by Helen Bryan
“Menina, I’m sorry. Mad at me?” he asked, nuzzling her ear, then just underneath her ear and down her neck.
“Yes, I am,” she muttered, trying to ignore the way kissing that spot always sent a jolt down her spine.
“You’re right; we need to work this out now,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck until she finally relaxed against him, feeling the knot of misery loosen. Still they needed to talk now, not make out.
“You’re upset. Kiss me and then we’ll talk,” Theo said in her ear, then kissed her, long and deep, in the way that always left her breathless and less interested in talking.
“I wish we were married now,” she whispered when she came up for air. They kissed again and Theo pushed the button and reclined the seats even more and his kiss became more urgent. “It’s hard to talk lying back like this,” Menina protested.
“Let’s just do it!” he muttered in her ear, nudging a knee between her legs. “C’mon,” he said, “then a good girl like you will have to marry me and we won’t need this discussion.”
“I want to Theo, but…but it’s not long now and I’d rather be in a bed where we have all night, not a car on my way home. And we really need to discuss things and anyways, this seat’s not all that comfortable and the gear shift is—his breath tickled and she giggled. “Theo, stop it! No!” she said, trying to push him away.
But Theo was breathing heavily in her ear and didn’t seem to hear what she was saying. He certainly didn’t move away. He was a lot bigger than she was and she couldn’t seem to move; he was pinning her down. Then he was doing something else that made her push as hard as she could. “Theo! No, Theo! Stop!
“Theo!”
Then she was fighting him. “No…no, no! Stop, Theo, stop!…Theo, don’t! Not like this. No, no, no! Please stop! I don’t want to!” Her voice rose to a frantic plea. He couldn’t be doing this! He wouldn’t—but he didn’t stop. Not even when she screamed. He clamped a hard hand over her mouth and she choked and fought to breathe, blind panic lending her strength, but it wasn’t enough. He was bigger and stronger and rough, but the shock of what was happening was worse than the pain.
When Theo finally moved, Menina struggled upright. Her breath came raggedly and she began to shake. Too shocked to cry, she heard herself making a dry whimpering sound, and a monster with Theo’s face was saying, “Menina! Come on, what’s the big deal, really? It doesn’t matter, we’re getting married! In a couple of months we’ll laugh about this. Who knows, we may even have started that first baby.” He zipped up his fly.
Doesn’t matter? Laugh? She could still feel his hand on her mouth and the rest of her felt as if she had been beaten up and turned inside out. “Take. Me. Home,” Menina said with as much dignity as she could summon through her gritted teeth while trying to straighten her clothes.
“Honey, don’t make a big thing out of sex before we’re married! Lighten up! You’ll enjoy it next time. I promise.”
Wedding? Next time? Was she hearing right? Was he trying to persuade her that rape was OK? She felt dizzy. Then doubt began creeping in. Sarah-Lynn always said a girl was in control. Had her dress been too sexy? Menina had thought it was pretty, and she would hardly have made it out the door past Sarah-Lynn if she hadn’t looked ladylike, but had she sent out the wrong message? And she had acted passionate, kissing Theo the way she had—maybe he took that to mean yes. Was getting raped her own fault? Uncertainty eroded the last shreds of her self-confidence but didn’t mend her shattered heart.
When they pulled up in front of her house Theo said, “OK, we’ll talk if you want and everything will be fine.” Menina didn’t try to answer, just flung open her car door, tore her engagement ring off and hurled it into the distance. Then she raced for the house.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, when you’ve calmed down,” he said, rushing after her.
“I n-n-never w-want to see you again!” Menina slammed the front door and locked it, then ran to her room, threw herself onto her bed where she buried her head in her pillow to muffle her screams and cried herself into a fitful sleep.
