Victim Rights

by Norah McClintock

  “Sit down.”

  Dooley was breathing hard. He didn’t want to have to picture it.

  “Ryan ...”

  He sat, his whole body rigid in the chair.

  His uncle sat, too.

  “They went upstairs,” he said. “Nobody saw either of them again until the next day.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  His uncle kept talking, in a slow, quiet voice.

  “Beth was in the bathroom for a long time the next morning. One of the girls the detective talked to said she was already in there when everyone else got up. She said she heard the shower running. She said she must have waited for at least an hour, maybe longer, for Beth to come out, and that was after she hammered on the door and asked Beth if she was okay.”

  Dooley wanted to get out of the house. He wanted to run. He wanted ...

  “She didn’t talk to anyone on the bus on the way back. She just sat by herself. Another girl said she looked out of it. Those were her exact words.”

  Annicka had told Dooley that she’d looked like she wanted to kill Parker because he was sitting with another girl.

  “Her mother met her at the bus. Beth left without talking to anyone. She went straight home and stayed there for the next few days. On Wednesday evening, she went to the police station, alone, and reported that she’d been raped. They did a rape kit, but by then it was far too late. She’d showered dozens of times. There were no marks on her. They asked if she had washed the clothes she’d been wearing, especially the panties—”

  Dooley wanted to clap his hands over his ears. He wished his uncle would just shut up about it.

  “It’s what they ask, Ryan,” his uncle said. “She told them she’d tossed everything—couldn’t stand having the stuff around. By the time anyone could look, the clothes were down in a landfill somewhere. She insisted she was raped. They take date-rape seriously, Ryan. They arrested the Albright kid. He admitted having sex with her.” Did he have to keep hearing about it? “But he insisted it was consensual.”

  Beth had been making eyes at Parker all week. She never called Dooley. She never returned a single one of his calls. She went upstairs with him. She held his hand.

  “He made bail, no sweat. Apparently the father’s connected—not to mention loaded. You’d have to be to have a place with a couple of guesthouses. A kid like that can afford a hell of an attorney.”

  “You done?” Dooley stood up to signal that he sure as hell was.

  “Have you talked to her?”

  He stared at his uncle and nodded.

  “What did she say?”

  “That she went upstairs with the guy.”

  “That’s it?” his uncle said, surprised.

  “She said she told him no.”

  His uncle looked at him, like, now he got it.

  “And you’re not sure if you believe her? Well, I’ll tell you something, Ryan. A girl doesn’t lock herself in the shower for hours after she’s had consensual sex with a guy, and she sure as hell doesn’t take another dozen or so showers over the next couple of days. Showering like that, over and over, that’s something a girl does to get herself clean after she’s been raped by some guy. It’s what she does to get his smell and his touch off her. To make herself feel clean again. You get what I’m saying?”

  Dooley couldn’t believe what happened next. He smashed his fists down on the table, making his uncle’s beer bottle jump. He smashed them down again and again until he felt his uncle’s hands on his shoulders and his uncle telling him softly, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” while he, Dooley, did what he’d never once done before in his life—he wept like a baby in front of another person.

  FOUR

  “You okay?” Dooley’s uncle said when he stuck his head into Dooley’s room the next morning at eight o’clock. He was showered and dressed and ready for a day at his dry-cleaning stores.

  “Yeah,” Dooley said.

  “I’m out all day,” his uncle said.

  A typical Saturday.

  “Then I promised Jeannie I’d take her to a fundraising dinner. For the museum.” Jeannie loved the museum. She gave money to it. She volunteered there, too, taking visitors on tours of special exhibits, spending a lot of her spare time learning all about whatever she was going to be showing people and taking a lot of pride in what she did. “You’re working, right?”

  He’d switched with Linelle, his original idea being to celebrate his and Beth’s six-month anniversary. Kevin was pissed about that, but as far as Dooley knew, Linelle was still covering for him. If he told his uncle that, though, his uncle would worry, especially after last night. Maybe he’d even cancel his plans so that he could keep an eye on Dooley. So Dooley nodded.

