Praise Her, Praise Diana

by Anne Rothman-Hicks

  I nodded, as he pressed deep inside me.

  “And you like the feel of a warm cock growing larger in your mouth so you can hardly breathe.”

  The cool blade was on my neck. I nodded again.

  “And it turns you on so much you’re going to get up and lean over the table for me, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  ‘What?”

  “Yes, please. I will.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you so badly. I want you.”

  I got to my feet and did as he asked. The knife cut through the waistband, and it fell to the floor. I felt the sharp metal point on my skin. I lifted myself upward for him.

  “And at the last moment, you’re going to realize that I don’t want your cunt, Bitch, because you already gave your cunt to my friend, Donnie, right?”

  The knife pressed against the opening.

  “Yes. Yes.”

  He suddenly threw the knife so that the blade stuck in the surface of the wood table, inches from my face.

  His hands were on my hips and he shoved into me. I cried out. Sweat began to pour off of me.

  Jake laughed out loud.

  “She’s loving it now, Donnie. But I think she wants you, too. Don’t you Bitch? You want Donnie, too?”

  I didn’t say anything. But when he came around in front of me and lifted my head up by the hair, I opened my mouth for him. There was never any question of that.

  I am ashamed.

  I did what they wanted because I was afraid to die and believed that it would be a waste for me to die, and because after those first few hours, it just didn’t seem to matter any more.

  I hoped that in time I would be able to forget all of what went on: what I did to survive, and what they made me do. I thought my life would go on afterward without years of reliving those scenes, moment by moment by moment, again and again and again.

  Only much later, when it was too late, did I realize that it would have been better to let them kill me. I cannot forget.

  I think of this when I am alone. Or when I am in a crowd. When I see a man, or only imagine that one is watching me and somehow knows the weakness that I have inside me. I must endure the memory of my weakness for what remains of my life.

  And slowly, I begin to wonder if it really is my life anymore? The best I can do is try to hold those lost several days separate from me; I objectify them as though they involved someone else or were imagined in a dream—as fully an abstraction to me as I, in turn, had been to those two young men, existing in their minds as an idea of Woman with its fantasy of attraction and submission. The fantasy of ultimate power.

  And so in this way have men become abstractions to me, not human beings any longer. They do not have sisters and mothers and friends and jobs. They are simply cardboard cutouts, playing opposite me in a drama as old as time itself. The fantasy of revenge. And my rage grows and I do not want to restrain my rage. It is the only part of me that seems to be still alive. The knife is in my hands again and I kill, and I am not dead, he is dead; they are all dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Wednesday morning, Jane took the 96th Street cross-town bus to the West Side and walked up Amsterdam Avenue to 100th Street where the 24th Precinct was located. She had dressed as if she were going to court, in a gray pinstripe suit and a white shirt, with a pink scarf tied at the neck as her only nod to color or femininity. As she walked quickly north, she was regretting her choice. It was a beautiful day, with a cloudless sky, and the mild temperatures that had been predicted on the radio already made her want to remove her jacket.

  The night before, Jane had had two telephone conversations when she had returned to her apartment. The first was with Rosita, telling her she planned to visit the precinct today and inviting her to come also. She had said she would be there.

  The second call was to Daniel Meyers on his cell phone. She had given him the background on Mariana Morales and her policeman-boyfriend and suggested that he tell Harry that The Portal should send out a reporter to cover the planned protest, especially since Maggie would be there as well. At the time she had spoken to Daniel, the “protest” was made up of a grand total of two people, since she wasn’t even sure Maggie would come.

  She got off the bus and punched in Daniel Meyers’ number as she walked.

  “I’ve got good news and bad news,” Daniel said. “Harry’s sending Heather up with a photographer. He figures with Maggie there, we can get a sidebar out of it at least, maybe a couple of columns. He specifically said to tell you ‘thank you’.”

  “Tell him, ‘you’re welcome,’” Jane said. “So the bad news is there won’t be a TV camera crew?”

  Daniel hesitated a moment.

  “Right, there won’t be a camera crew. Just Heather and ... and her photographer.”

  Rosita was already standing on the sidewalk in front of the precinct building when Jane arrived. She was dressed to go to work after they were done in a black skirt, black tights, and a light gray sweater with the collar of her white blouse emerging around her throat. The heat did not seem to affect her.

  In her arms were three large pieces of poster board on which she had written front and back in large black capital letters. On one side she wrote: “POLICE OFFICER JOSE TORRES, WHERE IS MY SISTER?” On the other, she wrote “24TH PRECINCT, WHERE IS JUSTICE?”

  The third sign was for Maggie, who showed up just before nine o’clock, fresh from a shower with her wet hair combed straight back. She was the only one of the three who had dressed for the weather in a sleeveless white cotton summer dress that showed off her trim, muscled arms and the tan she had acquired from days of work outside at her county house. A thin belt tied at the waist accented her slim figure, and it reminded Jane again of their night swim and the way Maggie had appeared when she dove into the water, illuminated by the moon. It was an image that had recurred often in the last few days.

  “I guess I didn’t get the memo about proper business attire,” Maggie said, glancing up and down at her two companions and then at herself for emphasis.

