by Beth Harden
“I’m not spilling my guts to a bunch of guys. Some of them are homos, even. Their opinions don’t matter to me.”
“I’d expect you to be more tolerant than that. I mean, you’ve been dealt a pretty fair hand in all of this.” Willis retracts his claws and makes nice purring sounds again.
‘I don’t mean it like that. But bad men don’t handle the truth like a good woman would. Not even clergy. At the end of the day, they’re just as guilty and dirty as the rest. I need to hand this shit over to someone who cares and can tell me that it’ll be okay. That’s my good Lord savior and you, Counselor.”
“Alright. I prize confidentiality and will honor it. People need to feel they are safe with someone before they can expose these flaws. But you need to know that if you tell me you’ve hurt a child or something that endangers someone’s safety, I am a mandated reporter.”
Willis’s eyes swim with liquid. His eyeballs have yellowed and have fine threads of capillaries streaking across like bloody little meteor showers. He swallows, coughs and then looks off into the distance. Whatever is troubling him is somewhere far enough away where he has to reach way back and grope hard to catch a thread tail of it. It’s not something he really wants to touch.
“When I told you that I never sexually violated that girl, I was telling the God’s-honest truth. But….” He pauses, and then continues with a cracking voice. “When I was older, in my twenties maybe, I was a very angry young man. I got caught up in violent crimes like robberies and assaults. Bad shit. People got hurt. Three women…” He stops, puts the sounds together to form the distasteful word he needs to spit from this mouth. “were raped and beaten. Bad.” Willis falters but forces the truth that burns like emesis and bile on its way up. “One of them might have died. I never knew for sure because I took off down south to Kentucky and hid out with my cousins. I was sure someone would show up looking for me, but the case was pled out and the other guys who were caught never gave my name up. I came back home since no one was lookin’ for me. But it troubles me deeply now that I have become a mature man and given up self to my Jesus. If we confess our sins, he will cleanse us from all unrighteousness. Isn’t that what the Word says?”
The purging seems to have eased his discomfort. Like nausea, the worst of it is right before the inevitable release.
“Yes, how long ago was this, Mr. Willis?” I ask. Willis appears distracted and even
“A long, long ways back now. I don’t want to say too much and put you in a predicament.”
“You’re not under any obligation to tell me anything. The best way I can help you is to pass you along to Legal Assistance or at least provide you with the information related to the laws.”
“I came back when the trial was over but there was nothing worth coming back to. I lost my Momma to her heart attack while I was down in the Juvie. All the stress and strain of my life killed her with worry. I can’t ever make that right.”
“That is tragic and sad. I’m sorry,” I say.
Willis reaches down and pulls up the cuff of his over shirt. Up close, the contrast between the vitiligo and the dark complexion is even more vivid. Like a Beardsley print of swirling patterns, it melds into a collage of linear ink and uneven margins. The first three letters of a faded tattoo fall within the range of the skin discoloration. B E R.
“That’s her name. Berea. Named after the town she was raised in.”
“Lovely. What does it mean?”
“It was a city in the Bible. It means heavy, weighty,” says Willis. “It’s a sad word,” he adds. We have much more in common than he knows. I know this word. It’s related to the term bereavement. Its synonym is bereft; to be left desolate or alone especially after death. Grief. He knows that I too have been formed out of the same gritty substance; not the dry dust that issues under happy running feet but the muddy clay that forms from the mire and builds in layers, piling up, hardening over time into brittle strength.
“In order to truly make this right, you would have to admit to your actions. But the statute of limitations on assault, rape or even intent to rape may have run out already. Each state is different. You may be a free man in Kentucky.”
“This happened in a different state.”
“Oh, that might make a difference. Which state?” I ask innocuously.
“Massachusetts. This state we’re in,” says Willis. A bleed of color flashes and fizzles in the outer corner of my right eye. A hazy film obscures the view like spent fireworks drifting downwards in a misty rain.
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this. I’m not the right person. I have to go, Mr. Willis,” I announce abruptly and stand up.
“But I ain’t done yet, Mizz Abrams. Please,” begs Willis.
