Rape (5 page)

You did not believe. You did not know what to believe.

You continued to look at the pictures. Saw a familiar face, and pointed: him?

No. Changed your mind. No, maybe not. They looked so much like one another, guys you saw every day on the street.

At the 7-Eleven where Momma was always shopping. At the Huron Shopping Center. Driving by on Ninth Street these muggy hot summer evenings, and through the park, a hallf-dozen yelling, hooting guy hanging out of a noisy old car with oversized tires.

This
one! Suddenly, you were sure.

The guy with the sand-colored hair falling in his face. Sexy like a rock star except his face was broken out in pimples.

Jeering and nasty he'd been, rushing at you. Grabbing at your mother and trying to kiss her. Grabbing at her breasts. Teeeena!

You realized now, he'd led the others. He was their leader. You knew.

This one
. Yes.

Almost, you knew this guy's name. Pick?

On Eleventh Street near the lumberyard there was a family named Pick living in a large yellow-tile house. The front yard was grassless, but the driveway was crammed with vehicles—cars, motorcycles, a motorboat on a trailer. Leila Pick was three years older than you at Baltic Junior High, a fattish, aggressive girl. There were older brothers in the family, one of them named Marvin.

Excited, you knew this was him: Marvin Pick.

Later you would identify his brother, though you didn't know his name: Lloyd. The Pick features were unmistakable. A wide-boned face, thick nose with dark nostrils. A low forehead, sand-colored hair.

Marvin Pick was twenty-six; his brother Lloyd was twenty-four.

Here! This one, too.

Jimmy DeLucca, this young man would be. It scared you to see his picture close up. Sneering at Momma in his angry, nasty voice,
Cunt dirty cunt show us your titties cunt!

You would not find the one who'd kicked you. He'd had
a mustache, stubbled jaw. The imprint of his angry fingers in bruised welts on your ankles.
Whereya goin' you little cunt?!

Except: the detectives said to try again. And you did. And there he was.

“Suspects,” they were called. As if they hadn't done what they'd done to you and your mother but were only “suspected” of doing it!

You identified just five of them. By their mug shots, and in lineups at the precinct. Staring at groups of six to eight young men through a one-way window. Assured that they couldn't see you though you saw them. In the bright unsparing lights of the viewing room, the rapists were not so confident. Their mouths were not so jeering. Their eyes were not so glassy-hard.

Immediately you saw them, you knew them. You understood then that you would never forget those faces.

There had been others. Maybe seven, eight. Maybe more. It had been so confusing. And others had come, drawn by the commotion. Out of the park. From the roadway. Maybe.

You could positively identify just five. These had been the most aggressive, the first to rush at you.

Marvin Pick. Lloyd Pick. Jimmy DeLucca. Fritz Haaber. Joe Rickert
.

Each of these young men had police records in Niagara County for petty crimes. All had juvenile records sealed by Family Court. Both Picks and DeLucca had served time in a juvenile facility. Haaber had been on probation in 1994 for
having assaulted his girlfriend. Rickert was on parole from Olean Men's Correctional Facility, where he'd served time for robbery and drug possession.

All of the suspects lived in the Twelfth Street/Huron Avenue neighborhood of the city, east of Rocky Point Park. About a mile from where you and your mother lived on Ninth Street.

So close! You would not wish to think how close.

After you'd identified the suspects, you were told that they had already been taken into custody by police in the early hours of July 5. Along with numerous other young men they had been brought to the precinct for questioning in the gang rape/assault. It was clear to police that many of the detained men knew about the rape whether they had participated in it or not. “Word gets around. These guys know one another.” Clothing and shoes belonging to some of the men had been confiscated for examination. Bloodstains on these items would be matched against your mother's blood and your own, as semen found in and upon your mother's body would be matched against the suspects' DNA.

Skin tissue beneath your mother's broken nails would be matched against their DNA.

It was possible that more suspects would be brought in, the detectives said. “These punks, they'll inform on one another if they think they can save their sorry asses.”

