by Amy Hatvany
“Is he watching?” I murmured in Kylie’s ear. She smelled like something sweet; coconut, maybe. And some kind of rum.
“I don’t know,” she said, sounding a little out of breath. “Just keep dancing.”
I felt her push her hips against mine, and I couldn’t help but think about Amber then, how she and I had danced, how it felt to hold her. How she’d screamed when I walked into her room the next day. My heart banged around inside my chest, and my blood roared in my ears. “Come on,” I said to Kylie now, as the song ended. I guided her toward the back of the bar, near the bathrooms.
“Where are we going?” she asked, still laughing. Her cheeks were flushed, her dark eyes were glossy and pupils dilated, a clear sign, I knew, that she was drunk.
“Just come on,” I said, pushing her up against the wall next to the men’s bathroom. It was a dark hallway, but by no means private. I put my hands on the sides of her head and leaned down to kiss her. She answered by slipping her tongue in my mouth, and I instantly realized that she was a smoker, something I normally couldn’t stomach. But even that didn’t stop me.
When I finally pulled back and opened my eyes, I caught a glimpse of another couple further down the hall, maybe about fifteen feet away. They were in shadow, but I could tell that instead of the guy pushing the girl up against the wall, it was the other way around. With my head turned, Kylie began kissing my neck, which somehow felt more like an annoyance than a turn-on, and I squinted at the other couple, thinking that the silhouette of the girl’s body seemed familiar. And then it struck me.
“Amber?” I said, not meaning to speak as loudly as I did, but the girl down the hall stopped what she was doing as I spoke, and then looked at me. The light from the one fixture between us caught in her eyes, and I knew I was right. She looked different, thinner than the last time I’d seen her, with a harshly angled haircut and heavy makeup.
“Who’s that?” Kylie asked, her gaze following mine.
I didn’t answer; instead, I dropped my hands from her body and took a few steps toward Amber and the stranger she was with.
“Screw you then,” Kylie said with disdain, and she spun around and headed back to the main part of the bar. I didn’t care that I’d offended her. All I cared about was talking to Amber.
“Tyler . . . don’t,” Amber said. She stumbled backward, away from the guy, who, now that I could see him more clearly, I realized had to be in his late forties. He had a receding hairline, bags of flesh under his eyes, and a noticeable paunch hanging over his belt. What the hell was she doing in a dark hallway, making out with a guy like that?
“Please,” I said. “I just want to talk.” I couldn’t believe I had to beg just to speak with my best friend. I couldn’t believe it had been three months since I’d last seen her.
She stared at me, eyes wide, and shook her head. The guy she was with swung his gaze back and forth between us. “Doesn’t look like the lady wants to talk to you,” he said, puffing out his chest.
Ignoring him, I kept my eyes on Amber. “I’ve been worried about you,” I said, stopping when I was about three feet away from her.
“Hey,” the guy said, stepping in between Amber and me. He swayed a bit on his feet, and I knew he was drunk. “I said, the lady doesn’t want to talk.”
“Back off,” I said, using one arm to push him out of my way. “This isn’t your business.”
Amber took another step back, her eyes darting around, looking behind where she stood, and then over my shoulder, as though searching for escape.
“I’m making it my business,” the guy said, and then he lunged at me, his right arm swinging. The punch missed, but the impact of his body hitting mine was enough for me to lose my balance. We tumbled to the floor, our limbs entangled. At this point, Amber leapt over us, and as I struggled to push the other guy off of me and get back on my feet, I saw her dart back into the main part of the bar and disappear.
“Shit,” I muttered, wondering if I should run after her, but then decided I’d better not.
“Thanks for fucking that up for me, asshole,” the guy said as he, too, managed to get back on his feet.
“You should stick to hitting on women your own age,” I said bitterly, taking in the man’s puffy face and the broken red capillaries around his nose, sure signs of a heavy drinker.