  “Don’t be silly, please,” Rosita said. “I appreciate your coming. It’s right of you to dress as the beautiful woman you are.”

  Maggie turned to Jane, whose face bore a mysterious smile.

  “What?” Maggie asked.

  “Nothing. I was just thinking that I agree with Rosita.”

  * * * *

  At a little after nine, Jane and Rosita asked to meet with the police officer in charge and, to their surprise, they were allowed in to talk to Captain Furillo. He was a man of about fifty with a spreading waistline from too much sitting behind a desk. He listened patiently to Jane’s request to have officers from outside the precinct investigate the facts surrounding Mariana’s disappearance and to question the neighbor from down the hall who had told Rosita that she had heard Jose outside their door the last night anyone saw Mariana.

  “Unfortunately, she won’t repeat that to us,” the Captain said. “I had one of my best detectives go out to talk to her.”

  “She’s been threatened herself,” Rosita interjected.

  “And they threatened her son too,” Jane added.

  “I need her to say so,” the Captain repeated.

  He seemed like a decent man. He had been quick to hand Rosita a tissue when at one point she could not help herself and tears rolled down her cheek. He showed them the pictures of his own two daughters that adorned his desk. He promised them that the “investigation” into Mariana’s whereabouts had not been closed. But in the end, he said, they were at a standstill until witnesses came forward.

  “Get me some witnesses,” he said as he escorted them to his door. “I need witnesses.”

  “We will,” Jane said.

  Mariana had lived in the sprawling housing project located across the street from the 24th Precinct building, and Jane and Rosita hoped that by standing on the sidewalk with their signs they would attract women who knew Mariana, whether from church
or daycare or simply from sitting on the public benches on a summer’s evening. With any luck, one of them might have heard or seen something and not be afraid to come forward.

  Their hopes received a boost as they exited the precinct building and saw that Judith Frazier had arrived and set up a card table on the sidewalk with a sign hung on the front that said “Eumenides–Hell’s Fury for Women”. With her were three other women: young, strong and determined. Each wore a knit cap over her hair and a long down coat, despite the weather.

  Along with Maggie, they took turns holding up the signs and chanting in rhythmic unison, using Rosita’s words as a kind of mantra:

  Officer Torres, Where’s my sister?

  Twenty-fourth Precinct, Arrest that man!

  “I guess you invited them?” Jane asked.

  “Yes, I was curious if they were for real.”

  “They certainly seem to be.”

  “Why are they dressed like that?” Rosita asked.

  “I’m guessing, but I think it’s pretty clear. Those are the clothes that Diana was wearing in Maggie’s book when she killed the first guy.”

  Rosita paused for a moment. Her gaze traveled from one face to the next.

  “I don’t care how they’re dressed as long as they keep making noise.”

  The sound of chanting by Judith and her friends had an almost immediate effect. Women started to gather. When word got out that Maggie Edwards was there, still more women came over. Some of them had toddlers with them or were pushing babies in strollers. Others were older; retired, or out of work or sometimes caring for their grandchildren. They were slow to join in with the chants, but Judith and her friends persisted, stopping only to take a break and drink a few sips of water or answer questions about the Eumenides and the costume that the three women were wearing.

  By eleven o’clock, there were between sixty and seventy-five women milling around on the sidewalk to one side of the precinct building. About half of them were participating in the chants and when one group stopped, the other took it up. It was at this point that Heather arrived, and Jane realized what Daniel had been obliquely referring to earlier but had been unwilling to tell Jane. David was the photographer accompanying Heather.

  Daniel’s apparent need to somehow shield Jane annoyed her more than the presence of David.

  Jane had been at the edge of the crowd, asking individual women if they had any information they could tell the police that would help put pressure on Jose Torres. Heather sought her out while David started taking photographs.

  “Jane, I hope this isn’t too awkward for you,” she said. “Harry hired him and told me I had to use him.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jane said. “It’s typical Harry, showing he’s the one in charge. I should have expected something like this. The only thing I don’t understand is how Harry ever found him.”

  “He didn’t. David approached Harry with some idea for a book that they are both keeping hush-hush at the moment. All I know is it’s supposed to be a graphic novel, only instead of drawings it’ll have photographs. And the subject is Diana.”

  “Now things are at least making a little sense,” Jane said. “Another of David’s schemes to get rich without actually working. God bless him. Come on, let me introduce you to some people.”

  She escorted Heather over to Rosita and Judith.

  “I appreciate your being here, Heather,” Rosita said. “Thank you.”

  “Thank Jane,” Heather replied. “She’s the one who arranged this.”

  “And we would probably be standing here alone if it were not for Judith and her friends,” Jane said.

  “I appreciate your saying that,” Judith said. “You helped me, and I never had the chance to properly thank you.”

  Her eyes met Jane’s as though she were passing some secret communication. Jane just smiled and glanced away.

  Meanwhile, David had been walking around the edge of the crowd and taking pictures. He kept trying to make eye contact with her, and she ignored him. As the only man among so many women, he seemed curiously out of place; pacing back and forth with a frenetic sort of energy; taller than all except one of the young women with Judith. He was dressed casually in a red tank top and a pair of denim pants that were cut off just below the knees. Seeing him made her remember the physical attraction. She wondered if there had ever been anything else.

