When Jeff Comes Home

by Catherine Atkins

  I knew why, of course. Dad had conspired along with me. I'm fine, I had told him so many times, and he had chosen to go along with that, too afraid—too disgusted—to help me face the truth.

  Connie announced dinner at six o' clock. I went downstairs only to avoid an explanation of why I could not eat. But she seemed as preoccupied as I was, glancing up at every noise outside, obviously waiting for Dad. When I finally asked what was keeping him, Connie was tight-lipped, saying only that he had been delayed by a problem at work.

  By ten o'clock I lay rigid on my bed, furious. He was the one pushing school for me, and then he wasn't even around to see how I had done. I should have been relieved, for I still didn't know what I was going to say to him. But as the hours passed, I had only grown more tense. I wanted to tell Dad now; have the argument now, that I would not be returning to school.

  I turned on my side, under the covers, dressed for bed in a T-shirt and sweatpants, miles away from sleep. Ray spoke to me—

  Love you.

  And Vin—

  You were makin’ it with that guy.

  And the voices from school—

  Fag.

  You miss getting it regular!

  I flipped over again, angry with myself, reaching up to snap the light on. Maybe I could borrow a book from Charlie . . .

  "How did everything go today?" Dad asked quietly, standing in the hallway just outside my bedroom.

  I was speechless, choked with anger and shame. He came a few steps into the room, looking as though he already knew the answer.

  "Not so good," I said. Dad nodded. "I ... I don't think I want to go back. I'm sorry." I waited tensely for his questions, for the lecture he would be sure to give me on perseverance.

  Dad nodded again, running a hand through his hair. "I've had some second thoughts myself about you going back to that school. It's tough here, where everyone knows you. We'll talk it over tomorrow, all right?"

  "There's nothing to talk over," I said, relieved and disappointed, trying to bait him into a reaction.

  Come on, Dad, care. Tell me not to give up.

  "Well," he said, "not tonight, anyway. I'll see you tomorrow."

  Dad walked out of my room looking defeated. I hated him. I hated myself.

  22

  The man I came to know as “Ray” held the knife against my neck as he pushed my face down into the dark blue carpeting of the van. Kneeling on the backs of my thighs, he pulled one of my arms back, then the other, and cuffed my hands together. I raised my head to scream but before I could open my mouth, the man dove forward and threw his full weight on top of me. I felt the knife against my cheek and the man's breath on my hair as he ordered me to open my mouth wide. His hand shook as he held the blade close to my eye and I began to cry as I opened my mouth for him. Placing his knife on the carpet, so close to my head the blade touched my nose, he pushed a soft, wadded cloth into my mouth, securing it with a knotted rag he fastened tightly around my head.

  The man sat back on my body, resting on my thighs again, breathing heavily. I fought for air as mucus filled my throat and tears ran across my face down into my nose. I closed my eyes to try to hold back the tears, relaxing into the man's rhythm for a moment.

  He must have felt the tension leave my body; for he reared back off of my thighs. Instantly my body told me to kick back at him, to use my legs against him while I still could. But I was too close to the memory of suffocating. The knife lay in front of me, so close I could smell the hot metal of the blade. What would he do if I kicked at him and missed! Or struck a blow that hurt him without knocking him out! I remained passive, and he pushed my legs together, binding them tightly with something that felt like a long belt.

  The man crawled over me, pausing to pick up his knife, and climbed into the driver's seat. He took a deep breath, then started the van.

  He continued north for a while, and I allowed myself some hope. Someone at the rest stop must have seen the van and would connect it with my disappearance: it would not be hard for my family to find me.

  I lay flat, my head bent sharply to one side, the rough carpet scratching against my cheek. My arms and legs were beginning to fall asleep. In the front of the van, the man was silent.

  Suddenly he changed lanes, so quickly the momentum rolled me off my stomach. The handcuffs dug sharply into my back and I tried to cry out, raising my body off my arms, falling back down on them again.