“That’s where you’re wrong, buddy,” the guy said. “She picked up me. Pulled me onto the dance floor and then dragged me back here, all hot and heavy. Probably could have gotten a blow job if you hadn’t butted in.”
“Shut up,” I said, feeling my fingers curl into fists at my sides.
“Or what?” the guy challenged me, and I almost let my anger take over. I almost let myself hit him. But then I thought about Amber, what she had been doing in a hallway with a stranger, and I felt sick. I knew that the best and safest thing I could do was leave.
Without another word, I charged my way through the crowd, and less than a minute later, I was in my truck, chewing on a wad of spearmint gum to mask the beer. I revved the engine, pulled out of my parking spot, and tried not to speed as I took a left on Railroad Avenue.
I still didn’t want to go home. I thought about going to my mom’s place, but I knew she’d only want to talk about how hard things were for her now that Helen and Tom weren’t speaking to us. I thought about following Amber back to her house and demanding that we talk and work out this entire, fucked-up situation, but that, most likely, wouldn’t get me anywhere other than the back of a squad car. I needed to talk with someone who could help me find a solution to what I was going through. I needed to talk to someone who would understand.
Ten minutes later, I parked in front of a building I hadn’t been to in over a year. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I thought as I jumped out of my truck and locked it, heading through the front door that led to the faux-marble-floored lobby. Once inside the elevator, I pressed the button that would take me to the fifth floor, remembered the dread that used to fill me back in high school every time I had done the same thing.
The doors opened and I stepped through them, realizing that the air in the hallway smelled exactly as it always had—a mix of slightly damp carpet and bleach. I realized that my father might not even be home. He could be working; he could have gone out with one of his flavor-of-the-month girls. But I approached his front door anyway, rapping on it three times, holding my breath as I waited for him to appear.
“Just a minute!” I heard my father say, and I exhaled. His voice was gruff and muffled, and I wondered if he had been asleep. He opened the door, keeping his hand on the knob, just as I had on mine the last time he showed up, unannounced, at my place.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he said, lifting his chin in a slight, defiant motion. There were glints of silver running through the blond stubble on his face and the hair on his head; the skin along his jawline was beginning to sag. He’d turn fifty-two in September and despite his muscular physique, it showed.
“Hi, Dad,” I said, standing up as straight as I could, my shoulders back, not wanting to look as weak as I felt. “Can I come in?”
“What for?” he asked, and it took all my willpower not to whip around and walk away.
“Something happened. I need to talk.”
“You lose your shit on the job again?”
“No, Dad. Please. I need your help.”
The tone of my voice must have gotten to him, because his expression softened just a little around its hard edges, and he stepped backward, gesturing for me to enter. We proceeded to the living room, where he still had the same dark green, fake leather couches he bought off Craigslist the year he moved out of our house. The TV was on, set to ESPN, and there were two empty beer bottles on the glass coffee table. The air smelled of fried food, and I saw a crumpled McDonald’s bag on his kitchen counter.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the smaller couch. “Want a drink?”
“Sure,” I said, and I waited to sit
down until he returned with a beer for me and a two-finger pour of whiskey for him. “Thanks,” I said as I dropped onto the worn cushions where I used to sleep. The condo only had one bedroom; I didn’t have any other choice. When he didn’t answer, we both stared at the flat screen on the wall for a few minutes, not saying a word, until finally, I asked him to turn it off. He muted it instead.
“So, you going to tell me what happened or not?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the college football game he’d been watching.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to ignore what felt like a golf ball lodged in my throat. “But can you turn that off, though? Please? This is important.”
With a loud sigh, he clicked the off button on the remote and then looked at me, expectantly. “Happy now?”
“Yes,” I said. I tried to sort out where to start, finally deciding on his visit to my apartment on the Fourth of July, before the party. “We were pretty shitty to each other the last time I saw you. I feel bad about the things I said.”
“Get to the point, Son.”