  He came over to the group and was introduced by Heather to Rosita and Judith.

  “I’m glad to see you’re well,” David said to Jane. “I was worried when you didn’t return my calls.”

  Jane shrugged. “No, I’m fine.” She wanted to add that she had never felt better but stopped herself. From the corner of her eye, she saw Judith glaring at him.

  “Rosita,” David said. “I’d like to get your picture.”

  “If you wish,” Rosita responded. “I have a photo of my sister as well.”

  “I was going to ask you for one of those,” Heather said.

  “I hope you were also going to ask about those women with the heavy coats,” David said as he raised his camera and snapped a couple of pictures of Rosita. “It’s practically summer out here.”

  He smiled again somewhat conspiratorially at Rosita, who shrugged.

  “I asked the same thing,” Rosita said. “In the first segment of Maggie’s new book Diana was wearing a wool cap and a down coat just before she killed the guy.”

  “Jesus Christ,” David muttered with a laugh. “That’s just a little bit sick, isn’t it?”

  “No more so than a joke about rape,” Heather said. “‘Relax and enjoy it.’ Isn’t that the punch line?”

  David responded with a scornful look.

  “In any case,” Jane added. “I would suggest you read Maggie’s book if you’re intending to do your own.”

  “My book is not about Maggie’s Diana. It’s about the Diana who’s been killing. But that’s all I’m prepared to say about it.”

  “Then you should be careful,” Judith said.

  “For what reason?”

  “You could be her next victim.”

  David laughed. Judith’s face didn’t move a muscle.

  “Cheese!” David said and quickly raised his camera and took her picture.

  “I didn’t give you permission to take my picture,” Judith said.

  “That’s my fault,” Heather said, stepping between them. “I told David to try to get everyone here. We won’t run it in The Portal or anywhere if you don’t want us to, obviously. Would you mind if I use a tape recorder? It’s easier than taking notes. I was curious to hear about the name, Eumenides.”

  David moved back a step as though trying to get a better position. Judith kept one eye on him as she responded to Heather.

  “Among the ancient Greeks, the Eumenides were another name for the Furies, the female goddesses who pursued those guilty of a crime. When Orestes killed his mother, Clytemnestra, they hounded him until he went mad.”

  “I’ll never understand that one,” David said. “Clytemnestra deserved to die. She had killed his father, Agamemnon, with the help of her lover.”

  “And still earlier Agamemnon had sacrificed her only daughter to the Gods to get a wind that would take his ships to Troy,” Judith shot back.

  “Sounds like it’s the fault of the gods then, not Agamemnon.”

  “That’s because you are a man.”

  “Thanks for noticing,” he said dryly. “And that doesn’t sound like anyone’s fault either.” He lifted his eyebrows in a way that seemed to almost make Rosita smile. Jane, for her part, felt nothing. “Whatever. I think I’ll just keep my mouth shut and take a few pictures.”

  David started to walk away and then turned quickly and took another picture of Judith.

  “I don’t need your permission, Babe, because this is a news event,” he said, and walked away.

  Heather began to apologize to Judith but was waved off.

  “I’m not bothered by men like him,” she said. �
��With all due respect to Jane, we have more important pigs to deal with than him.”

  “Say what you want about him,” Jane said with a laugh. “We’re through.”

  Judith looked at Jane again, her piercing eyes seeming to convey some message that only she understood.

  “I hope so for your sake. But he doesn’t seem to know it yet.”

  Just then a woman’s voice was heard from amidst the demonstrators.

  “Rosita! It’s Jose! He’s just now parking his car. It must be time for his shift to start.”

  Rosita and Judith pushed their way to a spot in the crowd where they could see him. He checked the locks on his car doors, opened the trunk and placed his jacket inside. He was oblivious to the group, who had stopped chanting for the moment.

  As he walked toward them, Rosita seemed enraged at the sight of him, his swagger, his arrogant face, the lids half-closed over his mocking eyes, as if he did all of New York a favor by showing up for work.

  The women acted stunned by his appearance and parted for him to pass on the sidewalk. Then Rosita called out.

  “Officer Torres, where’s my sister.”

  The words were repeated like an echo by several of the women in the crowd.

  “Where’s my sister! Where’s my sister!”

  Jose turned to her and slowly seemed to realize that these women were here as some sort of a demonstration that involved him. Rosita wondered if the thought actually stoked his ego, as if he were someone of importance. He stood up a little straighter, pulling in his stomach. He smiled broadly and looked from side to side.

  “Twenty-fourth precinct,” Judith shouted in her raucous voice. “Arrest that man.”

  Again, the words were repeated but by a larger part of the group this time.

  Jose stopped. His eyes lit up still further as he recognized Rosita.

  He pursed his lips and kissed the air in her direction.

  “Officer Torres, where’s my sister?”

  “Go away, woman,” Jose said to Rosita then. “Go find yourself a man before you’re too old for los bambinos.”