by Sean Oliver
She spotted her car, which sat just outside a pool of floodlight. She popped her trunk from a distance and it drifted open like a yawn. That thought reminded Trisha she’d done nearly ten hours at school that day. Way too long.
She got to the car and dropped her tote bag and lunch bag in the trunk. She thought she heard scuffs along the asphalt, or maybe not. Might’ve been the shuffling of her bags in the trunk.
She closed the trunk and started toward the driver’s side door. More scuffing, grinding of the ground underfoot. Sounded like it was coming from the passenger side, against the building. She kept her pace to the door and looked ahead, over the hood. Then once at the door, she looked over the roof to the passenger side. It was quite dark, but no movement.
The scuffing sound again. Now louder and faster, from behind.
Trisha was blasted from behind by a football tackle and pinned against her car, her chest stinging from the force pressing her against the door.
Scream. Scream, damn it!
She couldn’t utter a sound. She was petrified. The impact knocked the air from her and now she was being crushed up against the car door.
She couldn’t draw in any breath. She started to moan, but that was it. She couldn’t scream. Screaming wasn’t in Trisha’s makeup, as it was. She didn’t fight with friends, didn’t make a scene. There was no muscle reflex to act out in a big way. She froze and endured insults. She froze in the face of adversity and conflict.
She would freeze and endure this assault. She began to cry.
The person behind her was doing nothing. He was just sandwiching her against the car.
Undoing his pants? Pulling down my skirt?
He wasn’t, though. She noticed his hands, hidden in black leather gloves on either side of her head, gripping the groove that ran the length of the roof. He pulled for leverage.
How long could it go on? What was he doing? What did he want? He said nothing, though she could hear panting and deep grunts and as he pressed against her.
Money?
There was no grab for her purse, which dangled from her arm. Her mind was racing and sharp, aware of every horrific detail in the wide alleyway.
Backyards by the fence were dark.
Alley was empty.
Not in the floodlight.
His fingers.
His fingers.
Yes, yes, his fingers were inches from her face. She could do this. Didn’t have to scream. Didn’t have to make a scene.
She turned her head to the right, tucked her mouth into the cradle between the offender’s thumb and forefinger, and clamped her teeth as hard as she could onto his finger. It was tough—the leather, the flexing finger muscle as he pulled. She craned her face downward, digging in and getting more angle into the bite. She felt her teeth pierce the glove and grind into skin. It took a good couple of seconds before he realized what was happening, then his yelp and release came.
Trisha slid down the side of her car, gasping for breath. She could hear his shoes scuffing the ground, scurrying gradually faster, away from her. She was breathing, but still exposed. From her kneeling position, she pulled open the door and crawled inside the car. She grabbed the steering wheel and pulled herself to a sitting position. Her chest stung and she winced trying to get herself upright.
She looked down the alleyway and saw the offender hunched over and shuffling away, his long, dark overcoat flapping. He was not slight of frame, and that bouncing raincoat made him look like a massive moth flying down the alley.
Trisha watched, hoping for some detail she could report to authorities. He ran along the fence line, just outside the reach of the pools of light. But some of the light did catch him as he passed the periphery. All she could make out was the dark ski mask that covered his head, only the back of which was visible to her.
The idiot was running out of the alley in front of her car.
Start it. Start it up.
She did. If she floored it now, she could still get to him and whale him at fifty miles an hour.
Then what?
Who cares? Hit him. He’s right there!
The car was running and Trisha was gripping the wheel. She watched as he neared the end of the alleyway, and kept watching as he rounded that corner and out of sight. She didn’t race after him.
She breathed, closed her eyes and wept. She tucked her head down, pulled her arms across her aching chest and cried, holding herself tightly.
TWENTY
DEANNA SEEMED TO have forgotten everything. She knew she’d been in the library, and she knew Albrecht had come in. She remembered Jared. A little.
“Why are you being so weird about this?” Jared asked. “And you look stoned.”
“I do not,” Deanna said. “I’m just tired. And I seriously don’t know what we were talking about. Bullshit, probably. Testings or whatever.” Jared just shook his head and looked down at his coffee.
“Doesn’t make sense,” he said. Deanna leaned back in her chair and rubbed her brow. She brought her foot up onto the chair, raised her knee and rested her head on it. She was foggy beyond the usual after-school, 7:00 p.m. crash, like she occasionally felt upon waking from the rare late-afternoon nap. Dozing on the couch for an hour at 4:00 p.m. gave her a haze she couldn’t shake for the rest of the night.
Except she hadn’t dozed today. She’d felt this way since leaving school. She didn’t really notice it until Jared tried to talk to her for the entire ride to her parents’ house and she just couldn’t participate. Now she was there, half a cup of coffee in, and she was no better. Now Jared was starting with this stoned shit.
She really couldn’t remember the substance of her and Albrecht’s conversation earlier. It was like being asked the details of a dream that was fading as the morning went on. Maybe she was coming down with something. Flu season was in full swing.
Rosemary Anastas came out of the kitchen with a platter of cheeses occupying one hand, leaving the other free to smack Deanna’s foot off the dining room chair as she passed.
