he spoke.
Sarina did not know how long she could teach lessons. Today’s was: You Can’t Find Me, See How It Feels. But Joe never called back. He didn’t hound her like her mother. One message, all night long. One message, that’s all he wrote.
Nevertheless, she kept trying to mold him into shape. Don’t lie to me. Don’t cheat on me. Call me when you say you will. Tell me I’m the only one.
The problem was he told her that, but she knew it wasn’t true. There were items in his bathroom. Late arrivals. Sudden gifts. For a while she took advantage. He was conscience-stricken, so she asked for more. The Cypress Inn. Large popcorn, forget the small. Maybe a sweater or a new compact disc. How about local theater, Joe? How about two tickets, first-class, to the moon? When totals were tallied, she did not offer to contribute. She just looked at him like an innocent girl, easily impressed by a wallet flipped open.
Mrs. Summers agreed that she was handling him correctly. She said, “Treat him like a dog. When he strays, slap his nose with a wet rolled-up newspaper.”
In human terms that meant act like a rag. Don’t sleep with him, don’t flatter him, make him wait, be late. Make sure he understands there are girls for a good time and girls you marry. There should be no question that Sarina was the marrying kind.
The following spring, Mrs. Summers was not as gung-ho about her daughter’s pursuits. The funeral reception had been such a success, Tuscaloosa society had welcomed her back. When Sarina called her mother, she was often cut short by a five-card-draw game beckoning from the blue wicker table. On Saturday mornings, she went to aqua aerobics. There were potlucks and Birmingham trips and teas and movie Mondays. Mrs. Summers was involved. Dressed in gusto. Self-improved. At the Steptoe reception, she had discovered other wives with children grown and hours to fill.
“So what am I, chopped liver?” Sarina huffed and she puffed. “Am I a hole in the head? Am I your sorry sloppy seconds? I’m just your daughter. You know, your own flesh-and-blood. Is it too much to make time for me? Is it too much of a strain on your busy social schedule?”
Mrs. Summers said, “Of course not,” and made good on her words. Every Sunday they beat the church crowds to lunch. In every restaurant, Mrs. Summers spread marmalade on toast. She listened to her daughter’s predicaments as if Joe were misbehaving for the very first time. She gave her dog theory, her bug theory, pep talks that started, “When I was your age . . .”
“But how did you stand it? Was my father this bad?”
“Your father was tolerable and you were born right away. I was too busy to be bothered. I was too tired to care.”
“But how did you stand it?”
“Sarina,” said her mother, “you are a beautiful girl.”
“And your point is?”
“You expect a lot. And you should. You should expect to be treated like a princess. But there are times when you have to consider the payoff. When you marry Joe you can live like a queen.”
One Sunday Sarina showed her mother the razor.
Since she’d found it in Joe’s bathroom, she had kept it in her purse, in the side zippered pocket, in a plastic sandwich bag. Rickety, pink nothing. Always knocking against her hip. Always blocking the way to her one Chanel lipstick. It made her sick, that skanky razor. Every time she touched it, it made her want to puke. To know that Joe was gallivanting. Keeping a spot warm in his medicine cabinet.
“So what?” said Mrs. Summers.
“So how do I get rid of her?”
Mrs. Summers tossed the package back to Sarina. “Sweetheart, pink razors are exactly like mice. Where there’s one, pussy follows. There’s no changing Joe now.”
Sarina decided to try a less traditional approach. She found Willamina pushing the Dumpster up the driveway.
“Go on,” said Willamina at Sarina’s Lady Bic in a bag. “Bin’s empty. Drop it in.”
“It’s not that,” said Sarina.
“What, you want more?”
As Willamina parked the Dumpster outside the garage, Sarina fiddled with the razor. She waited for Willamina to figure out what she wanted. She always had an opinion about what she thought was best.
“What?” said Willamina. “You want it for supper?”
“Meena, be serious.”
“Well, what then?”
“I need your help. I wanna get Joe.”
“Get Joe,” Willamina repeated. She kicked down the brake and crossed her arms atop the Dumpster. She leaned forward. “How you think we gonna do that?”
“You’re from New Orleans.”
“So?”
“You know how to do things.”
“What things?” Willamina grinned and confused Sarina with the way that she smiled.
“Things like,” Sarina stammered,“you know, voodoo.”
