Red (6 page)

“Oh, shit.” Buddy whimpered and released her legs. “Oh, shit, Ricky—”

“Shut the fuck—”

“I know somebody's out there, and y'all better git. I'm callin' the police. You hear me?”

The three boys froze. Becky Lynn could feel their sudden tension, could almost hear their thoughts— Buddy's relief, Tommy's disappointment, Ricky's hatred.

“I'm callin' the police,” the woman repeated, louder this time. “I'm callin' 'em now.” The door slapped shut.

Buddy didn't wait. He jumped up and ran, stumbling out of the brush and into the road, puking when he reached it.

“Come on, man.” Tommy sounded panicked, even though he didn't release her hands. “We gotta go!”

“Thanks, baby,” Ricky whispered. “And don't you fret none, I'll make sure Tommy and Buddy get their turn.”

He bent his head and took her right nipple into his mouth, sucking it, swirling his tongue over it. She gagged, the tenderness of the gesture grotesque, obscene. He lifted himself from her, and she kicked out blindly and as hard as she could. She caught him in the groin. She knew by the feel and by the sound he made—a high whine of pain—and she wished she could see his face contort.

“Bitch! Cunt! I'll—”

Tommy tugged on Ricky's arm. “She called the cops, man! We've got to get out of here.”

Ricky must have agreed, for in the next moment, Tommy released her hands, and she heard the two boys run off.

Becky Lynn clawed at the paper bag, wrenching it off. She ripped at the stiff brown paper, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces, whimpering and grunting like a wounded animal. The paper cut her fingers; they burned
and bled, but she kept tearing at the bag until nothing was left but pieces too small and broken to hold on to.

Shuddering uncontrollably, she slumped to her side and curled into a tight ball.

L
ight leaked from the edges of the small, haphazardly covered windows, spilling weakly into the darkness. With a strangled cry of relief, Becky Lynn crawled up onto the sagging front porch.

Home. She'd made it home at last.

She rested her forehead against the porch floor, struggling to even her shallow, ragged breathing. She hurt. Her belly, her head and jaw, between her legs. But the physical pain didn't compare to the ache inside her, the ache that couldn't be measured in physical terms, the damage that couldn't be repaired or healed with bandage or salve. Inside, she'd been ripped to pieces.

She would never be whole again.

Shaking, Becky Lynn grasped the porch railing and pulled herself to her feet, trembling so badly she feared she would fall. She had no idea of the time, no idea how long she'd lain behind the outbuilding, bleeding and raw, waiting for the wail of the police siren that had never come.

Images, horrific and unwanted, flashed lightning-like through her head. She squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach pitching. She held the vomit back through sheer force of will. She wouldn't be sick, she wouldn't allow Ricky and Tommy to take anything more from her—they'd already taken the only things that had been truly hers, the only
things that had been worth having. Her body. The last vestige of her girlish idealism. Her hope.

She crossed the porch to the door, thinking for the first time of her family. She had never been late before, had never failed to show up by dinnertime. She pictured herself, how she must look—dirty, bruised and bloody, her clothes ripped. She curved her shaking fingers around the doorknob. Had anyone worried at her absence? When they saw her, what would they think?

She opened the door and stepped inside. And smelled the whiskey. Its stench hung in the air like a cloud, and she realized dimly that her father had somehow scraped together enough money for a fifth.

She shifted her gaze. He sat slumped in front of the television, Randy beside him, pale and tense. Her father didn't move, but as the door screeched, her brother turned his head. He met her eyes and for one electric moment stared at her, then slid his gaze guiltily away.

Her brother had known what his friends had planned to do to her.

She sucked in a sharp breath, the realization spinning through her, bringing her to a point past anger or disbelief, past hysteria. Had her brother encouraged them? Had he laughed with them when they talked about how they would put a bag over her head so they wouldn't have to look at her while they raped her?

The sickness threatened to overwhelm her again, and she brought a hand to her mouth, fighting it back. Tears stung her eyes. “How?” she managed to say, her voice thick with tears and grief. “How…could you? You're my brother.”

Randy lifted his gaze to hers. She had the brief impres
sion of a deer, frozen in the shocking glare of headlights. His expression, pinched and frightened, took on an ashen pallor.

“When we were small, remember how we played together? None of the other children would come…near us. Remember?”

Randy shifted uncomfortably and lowered his eyes once more. She shook her head, her pain nearly unbearable. “I would have done anything to protect you. I did protect you. So many ti—” She curved her arms around herself. “And now you…you let them…do…this to—”

She choked this last back, unable to take her brother's guilty silence, the damning truth of that silence, a moment longer. Turning toward the kitchen, she went in search of her mother.