She woke early with a heavy head, her life in ruins, and the bleak certainty that she must never, ever let a word of what happened cross her lips. A girl who brought an accusation of rape invited trouble from the accused’s friends, who as often as not joined forces and told the police the girl was a lying slut. That she had a reputation of being hot for sex, all the time, with anybody. Theo had a lot of friends, an entire band of fraternity brothers, plus there were the Bonners—they had power to do anything they wanted. Who knew what that would be if she accused their golden boy of rape, what stories they would make sure were circulated? If Sarah-Lynn heard Menina publicly called a cock-teaser and a slut, it would break her heart. Virgil would go after Theo with his shotgun, and end up in the electric chair for murder. Sarah-Lynn would be widowed and people would whisper that after all they had done for her, Menina had been trash who ruined the Walkers.
No, she could never, never tell anybody—not the police, not her parents, not even Becky. A turmoil of emotion and doubts and shock swirling in her mind, she grabbed scissors and cut all her clothes from the night before into tiny shreds, then flushed them down her toilet. Afterward she stood sobbing in a scalding shower, scrubbing and scrubbing at her body until the water ran cold. Numbly she pulled on her clothes, and went to face her parents.
At the breakfast table the Walkers were reading the Sunday papers before church. Virgil said, “You coming down with something, honey? You don’t look too good.”
Menina wanted to scream the truth, but made an effort and confined herself to crumbling a piece of toast with shaking hands, her engagement ring conspicuously absent. “Theo and I broke up.”
There was a shocked silence.
“Broke up! How could you break up?” wailed Sarah-Lynn, while Virgil put an arm around her shoulders.
“What happened?” he asked.
Menina stammered out that Theo didn’t understand what was important to her, then trailed off into silence, tearing a paper napkin to shreds under the table.
“I still don’t understand!” said Sarah-Lynn incredulously.
“Mama, please…” Menina croaked hoarsely.
“Well, what’s everybody going to think?”
Menina hadn’t thought she had any tears left, but now it seemed that she did. Virgil hugged her tighter and poured her a cup of coffee. “Drink this,” he said.
The telephone rang. Virgil answered and mouthed, “Theo,” muffling the receiver in his shoulder. Menina’s hand holding the coffee cup started to shake, and coffee spilled everywhere. She shook her head and fled back to her room. She refused to talk on the telephone or see Theo later when Virgil knocked at her bedroom door to say he was at the front door, wearing a sorry expression.
“Make him leave, Daddy! Please!”
Minutes later Virgil came back and closed the bedroom door behind him. “You want to tell your mother and me what’s going on? This isn’t like you.”
“I don’t want to see him. Ever.”
Virgil looked at her shrewdly. “Are you pregnant? Honey, it’s not the end of the world. So what if you two have a baby less than nine months after the wedding? We always wanted to be grandparents; a little sooner is fine with us.”
Menina stared at him in horror. Pregnant? She hadn’t thought about that horrible possibility! Had Theo wanted to get her pregnant?
“No!” Menina exclaimed, crossing her fingers and praying that was true.
“I’ll try and calm your mother down,” said Virgil after a minute.
Theo kept calling but Menina refused to speak to him. Pauline Bonner called Sarah-Lynn, mother to mother, trying to find out what the trouble was. She understood there had been an argument, but Theo wouldn’t tell her anything. She hoped “the children” would work things out soon.
Alerted by her mother that something was wrong at the Walkers’, Becky cut her Monday classes and drove back to Laurel Run. Menina was
lying on the bed in her darkened room with the curtains closed at midday. Becky walked over a sea of used tissues on the carpet to the bed. “Menina?”
“Go ’way, I’m sleeping,” was the answer, in the kind of croaky voice hours of solid crying brought on.
Becky pulled open the curtains and brought her a glass of water from the bathroom. “You can run but you can’t hide, Child of Light. Drink this and talk to me.”
Menina sat up and Becky smothered an exclamation of dismay. Menina looked awful—hair tangled, big shadows under her eyes, and a haggard expression Becky had never seen before. She flinched when Becky hugged her but wouldn’t say what was wrong, just that she and Theo weren’t getting married.
“Oh Menina! Was that Theo’s idea?”
“No.”
“Is it another girl?”
“No.”
“His mother? She’s a bossy bitch.”
“Not her.”
“Well, um…is he gay? Sometimes men don’t realize it themselves—”
“No,” said Menina stonily. “Don’t talk about it.”
“Are you pregnant? Really that’s not such a big deal these…”
Menina moaned and buried her face in the pillow. “NO!”