“Voodoo.” Willamina laughed. “Voooodoooo!” She wagged her arms like a ghost. “What you think, child? I’m gonna take that little thing and make a soup, stick pins in it? You think I got the power?” She scratched dried bird crap of the lid off the Dumpster. She flicked at it. She blew the spot clean. “You the one with the power. Dump his ass.”
“I don’t want to dump him. I want to stop him from screwing around.”
“Well, I can’t help you there.”
“ ’Cause you don’t know voodoo?”
“ ’Cause, obviously, I don’t know you. I can’t believe you want to live like your mother. Same old housewife, same old shit.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Willamina smirked. “I’m sure I don’t.”
“You don’t know how hard it is.”
Softer now. “I’m sure I don’t.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Sarina opened her arms as when she was six, stepping out of Mr. Bubbles, anxious for Willamina to towel her off before the cold set in. “Huh?” She wrapped her arms around Willamina’s neck. She snuggled into the soft places even though Willamina’s arms remained at her side.
“You’re too old for this.”
“Why?” Sarina said and wiped her eyes on the strap of Willamina’s apron. The mascara left a smudge. Again, she said, “Why?”
“Because you are.” Willamina sighed, pushing Sarina back with her breath. “You are.”
Sarina kept her hands clasped as Willamina tried to pry them apart.
“Let go,” Willamina said and pushed at her shoulders. “You think you gonna hold on forever? I’m not your mama. Your mama’s inside. She’s layin’ down on her bed. Go cling onto her.”
“But, Meena, why? What’d I do? You’ve always been like a mother to me.”
“Get off me, girl.”
Sarina stepped back. She noticed bags beneath Willamina’s eyes.
“Like a mother,” said Willamina. “Like a mother, what’s that mean? That I cook for you? That I clean your dirty clothes? What, ’cause I’m nice? ’Cause I used to give a damn?”
“But what about biscuits? What about my Mammy doll?”
“It’s a job, girl.” Willamina opened the door to the kitchen. She didn’t look back, but Sarina heard her just the same. “For sixteen years, it’s just been a job.”
By the end of her junior year, Sarina had fallen short in her Tri Delta responsibilities. In her attempts to discipline Joe, then woo him back, then keep him to herself, Sarina had missed several house meetings. She’d shown up late to the Kids Carnival for Cervical Cancer. She was distracted and failing to set an example. Secretly she had been told that she was on probation.
She called home, crying to her mother. “You’ve gotta help me. I’ve got to do something or I’m gonna get kicked out.”
Mrs. Summers assured her that she would not lose her membership. If the Tri Delts tried anything, she had an ace up her sleeve.
“What?” Sarina sniffed.
“Never mind,” said her mother.
“But if it has to do with me . . .”
Mrs. Summers cut her off. She suggested that Sarina organize a mother-daughter luncheon for the active Tri Delts. “We can have it at the Cotton Patch. Burn our letters into the tables.”
The Cotton Patch was a restaurant, forty minutes away in Eutaw, Alabama, where the dog track used to be. There was a gas station nearby, but besides some stray greyhounds, that was about it. The Cotton Patch was a real log cabin with only one room for dining but the restaurateurs turned it into one of Tuscaloosa’s finest establishments.
Everything at the Cotton Patch was fried and smothered in white gravy. Pickled watermelon rinds set out as the appetizer. A stack of Sunbeam bread. Plastic bibs. To drink: Coke or cold beer. The waitress uniform resembled Aunt Jemima’s and, like Aunt Jemima, the all-black wait staff was encouraged to say little more than Yes, ma’am and No, sah and dole out specials like sugar on the table.
It was tradition to leave your name on the premises. People came with Swiss Army knives. Some used their dinner forks. The gas station sold disposable lighters. Little girls pulled barrettes from their hair. The walls and the windowsills, the tables and benches, the floor and the ceiling were wood and more wood. An untarnished spot was like heaven to touch. To squeeze in two initials guaranteed your immortality.
Sarina had reserved ten tables for the Deltas. Most sisters attending were newly inducted. They were chatty and giddy and showing off for their moms. Mrs. Summers had bought a skirt and blouse, especially for the occasion. The skirt was long and pleated. The blouse came with a vest sewn to the shoulders. All the officers were required to attend, except for the treasurer, whose mother had eaten roach repellent and hung herself in the yard. The lunch fit perfectly into Greek Week. Everyone was undeniably impressed. It showed visitors a little culture. Down-home cooking. The smell of skin.