The police investigation had begun without your knowledge, like a great eye opening.

Defense

I
T IS A FACT
, the suspects' lawyers would insist. Bethel Maguire is twelve years old. Bethel Maguire was confused, panicked at the time of the assault. Bethel Maguire had not witnessed any actual act of rape perpetrated upon her mother, for she had been by her own admission in hiding during the rape, in a corner of the boathouse in darkness.

She had not seen any rape. She had seen only the blurred, uncertain faces of a number of young men, in the park outside the boathouse.

The path beside the lagoon was poorly lighted. The interior of the boathouse was not lighted at all.

How can the child be sure? How can we believe her? How can a child of twelve swear? How can a child of twelve testify?

“That Girl, Teena Maguire's Daughter”

A
S SOON AS YOUR
mother and you were dragged into the boathouse at Rocky Point Park you began to exist in
after
. Never again could you exist in
before
. That time of your childhood before you and your mother became victims was gone forever, remote as a scene glimpsed at a distance, fading like vapor as you stare in longing.

“Momma! Momma don't die! Momma I love you don't
die
.”

You had thought she was dead, on the boathouse floor. Crawling to her. To where they'd left her. Racked in pain, frantic. You had hidden in the darkest corner of the boathouse and you had pressed your hands over your ears and you had heard the ugly sounds of your mother being assaulted and you had reason to believe that you had heard the sounds of her death and so through your life it would seem to you that your mother had died, and you had been a witness to her death who had died, too.

After
would be years. You are still living those years.
After
would be the remainder of your mother's life.

*   *   *

W
HAT YOU DIDN
'
T REALIZE
. What no one could have told you. How the rape was not an incident that had happened one night in the park in the random way of a stroke of lightning but the very definition of Teena Maguire's life, and by extension your life, afterward. What had been Teena, what had been Bethie, was suddenly eclipsed. Your mother would be
That woman who was gang-raped in the boathouse at Rocky Point Park
and you would be
That girl, Teena Maguire's daughter
.

Off-Duty

D
ROMOOR DROPPED BY
S
T
. M
ARY
'
S
. Inquired at the front desk how a patient named Maguire was doing, in intensive care.

The heavily made-up receptionist frowned into a computer. Type-type-typing rapidly. Frowned importantly saying such information was confidential unless he was a family member, and was he?

Dromoor considered showing the woman his badge. Saying he'd been the officer to first see Martine Maguire. He'd been the one to see what had been done to her. And so he had a right to know if she would live.

The receptionist was staring at Dromoor, waiting. He'd been so still, his thoughts had plunged inward.

“Sir? Are you a family member? Or . . .”

Dromoor shook his head no. Turned and walked away. Fuck it he couldn't get involved, he had promised himself. Married and a father and his wife already anxious about him and he wasn't the type, not the type to get involved.

The Vigil

A
T
S
T
. M
ARY
'
S
. V
ISITING
hours from 8:30
A.M
. until 11:00
P.M
. now that your mother is out of intensive care and in a private room on the fourth floor.

Grandma is paying extra for the private room, which Momma's insurance won't pay for. Grandma and you, you practically live at St. Mary's now.
God only let my daughter live. God help us in our hour of need. God have mercy on us. Let my daughter live. I will never ask anything of You again
.

At first it was not known whether Teena Maguire would ever recover what is circumspectly called “consciousness.” After two days at St. Mary's you were released but your mother remained on a life support system in the intensive care unit, her condition was “critical.” In a coma, for her skull had been “concussed.” There had been “pinpoint hemorrhaging” in her brain. She was not able to breathe on her own. She was fed intravenously. A catheter drained toxins from her body in a continual thin stream. Speaking to your grandmother, the neurologist was awkward, evasive. It was like a bad joke hearing this professional in his hospital whites utter such words as
We can only hope for the best
.

You saw hope rising into the sky. A flimsy kite torn by the winds off Lake Ontario. You laughed, you were so scared.