Glenna Lee sat at the kitchen table, still as a stone, gazing at nothing, her eyes vacant, her hands working at a fold of her robe. Becky Lynn stared at her, at the way her fingers moved back and forth over the worn terry-cloth.

“Mama?” she whispered, clutching her hands together in a silent prayer. “Mama, please.”

Her mother blinked, focusing on her daughter for the first time. Shock moved across her mother's expression, a dawning horror, then her features cleared, relaxing into an almost childlike mask. “Hello, baby.”

Becky Lynn swallowed. “Mama, look at me. Please.” She crossed to her mother and stopped directly before her. “I need you to see me, Mama.”

“Of course I see you, baby.” She tipped her head back, curving her lips into a small, simple smile. “Did Miss Opal keep you late?”

Becky Lynn shifted her gaze to the stove clock, its face cracked and coated with a film of grease but still readable. Nearly eleven. Five hours had passed since she'd left the Cut ‘n Curl. Five hours spent in hell.

“No, Mama.” Her chin began to quiver, and her eyes filled. “Mama, some boys…they… Mama, they hurt—”

Her mother shook her head and clucked her tongue. “She shouldn't keep you so late on a school night.”

Becky Lynn drew in a ragged breath, her vision blurring. “Don't do this, Mama. I…need you. Please. I need you so much.”

Her mother clutched her robe so tightly her knuckles poked out, stark and white even against the faded terry. “Go on to bed, baby. Everything will be better in the morning.”

Becky Lynn took a step backward, a cry slipping past her lips. Her mother couldn't deal with this. She wouldn't deal with it. Turning, Becky Lynn returned to the living room. She crossed to her father, stopping directly in front of him, blocking the TV.

“Daddy,” she whispered, twisting her fingers together, “please help me.”

He lifted his eyes to hers. His were dull and red from drink. He grunted.

“Some boys hurt me, Daddy. They—” Her throat closed over the words and she struggled to clear it. “They forced me…they—”

As if suddenly seeing her, her father moved his gaze over her. “Where've you been, girl?”

“I'm trying to tell you. Tommy Fischer and Ricky Jones—” She darted a glance at her brother. His head was lowered, his shoulders hunched. “They…they raped
me. They knocked me down…and held my hands and feet—”

Her father lurched to his feet, forcing her backward. “Don't you make up stories to cover your whoring!”

“No!” Becky Lynn shook her head violently. “No…they put a bag over my head and—”

“Randy?” Her father swung toward his son, weaving slightly. “Those boys your friends? The ones on the team?”

Randy glanced up, then away, looking like he wanted to puke. “Yes, sir.”

“They at the rally t'night?”

“Yes, sir.”

Becky Lynn fought for a breath. “It happened before the pep rally! They talked about how they were going to explain to the coach, they—”

“Lying whore,” her father snapped. “Get out of my sight, before I beat the hell out of you.”

Becky Lynn stumbled backward. Her mother stood in the kitchen doorway, white as a new sheet, visibly trembling. Becky Lynn met her eyes, pleading silently.
Stand up for me. Mama, I need you.

But her mother didn't stand up for her. For long moments, she stood gazing at her daughter, unmoving save for the way she clutched and released the vee of her robe.

Becky Lynn's vision blurred. She had no one here. Not in this house. Not in Bend. No one who believed in her, no one who cared enough to stand up for her. Ricky and Tommy could rape her as often as they liked, and no one would care.

She blinked, clearing her vision, looking at her mother once more, a strange feeling of relief moving over her. Her
mother had set her free. Now, truly, there was nothing for her in Bend.

Turning, Becky Lynn limped toward the bathroom.

“Don't come cryin' to me if you get knocked up!” her father shouted from behind her. “You hear me? I won't have none of your ugly bastard brats in this house. You hear me?”

Becky Lynn closed the bathroom door behind her, muffling the sound of her father's rage, and latched it. She crossed to the old claw-footed tub and turned on the faucets. Kneeling, she pushed the rubber stopper into the drain, then stood and stripped off her soiled clothing, avoiding her reflection in the small mirror above the sink.

They had put a bag over her head so the wouldn't have to look at her while they raped her.

She stepped into the tepid water, then sank into it. It flowed sweetly over her, like a baptism, cleansing her of Ricky's touch, his smell. His hate.

She rested her head against the cool porcelain and closed her eyes.