Sarina thought it couldn’t get any better until the fried pies were served and Joe and another woman took a table in the corner.
“I can’t believe it.”
“I know,” said Mrs. Summers. “They still use real butter!”
Sarina pinched her mother. “By the kitchen. I can’t believe it.”
Joe was holding the woman’s hand across the table. They were playing finger games. Leaning forward. Tête-à-tête. Joe brushed a lash off her cheek and told one of his dead-baby jokes, which sent her reeling. He always made that face when he told a dead-baby joke. The woman snorted and everyone turned.
“Sah-ree!” she cheeped. “It’s my laugh. I’m so embarrassed.”
Joe tugged her hands away from her face. She was blushing and he liked this. Sarina knew. He’d told her the same thing. He cradled both her hands now. He thanked the waitress for the rinds.
Sarina roasted her nail file over a Playboy lighter she had picked up at the gas station. She held it firmly, the white profiled bunny ears sticking out within her fist. The nail file turned black. The odor masked the scent of her fried peach pie topped with cherry Breyers. She imagined singeing a lover’s cross on Joe’s forehead. JD + ss should send a clear signal. A message like that should keep the bitches at bay.
Some of the Tri Delts had caught on by this point. They had seen Sarina’s boyfriend. They had heard her refer to him as marriage material. Sarina could guess what girls were whispering to their mothers. She could imagine the rumors let loose after lunch.
Mrs. Summers leaned close enough to cut Sarina’s meat. She took the nail file by the handle and tucked it under her plate. “This is it,” she whispered. “This is how you’ll get your ring.”
When Sarina stood up, she was filled with her mother’s venom. She had been instructed to walk past him, barely notice, then stop and chat. Make him squirm. Greet them both with salutations torn out of Charlotte’s Web. Charmed, charmed. She should treat him like her husband. It’s so nice to finally meet you. Shake her hand until it breaks. Take a good look, Joe, she should say inside her mind. This is class. It’s Jackie O. You’ve been bad, so make it better. Sit up, you lousy mongrel. Beg. Play dead. Trade your shame in for two carats. I want a platinum band for this damn stunt.
When she tried this, Sarina was met with reserve. Joe’s nerves were unshakable. His face a field of unreadable marks. Before him, she felt like an ornery gal. Nothing to get upset about. Where was his chicken-fried chicken?
“Who’s this?” Sarina broke.
“Mary Druthers,” said Joe.
“What’s this?” Sarina said.
“Pickled rinds,” said Joe.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t bullshit me!”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Tell her that she’s meaningless. It’s over. Good-bye.”
Joe kept his mouth shut. The Tri Deltas were silent. Mrs. Summers had chosen this time to leave the table to powder her nose. Mary Druthers looked at Sarina like she was a retard lost from her short yellow bus. She took Joe’s hand as easily as she had done throughout the hors d’oeuvres.
“Fine,” said Sarina. “That’s fine. That’s just fine.” She tried to hold Joe’s gaze, but she couldn’t. She was frantic. “You’re meaningless,” she said hoarsely. “It’s over. Goodbye.”
From the gas station, Sarina called the only person who might still care. She knew the number by heart. She had made this call when things weren’t right in the past. Desperate times called for desperate men. Stewart said she could come right over.
Pulling into his driveway, Sarina thought back to when they were kids. She had never been to his house as a girl. He had always come and gotten her. Always shown up right on time. It was later when she’d visited Tootsie’s prescreen Delta parties. Then the yard was full of promise, the house packed with kick-up-your-heels. Turning off the ignition, Sarina wondered if this was what she had missed: a quiet place where the roses stayed open, the metal flag on the mailbox as bright as the day.
Stewart had lost weight since the last time she’d seen him. It was only twenty pounds, but Sarina could see the potential for more. Grieving had agreed with him. The dark circles under his eyes made him seem older, wiser, reliable at all costs.
He led her to the living room where, on the overstuffed floral sofa, he appeared out of place. This was no bachelor pad. Surrounded by antique furniture, framed paintings, and throw pillows, Sarina appreciated the years of work made-to-order.
She said, “So, you’re doing okay.”
“Let’s not talk about how I’m doing.”
“Sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be sorry. Just talk. Tell me what happened with your big, dumbass boyfriend. Let me feel bad for someone else for a change.”