  Another shift and I knew he was leaving the highway. My stomach turned over as he drove a short distance, stopped, turned left, then left again, accelerating. We were heading south now, down Interstate 5 in the opposite direction, and I thought maybe he had had a change of heart, that he was taking me back to the rest stop. But he kept driving, until I knew we had to be far beyond that point. I cried silently, keeping my eyes tightly shut to stop the tears from choking me.

  I became used to the feel of the handcuffs digging into my back. It was only when the van's motion threw me off them, and the continuous pressure was relieved, that I was aware of the pain. I would have a bruise there, I knew, a good one. I felt the chafing of my wrists too as the skin wore away, and I pictured the marks the cuffs would leave.

  “Maybe he'll never take them off," I realized. “Maybe whatever he wants me for, he doesn't need to take them off. Maybe they'll find me like this."

  The tears came again, but this time I blinked them back.

  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, ” I thought. “Fight, figure it out, do something."

  From the position I was in I could see out the top part of the front passenger-side window. We passed tall buildings, and billboards, and silos. At one point we drove alongside a semi-truck and I saw the profile of the driver inside.

  “If I can see him," I thought, “maybe he can see me." Hope flared, then died as many more miles went by without sirens, without the man noticeably changing his speed. I watched the sky begin to darken.

  I had to go to the bathroom bad. There was no way to ask. I wouldn't go in my pants. I had that much pride.

  The man shifted again, quickly, changing lanes, then exiting the freeway. I rolled, landing on my stomach, and my arms and legs began to tingle, then burn, as the circulation began to return. I had to cough, too, but I couldn't with the gag, and I began to hack in the back of my throat. The man swore and sped up.

  I couldn't breathe through my mouth, and I couldn't take in enough air through my nose, which was still congested from the crying I had done. I began to choke, my chest heaving. I was going to die. I could feel it.

  He pulled off sharply onto another road, tires squealing, then, almost immediately, made another quick turn. The van screeched to a stop and the man jumped out the driver's-side door. I heard him running around the van to the back panel doors. He swore again as he fumbled with the lock, then threw the doors open and pulled me out by my feet.

  I crashed to the ground, my head narrowly missing the back bumper. The man knelt beside me. Taking his knife, he cut through the rag around my head, then pulled the cloth out of my mouth. I heaved, trying to catch my breath. My mouth was bone-dry, and I could taste fibers from the cloth all through it. I rolled to my side, coughing weakly, my head rubbing against the hard-packed dirt.

  "Now, ” he said, sounding worried, “I am going to let your arms and legs loose and you go ahead and cough. If you do anything else, or try to run, I'll hurt you. Understand!”

  I nodded. Reaching into his back pocket, he unlocked the cuffs, then took the knife and cut through the belt that bound my legs. Sharp pains shot through my limbs and I cried out, but the need to cough was greater. Raising myself to my hands and knees, I coughed deep from the gut. The man rubbed my back and made soothing noises. A persistent tickle in my throat maddened me to the point that I couldn't concentrate on anything else.

  "Water, please, ” I choked out.

  He leaned forward. "What!”

  With all the strength I had left I sat up a little. "Water, ” I said slowly. "Please.
” Another coughing fit hit me and I doubled over.

  "Oh, sure. Water, ” he said, making no move to get any. "How do I know you won't run! It's in the front seat of the van. ”

  "I won't,” I gasped.

  "I'll get you if you do, ” he warned.

  He moved away from me, and I heard him rustling around in the front of the van. The pressure on my bladder was unbearable. For the first time in my memory, I peed my pants, flooding my shorts, the hot urine burning against my legs. He came back with the water as I finished, my eyes closed in shame.

  The man said nothing, kneeling by me again and helping me sit up. He held my head back and poured water into my mouth clumsily, spilling it all over my jersey I drank gratefully, reaching up to hold the jug to my mouth.

  “That's enough, " he said, pulling the jug away from me and setting it just inside the back of the van. “You okay now?"

  I dared to look at him. The man had dark hair, pale skin, a mustache and an unshaven face. His eyes were black and unblinking and he took my face in as if he was memorizing it.

  “I asked if you were okay, " he said harshly.