  “You closing?” his uncle said, trying to get a fix on when Dooley would get home.

  Dooley nodded again. It was easier that way.

  “Well, we should be back by the time you’re home. You need anything—even if you just want to talk, Ryan—hit me on my cell, okay?”

  Like Dooley had ever called his uncle just to talk. Like he would start now.

  He made himself get up about an hour after his uncle left. He went downstairs to the kitchen, opened cupboards, stared at the boxes of cereal, including the sugary ones he bought for himself because his uncle refused to waste money on “crap like that.” But he wasn’t hungry. He poured himself a cup of coffee instead and drank it down, sitting at the kitchen table, staring out the window, and wondering what Beth was doing. He tried her on her cell phone. No luck. He tried her landline. Her mother answered.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, the first time ever she had said those words to Dooley. “She can’t come to the phone. She isn’t feeling well.”

  “Can you tell her I called?”

  Her mother let out a long sigh. “All right,” she said; another first.

  He showered and dressed and left the house. He had no idea where he was going and was surprised when he ended up down at the park, staring at the two baseball diamonds, one on either end. A long, steep slope ran from the street down into the park. Dooley descended halfway and sat on the grass, trying not to think but unable to stop the pictures and thoughts from flooding his mind. That asshole had taken Beth by the hand. He’d led her upstairs. How had that happened? What had she been thinking? Annicka had said it didn’t look like anyone was forcing Beth to go up there. Maybe so. But no matter how you looked at it, no matter who you believed, certain facts were irrefutable. No matter how it had happened, that asshole had touched her. He’d been with her. He’d made ... he’d been with her.

  He’d been with her.

  Dooley clasped his head in his hands. He didn’t want to be looking at what he was looking at, but he couldn’t help himself. Beth had been with another guy. He’d ... he’d touched her.

  And after that?

  He didn’t know. His uncle hadn’t said what had happened in the next few hours after that. All he had talked about was the shower, like that was supposed to make all the difference. Maybe it did. Okay, probably it meant something. His uncle wouldn’t have said what he had about the shower unless he was sure it did. He wasn’t that kind of guy. But that didn’t explain why Beth was ducking him. It didn’t explain why she hadn’t returned his calls. It didn’t explain why she had made eyes at the guy all week. It didn’t explain why she had gone up those stairs with him or why she’d been holding his hand. It didn’t explain what Annicka had said—it didn’t explain why she’d done what she’d done—why she had gone up to his bedroom with him when no one had forced her to.

  He had no clear idea how long he sat there, head in hands. He didn’t care what he must have looked like to the people passing by. Then, somewhere below, he heard excited shouts and roars of approval. He raised his head and saw a baseball game in full swing, little kids in uniforms playing the field and running the bases.

  Pacing in front of one of the player benches was the same guy he’d seen on the street the other day, the guy with th
e duffle bag.

  Ralston.

  Dooley stared at him. He watched him touch the shoulder of a little kid who had just struck out. Watched him speak a few words of encouragement—at least, that’s what Dooley assumed he was doing—to another little kid who was headed for the plate. Watched and watched, until Ralston’s team brought it home and parents flooded onto the field, beaming with pride and congratulating Ralston, shaking the guy’s hand, for Christ’s sake. He watched the kids high-five each other, big grins on their faces. Watched them finally leave, one by one, two by two, with their parents. Little kids, maybe ten or eleven years old. He watched Ralston pack up the bats and the balls. Watched him zip up the big gray duffle bag and hoist it over one shoulder like the weight was nothing. Watched him stroll out of the park, each step he took tugging at Dooley until he got to his feet and made his way down the slope and across the park, moving quickly at first until he was ten or so meters behind Ralston, and then matching his stride to Ralston’s so that the distance behind them remained constant. He couldn’t believe he was seeing him after all these years. Couldn’t believe that he’d showed up right here in Dooley’s neighborhood. Was that a coincidence, or was he here for a reason? Dooley shook just thinking about it. Had Ralston come here looking for him? Was that possible?

