by Rick Jones
That night on the run where his father and Becki ended up at a motel on Route 99, when Kimball entered the room beaten and bloodied with his hoodie bearing the spray pattern of someone else’s blood, he knew his son had righted a terrible wrong.
For the following two weeks his father said nothing about the incident. Nor did he inquire as to how he came about his injuries or asked about the blood on his hoodie. He simply accepted the fact without having to say a word.
And Becki Laurent was no different, treating the subject as taboo. With injuries to Kimball’s face and leg, and with his hoodie coated in blood that was not his own, spoke volumes to her as to what truly went down that night at the Cuchinata estate.
For the two weeks thereafter Kimball was on the mend, though his calf still burned with that healing itch and his knee still ached, at least he was able to walk about with that awkward hitch in his step less noticeable. His face, however, continued to bear some of the bruises from Cooch’s beatings. His eyes still had the raccoon mask of discoloration around them.
When he returned to school he drew stares from students as he walked by them in the hallways, precipitating rumors that the contusions and injuries were caused by Travys D’Orazio and his group, which were completely unfounded, but not necessarily out of the realm of future possibilities now that he returned.
In class Vicki smiled at him. She no longer wore the sunglasses to hide her wounds, which had healed on the surface but not necessarily underneath. But what surprised him most was when class ended, she waited for him in the hallway.
She was beautiful, he thought. With her raven hair parted down the middle and with porcelain-like skin and brown eyes so wonderfully large, he was swept up by her appearance alone.
“Welcome back,” she said.
He smiled, feeling somewhat embarrassed about the bruises surrounding his eyes. “How’ve you been?” he asked her.
She nodded, then began to lead the way to her next class hoping that Kimball would follow. He did. “Seems like you’ve been in a fight.”
“You could say that.”
“The word is that Travys did it to you.”
“Trust me. Nothing could be further from the truth.”
“That’s good to hear.” Then: “I’m glad you’re back, Kimball. I missed you.”
Kimball started at that. She missed him? Words never had such a wonderful ring to them.
“I missed you, too,” he said, though his tone had a slight quiver to it. “But how’ve you been holding up, Vicki? Really? How have you been dealing with what happened?”
Her smile melted away. And as they walked she eyed the floor.
“It’s all right, Vicki. I see you smiling, but I can also see you being torn apart on the inside. The day I walked out of this school---you remember?---I told you that I would stand by your side no matter what. And I meant it.”
“You don’t understand,” she finally said.
“Then make me understand.”
“He didn’t just beat me.”
This caught Kimball’s dire attention. “What?”
“He didn’t just beat me,” she repeated.
Kimball reached out to her and placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her from walking a step further. “What are you talking about?”
Her face started to shift as a warring of emotions started to take place. She had tried to bury the horrible shame of the violation, only for it to fester and grow inside her like a cancer. She spoke to no one, especially not to her parents, simply hoping that the memories of what happened would simply fade away. But they didn’t. The backlash of her silence was killing her softly from the inside out.
“He didn’t just beat me. He took me, Kimball. He . . . took . . . me.” Then she dropped her books and brought her hands to her face, sobbing and weeping, the shame of her secret washing away with every tear shed, but not completely. Milling students slowed as they watched Kimball embrace her. Then he walked her towards the school’s exit.
When they were off school grounds and settled beneath the shade of a towering oak tree, she told him everything. He held her close, and she leaned into him as she spoke. Her anguished cries slowed to hitching breaths, then her hitching breaths stopped altogether as if every moment of talking was also a moment of catharsis. But Kimball could tell she was still deeply wounded.
And as she spoke Kimball could feel his inner self boil with uncontained rage. At first he thought Travys D’Orazio raised a fist against her. But this was much, much worse. And for her to be living with this alone for so long . . .
“You have to go to the authorities,” he told her.
She shook her head vehemently. “It’s not that simple, Kimball.”
“You can’t protect him.”
She gave him a stunned look. “You think I’m trying to protect him? It’s not about that at all,” she told him harshly. “You have no idea how I feel.” Tears started to form along the rims of her eyes. “I can’t begin to tell you how ashamed I feel about this. It’s not about protecting Travys. It’s about protecting myself. I don’t want to become the focal point of accusations. You know Travys would only say that I wanted it. My word against his, a football star who could do no wrong. I’d be ostracized and condemned.” Then she brought her hands to her face and broke once again. “I should never have told you,” she said, though her words were muffled because of her hands. “Never!”
He pulled her close. “Vicki, I will stand with you on this. You have my word. It’ll be OK. I’ll take care of everything.”
She shot him a look. “You can’t go to the police.”
“I don’t plan to,” he said.
“What are you going to do?”
I’m going to right a wrong, he thought. Then he cradled her and let her sob for a long time. It’s good to let it all out, he considered.
And let it out she did.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
That Friday night Malden High played Medford High, their rivals since 1889, and the second oldest football rivalry in the nation. In that game Travys D’Orazio put up phenomenal numbers, rushing for a season-high 238 yards and scoring four touchdowns. The kid was unstoppable. And surely this display would only bolster college recruiters to come crawling to him, with each begging him to sign along the dotted line.