I gritted my teeth, wondering if I’d made a mistake in coming to see him. But then I began to describe what had happened with Amber. I told him everything I remembered, how she looked, how she acted, how drunk we both were, and how I went to her house the next day and she freaked out. When I told him that Tom had punched me, my dad’s face flushed red.
“That fucker’s always thought he was better than me. He was probably happy to take it out on you.”
“Amber told them I raped her,” I said, forcing myself not to scream that this situation wasn’t about him. “I’m pretty sure Tom hit me because of that.” I went on to say that my mom had told me about the sexual harassment suit, and that I had come to see him, hoping he had some advice on what to do.
“She told you about that, but didn’t tell me that Amber’s accusing you of rape? I swear to god, that woman is dumb as a box of rocks.”
“Dad, please,” I said again, not wanting to listen to yet another diatribe from either of my parents about how the other was an idiot.
“Have the police talked with you?” he asked as his glass clinked on the coffee table when he set it down.
“No. I don’t think she called them.”
“Well then, sounds like you don’t have anything to worry about. She didn’t report it.”
“But she still could,” I said. “What do I say if the police show up?” I shifted in my seat, still edgy from my conversation with Mason and the altercation in the bar. I thought about the few pills left in my bathroom at home, and wished I had one with me now.
“You say nothing,” my dad said, firmly. “Not a word, you understand? You call me, and I’ll call a lawyer.”
It felt odd to have him tell me that he’d be there for me if I was in trouble; too many times he’d done the opposite, insisting that I needed to learn how to handle my own problems. “Mason thinks I should turn myself in.”
“Mason’s a moron. If Amber or her parents had any actual proof, they would have gone to the police already. The fact that they haven’t tells me that it’d be your word against hers, and in cases like that, it’s almost impossible to get a conviction.”
I allowed myself to be buoyed by his words, grateful that he seemed—at least for the moment—supportive. “How do you know?”
“Because that’s what my lawyer told me when that bitch I worked with accused me of promising to help get her on day shifts if she fucked me. She backed off once he showed her all the texts she’d sent me, begging for it on a regular basis.” He paused, looking pleased with himself. “You said Amber kissed you in front of everyone there? That you two were grinding on the dance floor?” I nodded, pressing my lips together, instantly taken back to that moment in time, when I thought all of my dreams were about to be realized. And then, the next morning, when the nightmare began as she screeched at me to leave her room. “Well, there you go. If she didn’t go to the hospital or the police, there’s not going to be any kind of physical evidence.”
“I honestly thought she wanted it as much as I did. I wouldn’t have gone ahead if—”
He waved a hand at me, dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. Even if you did get a little rough with her, a little forceful, any lawyer worth his salt can argue that she likes it that way. That she asked for it. Not to mention she was drunk as hell. Nobody watched you have sex, right?”
“Of course not,” I said. “But Mason and Gia did see her right after. They drove her home.” I repeated what Mason had said to me earlier that day about how Amber’s behavior reminded him of other assault victims, about needing to tell the truth and deal with the consequences of my actions.
“And this guy’s supposed to be your partner?” my dad said, with disdain. “What an asshole. Ignore him.”
The pressure was building inside my chest. “That’s easier said than done. I respect him, you know? He’s taught me a lot.”
“So you’re going to let him convince you to get arrested?” my dad said. “Listen to me, Son. I know I said you didn’t have it in you to go after that girl, and I’m sorry for that. You’ve got more balls than I thought.” He scooted forward in order to perch on the edge of the couch, took a sip of his drink, and then looked at me, intently. “But if there’s anything I know, it’s women. I know what they want and how they want it. Only sometimes, once they get it, they start overthinking every goddamn thing. Like those college girls who accuse football players of rape. They want to screw the hot athlete, and then, after they do, they worry about what people will say about them . . . that they’ll look like a slut, so they make up some bullshit lie to make themselves feel better. It’s a load of feminist crap. Women say no because they want us to convince them to say yes. That’s the way it works. Cavemen grabbed their women by the hair and dragged them into the cave for a reason. It’s not violence. It’s fucking biology. The natural order of things.”