“Did he give you…some kind of disease?” Becky’s stomach lurched with fear. Menina couldn’t be HIV positive? Menina was the only girl Becky knew who bought her mother’s line about no sex until she got married. She couldn’t have caught anything. Buried in her pillow Menina was shaking her head. “Did he hit you? I don’t care who he is, if he did we’re going to call the police and have him arrested,” said Becky.
“No police! Forget it, Becky. Go back to college. I’m tired of talking.” Menina curled up in a fetal position, pulled the quilt over her head, and wouldn’t say anything else. Becky left the room quietly and shut the door.
Outside in the hall Sarah-Lynn was bringing a plate with a chicken-salad sandwich, Menina’s favorite. “She won’t eat,” she whispered to Becky. “Hasn’t touched a bite for two days. And next week there’s a bridal shower and a big luncheon and all those invitations to address. You reckon it’s just wedding nerves?”
Becky cautiously said, “Maybe. Mrs. Walker, give me that sandwich.” She took the plate and marched back into Menina’s room. She pulled the quilt off her friend’s head and said firmly, “Whatever happened, you’ve got to get away from Theo and your mother and his mother and the wedding craziness while you figure things out. The scholarship lets you travel if you want and you’re going to use it.”
“What? I don’t want to go anywhere. I…”
“Yes, you do.” Becky handed her a Kleenex. “You want to go to Spain and you’re going to Spain. Next Saturday…”
Menina sat up slowly and said, “What?” again, like she wasn’t hearing well. Then she started crying incoherently again. Trying not to show how this behavior alarmed her, Becky said firmly, “Here’s the deal—there’s a three-week trip organized by some big cheese art professor at the university leaving for Madrid next weekend. It was supposed to be just for the art history graduate students, but they’re advertising spare tickets in the campus newspaper because they haven’t filled up all their places. The flight and a place to stay are all included, a YMCA hostel or something. They’re doing the cultural crap—museums, cathedrals. Your idea of a good time. And yes, you are going! It’s a chance to go to the Prado like you wanted.”
“Oh Becky, I can’t…there’s packing and my parents…you know…they’d worry…” Menina waved her hand feebly at nothing.
“Oh, I can totally see it’s better to sit here crying in a dark room in broad daylight—that doesn’t worry them in the least. A few more days of it and they’ll have your ass in a loony bin, drugged to the eyeballs. Besides, when you hear what your mother’s got lined up, it won’t be pretty when she starts canceling things. So eat while I call to grab one of those spare tickets for you, then I’ll tell your parents.”
Menina stared at her blankly, then picked up the plate, looked at the sandwich, and sighed. “They won’t like it.” Her stomach hurt. Maybe she should try and eat.
Becky snorted. “The professor who organized the tour is a woman, Professor Serafina Somebody, Spanish, which is why she’s guiding the tour. Probably a dried-up old bag with the kind of ideas about being ladylike that your mother would love. Anyway, you got a better idea?”
The sandwich stopped halfway to Menina’s mouth. “No.” She took a small bite.
“Didn’t think so. That sandwich better be gone when I get back. Then we’ll pack.”
Menina ate her sandwich like chewing hurt, but she ate it. She was distractedly filling a suitcase with jeans and sweatshirts when Becky returned from a difficult conversation with the Walkers. “Not that stuff!” Becky exclaimed, emptying the suitcase. She tried to sound upbeat. “Get with the program. In Madrid, you go out all night. They never sleep.” Becky held up skirts and tops and trousers against each other and squinted critically to see what matched up.
“Never mind that stuff. I won’t be going out.”
Becky stuck her head out of the closet. “You need to go out; you never dated anyone but Theo. There are other fish in the sea, you know.”
“I don’t care!” Menina snapped. The thought of men caused a surge of stomach pain that doubled her up. She rushed to the bathroom to find the pain she’d had all afternoon was cramps; she had got her period. Relieved not to be pregnant, Menina took a shower and dressed, and after Becky had gone, she sat down to supper with the Walkers, trying hard to act normal and not cry. She made it to dessert and fled back to her room.
