After the Wreck, I Picked Myself Up, Spread My Wings, and Flew Away

by Joyce Carol Oates

  My aunt calls Trina’s mother, but no one ever answers. There is no voice mail either.

  I am wondering how badly Trina was hurt. If you call the medical center, the operator says she can’t “reveal” this information. If you call the Yarrow Lake police, it’s the same.

  On the front page of the Yarrow Lake Journal is a single-column article with the headline

  5 AREA YOUTHS ARRESTED FOLLOWING ASSAULT

  YARROW LAKE GIRL, 17, HOSPITALIZED

  Trina’s name isn’t given, of course. There are three grainy photographs of “alleged assailants” Gil Rathke, Ross Skaggs, Oscar Tybek, aged twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-four respectively.

  Even Detective Pelka, who’d seemed to like me, when I call her at the number she gave me only repeats in a neutral voice what has been released to the media: The “suspects” are in custody, the case is being “investigated.”

  “But—I’m Jennifer Abbott! Trina’s friend, who was with her at—”

  Detective Pelka says curtly, “Jennifer, I know who you are. But I can’t tell you anything more. Our information regarding Trina Holland is confidential.”

  “Even Trina’s health? Like—is she okay?”

  Detective Pelka doesn’t answer at first. Maybe she’s exasperated with me. I’m thinking, Trina is on life support, Trina is dying, but then the detective says in a voice sounding now like controlled anger, “You’ll be hearing about your friend soon enough, Jennifer.”

  18

  april 15

  hey baby

  we relly screwd up didnt we!

  thanks for saving my stupid life

  (i gues)

  you were the best friend i ever had (i gues)

  i was a shitty friend but its too late now

  i’m sorry (?)

  maybe i’m not sorry, i’m taking Percs

  my nose is broken & has to be “repared”

  i look like shit & a Perc makes me laugh

  i wont be coming back to YHS (big deal)

  my bitch mother is moving us to tuxedo park ny

  my Grandparents live in tuxedo park its VERY BORING

  see, I’m leaveing without saying goodbye

  not one person here not even crow

  not even you, if you saved my life

  can’t see anybody without them seeing me &

  thinking what happened to her!!!

  & they would think that bitch deseved it

  & they would be right

  baby you screwed up bad as me

  shouldve run away & hid

  the guys wouldve taken care of me afterward

  wouldnt let me alone there to freeze

  (i gues)

  i dont want to see you again ever

  maybe i hate you, screwing us both up

  calling cops is RATTING

  i gues you wanted to help me

  i’m not any RAT

  i’m sorry thats how it is possable for me

  it isnt possable for me another way

  your card & flowers i ripped into pieces

  Percs make you laugh & laugh & you get tired & sleep

  i wont miss anybody there not even crow

  its cool, I am getting a new face not in this

  shitty hospital but in new york where theres

  worldclass surgons cosmic surgons can repare

  a broke face beter than new

  my cheekbone was broke also my (right) eye socket

  it wasnt gil who kicked me, some guy with steel toe boots

  Hey baby if you saw me anyway with my new face when its fixed you wouldn’t know me

  if you hadnt puked baby youd have a cool new face coming too!!!

  love & kisses & dont forget me too soon

  trina

  p.s. tell crow tuxedo park has got this stone

  wall around it like alcatraz, to keep out bikers

  19

  Here is a surprise.

  The five days I have to stay home from school, my teachers e-mail me, even Mr. Farrell, who I thought totally hated me, and Mr. Feldman, who says he will help me with our algebra assignments when I return. My homeroom teacher, Mrs. Terricotte, calls to ask how I am, saying she misses me, everybody in homeroom misses me, which I can’t believe is true, but it’s nice of her to say, and our gym teacher, Dara Bowen, calls to talk the longest, saying how courageous I was to run for help for my friend, how courageous to testify against the men who raped and assaulted Trina Holland, and a panicky sensation washes over me: How does she know? Does everybody know? for the police had assured the McCartys and me that my statement would be confidential unless there is a trial, and a trial isn’t expected…. And when a week later it turns out that Trina is refusing to press charges, refusing to identify Gil Rathke and his friends, refusing even to speak with detectives, Ms. Bowen asks to speak with me in her office after gym class, upset like I have never seen her. “This will only send a signal guys can get away with rape. Jenna, you must try to talk sense into her. The two of you can testify together, the community will support you! If it’s Trina’s parents who are persuading her not to talk…” and I say, “Ms. Bowen, Trina is gone from Yarrow Lake. She won’t ever be back.”

  It’s like Trina said in her e-mail. Her mother took her away to live with her grandparents. There is no law to force a victim of any crime to make a statement to police or even to speak with police.

  Tuxedo Park, New York! That’s near Tarrytown. Like Trina Holland and Jenna Abbott have traded places.

  I printed out Trina’s e-mail to me, to keep. But I won’t show it to anyone, not even my aunt. It’s Trina’s first e-mail to me, and I understand that it will be the last, Trina just isn’t into sitting still long enough to write text messages you need to coordinate your fingers and your brain to type.

  20

  “Jenna! Good news.”

  It’s my uncle who tells me this: There won’t be any trial, no need for me to testify against Gil Rathke and his friends.

  I won’t need to be publicly “courageous” after all.

  The sexual assault charges against the men have been dropped because Trina, the primary victim, refused to give a statement to police. So county prosecutors decided to discount my statement too. Gil Rathke and his friends have pleaded guilty to reduced charges: trespassing, breaking and entering, aiding and abetting underage drinking, resisting arrest, possession of controlled substances (marijuana, crystal meth), and possession of an unlicensed handgun (a .38-caliber revolver was discovered by police under the driver’s seat of Rathke’s TrailBlazer).