  “I think so," I told him. He pulled the handcuffs out of his back pocket and took hold of one of my wrists. I pulled back and he yanked me forward twice as hard. “No, please," I said, dignity forgotten in the memory of the pain, the feeling of being trapped. “You don't need to handcuff me."

  The man half smiled, half sneered. “Why not?"

  “I won't try to get away," I said quickly. “I won't run. You don't have to tie me up." The sky was overcast, the moon half-hidden behind a cloud. Distant mountains ringed the flat land where we stood, and the air was heavy with the smell of fertilizer. I heard the sounds of the freeway not far off, but I could see no lights from cars or any other human source. The man and I were utterly alone.

  “You'd be stupid to run," he said, smiling a little. “You wouldn't last long out here without me." The man nodded to himself, looking down. His lip curled. “You wet yourself, didn't you?”

  The two of us were kneeling in a puddle of my urine. I could smell it suddenly, hot and sharp.

  “I'm . . . sorry," I said, feeling dizzy. “I had to, I couldn't...”

  “It's okay," he said matter-of-factly, “but this is a new van. I want to keep it clean. Let's get these clothes off you."

  My stomach dipped and I began to shiver. “No, that's okay, it'll dry fast. It's a warm night, so .. . "

  “Come on," he said, standing up and pulling me with him, “let's get 'em off."

  “Look," I said desperately, “please don't do this. I won't tell anyone anything if you just leave me here. I don't know you, I don't know where I am, they'll never find you, so .. . please just leave me here."

  The man smiled slowly at me. “Relax. You pissed your pants, and I want to clean you up."

  Maybe he's just crazy, I told myself. Shivering, I stood still as he reached for the buttons on my shorts. I tried to ignore the way his hands lingered on my hips as he eased my shorts and underwear down.

  “Step out of them," he ordered. “Now your shoes and socks."

  I knelt to untie my shoes, taking my time about it, afraid to face him again. He kicked my hand lightly and, shocked, I almost fell, the cold metal of the van's bumper hard against my back.

  “Stand up,” the man said, his voice husky now. I averted my eyes, but I couldn't help noticing the bulge in his jeans. “Now pull off that jersey.”

  Still looking away from him, I obeyed, bundling the jersey up in my hand.

  He reached into the van for the jug of water, then splashed it across my lower torso.

  “Dry yourself," he ordered. “Use the jersey.”

  I complied, rubbing the sweaty material over my body and legs.

  He reached into the van again, pulling out a green garbage bag and handing it to me. “Put your stuff in this. All of it. Shoes, shorts, everything.”

  Trembling uncontrollably, I did as he asked.

  “You got pee all over my jeans too,” the man said. Smiling, he reached down and unbuttoned himself.

  23

  I LEANED AGAINST THE WALL OUTSIDE DAD AND Connie's bedroom, waiting for the fear to subside. It was no good this time. My heart pounded against my chest with an intensity that scared me, and all I could hear was the sound of my own ragged breath.

  Light flooded the hallway. I stepped away from the wall, drawing in my breath, my heartbeat crescendoing in my ears.

  "Jeff!" Dad was saying. "What is it, what's wrong?"

  I turned around slowly, focusing in on him. Dad still wore his suit, minus the jacket. He had come up the stairs behind me. He hadn't been in the room at all.

  I shook my head, still scared, and angry too. "Where were you?" I said, my voice cracking.

  "Where was I?" Dad repeated softly. "What ... I was downstairs, Jeff. I'm doing some work at home—"

  "No!" I interrupted him. "Not now. Before!"

  He watched me carefully, tilting his head. "Come downstairs. Let's talk about it."

  "No," I said, weaker this time. Dad waited, his face calm. I heard Connie beginning to stir and that gave me the excuse I needed to follow him.

  Dad's office was the only room lit downstairs. I expected him to lead me there, but he walked past it, continuing on into the living room. I paused at the office door, glancing inside. Dad's desk was strewn with loose papers anchored down by a heavy law book. The book was open, a yellow legal pad on top of it, an uncapped pen resting on top of that. For some reason I could not name, the arrangement filled me with dread.

