It was five o’clock when Jaret looked at her watch. She’d been lying on the blanket for an hour and a half since Peggy had left, thinking, perhaps unconsciously waiting for her return. So when she heard a twig snap behind her she didn’t immediately turn, convinced Peggy had come back. She listened to some rustling sounds, then felt the presence of another human being and decided to turn. Alarmed, she gave a small, sharp squeal.
“Oh,” she said, “it’s you. I thought it was . . . ”
“Yeah, I know who you thought it was. Your girlfriend.”
She didn’t like the way he said girlfriend. There was something snide about it. “What are you doing here?”
“You own this part of the woods or something?”
“It was a simple question. Chris with you?” She felt nervous and didn’t know why. She tried to look past him, hoping he was not alone, again not understanding why. Just a feeling.
“Nobody’s with me. We’re alone.”
Why did everything he said sound so menacing? She started to pick up things. “I was just leaving.”
“I figured when I saw you sit up.”
The implication was, obviously, that he’d been watching her. It gave her goose bumps. She tried for a casual tone. “Have you been around here long?”
“Long enough.”
She continued to gather her things. Had he heard their fight? Seen them kiss, make love? The thoughts made her want to run, to get as far away from him as possible. The invasion of her privacy sickened her. But perhaps he’d only been there, behind a bush, a tree, for minutes, seconds even. What did long enough mean? “How long is long enough?” she asked cheerily, not looking at him.
He laughed strangely. “A few hours . . . more or less.”
She was chilled. Sooner or later she would have to look at him; she couldn’t go on picking up things and tossing them into the middle of the blanket forever.
Eventually, she would have to pass him. Forcing herself, she faced him. He seemed much taller, bigger than he had moments ago. There was an odd smile on his face, if one could really call it a smile. Don’t be afraid, she told herself. Or at least don’t let him see it. Take command. “Just what is it you want?”
“You really think you’re hot shit, don’t you?”
“If you must know,” she said, now trying for humor, “I have actually never thought about myself that way.” She smiled, staring straight at him. Something awful is going to happen, she thought.
“Yeah, well, I have. Thought about you that way.”
“I see.” But she did not. Not clearly. There was enough evidence for her to feel apprehensive; yet what was ahead was blurry. Bravado, she felt, was her only weapon. Turning away from him, she bent down and began pulling the corners of the blanket toward the center to make a satchel. After twisting the ends together, she rose, heaving the makeshift bag over her right shoulder. He was standing, waiting. “Well, so long,” she said, taking a step in his direction.
He did not move, continued to smile, blue eyes piercing. “You’re going nowhere.”
Now apprehension gave way to fear and she could feel the thumping in her chest. Choices overwhelmed her. What would be the best move? Should she try to humor him, laugh it off, pretend it was all a joke? Threaten him with police, parents? Or should she try and make a run for it? She knew that the first thing was to stall, delay, for time. “Oh, Richard,” she said, “what’s this all about?”
He made a sneering, hissing sound. “Richard? Why don’t you call me Mid like anybody else?”
“I forgot. All right, Mid.” Then quickly, buying minutes: “Why do they call you Mid? I always wondered that.” Was it stupid to make him think she’d spent time thinking about him? Too late.
He narrowed his eyes, squinting at her. “Like in midsummer. You know, Mid Summers?”
“Oh, sure.” She smiled. “I get it.” The blanket over her shoulder was growing heavy. She wanted desperately to lower it but to do so, she knew, would be an indication that she was staying. He was very close but there was still room for her to take a few steps in the direction of leaving. She would have to try.
Quickly, “And I asked you what this is all about?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” His eyes were boring into hers.
She could feel beads of sweat forming above her lip. They itched. Her arm ached. “I have to go home,” she said softly, plaintively.
“Tough.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife, opened it to the largest blade.
Was he going to kill her? She felt like giggling.
“Drop the blanket,” he commanded.
Jaret thought to do that would seal her fate. “Why, Mid? What do you want?”
He took a step closer and pressed the knife to her throat. Through his teeth he repeated his order.
She thought she might gag, swallowed noisily, allowed the bundle to slip from her grasp.
“Now open up the blanket and move all the shit out of it.”
“Why?”
With his knifeless hand he smashed her across the face, sending her tumbling backward, falling. “Don’t ask why about everything,” he screamed. “Do what I tell you.”
She lay on the ground, face stinging, back aching. There was no question in her mind now; her life was on the line. Mid Summers was crazy. Her options all seemed to meld together, leaving her with nothing. She wanted her mother. Tears made her vision go out of focus. She blinked them away and saw that Mid was opening the blanket, kicking books, radio, notebook out of the center.
“Get over here on this blanket. Move.”
She moved, crawled on all fours, the few feet to the blanket where she sat curled into herself, every part of her shaking.
“Lie down.”
Oh, my God, she thought, astonished that she hadn’t thought of it before. It was so clear. Mid Summers was going to rape her. It was as though her heart actually stopped beating for a moment. A sharp pain ripped through her side. He’d kicked her.
“I said lie down, bitch.”
She rolled over, clutching at a bottom rib. Was it broken, cracked? Oh, God. The pain was horrendous.