So Sarina let the stories fly. She started from the beginning: the boat show, the family dinner. She called herself a fool and an idiot and Stewart said, “No.” She said she should have known better. In hindsight, she tried to set the scenes a little differently. But at every misreport, Stewart interrupted. “Are you sure that’s what he said . . . You mean it didn’t seem weird when he . . . Jesus, Ree, you’ve got to be kidding!”
By the time Sarina got around to the Cotton Patch, it was dark outside and dark in Stewart’s house. The grandfather clock chimed eight in the hallway. Dust was more visible beneath the moonlit skylights.
Sarina said, “Aren’t you lonely living here?”
Stewart said, “No.”
“Aren’t you scared sometimes?”
“Scared of what?” And then, “You?”
Sarina liked the second alternative. She hadn’t been fierce in a very long time. She scooted closer to Stewart, one cushion beside him. “Of me?”
He nodded slightly.
“Of me?” She pushed her body into the warmth of his side. She settled into his groove. She felt the rhythm of his breath drawn deeper with the years.
Stewart kept inhaling, exhaling, inhaling. At the moment it seemed it was all he could master. Sarina pulled his arm from the back of the couch. She snuggled under and stroked it like a heavy old wrap.
She climbed on top of him. Her knees on his thighs, his knees beneath her shins. She could not straddle him. Her cheerleading days behind her, she was even less limber. On top of his legs, she felt tall and in charge. She could see out the back windows. She could see the possibilities. Moving in on Stewart would require little work. He’d inherited a lifestyle. Lots of money. Two-and-a-half baths. Tootsie’s taste was her taste. No struggling years required.
And despite what he’d become, there was chemistry when she kissed him.
Maybe it was repeating what they had first tried together. Maybe it was puppy love barking closely at her heels. But, to be certain, there was something. Something wicked. Something sweet. Sarina closed her eyes and forgot her plans and schemes.
Stewart grabbed her hands as she fiddled with his zipper. “Don’t.”
“Don’t why?”
“I’m with someone.”
“Just once.” Sarina pushed her shins against his sweaty shirt. Her ass was on his thighs. Her toes around his belt. She gripped the sofa back, locking the two of them in place. She said again, “Just once.”
And Stewart kept his mouth shut. He did not argue. He did not dare.
When the phone woke them up, Sarina knew it was his girlfriend. Where are you? she must be saying. Didn’t we say such and such a time? Stewart had reached up and taken the phone from the side table. He now sat naked, cross-legged on the carpet, a sofa seat cushion balanced modestly on his lap. He wound the phone cord around one finger. He apologized profusely. “I just fell asleep.”
Sarina stood up and stretched right in front of him. Meow, she mouthed and reached her fists to skylight night. Stewart was listening to that Chickasaw freak, but he watched Sarina, parading slowly, strutting her stuff.
See what a woman is supposed to look like. No pock marks, no freckles, no deceiving underwear. I’m covered in curves and I glow after sex. Can you see me glow, baby? I am extraordinary. I could be yours.
Sarina strolled around the sofa, making sure his eyes went with her. Out of sight, she pulled an orange juice carton from the side shelf of the fridge. She drank some, but let most of it miss her lips and hit her body.
I glisten, she thought. I glimmer. I’m gold.
Taking long strides as if she’d kept her heels on, Sarina returned to her first and future love. She smiled at Stewart, naked on his knees, fishing for his boxers somewhere beneath the sofa.
With both hands, Sarina slapped Stewart on the ass. Stewart scuttled to his feet and awkwardly stepped into his shorts. He froze as Sarina pressed her sticky stomach teasingly against him. She held him close, arranging her breasts so that he could see her nipples. She looked into his face, so serious, so intent. She let herself relax. Hang back. Look alive. This time she would be ready. Savor everything he said. When he told her that he loved her, she would not interrupt.
“Ree,” he started.
Sarina waited for the gush.
“Tonight was a mistake.”
“A mistake?” said Sarina.
“A stupid mistake.”
Stewart pushed her away and she lost her footing, toppling onto the couch like a preteen in stilettos. She sat there in shock as Stewart scrambled with his clothes. Zipping up his pants, he walked hurriedly from the living room. He shouted as if she might be in the backyard. “Let yourself out. I’m sorry. I gotta go.”
Sarina was dumbfounded, but still willing to kill. “You know that she’ll smell me all over your clothes!”
“No she won’t,” Stewart returned, as if to make his point final. “She won’t.” He shook his head. “She’s not like you.”