  Dad waited for me in the living room, already seated. I mumbled an apology he ignored, motioning me to the couch opposite. I sat down carefully, noticing how tired he looked. I shook off my instinctive sympathy, knowing that I must be the cause of whatever tired him so.

  "What are you thinking about right now?" Dad said, peering at me suddenly. I gaped at him, then shook my head.

  "What was going on upstairs then?"

  "Nothing," I said automatically. Then, like that, I told him the truth.

  "Sometimes when I can't sleep, I stand outside your room. Doing that usually makes me feel safer." I looked down, my face burning.

  Dad went right past that. "Why couldn't you sleep? Why tonight, in particular? Something must have happened at school."

  "It wasn't that. At least . . . that wasn't the only reason."

  Dad nodded, waiting.

  "I was remembering stuff. Usually I can push it away. Tonight I couldn't."

  "What stuff? Can you tell me? Please."

  My courage deserted me. "No. Sorry."

  Dad sighed, looking down at his hands, then at me. "Okay. What happened at school today? Why don't you want to go back?"

  I shrugged, half angry he had not pushed me more. "Nothing that different from what I thought would happen. I just didn't know how bad it would feel."

  "Kids gave you a hard time." It was not a question.

  "Yeah. And I'm not going back. I don't care what you say. I'm not ready for them, and they're sure not ready for me."

  "Jeff..."

  I held up a hand to stop him. "Don't tell me to 'hang tough' or anything like that. I'm not going back. They act like I did something wrong, that I am wrong. It's not fair."

  "No," he agreed softly, clasping his hands together and staring at them. I had expected a fight from him, and my adrenaline was up to fight him back. Don't give up on me, Dad. Don't agree with me that I'm hopeless.

  "Vin too, I suppose?"

  "He was with them at first, with the worst of them. Then he switched sides. Now he says he wants to help me."

  "That's not so bad," Dad said carefully. "He's a kid. Like you."

  "Not like me," I mumbled. "No one's like me." A shudder ran through me as I realized how alone I was. Trapped in my own head with Ray, and no way out.

  "Jeff," Dad called sharply, not for the first time, I realized. "What I've been doing with you isn't working. I've backed
off, I've tried to let you handle this your way. But it's not working."

  I watched him fearfully. "What do you want me to do?"

  "I want you to tell me about Slaight. I want you to tell me what he did to you. You're making yourself sick holding this stuff in. If you never testify against him, Dave won't be happy, but I can live with that. I want you to talk to me."

  Mingled with my horror and embarrassment, I felt something like hope.

  "You say that, Dad, but you don't really want to know."

  "I do."

  "You don't want to know—you can't—what it was like, living with him every day."

  "Jeff," Dad said, "please tell me. I'm ready to listen."

  Confused, I looked away from him, shaking my head.

  "All right." Dad's voice was calm, his tone measured. "So you never talk about Slaight. You live with it by yourself. You don't go to school—"

  "Fuck school!"

  He nodded. "Okay. Fuck school. We'll just keep tiptoeing around you, pretending nothing is wrong. Hell, we might as well invite Slaight to move in with us. He's here anyway."

  "Don't say that." I was trembling. "Don't ever say that." Dad did not apologize, just watched me, no expression on his face.

  "You want to know why I came back so thin?" I said suddenly.

  "Yes."

  "He hardly fed me. Ray. He would just laugh when I asked him. I had to beg him for food."

  Dad watched me steadily, unblinking.

  "Sometimes I had to do stuff for him—sexual stuff—if I wanted to eat."

  "All right," Dad said, after a moment.

  "All right," I repeated, laughing in disbelief.

  "What would you like me to say?"

  "Say the truth! Tell me I'm disgusting."

  Dad looked down. When he looked at me again, his eyes were moist. "I'm not disgusted, Jeff."

  "He taught me to ... " Even now, I could not tell Dad the specifics. "He taught me to have sex with him the way he wanted it. That's what I learned, Dad. That was my education."

  A beat. Then Dad nodded. "Yes."

  I glared at him. "Do you even hear what I'm saying?"