An Untamed State (35 page)

My bare thighs were cold. Goose bumps spread across my skin.

Shannon slammed me against the wall again. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

I shrugged once more. This time, though, I smiled.

He shook his head and started unbuckling his pants. “Fucking women.”

A large rodeo buckle held his belt together but he did not give me the impression of a man who had ever ridden rodeo, who had ever put himself in a circumstance where he might be broken. He reached into his pocket for a condom, tore it open with his teeth. I watched us, me against the wall, the mark of his fingers around my throat, standing there, spread open, waiting for him to take me. It was such a relief for something to finally make sense. He pulled my hand to his cock. “You feel that?” I swallowed as I felt the heat and length of him in my hand. He wrapped my fingers around him, covered my fingers with his. I squeezed lightly. There were tears at the corners of my eyes. I refused to cry.

I prayed for mercy from him, for myself. I opened my hand, stretching my fingers. I did not want to touch him.

That first night the seven men came for me, after the first phone call where I told my father and husband lies about my safety and they told me lies about my safety, when I lost count of how many men used me for hours and hours, I prayed because I had faith, because I needed faith as much as I needed to fight. I prayed because I was always taught that through prayer I would find salvation. I prayed for mercy and I prayed for more, for a breath of cool, dry air, for someone to come through the doors, to pull the men off me, to undo what had already been done. I prayed to forget. No one came for me. I prayed and no one came. I remembered everything. There was no salvation. But here, I could save myself.

I planted a hand against Shannon’s chest, tried to pull my jeans up with my other hand. “No,” I said. My voice was hoarse. I hardly recognized the sound of my voice.

Shannon laughed. “Playing hard to get?” He pulled at my neck with his teeth.

I swallowed huge gulps of air. He pushed my jeans back down, held me against the wall with his arm to my throat. I started clawing at his chest. I wanted to scream but my voice was still too new. “No,” I said.

His body was wholly pressed against me. I was meat. He was going to take me because I asked him to.

“What kind of game are you playing? You know you want it.”

“No.”

Suddenly the back door swung open again. I whispered, “No.” There was a rush of cold air. When I opened my eyes, the bartender was holding Shannon by the collar of his shirt.

“The lady said no, so you best leave her be.”

“She’s a fucking cock tease,” Shannon said, pulling his jeans up. He left the condom on. He spit on the pavement to his right, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and pointed a finger in my direction, looked like he might run up on me again.

“No, sir,” the bartender said. “She is not. Go on home. This was a misunderstanding and you’ll live.”

I tried to pull myself together, my fingers stiff as I fumbled with the buttons of my jeans. I fell to my knees and then I fell farther still, resting my forehead against my hands.

Someone finally came for me. I still had no faith.

I
n the morning, I wrote Lorraine a note telling Michael to come get me. My husband found his way to me faster than I thought possible. I was sitting on the porch swing wrapped in a blanket, hungover and sore. I felt crazy. I was crazy. A maroon Dodge Charger sped along the gravel road leading up to the farm and then Michael was out of the car and up the steps. He stopped, breathing heavy.

He looked at me like he was afraid of me. “Can I hold you?”

I stood, the blanket slowly falling from my shoulders. “Where’s Christophe?”

“With your sister.”

“I see.” I wanted to lean into him until I remembered our last conversation. I stepped back. “No, Michael, you can’t touch me. You are sick of this. That’s what you said. There has barely been any
this
and you are already sick of it.”

His arms fell limply at his sides. We stood, staring at each other. He did not apologize.

At dinner, we sat silently around the table—me, my husband, his parents. I watched as Lorraine and Glen and Michael ate—roasted chicken and cauliflower from the garden and a salad. My mouth watered. I hungered. I refused to eat. I traced the edges of my knife with my fingers, over and over.

Michael pointed at me with his fork. “You need to eat.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want anything inside me.”

He set his fork down. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Michael,” Lorraine said, sharply.

I stared down at my plate, the skin of the chicken glistening warmly. My mouth watered more. “I do not want anything inside me. What do you think it means?” This time, my voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Babe,” Michael said. “You’ve lost too much weight. You look terrible.”

I bristled. A semblance of my vanity was still intact. “Stop saying that. Guess what? You look terrible too. Your shirt is ugly. How many times do I need to tell you to throw that horrible shirt away?”

“My shirt?” Michael slammed his fist against the table, making my silverware jump.

His anger was too much. He was too close. He could hurt me. I got up and ran out of the room.

“Miri, I am sorry,” Michael called after me.

“What the hell is wrong with you, boy,” Glen said. “Get your head on right.”

“I don’t know what to do,” my husband said. “She is completely unreachable.”

“How else is she supposed to be?” Lorraine snapped. “What she’s been through.”

“She won’t tell me what she’s been through. How can I help if I don’t know?” My husband started crying and I paused, looked back and saw him bent over, his face in his hands. His entire body shook. His sobs were deep and ugly and filled the room. Glen went to his son, gently placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder. I wanted to turn and go to Michael, to kiss his face and his pretty shoulders, to brush his hair from his face, to offer him some kind of solace, some kind of promise that we could find our way back to our fairy tale.

“I am so sorry,” I said. “I have to go.”

The volley of our apologies was wearing.