With Stewart gone, Sarina didn’t feel so pretty. The orange juice had dried. Her pubic hair clotted as if it she’d romanced the Elmer’s Glue cow. Her makeup was a mess. Her lipstick rubbed off. She was cold. She was clammy. Belly empty. She stank.
What was wrong with her? Where was the control she used to carry like cover-up? Her life had always been Win, Win, Win. Now it had dissolved to No, Not Again. Sarina was paranoid. Itchy. On guard. The windows betrayed her. Her mind pulled rabbits. It was as if there was some sort of conspiracy brewing. As if a spy was outside, writing feverishly on a birdseed bag. She could feel the eyes of judgment take aim through night goggles. Stalk her. Mock her. Memorize her every move.
Well, this had to end.
When there was no one left to trust, she could always trust herself.
She deserved Stewart and she would go get him. According to playground rules it was fair and it was square. She saw him first. She tagged him eight years ago. He was covered in her cooties. He was hers. He was hers.
Yet, she had to be careful in her approach. She couldn’t just show up and tell Bitty Jack she’d screwed him. She couldn’t sit in his house until he returned. No, in this case, it was definitely bad to be the bad guy. No matter what the circumstances, Stewart would never propose to the bad guy.
So she would take him on the rebound. Make Miss Bitty Jack undesirable. Once Stewart left Bitty, Sarina would mend his broken heart. She would be there through the tough times. She would remind him of how good she could be to him when she wanted.
What would it take to make Stewart break up with her? What was too distasteful for Stewart to forgive? When Sarina concentrated, the answer came easily. It was as if the trap was right under her nose. It was infallible. Divine. Told-you-so-ish. God-approved. Sarina would hit that freak where it hurt.
Take Back the Night had been promoted for weeks. There were flyers posted on telephone poles, ads run for free in The Crimson White. The march would start in the Bryant-Denny Stadium parking lot and weave through campus to end on the Quad. It was an event dominated by double x-zomed GDIs. Unlike the Greek girls, God Damned Independents did not consider date rape to be part of a beer buzz. The National Organization for Women ran the show. The dormitory indies turned out in droves. Tuscaloosa’s twelve lesbians were sure to attend. Golden Key could be counted on. Even feminists would show their faces. To combat stereotypes, sororities marched. They had T-shirts made, colorized by house. There was a sign-up sheet on the Tri Delta bulletin board. Sarina’s name was the last on the list.
The Tri Delta president was pleased to see Sarina involved. “It’s such a dirty subject. I’m surprised at you, Ree.”
Sarina said women’s safety was important. “What happened to the days when we could walk alone at night? When we could jog and have a drink and, like, totally feel okay about it?”
“Aren’t you the little speech-giver.”
“Hey,” said Sarina, “I do what I can.”
“I’m beginning to see that. If this goes well, you’re off probation.”
In the Bryant-Denny parking lot, Sarina passed out candles to the Tri Delta marchers. She had been waiting for this night, biding her time, practicing exactly how the evening would go. She had refrained from calling Stewart and, with the certainty of converting Stewart’s taste from white trash to diamond girl, she had weaned herself from checking the answering machine. Did Joe call? Joe never called.
The parking lot was getting louder. Women practicing their chants, passing fire wick-to-wick. There was every shape and size. Big bangs and buzz cuts. Unkempt armpits and electrolyzed eyebrows. There were no men allowed, except for one who was there for the photo opportunities. At the front of the crowd Big Al stood solemnly, his arms behind him, his head bowed in respect.
Stewart was in there, and where Stewart was, Bitty Jack Carlson was surely close by.
Somebody fired a starting pistol and everybody screamed. The march moved forward, stopping traffic with a loud, slow momentum. When the crowd reached the Quad, the leaders and Big Al climbed the Amelia Gayle Gorgas Library stairs where a microphone was already in place. Sarina steered the Tri Delts toward the front for better news coverage. Their picture would look great in the sorority newsletter.
One woman after the next came out of the crowd. They spoke of rapes and muggings and run-ins and sex wars. One freshman was locked in the Brass Monkey bathroom. One woman accosted in two different dorms. There were scars shown and abortions admitted. Tears came like comets and then Sarina took the stage.
The Tri Delta president looked shocked, but hushed her girls. The NOW leader asked Sarina’s name and introduced her, passing the mike.