“Down,” Rose said. “You blind? Cream cushion.” She laid the platter down and dropped into the end seat with a huff. “Jesus, am I swollen. Look.” She drew back the edge of her long skirt and raised a ham-sized foot.
“Ma, really?” Deanna barked.
“What? He’s gonna be family.”
“It’s fine,” Jared said. “Yes, you are swollen.”
“I gotta sit down,” Rose said, well into her performance, which included a wiping of the brow. “Jared, have cheese. It’s from Fiore’s in Hoboken. I went this morning. I was on my feet too long, Dee. That’s why I’m swelling up like this.”
Deanna nodded along, impervious to the locomotive tongue on her mother. Rose was stream of consciousness—her mind had a mouth. She’d narrate the airflow in an empty room for you. It was the soundtrack of Deanna’s young life.
“I texted your father to bring home cannoli when he gets out of school.”
“He’s late tonight,” Deanna said.
“Where the hell is he? Lemme call him. Where is my phone? I left it in the kitchen.”
“Let me get it,” Jared said.
“No, hon,” Rose said. “I got it.” She gripped the edges of the table and unsteadily drew up her large frame. She grunted.
“Sure, have more cheese, Ma. And cannoli, too. That’s what you need. You can barely get up.” As Rose passed she swatted at Deanna’s head, whiffing her hair.
“I’ve always been on the bigger side. That’s my genetics.”
“It’s really not, but whatever.”
“Your grandparents weren’t bringing home salads and carrot juice for us. I grew up on breads, pastas, meat, all that stuff.”
“Love it all,” Jared said.
“Oh, me too,” Rose said. “Everyone does. But look what it did to us. Back then you couldn’t get all this healthy stuff so easy. There weren’t any Whole Foods.” She’d ambled into the kitchen and was on her way back with her cell phone. She swipe
d it open. “Nothing from your father.”
“We can live without the cannoli,” Deanna said.
“He’s so stressed out this year. They drive him crazy down there. He said he got another email today about you and him working there together.”
Deanna looked up. “Figured this would happen when he came back from the heart thing. Just a matter of time.”
“He was gonna retire, Dee. Swore up and down. Then he started talking about going back. I thought he was nuts. Still think he’s nuts. They’re gonna give him another heart attack, stents or no stents.”
“Why did he change his mind?” Jared asked.
“Because he’s nuts,” Rose said. “He put in over thirty years for that district. They treat him like a dog. These supervisors from all these other cities come in there, thinking they know how Carson works. They have all the answers. They come to rob the ghetto and run away.”
“Don’t call it that,” Deanna said.
“They know that those failing cities are loaded with money from the state. They ride in like saviors, all their big friggin’ ideas, six-figure salaries, and sit on their asses in the air conditioning of central office. Meanwhile, there are shootings every day, burnt out houses, drugs all over the place, guns in the schools—and when they see their big ideas ain’t gonna work in that environment, suddenly it’s the principals they come down on. He needs to get the hell out of there.” Rose paused for breath, and to grab a selection from the platter. She looked toward Jared. “How are your classes this year?”
“Very smart,” he said. “I’m at the place in life where my students know more than I do about technology. They were born with the Internet, with code.”
“All those kids have computers at home? In that area?”
“No. Many don’t. But you know what every one of their parents has, whether or not the electricity bill gets paid that month?” He held up his cell phone.
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” Rose said shaking her head. “And I pay for their welfare.”
“Well, point is, they’ve been swiping and tapping since they were two years old. They knew what the Wi-Fi symbol looked like when they couldn’t get onto their favorite game. Now they show me hacks.”
“What’s hacks?” Rose asked.
“Little tricks to get computers to do things they shouldn’t. Had a fourth grader show me how to change a grade on the reading test website.” He turned to Deanna. “Remind me to show you that later. Seems like you’re gonna need to know this year.”
“Shit, if they can figure out how to do that then they deserve the better grade,” Deanna said.
“Ain’t that something,” Rose said.
“They’re not all like that,” Jared said. “That kid is pretty slick. Very advanced. But those are the things they’ll excel at. They spend time at it because it’s fun to them.”
“Is that how they got into my bank account last year? Hacks?” She turned to Deanna who shrugged, disinterested.
“What happened?” Jared asked.
“I got a call from the bank. They said they were mailing new cards because the accounts were compromised or something.”
“Yeah, it happens. Happens to even the biggest companies.”
“Sons o’ bitches.”
“Mrs. Anastas, you’d be surprised how easy it is to write those codes. I have a program on my computer from one of my students.”
“Ma, I swear to you, these kids can barely read. They write like ass. But they can learn this shit in his class. I don’t get it.”
“They can’t read because they’re bored, Dee,” Jared said.
“Thanks.”
“Well, it’s good that they like your class,” Rose said. “You’ll have less headaches teaching computers and hacks, and all that stuff.”
During the pause in conversation, the front door opened and closed. Feet pounded down the hallway to the dining room. George came in, bundled up and moving fast.
“Hi, everyone,” he said as he passed. “Sorry. Nature calling.” He breezed past them all and down the hallway.
“Hi. Bye,” Rose said.
Rose came into the dining room with the coffee pot. She headed to George first.