And like every Friday night a victory celebration at the top of Waite’s Mountain was in order. Cases of beer were stacked high. A fire was lit in the fire-well. There was laughter. Drinking. Raucous behavior. And there was Travys D’Orazio, star football player and the center of attention.
He was with his new girlfriend, a Nubian beauty whose skin was the color of dark cocoa, a model physique, and an infectious smile that could light up a room.
As the night went on and the alcohol began to shut most down to different measures of stupor, Travys and his new girlfriend, Kathy Redfern, walked hand in hand to the Ledge, a precipice that overlooked the lights of Malden, and sat down with Kathy resting her head on his shoulder.
“Have you decided where you wanted to go?” she asked him, regarding his choice of colleges.
Travys had already received offers from a number of big-name programs such as Boston College and Clemson, with additional offers coming from Penn State, Alabama, Miami and Florida State. What he was holding out for was an offer from a major Independent and perhaps the most premier college of them all: Notre Dame, who wanted to see more of him. Tonight should have put him on their coveted list of people to recruit. “You know what I’m waiting for,” he told her.
She smiled. “Notre Dame.”
“That’s right, babe. They’re on TV every week. Every . . . week. So you’ll be able to see me every weekend.”
“You’ll forget all about me,” she said playfully. “You’ll meet some girl, get married, and have kids.”
“No way, babe. How could I ever look at another girl when I’ve got you? You know I wouldn’t do that. Never in a million years.” Then he pulled her close and they kisse
d. At first it was soft and tender, their lips touching, then pressing, and then the wandering of hands to her breasts, which she allowed, the invitation leading him to bring his hand to her hip and then to her thigh, with further advancement to her inner thigh, which she did not allow.
“Travys, no,” she whispered.
“Come on, babe. You know you want it.”
When he brought his hand to her crotch, she shoved him away. “Travys, I said no.”
Travys looked at her for a long time before attempting to kiss her in order to get his sexual groove back.
She shoved him away for a second time. “I said . . . no. “
The inner corners of his brows dipped sharply over the bridge of his nose in anger. “You think you can just lead me on, bitch?”
She appeared confused and a little frightened. “Travys, I’m not ready.”
When Travys leaned into her to commence another bout of deep kissing, she held him at arm’s length. “I said--”
Travys came across with a right hook, a blow she never saw coming. The impact sounded like a wet slap. And Kathy was shocked and dazed at the same time, seeing a quick flash of a bright light before she came around. By that time Travys was on top of her and had ripped away her shirt, exposing her breasts. He also tore at the waist line of her pants and drew them down enough to reveal the type of panties she was wearing.
She struggled beneath his weight. “Travys, no!”
“Shut up, bitch. You know you want it.”
When she started to scream he struck her in the face once, twice, three times---all rapid blows then nearly sent her to the land of darkness. But Kathy Redfern was resilient. Since she didn’t have any drink that night to retard her efforts she struck back, though her efforts were weak. He hit her again, in the face, this time drawing blood from her nose.
“Please don’t do this,” she pleaded, and began to cry. “Pleeeaaase.”
After he got her pants to her knees, he started to tear at her panties.
“Please don’t do this.”
Travys ignored her. The lust in his eyes was savage and cruel.
The moment her underwear started to rip and tear, a pair of massive hands grabbed Travys by the collar of his dungaree jacket, lifted him off her, and tossed him backwards with Travys losing his balance and falling on his backside.
When Travys got to his feet and dusted off the seat of his pants, he saw a very large person standing before him wearing a hoodie. His face couldn’t be seen. But the breadth of his shoulders and the size of his chest told Travys all he needed to know. “Hayden,” he said.
Kimball stood his ground.
“This doesn’t concern you,” said Travys.
Kimball turned to Kathy Redfern, who was holding her torn clothing against her to cover as much of her body as possible. She was crying, her tears lining the slight contours of her cheeks. Her nose continued to bleed. “You’re safe now?” he told her. His voice was strong and firm, yet there was a soothing quality to it as well.
She nodded to him as a way to say ‘thank you.’
Kimball faced off with the star running back. “I know, Travys, that she wasn’t the first. But I guarantee you that she” --he pointed to Kathy--“will definitely be the last.”
“What are you going to do, Hayden? Bring something up that doesn’t want to be brought up? It’s my word against hers.”
“And what about Vicki?’
“Same thing. My word against hers. The authorities would just question why she never brought it up before, when it happened. And the answer is: she allowed it. She wanted it. Just like all--”
Kimball crossed the distance between them in the time it took for a heart to beat one time, he was that quick, and grabbed Travys by the front of his jacket. The material bled through the divides of Kimball’s fingers as he forced Travys to the edge of the precipice. “Long drop, isn’t it?”
Travys started to cry out, screaming for the aid of his teammates. Most were drunk and asleep by the flames of the fire. Few, however, were not.
Three came rushing through the brush, all linemen, big and scary looking.