“Tell it to your Jesus. He’s got a stronger stomach than I do,” I answer as I half-trip over his big boots in my hurry to depart the confines of the boxy room and get out into clarifying air.
#
On the drive home, my temples start to ache. Little auras begin to hover around the street lamps like migrating bacteria in a Petri dish. Before long, minnows are swimming around the sun. Damn! Feels like the precursor to a migraine or worse, a seizure. I’ve got to tell my shrink that I don’t like the side effects of this new mix of meds, Effexor and Topamax. Suddenly, my vision in one eye fractures into the gaily colored triangles of a kid’s kaleidoscope. Startled, I flick on my blinker and pull over into the parking lot of the farmer’s credit union. I turn off the motor, lock my doors and lower the driver’s seat to a reclining position. Nausea begins to bubble in my gut. I put my hand on my cell phone in case I need to call for an emergency crew. I keep my finger on the speed dial and swallow first one Xanax, then another. While I wait for the medicine to take effect, I try to distract myself. With what? Tomorrow’s lesson plan. This week’s grocery list. Count backwards. No forwards. One…two…three.. Shit. A cold sweat rolls over my back. My memory begins to flutter and skip like a flash book.
Three letters on a wrist. Rape. Trust me. Might be dead. Long time ago. Massachusetts. Clues. The series of flipping pages clump in awkward, random order and then speed up, smoothing out a cohesive string of frames into a story that finally begins to make sense. Long time ago. Massachusetts girl. Raped. Might be dead. Letters on a wrist. B – E – R. Missing person.
I sit bolt upright out of my haze and fumble briefly with the handle, flinging the door wide open just in time to retch on the gravel. I can’t tell if the rushing pulse in my ears is my brain in revolt or moving traffic. I vomit once, then again but it does nothing to relieve the awful sickness of dawning truth. My eyesight is still so badly occluded I can’t decipher if the concerned motorist who has stopped to help me is male or female. Friend or foe. Either way, I shove back, fighting to free myself. No one is going to fuck with me. Not ever again.
CHAPTER 10: COMING CLEAN
“So any word on your parole hearing date?” I ask. Keep everything neutral and objective. My stomach is jumping with apprehension. Willis lingers after class as requested and drops into a seat close to my desk. He is not at all suspicious of my intent. And why should he be? A teacher has a right to single out special students who may require extra help.
“Yes, I got my date. August 7th. Two weeks from now,” he answers confidently.
“You must be as overwhelmed as you are excited.”
“It’s been a long time coming, but I’m ready. As you know,” Willis replies.
“So, you’ll go back to Boston where you’re from?” I ask. I’ve chosen wide open-ended questions that circumvent any suspicion. There is more than one way that leads to the right answer.
“What? No! My people are from Kentucky, remember?”
“I apologize. Where on earth did I come up with Boston?” I reply.
“The few years I was drifting on the streets there going between aunts and cousins. Remember when I told you that?”
“That’s right. You did say that. My memory is shot. I’m old, you know.” Wi
llis laughs. His face is visibly relaxed, prepared now to break into an easy smile as he heads down that final lap. He can afford to let down his guard and coast the rest of the way in.
“Then I’m ancient, Miss A, cuz you can’t be a day over thirty.” Somewhere else under different circumstances, this would be the opening line that cracks reluctance and extracts a coquettish smile. We might laugh off our unease and take this awkward courtship to a new level. But not here; not us. Not ever.
“Where did you end up settling then?” I ask as I innocently map the trajectory of his life.
“I left town and the state and headed down south. I was on the run but everything was on the down-low. No one knew what I’d done or where I’d gone to.” Two pieces snap together.
“That had to be torturous. Living with the knowledge of what you’d done but being the person you truly are. Knowing the world at large would never understand or care to hear your version.” Willis wavers. He is considering it, but chooses only to nod in agreement.
“Tell me about those young women. Only if you want to, of course.” Willis shows signs of discomfort as the memory is being shoved in front of him to recount or to recant.
“I couldn’t give you names even if I knew them. There were three girls in all. Two separate incidents.’ His voice begins to falter and his sentence trails off into stiff silence.