For the next week everything was strained at the Walkers’ house. Sarah-Lynn prayed it was just wedding nerves. She turned the house upside down for things that might come in handy on the trip, and stuffed them into the backpack Virgil had ordered for Menina express from L.L. Bean.
Becky drove back to Laurel Run especially to deliver a large brown envelope with plane tickets, the itinerary, and information from the organizer. Menina emerged from her fog of misery long enough to realize Becky must have canceled her interview at the penitentiary.
“Oh Becky, I’m so sorry!”
“I’m rescheduling it. Don’t worry, it wasn’t that important,” said Becky unconvincingly. Menina felt worse than ever—she was a terrible friend to Becky.
A woman from Sarah-Lynn’s Bible study class brought over an old-fashioned guidebook to Spain, published by a Christian publishing house, for Menina. Menina thanked her lethargically and put it on her bedside table. That was staying here.
Virgil stopped making jokes the way he usually did, while Sarah-Lynn’s avoidance of anything to do with weddings was painful. Menina was too depressed to look forward to the trip, but by the end of the week she thought Spain couldn’t be any worse than home.
On Saturday afternoon the Walkers drove her to the Atlanta airport. Menina boarded and slipped into her window seat, and after the plane had filled up, a last-minute arrival flung herself into the aisle seat. Menina was glad to see there was a vacant seat between them. She didn’t feel like being elbow to elbow with another person. Soon the Atlanta airport was rolling by outside Menina’s window—slowly, then faster, then dropping away as the plane lifted off, banked and climbed. Menina watched the evening lights of greater Atlanta grow smaller and smaller below, feeling cut adrift from everything she knew. Before long a flight attendant came down the aisle pushing a drink cart. “Would you like something to drink?”
Menina managed a tight smile and said, “A Coke, please. No. Wait…maybe…bourbon. A big one.” Virgil drank bourbon. When Sarah-Lynn wasn’t watching.
“Big bourbon it is. And a splash?”
“Oh. You mean water. Thanks.” The attendant smiled and rattled ice cubes into a glass, emptied two miniatures into it and added a little water from a big bottle. She handed it over with a handful of extra little bottles and a conspiratorial wink. “You must be with the bachelorette party. Lik
e I told the others, might as well start the party now.” Menina had been about to refuse the miniatures. Now she took them and forced a smile. “Thanks. How did you know?”
“Spain’s real popular for bachelorette parties, you know—sightseeing, great bars, great shopping.” The attendant grinned. “And a long way from anybody who might care what they’re up to. Y’all have a great time.” Then she turned her attention to the woman in the aisle seat, who waved her away.
Menina stared at her glass. She had drunk perhaps a dozen glasses of wine in her life and didn’t care for alcohol, but the smell of bourbon reminded her of her father. She took a big gulp, then gagged. The vile taste seemed appropriate. Menina poured another two miniatures into the melting ice, and downed them determinedly. After a while she had another miniature.
She shook her head when dinner was offered. She felt better—but worse, too; everything was blurry. She must be drunk. She drank the last two bourbon miniatures straight from the bottle. She no longer cared about anything. She could no longer taste anything. Becky had been right, this was a good idea, Menina thought, and passed out cold.
She came to, disoriented and feeling worse than she ever had in her life. Sun streamed through the plane window and Menina blinked, piecing yesterday together with a growing sense of horror. The pilot said they were holding to land at Malaga airport. She turned to the woman in the aisle seat and croaked, “Malaga? Aren’t we going to Madrid?”
The woman looked up from something she was writing and gave Menina a funny look over the tops of the wire-rimmed glasses that had slid halfway down her nose. She was middle-aged and rather striking, with a distinctive streak of gray in her black hair. Despite a night on the plane, she looked elegant in a black cashmere sweater and jersey skirt, accented with a modern silver necklace and bracelets. Menina realized to her horror this was the tour organizer. Her photo had been on a welcome message with the tickets. Professor Serafina Lennox, professor and author, the Spanish art expert—the one person in the world, in fact, who might know about Tristan Mendoza. Her heart sank. “You’re Professor Lennox, aren’t you?” she asked weakly.