Sarina stayed silent, sucking in humid air. She scanned the crowd for the Chickasaw freak. She was easy to find. Ugly girl, three o’clock. The candle Bitty Jack held cast a glare across her glasses. She looked like a bug, her line of sight undeterminable. She might be staring straight at Sarina. She might be looking at Stewart one foot behind.
“I was a victim,” Sarina said strong and clear, “but not the kind you’ve heard about tonight. What happened to me happened a long time ago, when I was twelve years old and completely defenseless. It was horrible.” She shut her eyes as if reliving the moment. “To be a child and taken advantage of by an adult, a grown man.”
“What happened?” came a voice.
“You can tell us,” encouraged NOW.
“I can’t,” Sarina whispered making the microphone squeal. “I can’t,” she repeated a little louder than necessary. “I’ve been able to forget for so many years. But I can’t do that anymore. I don’t get to do that anymore. Every day,” she aimed her finger directly at Bitty Jack, “I have to see his goddamn daughter and know her father’s never paid!”
The crowd gasped and Bitty Jack dropped her candle. She ran, her figure shrinking until all eyes lost her and turned back to center stage.
Sarina false-fainted and two NOW girls caught her. They called for Big Al. “Help us get her off the stage.”
Stewart came forward and took Sarina in his gray felt arms. She wrapped her hands around his neck and pressed her face into his giant ear. The elephant skin was so soft and comforting. It was like she was being carried in a purse or a pouch.
Stewart lay her down in front of the library doors, twenty feet behind the mike stand, the cement columns making her efforts seem heroic. In the distance, Sarina heard the roar of the crowd for another confession. Stewart leaned over her, his Hulkish costume blocking everything out. Sarina tried to see Stewart through Big Al’s black mouth screen. She apologized for exposing his girlfriend for what she was.
“You’re lying,” she could hear him. “You’re lying!”
“No, it’s true!”
“God, Ree, don’t you think I’d remember? You pulled the same crap when we were sixteen!”
“No, this is different. It really happened. I swear.”
“Bullshit!” said Stewart.
“The other night wasn’t bullshit.” She grabbed his trunk with both hands. “Have you told her about that? Have you told her you fucked me?”
“I fucked you all right.”
“She’ll leave you.”
“Let go!” Stewart jerked his head back. He put his front feet to his ears. He yanked and he yanked till he yanked his trunk free.
“I’ll take you back,” said Sarina.
But Stewart was gone. Jogging down the library steps. Elbowing his way in the direction that Bitty ran.
Back at Tri Delta, the sisters were split.
Some were behind Sarina one hundred percent. They had taken back their night. They had taken Sarina back to the house. In a way, each one wished that she could trade places. To be the one known for something. A survivor. A fittest.
Others were pissed off, humiliated, waiting up. They had seen Sarina’s confession on the ten o’clock news. Bert Hicks had gone live and there she was, camera ready. She had shamed the Tri Deltas. She had aired her dirty laundry like soiled panties at a prison rodeo. Delta girls did not kiss and tell. They were never molested. They were not spectacles-in-waiting. People’s parents were calling. Alumni asking, How did this trash get past?
And then, there were sisters who hadn’t even noticed. They were reliving Spring Break up in their rooms, trading peach schnapps for rum, comparing their hickies.
Everyone else was in the front hall, waiting. Sarina was escorted through the house by the Tri Delta president. “Has my mom called?” she asked over questions and insults. “Am I back on probation?”
The president didn’t answer. She put her hands on Sarina’s back and steered her through the pack of girls, some in Take Back the Night T-shirts, others in rollers and PJs, slippers and robes. Everyone clamoring to talk to Sarina. Everyone wanting a piece of her pie.
It disturbed Sarina that things had not gone as planned. Stewart sucked. A school year of her life had been taken by Joe. She’d been out of the social circuit. Forgotten by college ring–bearing, upper-class men. So she had to throw herself back into the arena where sex sold and there were no returns. She had to start over. Become someone no man could refuse.
There was one thing left.
Sarina imagined herself on the Alabama football field. The AstroTurf had been shampooed and ninety thousand people had shown up to see her. On her scalp, she felt the weight of good rhinestones and 14 carat-plated gold. She was next year’s Homecoming Queen.
Winning that title would prove her life theory right: that all was controllable with the proper gut wrench. As queen, Sarina would be back on top. Everyone’s favorite. The prime pedestal pusher. A few good men would be in that stadium. After the Homecoming game, she would pick one and start over.