“I imagine it’s hard to move forward with your new life until you are reconciled with your past. It’s almost impossible to do so without looking at the hard stuff straight on. You want to give it another try?”
“I couldn’t make steps in a positive direction for a long time. Not until I came here on this last bid and God got a hold of me. I could finally lay those sins out in daylight and let them be seen and cleansed.”
“You firmly believe that you are forgiven for those murders?” I ask, searchingly. His eyes flick up to my face in alarm. Willis becomes instantly defensive.
“Who said anything about murders? They were assaults.” Snap.
“Oh, I apologize, Mr. Willis. I thought you told me last time that one of the girls was badly beaten and died in the hospital.”
“Lord Almighty. I’ve never talked about this to a single soul except my Maker. But you understand my background and what happened to me as a child. And you are the only one who had the courage to speak for a fuck-up like me. I trust you.”
“I’m glad,” I reply. “Everyone needs to have that one person in their life. In addition to their God,” I add. Willis’s voice cracks and falters.
“Two of them were roommates at Boston College. They were scared to death and threatened into keeping quiet. We took their address books and the family photos off the walls and told them that if they went to the police, their people were goners.”
“We…?”
“Yes, I was with two other guys. Older than me.” Snap.
“And what about the other woman, the third one? Was she raped too?”
“Not by me. But…” Willis pauses. I can see the Adam’s apple in this throat bumping up and down as he fights to swallow back the distaste in his mouth. A single swell of moisture blossoms in the corner of his eye and lights off down his cheekbone. Another follows a duplicate path. “I didn’t stop them. Something just went off in my head. Seeing these white bitches, forgive my language, parading their asses by us like we’re good for nuthin’ shitbags. All I could see was that skunk-mouthed little whore who ruined me at an early age just for fun. I made up a lie right then and there that I kept tellin’ myself, that someone had to pay for all the shit that happened to me. But I got carried away and took it too far.”
“Do you know for sure, though? You may have been running away from something that never actually happened.” I’m turning the tables now, playing to the other side. The devil’s advocate.
“It was in all the local papers and on television. She went to the hospital and was in a coma for awhile. And then she disappeared from the news altogether. There was no obituary in the paper but I’m pretty sure she died.” Snap.
“God, Willis! That’s a lot to bear. But you yourself just said you didn’t sexually assault anyone, so you don’t need to carry the blame for that.”
“No, but I did put my hands on her.”
“Was she in the same college dorm as the others?” He shakes his head.
“No, she was living in a house. A nice neighborhood just up from the projects where we hung out,” he answers. Something tells me to push harder.
“How do you know she was a college student then?” I ask, pressing this one resistant piece against the adjoining ones, hoping for a fit.
“Because she had school books and research papers and shit. Plus the article in the Globe said she was in the last semester of her senior year.” Snap. Snap. Snap. Finally, a few of the convoluted clues scattered across my life lock down into place, revealing a partial image of a very dark landscape.
“Did the other guys go down for the crime? Or did they get off too?” I ask. Willis is growing tired of the interrogation, however much it is cloaked in friend’s clothing.
“They did time but not for the rape. In a way, they are the lucky ones because they paid their price up front. I still have to settle up on mine. That’s what I mean to do when I get out. I don’t yet have a plan as to how I’m gonna make it right, but my goal is to try.”
The puzzle pieces are now linked in one contiguous and inescapable picture. I have what I need.
“Well, I hope this has helped. You need to be of a clear mind when you go before the Board. I wish you my best with that.”
“You have done so much for me, Mizz Abrams. I am grateful for everything. Just so you know, I tell everyone that you are the best fuckin’ counselor in this whole place. Maybe even the country!”
“Now that’s stretching it a bit. I’ll settle for just New England.” We smile at one another in a truce built on trust. I have been tested and proven to be worthy.
#
Surprisingly, Detective Hughes is not all that hard to find.