  He followed Ralston away from the park and down a side-street, until Ralston stopped and turned, pulling something from his pocket. Dooley ducked behind a massive tree, acting, he knew, like a criminal. He peeked out and saw Ralston unlock the trunk of a beat-up station wagon. Who drove those anymore? Nobody, that’s who. Ralston must have fallen on tough times. Either that or ...

  Ralston hoisted the duffle bag and threw it into the trunk. He slammed the trunk shut, or tried to. It didn’t take. He had to slam it again, harder this time. Then he circled around to the driver’s side and used his key to unlock the door. He climbed in behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove away, right past Dooley, but his eyes straight ahead, like he hadn’t seen Dooley or hadn’t recognized him. Dooley watched the car until it turned a corner. It took a moment for his body to unfreeze. When it did, he saw a woman standing up on the porch of the yard where the tree stood. She was staring at him, a sour look on her face, like she wanted to yell at him to get off her property. But she didn’t. Maybe she lived alone. Maybe she was afraid if she yelled at him, he’d run up her front walk and hit her or drive a knife through her heart, something like that. People didn’t trust people anymore. People like the woman who was watching him didn’t trust people like Dooley. You heard stories—some guy in one car flips a finger at some other guy in another car who cuts him off on the way to a stop sign, and the next thing you know, the second guy hauls the first guy out of his car and beats the crap out of him. Or pulls out a gun and shoots the guy. He bet that’s what the woman was thinking about, that you never know, so it’s never smart to yell at strangers. He nodded at her as he stepped off her property. She didn’t acknowledge the gesture, but, boy, her eyes were on him like a dog’s, territorial instincts on full alert, until he was a couple of doors down the street.

  He couldn’t say for sure how the rest of the day passed, nor could he say when or how he decided to do what he did. He walked around for a while—it turned out he was on the move for hours—and then, driven by his stomach, ended up at the Greek place near work where he ordered a chicken souvlaki and a salad heavy with cucumber slices and feta. As he chewed his way mechanically through the meal, he tried without success to think about something other than what had happened.

  The idea popped into his head like a spider dropping down from a basement ceiling. He watched the web of possibilities it was spinning. Thought about himself as the fly, helpless, caught up in something he’d had no part in making, then switched it up and thought about himself as the spider, weaving, trapping, ready to pounce. Then, because he was sitting right across from it—had he planned that or had it just happened?—and because that much time had passed without him even thinking about it, he crossed the street and peered in through the store window. Linelle was coming up the aisle from the back room, pinning her name tag to the front of her golf shirt. Kevin was nowhere in sight. Dooley ducked into the store.

  “I almost had to call you,” Linelle said, slipping behind the counter to take over the cash from Rashid. “I got here and Kevin had a meltdown. He’s the most rigid person I know, and I don’t mean that in the good way.”

  Dooley glanced around. “Is he here?”

  “Relax. He’s in the back, cross-checking the new inventory. You know how that goes.”

  Dooley nodded. Kevin wasn’t just a cross-checking guy. He was a double-checking, cross-checking guy. He’d be back there for an hour, minimum.

  “It makes him feel like he has some kind of control,” Linelle said. “Jesus, you should have seen him. He went on and on about how I shouldn’t even be here; it was your shift and you didn’t get it cleared by him. The guy’s one hundred percent AR, Dooley”—her code for anal retentive—“which is why you have to play it his way from time to time. Anyway, he was about to send me home when I reminded him it’s the first day of the Aladdin promotion.”