Then, on the morning of the sixth day of the vigil, your mother began to open her eyes. She began to wake, intermittently. All that day and into the next. You could feel Momma forcing herself up out of sleep like a swimmer breaking the surface of a heavy viscous water like molten lead. You could feel her effort, the tremulous strength of her will. Her bruised eyelids fluttered. Her wounded mouth quivered. “Momma!” you whispered. You were holding one of her icy hands, Grandma was holding the other. “Teena! We're here, honey. Bethie and me. Both of us. We won't leave you. We love you.”

Eventually your mother woke from her sleep. At first she was childlike, trusting. What had happened to her was vague as an explosion or a car crash or a building collapsing on her head. Her shaved head swathed in white gauze and her chalky-pale skin had a look of something newborn you wished only to protect.

Childhood was over and yet: as long as your mother could not remember what had happened to her you could behave in the old way of
before
.

Casey came, after several days. Gaunt and poorly shaved and strangely shy, swallowing hard. On the street it was known what had happened to Teena Maguire, in the newspapers it
had been more delicately expressed. To Casey's face no one would wish to say
That Maguire woman, she had it coming
.

Casey's visits with Teena Maguire were brief and very awkward. In his shaky hands he brought flowers hastily purchased in the hospital gift shop. The first time, a dozen waxy-red roses. The second time, a tinfoil-wrapped pot of white mums. His moist eyes stared and stared at the swollen-faced bruised-eyed woman in the hospital bed. He loved Teena Maguire but you could see that he was terrified of what was hidden beneath the white gauze that tightly covered her head. He was terrified of what injuries, the worst of them internal, had been done to her in that part of her body hidden by bedclothes. The last he'd seen of Teena Maguire they'd all been drinking and happy celebrating the Fourth of July. The last he'd seen of Teena Maguire she'd been another woman. Leaning to kiss his cheek saying
Love ya, Casey! Call me in the morning
.

There had been no next morning. For Casey and Teena there would never be another next morning.

The room is filling up with flowers and cards. Even when Casey ceases to visit, he will send a floral bouquet from the gift shop downstairs. A card signed
Love, Casey
.

A few of the nurses at St. Mary's know your mother from high school when she was Teena Kevecki. They drop by the room to see her, trained not to show surprise, shock, embarrassment,
or indignation at the sight of any patient. Trained to call out, “Teena, hello! How are they treating you here?”

When relatives enter the room, it isn't the same. Their eyes fix on your mother's battered face and swathed head. They search for words that elude them. The women take Grandma aside to ask cautiously if Teena will have permanent facial scars. They ask about the mysterious “internal” injuries.

You don't hear Grandma's replies. You try not to hear.

Can't sleep except when Momma sleeps. Can't eat except when Momma eats. Can't smile except if Momma smiles with her swollen, lacerated mouth.

You are reverting to childish behavior, you want only to crawl into bed beside your mother and be held by her. Though Momma is not strong enough to hold you or comfort you or even kiss you unless you poke your fevered face close to hers, against her wounded mouth.

Your arm! Yanked out of its socket with a
crack!
you imagined you had heard. Now it has been forced back into its socket yet still you are in pain much of the time, your arm feels useless to you like a dead girl's arm. Your eyes are reddened from crying. Your back, sides, thighs are covered in bruises from where the one named Haaber kicked you.
Where's the little cunt where the fuck is she hiding?
But in Momma's hospital room you are safe, and you can sleep. Patches of sleep drift by like clouds. You smile seeing Momma's dreams fleeting and shining like vapor.
Momma wait! Take me with you
. Lower your head to rest it on your
crossed arms, on the bed. Next thing you know Grandma has come into the room waking you. A nurse is bringing Momma's dinner on a tray, her soft-diet food.

Momma lets you help her with her meals. Though by now she can feed herself. Apple juice, bouillon, puréed carrots like baby food. And strawberry Jell-O. So delicious, you and Momma plan you will make Jell-O all the time when she comes home.