He had kept up with our family long after the court transcripts were filed and the keys thrown. He visited regularly during my eight months at Gaylord, always with questions and the subtle hope that a glimmer of a clue might bubble up out of the mud of my memory. I had very little to offer. He was one of those cops who had photographs of murdered wives and missing daughters pinned to the bulletin board beside his desk. Long after everyone else had moved on, he kept them alive in his mind. Bereaved families flocked to him to help them find peace for their loved ones. It was this spirit of perseverance that brought his little Datsun to our Gust Harbor dooryard the day that inmates Carson and Turner were released to halfway houses having completed eighty-five percent of their eight year sentences, that’s two-thousand four hundred and eighty-two days apiece, enough time to either repent or relapse.
Turner lasted three months as a free man before being remanded back to custody on a technical violation for dirty urine. Carson, on the other hand, finished out his remaining time under supervision and enrolled in tractor-trailer school for a commercial driver’s license. That was the last thing any of us heard about these men until a newspaper clipping from the Boston Register arrived in my parents’ postal box ten years later. Carson was one of two men gunned down in a drive-by outside the Magic Lady strip club in an apparent turf war between rival Blood sets. Turner had long since disappeared from the state altogether and a run of his rap sheet pulled up no further arrests.
I was amazed that this Detective would take his personal time to come all the way up to meet with us in person. I believe he would have even if his wife’s family didn’t own property up on Chebeague Island where they planned to retire when he reached the age of pension eligibility. It was an antique fixer-upper that required multiple summers’ worth of hours cracking out ribs of lathe and horsehair plaster, shoring up rotten sills and tacking down tarpaper. It was a therapeutic change from spending his working hours trying to extract tru
th from old bones and rotten hearts. At least when you he worked on wood, the results were obvious. Hughes dropped in for a handful of visits over the years, a cup of coffee or a plate of apple crisp and a visual check on a former ‘client.’
I don’t think Hughes ever stopped seeing me as that twenty-something-year-old. When it came to me, his time clock had run out of battery power. We had bonded in a co-dependent sort of way. Back then, he was like the lead dog in a harness pulling my sled across slick ice and black drifts when I was unable to do anything but hold on for dear life, hoping that we would eventually crest up over the snow cap to clear blue light. I was the symbol of his cause, a living unsolved mystery that cracked his reserve and brought passion back to his profession. Unlike my parents who never lowered the bar and believed with enough cheerleading, I could rally and reach the peak again; Hughes knew that I was unalterably changed and met me there at the juncture of helpless and hurting. He accepted my deficits as beautiful tributes of endurance and embraced the unpredictable in me as proof of the purposeful madness that causes a victim to march headstrong and headlong back into the face of evil.
I’m certain he never planned to be an accomplice; though his role in the drama was minor. When the phone rang that hot August night, Hughes had already brushed his teeth with Pepsodent, slipped into his cotton pajama pants and was watching heat lightning sputter over the treetops. He did his absolute best to introduce calm to the hysteria on the other end of the line; but in fairness to him, there wasn’t much a middle-aged man could do with a broken down girl sobbing over his sentences. When I threatened to hang up and hitch-hike to Canada, he changed his mind and promised to come, but only if I stayed put and agreed to hear him out before I made any drastic decisions. His wife was used to him dashing out into the dark to investigate crime scenes, so she didn’t bat a sleepy eye when he headed north impulsively. He drove straight to the old fire road just past the small pond, left his truck in hiding behind the big pines and walked in from there. Since I had no ability to lift anything, I had decided to toss my belongings piecemeal out the window and ask for his help in collecting them. Together we hobbled through the wet, hip-high field grass to his waiting vehicle. Ten miles down the road he pulled over at Fanny and Gramp’s diner and insisted that we discuss my desertion over a meal of runny eggs and grilled muffins. The vinyl booths had been recently sprayed with lemon soap that smelled like bug repellent. The older waitress looked askance when we walked in, but kept chatting to the fisherman in waders on the stool in front of her. Finally, she yawned, ambled over and poured us each a mug of steaming coffee. People were watching me; I had to keep my shit together here. Hughes knew what he was doing. How many teen runaways had he coaxed into going back to their miserable little lives? I wasn’t to be one of them.