And Travys smiled up at Kimball. “Now I know you have no intentions of tossing me off this ledge, Hayden.”
“Then you don’t know me too well. Don’t know what I’m capable of doing.”
Kathy Redfern was trying to cover herself as she gave them a wide berth. The football players were whistling at her, her well-toned physique barely disguised by the torn garments she wore.
When the players started to advance, Kimball leaned Travys further over the edge. The smiles of doubt the players had while coming to the landing as to Kimball’s true intent with Travys had vanished. Matters were growing serious. Even Travys barked a cry. The only thing that kept him from taking a fifty-foot dive to the rocks below was the grip of Kimball’s hand.
“Come on, Hayden,” said Travys. “This isn’t funny.”
“It’s not meant to be.” He turned to Kathy Redfern. “Go,” he told her. “Get out of here.”
In the distance the wail of sirens could be heard. A city never truly slept.
After gathering her wits, Kathy headed for the brush and disappeared, torn clothes and all.
One of the linemen pointed to Travys. “You gonna hold him like that all night? Or are you gonna let him up?”
Kimball lifted Travys and shoved him in the direction of his teammates, a short reprieve to what he knew was coming.
Travys brushed the wrinkles out from the front of his jacket with a few quick sweeps of his hands. “You’re an idiot, Hayden. And this beat down you’re about to get has been a long time coming.” Travys stood behind his linemen, those who opened lanes for him to run through for record-making yardage. So they were strong and quick and held some measure of athletic ability. This was not going to be an easy task.
As soon as Kimball released Travys, the predatory smiles returned.
The linemen approached with cocky struts, their body-language spelling out to Kimball that they meant to do him harm.
When the first lineman approached and raised his arm to throw his fist forward, Kimball stepped forward, lashed out with the points of his knuckles, hit the player in the throat, and with a quick elbow strike hit the lineman along the jawline, the large man falling as a boneless heap against the rocky landing.
Mouths gaped, as did eyes. Though the action had two maneuvers to it, the throat punch and elbow strike, Kimball was so fast and fluid it appeared as one move.
Then the other two linemen converged and traded blows with Kimball, four fists against two. They were quick and powerful, their punches having effect as they pummeled Kimball towards the edge of the precipice. He could hear Travys call out to him, saying something about how accidents happen all the time. How people were always falling off the sides of mountains and should be more careful.
The strikes continued.
In the background Travys laughed.
Worse, the edge of the precipice drew close.
Kimball punched his fist forward, connecting with a lineman’s jaw, which caused him to stagger backward and fall. Kimball then deflected incoming blows from the remaining lineman by raising his arms. When the lineman appeared winded, Kimball threw jabs and forward thrusts, landing very few but enough to drive them back from the edge.
The second lineman got to his feet, bum-rushed Kimball from behind and corralled him into a bear hug. The grip was crushing as the lineman raised Kimball off his feet with the intent to body-slam him to the ground.
A mistake.
When the first lineman came forward with the intent to power-drive a fist home a moment before Kimball was thrown to the landing by the second lineman, Kimball’s foot connected with the point of the man’s chin with a power drive of his own. The mandibular bone had separated from its attachments, a dislocation that reshaped the man’s face with horrible and unnatural angles to it. The lineman screamed, fell back, then passed out, the large man falling hard befor
e Travys.
Kimball remained off his feet, could feel the beginning momentum of being swung to the landing. And then he hit the surface, hard, the impact knocking the wind out of him. The lineman had him pinned and threw blow after blow, each connecting with Kimball’s face with each punch driving him towards unconsciousness.
And then it stopped. Kimball’s world was fuzzy as the lights in the city’s backdrop became nothing but rotating blurs.
Then voices, all male, all from men in uniform, their voices talking to him, all asking questions: Are you all right? Can you hear me?
But Kimball raised a hand skyward to an infinity of star-point glitters, to the heavens, for some reason reaching for the purchase of something that was beyond his reach.
Then his hand fell and his mind began to clear. The sky around him flared with colors of blue and red. Police officers milled about the landing questioning players and people, those whom attended the after-game celebration. Kathy Redfern was conversing with two officers. Upon her shoulders and covering her like drapery was a blanket. Her face was damaged with one eye closing shut. Yet with that one eye opened she gave periodic glances to Kimball and met him with righteous concern. And it was that look from Kathy Redfern that told Kimball that everything would be all right. The ship would right itself.
When an ambulance made it to the landing Kimball was carefully lifted onto a gurney. And as the paramedics were wheeling him to the rear of the vehicle, Kimball was cogent enough to see and realize that Travys D’Orazio had come to the end of his fantastic career. Handcuffs were placed around his wrists. And the look on Travys’s face said it all: I’m damned.
Kimball couldn’t help but smile as he was taken to the hospital. Everything had worked out wonderfully.
Apparently the cries of a woman drew the concern of neighbors who resided on the mountain and called the cops. That woman was Kathy Redfern. And she wasn’t about to give in or play up to Travys’s godlike status, either. In his mind he gave her a thumbs up. Good girl, he told himself.