His voice split the air around them. “On your back.”
She obeyed, painfully.
“Now take off your shorts.” He fell to his knees next to her, the knife pointed toward her throat.
Last year in school there’d been a lecture on what to do in case of rape. She hadn’t really listened; it couldn’t happen to her. Should she try to talk him out of it? Submit peacefully? But she knew him, could identify him. Wouldn’t he kill her afterward? Would talking make it worse? She had to give it a try. “Mid, please don’t do this. You’ll get in a lot of trouble.”
He laughed. “No, I won’t. Ace in the hole.” He laughed again. “Take off the shorts.”
Ace in the hole? What did he mean? She asked.
“Later. Take off the shorts and quit the rapping.”
She felt the knife point dig into her heck. As she began slowly to unbutton her shorts she thought of another tack. Flattery. “You’re a good-looking guy, Mid. You don’t have to do this. Lots of girls would be glad to do it with you.”
“I said to shut up.” This time he hit her with a closed fist.
The sound of flesh and bone connecting with flesh and bone magnified inside her head to a deafening pitch. The intensity of noise almost obliterated pain. Not quite. She had never felt anything like it. In a moment she tasted blood. Salty. Thought, as she knew it, was gone. Something was happening to her shorts but she couldn’t explain it to herself. It was like waking in a strange place and, for a moment, not knowing where you are. She was being pushed, pulled, scrambled. There was a loud sound far away. It was familiar but she couldn’t place it. When she felt something on her upper thigh she identified the sound. Ripping. Her shorts. And what she felt on her thigh was flesh. His hand.
“Open your legs.” His voice was tight, caught in his throat.
Her brain told her to obey but she didn’t seem to know how. She saw the fist come toward her. She moved too slowly and it caught her squarely on the bridge of her nose. There was a crunch, then warm, gushing liquid flowed over her lips, chin. Blood. Pain.
“You don’t learn, do you?”
His voice sounded as though it were coming from a great distance or through the small end of a megaphone. She’d heard something like this before, when she’d had a fever. Mama. Her legs were being spread apart, wrenched. Broken? Then he was on top of her. His weight was crushing, his breath warm and sour in her face. Nausea fought pain for control.
Time passed. Years, she thought. Was she an old woman now? Abruptly, painfully, he entered her. She could not help crying out. The knife slid down the side of her neck, cold, pointed. Was she cut? He began to move. I cannot believe this is happening, she thought. There’s nothing I can do. That was the worst, the hardest thing to understand, accept. There was nothing she could do.
“I hate your guts,” he whispered.
Why then? she wondered apathetically. His movement continued. Her head was turned to the side. Breathing became difficult. Month after month passed. Staring at the landscape, she wondered why the seasons didn’t change. Where was the snow? She longed for snow, cool, white. Snow would stop the burning inside. She felt her body rock as Mid’s movements quickened. Would she break apart? Explode into pieces of flesh, bone, blood, flying through the air, sticking to the trees, bushes?
Days went by before she recognized the stillness. Nothing was moving. Then a wayward leaf skipped by on a small breeze. She blinked her eyes. Mid was lying across her, his head down next to her neck. He was motionless, his breathing echoing in her ear like the roar of a lion. What now, she wondered. Will he kill me? The thought was simple, dispassionate. Deep emotions were impossible; numbness was the prevalent feeling.
Slowly, Mid raised himself, rolled off to the side. Jaret heard him rustling with his clothes, the sound of a zipper. He cleared his throat, spit into the grass. “I want you to listen,” he said. “You hear?”
When she did not respond quickly, he punched her in the stomach. She vomited onto the blanket, choking.
“Shit,” he said. “That stinks.” He pulled her off the blanket, onto the grass. There were strings of vomit on her cheek, mixing with the blood.
“You’re not such hot shit now,” he said. “I wish I had a mirror. Look at me when I talk, you bitch.”
She opened her eyes. He knelt next to her, the knife gripped in his hand, pointed in her direction. She felt nothing.
“Now listen. If you tell anybody I’m gonna tell about you and Peggy Danziger, understand? I’m gonna tell your mother and father and everybody. Get it?”
She got it and it made her smile, though to do so was terribly painful. Still, she couldn’t help it.
“What’s so goddamn funny?” His mouth pulled sideways into a grimace.
Even in her bleary state she understood enough not to tell him that her mother already knew. This was his “ace in the hole.” And this would keep her alive. She stopped smiling and whispered, “Nothing . . . funny.”
“Good. So remember: You talk and I talk.” Then he giggled maniacally. “I guess you gotta tell them something, don’t you?” A chortle. “Okay, you tell them an old guy about forty did it. Yeah. Tall, real fat and ugly.” He warmed to his description. “Red hair and . . . red beard. A scar here.” He pointed to his right eye, drew his finger down his cheek. “Say he was wearing jeans and a green sweatshirt, sleeves cut off. A broken nose. Yeah. Tell them that. If you don’t, I’ll tell everything. I’ve been watching you two for a long time now. I know everything you do. Got it?”
Aching, she nodded.
“Just to make sure you do,” he said.
The punch got her right on the point of her chin. She went out.