“I can’t,” he said, covering his mug. “It’s nine o’clock. I’ll never sleep.” He looked over at Deanna resting her head on her hand. “Tired, kid?” She nodded.
“Your mother wear you out?” he asked. Deanna rolled her eyes. “I feel your pain. So I won’t bring up the transfer thing to you again.”
“Good,” Deanna said. “’Cause I’m not going.” George shook his head and tilted the remainder of his coffee into his mouth.
“Why don’t you just get through the year,” Rose said as she collected everyone’s plates. “Ignore them over at central office. You’re retiring at the end of the year anyway. Tell them to turn their heads for a few months for Christ’s sake.”
George held up a hand to her. “Whoa, when exactly did I say I was retiring this year?”
“Didn’t have to,” Deanna garbled, cheek resting on her hand. “We decided for you.”
“Well, good. You can all give the superintendent a call and just tell her that you’ll now be making all the decisions for P.S. 21. I’ll just be doing what you tell me.”
“Ha,” Rose called from the kitchen. “You don’t want me calling that bitch.”
“I met Rosemary in church,” George said to Jared, who stifled a laugh and looked toward the kitchen. George turned to Deanna. “We are going to have to talk about this, eventually. They’re busting my chops about both of us working there.”
“You said yourself—there’s nothing in the Board of Ed Standards Guide that prevents relatives from working together,” Deanna said.
“Right. And no one gives a shit. They said you have to go.”
“I won’t.”
“Then I have to go.”
“You’re at full pension,” Rose called from the kitchen.
“I will never understand how she hears from in there,” George said to Deanna and Jared. He called to the kitchen. “Hey, Rose, shouldn’t you be talking to the toaster?” Deanna laughed and dropped down on to the table, her head on her arms.
“I can’t take you two,” she said.
“Glad I can still make you laugh.”
“Yes. Still not requesting a transfer. You’re gonna have to do an involuntary transfer and kick me out.”
“I can’t. There’s some lawsuit over at P.S. 18 because that idiot principal transferred someone who corrected her grammar.”
“A third-grader could do that,” Jared said. “I’ve met her.”
“She’s a joke,” George said. “She got her spot when Big Freddy was superintendent. You wore nice heels, you became a principal. Anyway, they told us we cannot initiate an involuntary transfer until that thing gets settled. Period.” He looked over to Deanna and cocked his head.
She shook hers. No.
“Jared, I’m tired,” she said, her eyes closed and head resting on her the table.
“That means ‘let’s go home,’” Jared said to George.
“You’re getting good at translating the Anastas women,” George said. “Wait ’til you’re married.”
“Ma, they’re teaming up on us,” Deanna said to Rose as she came back out.
“I guess because they have the same birthday they think they can gang up,” Rose said. George and Jared raised their coffee cups and clinked them.
Jared and Deanna stood and collected themselves. Rose went over and they exchanged good-byes.
“I’d get up,” George began, “but I would just grab a transfer request form while I was up.” Deanna rolled her eyes and they headed for the living room. George waved from the table as Rose walked the couple to the door.
He waved with his left hand, just as he’d drunk his coffee with his left hand. He’d picked up his cannoli with his left hand as well.
His right hand was under the table for the entire evening, his pointer fing
er wrapped and still bleeding.
TWENTY-ONE
TRISHA WAS THE first one at school the morning after her attack. She’d been sitting in her classroom since just before 7:00 a.m. That morning she’d focused on getting in bright and early. She wanted to ensure a proper parking spot—well lit, up in the front part of the lot—and she knew if she arrived anywhere close to 8:00 a.m., she’d have been shut out. She wouldn’t be staying after dark any longer. There wasn’t any after-school work that couldn’t be done online at home.
That day, Trisha worked in her classroom with the door closed. She’d been on the verge of tears all morning, her throat swelling and threatening an explosion of emotion. She’d cried all the way home the night before and finally fell asleep crying and embracing a balled-up quilt. She cried all morning at home while she got ready. No one was there to ask any questions or impede on her need to let it out—one of the benefits of living alone.
She opened her phone to call Deanna at least three times during the night. Each time, she put it down before connecting. She just couldn’t handle saying the words that described the evening’s horrific event. She worked on getting herself together, and talking about it would send her back into hysterics, no doubt. She would swallow this and move on. It would be hard to forget for a while, to be sure. Mental scarring aside, there were also the physical reminders. Her chest was sore and every time it pulsed with pain, she was brought back to the feeling of his big body against hers, compressing her against her car door like a vise.
The odds of a random attack like that ever happening again were a long shot. She’d wounded the attacker. He’d be an idiot to try it again in that same area, to the same girl. For all he knew, she’d swiftly reported this and had the cops looking all over the place for him. The detectives probably swabbed her mouth for traces of his skin and blood for DNA processing. He probably thought he was screwed. He’d move on to the next victim somewhere else.
And do what? What was his intention last night? She wondered what might have happened had she not bitten him. He had her incapacitated for a good while; at least it felt like a long time. He’d had her pinned against the car and yet he did nothing. She didn’t even know where to file this in her mind. Assault, in a legal sense, she supposed.
