Then
Monday, August 16
Woodstock, New York
George reached up with both hands, and for a moment, I thought he was going to frame my face, pull me in for a violent, forceful kiss—almost how Jack had done, that day in Red Hook—but his hands landed on my neck instead.
He began to squeeze, and I tried to wriggle away, but his grasp was firm, he was pushing me against the wall, the guitar digging into my back, the sounds of music, of strings being rapped, filling the room.
Still, for a millisecond, I thought I held the power. I’d had hands on my neck before. With my ex in Pennsylvania, that one time after we stumbled home from the bar. The night that changed everything, that had me calling Cass, had her telling me to get the fuck out before he killed me next time.
There’d been other men, too. Men who’d wanted it, who’d wanted me to let them. Safe words and handcuffs and blindfolds and hands hands hands.
Only George wasn’t stopping.
“I can’t breathe,” I tried to say, but the words came out as a croak.
The heels of his palms pressed in then, against my trachea, cutting off all air, and around me, the room began to blur and spin. I flailed about, my arms writhing, my legs struggling to kick, but I couldn’t. Already, the world was starting to slip, blackening at the edges.
I was losing.
He was going to kill me. He was going to kill me right here and now. Over an insult. A taunt.
His hands pressed harder, and then—
I came to on the floor, gasping for breath, my throat aching, my knees banged from the fall, the guitar half on top of me.
I looked up to George, whose face was white with terror. He pulled the guitar away, hung it gingerly back on the wall like some kind of psychopath, decorating the sides of a diorama.
It took a moment to get air back into my lungs, for the world to stop spinning, and then I felt George’s hands on me, lifting.
I looked at him. He knew and I knew. He’d come so close. He’d almost let the beast escape. Almost snuffed me out forever.
We’d both been spared the consequences.
“I—I didn’t mean to—” he stammered.
I didn’t say a word. Just grabbed my purse, one hand on my throat, to stop the aching, to somehow hold it off.
I caught my reflection in the hall mirror. My hair was a mess, mussed up this way and that. My skin was flushed where the blood had rushed back in. My forehead dewy. My clothes rumpled, my purse askew.
See me now, and you’d almost think I’d emerged from some all-night sex fest, followed by a morning tryst.
I stepped across the threshold without looking back. Wondered how many times I’d seen a girl in this state. Assumed she’d consented to everything. Assumed there’d been no violence, no raw male rage.
I’d thought I had power. I’d thought that I could make the men’s knees bend, make them give me what I wanted, because they wanted me so badly. I’d thought that guys like my ex in Pennsylvania were the exception, not the rule.
But all this time, their physical power, the vast ocean of their aggression, their anger—it had been there, only just beneath the surface, waiting to stir. In that moment, it felt like any of the men I’d lived with could have done this, if I’d only pushed the right buttons.
It felt like I had been playing an awful, terrible game, one I never wanted to play again.
In the street, a black car idled, and embarrassed, I turned away, walked as quickly as I could, pulling the collar of my T-shirt up higher with my hands. Wondering if George’s fingers had already made marks on my skin.
Shame filled me as I realized what had happened. How close to death I’d come. All because I had to have the last word, had to tell George what I thought of him. Had to defend not only Mary but Cass, too, in whatever way I could.
What a stupid, stupid thing. To poke a bear just to see what they’d do.
I passed two teen girls on Tinker Street, arms linked together, laughing in the morning sun.
I pulled my collar up even higher, looked down.
Don’t become like me, I wanted to tell them. Stick together and never lose sight of each other. Don’t let the men of the world tear you apart. Press you so hard you can’t even breathe.
I turned onto the street that led to Rich’s and I forced myself to move past this. It was awful, it had happened, and yet here I was. George wouldn’t follow me.
Cass’s buyer was nearly ready. We could sell the jewelry. Split the proceeds. More than two hundred thousand for each of us. We could get fresh starts, both of us. Run away where none of these awful men could find us.
It was almost over. All of it.
In the end, it would be worth it. It had to be.
I was almost back to Rich’s house when I reached up to touch my necklace, my hands still shaky with adrenaline, my skin still wet with sweat.
My fingers ran the length of my neck—one time, two times, three times—and I tugged at my T-shirt, shaking the collar. I looked in the gap between my stomach and my pants. I shook each leg, waiting for a jangle, for something shiny to fall to the ground.
The sound didn’t come. It wasn’t there.
My necklace was gone.