I gave him a hesitant nod, though I wasn’t sure I agreed with everything he’d said. Sure, I believed that there were probably women out there who made false rape accusations because they regretted having sex, or because their reputations were at stake. But did I really think that was the case with Amber? Maybe she was worried about Daniel finding out. Maybe she knew he’d break up with her and she was afraid of having that happen, so she decided to act like she hadn’t wanted to have sex. That I’d forced her. Or maybe she already had told Daniel what happened, and he’d ended things—why else would she have been with that guy at the bar tonight? Maybe I didn’t know her as well as I thought I did. Maybe my dad was right—maybe Amber had told me to wait as a reflex, as what a “good” girl is supposed to say, knowing full well that I would keep going. Wanting me to. She hadn’t really fought me. She didn’t claw at my eyes or scream for help. She never actually used the word “no.”
Seeing that I was confused, my father spoke again. “Tell me this. Did you force her up the stairs? Did you hold a gun or knife to her and threaten to kill her if she didn’t have sex with you?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you hit her? Did you tie her up and gag her so no one could hear her scream? Did you torture her or beat her into submission?” I shook my head, and he continued. “All right, then. It wasn’t rape. You were two drunk, consenting adults, and now she regrets what she did. End of story.”
His words reassured me, even though I had never liked how he treated women. Coming here had been a last resort, but it had surprisingly calmed me. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt connected to my dad, and I knew, no matter what might happen next, at least I had someone on my side.
Amber
A few weeks after my appointment with Vanessa, I sat, shrunk down behind the steering wheel in my car, parked about a block from the station house where Tyler worked. It was almost five a.m. on a mid-October morning, an hour before I would need to get to the gym to meet my first client, but I didn’t want to leave until I saw exactly what time Tyler’s truck would leave the st
ation’s parking lot. I’d been watching him for the last two weeks, trying to pin down his normal schedule, but the timing of his shifts varied—some nights he was off just after midnight, others, not until dawn—and I had discovered this was a more difficult task than I’d thought it would be. I figured if I stuck it out long enough, I could figure out a pattern and pinpoint the best time to approach him.
I wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing, or how I would do it. I just knew that, after seeing Tyler with that woman at the bar, likely about to do to her what he’d done to me, I’d gone online and researched women who had taken revenge on their rapists. I was stunned by the level of violence the victims were capable of when carrying out their plans. I’d already heard of Lorena Bobbitt, of course—the woman who famously cut off the tip of her husband’s penis after he’d come home drunk and raped her. But I also read about a woman whose little girl was raped by a man, and then, seven years later, when he saw her on the street and called out, “How’s your daughter?” the mother followed him into a crowded bar, doused him with gasoline, and lit him on fire. There were stories of women in India cutting off their attackers’ heads, of a Turkish woman who stabbed and shot her assailant in his groin, and then cut off his head, too. There was an American woman who lured her rapist into her house, tied him up, beat him with a baseball bat, and then tattooed the word “rapist” on his penis.
As I read these women’s stories, as violent as they were, part of me couldn’t help but cheer for them. I understood the desperation they felt, the reasons why they did what they did, even if I didn’t think that mutilation or murder would be on my particular agenda when it came to holding Tyler accountable. What I wanted was much more subtle than that. Less final. I wanted him to suffer, yes, but in a way that would haunt him, the same way that I was haunted. I wanted him to ache with despair; I wanted him to wake up, breathing hard, worried that his heart might explode inside his chest. I wanted him to look in the mirror and be struck with self-loathing; I wanted his life to change forever, to have everything and everyone he loved be tainted—forever altered—by the ugliness of what he’d done. I wanted him to question everything about who he was, to hate himself as much as I did, me. I wanted him to pay a steep and painful price for what he did.