As if from outside her body, hovering above, she saw herself. Her body folded into the tub, scrunched down so she would be submerged, her skin so white it blended with the tub, the shock of red hair around her face, floating around her shoulders. The bruises. The blood that leaked from her and into the water, muddying it.

They would be back.

She wanted to cry, to howl with rage and pain, yet she had no tears, couldn't muster emotion enough for rage. She felt…a numbness. A nothingness. A weird kind of void that was at once a sweet relief and completely terrifying.

As the water became almost too cool to bear, she opened her eyes and sat up. Carefully, she soaped her thighs, her bruised womanhood, washing away dirt and blood. She winced as she moved her hands over herself, knowing from experience that physical bruises healed. And that invisible ones did not.

There was blood underneath her fingernails, Tommy's from when she'd scratched him, and she dug her nails into the soap, moving them back and forth on the slippery bar, not stopping until they were clear. Clean and free of him. She soaped her hair next, scrubbing it, rinsing it. Scrubbing again.

The water turned dark and ugly. Her stomach heaved, but she choked the sickness back. She drained the tub, then sat naked in the empty bath, her arms closed around herself, teeth chattering.

Thoughts raced dizzily, crazily through her head, like the twisted path of a roller coaster.

I won't tell, Becky Lynn… You must promise me that if those boys do anything to you, you will come to me…

What did you hope to accomplish by telling Miss Opal… Who did you think was going to believe that we'd touch you… Our parents laughed…

Lying whore… Get out of my sight…

Don't do this, Mama…I need you… Mama, please help me…

I'll make sure Tommy and Buddy get their turn…

Tears choked her, and Becky Lynn gasped to breathe. She brought her hands to her face and sobbed, pressing her hands against her mouth to muffle the sound, wishing that, somehow, holding back the sounds of her pain would erase it.

After a time, the violence of her sobs lessened, then ceased altogether, until the only sound she had energy enough to make was a broken mewl of despair. Soon, even that became impossible and she rocked, her arms curved tightly around herself.

Reaching up, she turned the faucets on full blast, half expecting her father to burst into the bathroom and rage at her for wasting water. Even as she waited, clean water slipped over her again, inch by comforting inch. The water warmed her, bringing her senses back to life. She rested her cheek against her drawn-up knees, her mother's words from what seemed like a lifetime ago, nudging into her consciousness.

You're special, Becky Lynn. You could move away from Bend, make something of yourself.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pain ripping through her. Nothing could be special here. Not in this house. Not in Bend.

Tonight her mother had set her free.

She had to take care of herself, no one else would. And as much as she loved her mother, she couldn't help her, couldn't save her from the fate she had resigned herself to.

Becky Lynn leaned her head against the tub-back and pictured the places in her magazines, clean and lovely, populated by beautiful smiling people. She pictured the brilliant sun and the warm breeze, imagining both against her skin. It never rained in those places. There wasn't any dirt, nor the lingering smell of sweat and rotting fields. In the places of her magazines, boys didn't hurt girls just because they were ugly and poor.

She would go there, to California; she would start a new life.

Becky Lynn pulled the stopper from the drain and stood. Shivering, she dried herself, then wrapped the threadbare towel around her. She went to the bathroom door and cracked it open. The house slept. In the next room, her father snored.

Even though he was impossible to wake out of his drunken slumber, Becky Lynn tiptoed across the hallway and into her room. She dressed quickly and quietly, then threw her remaining clothes into a duffel bag, her few knickknacks and toiletries, she retrieved her toothbrush, the shampoo and toothpaste. She'd saved everything she'd made at the Cut ‘n Curl over the past couple of years, everything left over after her father had taken his share, and hidden it under a loose floorboard. Careful not to make a sound, she retrieved and counted it, then stuffed it into her jeans pocket.

Nearly two hundred dollars. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

She hesitated outside her parents' door, then crept into their room. Her father's slacks lay in a heap on the floor. She picked them up and searched one pocket, then the other. Her fingers closed over a couple crumpled bills. Hands shaking, she pulled them out. Twenties? Where had he gotten this money? she wondered. She didn't care, he would only waste it on drink.

She took the money, keeping one twenty and putting the other into her mother's secret grocery stash on her way out of the house.

At the front door, she stopped and turned back, taking one last look at the place she had called home for nearly seventeen years. She had called it home, but it had never been one. She had never been safe here, had never been loved.

She would never be trapped again.

As she slipped through the door, she thought she heard the sound of weeping—her mother's weeping. Becky Lynn paused, her chest tightening. “Mama,” she whispered, taking an involuntary step back inside.