  Every seven years or so, the Disney execs cracked open their vault and re-released some old Disney movie at an inflated price for a limited time only, and moms and dads and grannies, especially grannies, rushed in and snapped them up. Normally it was no problem because normally Dooley didn’t give a crap. But Aladdin was a Robin Williams movie, and you didn’t want to get Dooley started on old Robin. The guy was one of those used-to-be-out-there-and-edgy comics who’d gone all smarmy and saccharine. Dooley couldn’t shut up about what a sellout Robin was. He was proud of the number of people he’d steered away from Mrs. Doubtfire and any number of other lousy Robin Williams movies. Kevin had talked to him about it a few times—“It’s your job to give the customers what they want, not talk them out of renting,” he said, to which Dooley had replied, “What they want is a good time, not a load of crap.” When it was rentals, Kevin let it go. When it was sales, that was another matter. Dooley out of the store on day one of this particular Disney release was a good thing, even if it broke a few rules in the employee manual.

  “I need a favor,” Dooley said.

  “I’m already doing you a favor,” Linelle pointed out. “It’s Saturday night, remember? You think I couldn’t come up with something better to do than help make a shitload more money for those fat-ass Disney execs?”

  “My uncle might call.”

  “So what? You have a cell.”

  “You know how Kevin is about that. When my uncle wants to get me at work, he calls the store.”

  “I thought he quit doing that.”

  His uncle used to call regularly to check that Dooley was where he was supposed to be. But he’d given that up over the past few months, just like he’d abandoned waiting up for Dooley.

  “He did, mostly,” Dooley said. “But he might call tonight.”

  Linelle arched an eyebrow.

  “Any special reason he thinks you’re working when you’re not?”

  “I’m just saying,” Dooley said. “Come on. Please?”

  “If he calls, you want me to tell him you’re in the can and then hit your cell?”

  Good old Linelle.

  “What if Kevin gets to the phone first? Or Sonja?”

  Sonja, the new girl, was on shift with Linelle.

  “Just try to pick up first if the phone rings.”

  “Right. To make my night complete.”

  “If Kevin gets it, he gets it. But if you can get to it first—”

  “Uncomplicate your life by complicating mine, right?”

  “I’ll owe you. Anything you say, whenever you say.”

  “So I keep hearing.” She made a sour face. “Okay, whatever.” She glanced at the back of the store. “You better get out of here before Kevin decides to stick his head out and check on the troops.”

  He went home, pulled the phone book from
the cupboard under the phone in the kitchen and a map book from his uncle’s office and looked up Albright. There were a bunch of them, which he cross-checked against the map book until he found the only one who lived in the neighborhood he bet Parker lived in. He considered changing his clothes and then thought, why the hell should he? He switched on the TV—he had at least two hours to kill—but switched it off again almost immediately. He couldn’t sit still. He left the house and started to walk up to where Parker lived.

  It was early when he got there—too early—and it wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where he could park himself against a tree or a utility pole and just wait. Someone would notice him. Someone would see right away that he didn’t belong. Someone would call the police.

  He walked past the house, trying to tell for sure if it was where Parker lived. The place was big enough—it fit what he’d been told about Parker’s father. It was the biggest house on the street and looked a lot newer than the others. But nothing was happening. The place was silent. He kept walking, past other massive houses, until finally he hit a cross street on the bus route. He found one of those five-bucks-a-cup coffee places, went in, and passed the next thirty minutes perched on a stool in the window, watching people while he sipped a cup of fair trade coffee from a country he doubted he could find on a map. Then he headed back down the way he had come.

  The place looked more like party central now. There were strings of lights marking either side of the walkway that led up to the front steps and, from there, alongside the house. He heard party sounds coming from around back—music and talking and laughing. He strolled up to the gate in the high wrought iron fence that ran around the whole front of the property. Then he hesitated. What if the gate was locked? What if he couldn’t get in?

  The gate wasn’t locked.

  He pushed it open and went up the walk, where he hesitated again. Should he knock or ring or whatever at the front door, or keep it simple and circle around to the back where the party obviously was?