I stopped in the mudroom and found a flashlight. The walls of the house threatened to collapse on me, vibrated as they readied to close in. Even though it was a cool night, I walked out of the house to get away from the grief I was causing and the cage trying to trap me. I walked until I no longer felt the throbbing in my feet because the pain had radiated everywhere. It hurt to breathe. I heard the Commander’s men laughing in the near distance and then I heard him, his lazy drawl explaining what he was going to do to me. “No,” I whispered.

There were footsteps behind me. I started to walk faster. Someone called my name, a deep voice. I ran, even though I was so tired, so weak, my mouth so dry. I hungered. The cold night air made my bones ache. I looked up at the sky. There was no cross to guide my way, only moonlight. I could not tell if I was in Port-au-Prince or in Nebraska. On both sides of the gravel road, high stalks of corn. My name again, the footsteps, louder, closer. I turned, shining my light from side to side. A man, tall, moving toward me. I couldn’t think clearly. Panic began winding through me. I screamed. The Commander had found me. I knew it. I ran faster. My feet were hurting again. Dampness in my shoes, cuts newly opened. He told me to stop. I looked around for someplace to hide. There was nothing but open fields. I veered right and ran right into the stalks of corn.

“Dear God, don’t go in there,” the voice said. “It’s not safe at night.”

I shouted, “Stay away from me. I’m not going back in that cage. You can’t trick me.”

“You’re not safe in the fields,” the voice said. He sounded as scared as me. I did not understand.

I ran, stalks of corn hitting me in my face. I turned off the flashlight so he couldn’t find me. I had no idea where the field would end. I stumbled and tripped, falling hard to my knees, new bruises. I got back up, kept running.

There were outbuildings dotted along the edge of the property. As a teenager, Michael and his friends would hang out in the sheds, drinking beer and smoking weed they grew in small plots between the rows of corn. “It was the purest stuff,” he once told me, “made from the best soil on earth, Nebraska soil.”

The Commander’s voice, it had to be him, was farther away now, echoing into the night. So much corn. My thigh muscles threatened to tear. Finally, I reached another service road. I was soaked with sweat, my clothes clinging to my bones. I smelled the stink of my fear. I did not know how the Commander had found me so far away. I hoped Michael was safe in the house, was almost relieved the Commander was chasing me so my husband and child might remain free. There was no place I could ever hide from the Commander; I knew that. I looked up at the sky again.

During one of our first trips to the farm, Michael and I had walked around, late at night, the air still and warm. The sky was clear and full of stars. It was the first time I saw a constellation and didn’t have to pretend I could see the handle of the Big Dipper. He told me how to find my place in the world using the stars. I no longer heard the Commander calling my name. I needed to think clearly. I needed to hide. I wanted to lie down; I was so tired. I tried to remember what Michael said about which star to follow, how my hand felt in his, the small way he laid claim to me by pressing his fingers against mine. I picked the brightest star and walked toward it. It still wasn’t safe to use my flashlight so I moved carefully through the dark.

Finally, I came upon one of the outbuildings. I quietly opened the door, praying it wouldn’t squeak. Inside, I turned my flashlight back on and looked around. There was a bag of seed, a large wheelbarrow, a roll of barbed wire, equipment I didn’t recognize. In a toolbox, I found a pair of wire cutters. I climbed into the wheelbarrow, pulling a tarp over me, leaving only my eyes exposed. I clutched the wire cutters, holding them out in front of me. I stared at the door. I tried to breathe shallow. I waited. I did not blink.

It got harder to stay awake. Every time I heard a noise, I waved the wire cutters in front of me. My eyelids grew heavier. It was so cold. I curled into a small ball, wrapped the tarp around myself more tightly. I waited. My eyes were so dry. When I started falling asleep, I jerked myself awake. I had never been so tired. It was not long before I couldn’t fight sleep anymore. Something dark and heavy covered me.

There was a noise, voices. My eyes flew open. A truck idling, a door slamming shut. I covered my mouth with my hand, tried to make sense of where I was. In my other hand, something, I blinked, wire cutters. I was cold. My body was stiff. Thin plastic covered me. I lifted it up slightly. Thin shafts of light poured in. Suddenly, I remembered where I was. The Commander was out there with his men. He hunted me down like a dog and I was alone, at his mercy, at the edge of a vast farm. No one who could help me knew where I was. The door to the shed opened, a man standing in the doorway, behind him, blinding light. I unfolded myself, every joint aching. I waved my arms wildly in front of me, stabbing into the air with the wire cutters. This time I would make him bleed. The wheelbarrow tumbled backward and I fell to the floor. I ran to the corner and huddled into myself, covering my head with my arms. I wanted to die but I was already dead. I couldn’t bear the thought of the Commander taking me to a new cage. A woman was screaming and she sounded peculiar—hoarse and hollow and hopeless. My skin crawled as I realized I was the woman screaming.

It took an hour to get me out of the shed. Michael and Glen and family friends had spent all night searching for me. It was Michael who followed me but in my terror, all I heard was the Commander. I stayed huddled in the corner, screaming, as the men tried to approach me. It was too much, to be in so small a cage once again, so many men hulking over me. Finally, someone went and got Lorraine. She shooed the men away and closed the door so we were alone. She knelt next to me, and pulled my arms down from over my face. She said, “There now,” as she carefully pried my fingers loose from the wire cutters. She held my hands gently. She told me my name and that I had a husband and son waiting for me. She told me I was safe and I was loved. She said these things over and over until I was able to believe them.

Finally, I looked up. I said, “I am Mireille Jameson,” with what remained of my voice.