  A .38-caliber revolver! I’m stunned. At the lake, in the lodge that night, those hours I was there…

  “You didn’t know, Jenna? Did you?

  Not with his eyes, for he doesn’t trust me, but with his mouth Uncle Dwight is smiling. Like he’s giving me an opportunity to say something to redeem myself.

  “No, Uncle Dwight. I didn’t know.”

  “Do you think your friend Trina knew?”

  The gun, Uncle Dwight means. Did Trina know? Suddenly I’m filled with rage at Trina.

  If she knew, or didn’t know. If she knew, and didn’t care.

  These really cool older guys…

  The mistake is hanging out with Trina Holland.

  What can I tell my uncle that he’d believe? Ever again? From me? After I’ve stolen from him, lied to him? Insulted him?

  I say, wiping at my eyes, “She wasn’t my friend, Uncle Dwight. It was my fault for trusting her.”

  It’s the right answer, I guess. My uncle seems to think so.

  21

  Another surprise: Dad comes to see me.

  Three days Dad plans to spend in New Hampshire. Though it’s a very busy season for him, a “frantic” time, in fact, he has cleared away three days on his April calendar to spend in New Hampshire. (The McCartys invited Dad to stay with them, but he prefers the historic four-star Buttrick Inn twenty miles away in Hanover.) Dad is looking older, thicker jawed, his eyes are wary and gua
rded, assessing me, but he’s tan, and his hair is darker than I remember, attractively threaded with gray. The first time Dad sees me, he hugs me tight, like you’d expect from a father who hasn’t seen his daughter for months, but there’s something forced and stiff about his arms around me, like he isn’t certain who I am.

  Still, being hugged by Dad. Tears spill out of my eyes.

  Like I am “emotional” when I am not.

  Dad has rented a BMW at the Hanover airport, he takes us on a slow drive along Yarrow Lake, into the foothills of the White Mountains. Dinner at the Buttrick Inn. Next day, lunch at the Boathouse on Yarrow Lake. Much of our conversation is Dad talking about La Jolla, the new house, new family, recent very successful business trips abroad. Instead of murmuring, That’s great, Dad, or Wow, Dad! I’m just kind of quiet.

  Funny how, the more a person talks, the less he can say.

  So much is unspoken between us—for instance, Mom, the wreck, the incident at Yarrow Lake. It’s like we are two blind people groping for each other but missing. Dad is trying not to openly express his frustration and disgust with his daughter, screwing up again.

  Maybe he’d like to grab me and shake me, hard. The way he grabbed and shook me at the Tarrytown rehab clinic.

  The last time we touched. I remember.

  We’re cruising along a state highway a few miles east of Yarrow Lake. Actually it doesn’t matter where we are, we’re confined together. Father, daughter. What did Crow say?: Your father is always your father, that doesn’t change. Dad brings up the subject of my moving to La Jolla, not exactly a new, unique subject, and I shift a little lower in my seat, saying nothing. Next, Dad brings up the subject of my seeing a really good psychiatrist—not a psychologist—and I don’t say anything.

  I’m waiting for Dad to ask about Dr. Freer. But maybe he’s forgotten her name. Maybe the McCartys never informed him that I’d stopped seeing Dr. Freer. And the reason why I’d stopped.

  “Also, Jenna. Rehab.”

  “Rehab? What kind of rehab?”

  “Honey, you know what kind. Obviously.”

  Driving, Dad gropes for my hand to squeeze, can’t quite find it so has to content himself with just touching my wrist, with some force.

  I’m scared. I don’t know what Dad means. Drugs?

  “But—I’m not using drugs, Dad.”

  Dad laughs loudly. “Hey, c’mon, Jenna, this is me, your dad. The McCartys might not think you have a serious drug problem, but you and I know better, eh?”

  Dad is smiling a kind of lewd, ghastly smile like he’s such a cool dude he knows the secret life of the fifteen-year-old screwup druggie. A feeling like flame comes over my brain.

  “Dad, I said I’m not using drugs. I’m not.”

  “Which is why, on Christmas Eve, you had to be taken to the emergency room to have your stomach pumped? Which is why fifteen days ago you were partying with adult drug dealers? Until they turned on you and…”

  Dad’s foot is pressing down on the gas pedal of the BMW. We’re moving now at about sixty-five miles an hour. To our right is the western edge of Mascoma Lake. I’m anxious there might be a bridge somewhere ahead. Dad has been working himself up to this, two martinis at lunch. That lewd, ghastly grin crinkling his tanned face. What he wants to ask is Did you have sex with the drug dealers? Are you still a virgin?

  My fingers close over the handle of the passenger-side door. My heart is beating so hard, I can’t think clearly.

  Just then Dad’s cell phone rings. It’s a call from his New York office. Something has just come up, some crisis having to do with negotiations in Beijing.

  In the end Dad leaves that afternoon for New York. Two days in New Hampshire are enough.

  Then, this happens.

  It’s an afternoon near the end of April, a warm, drizzly day, my mistake is I’m leaving school alone, and once I’m off school property, from out of nowhere the guys surround me, like they’ve been waiting for me: T-Man, Rust, Jax Yardman. T-Man and Jax are tall and looming. One of them bumps into me from behind, another leans into my face, sneering, “Rat-girl, you got our friends in trouble. Now you’re in trouble.” And Jax Yardman making a sucking noise with his lips, glaring at me belligerently.

  I push past them, walking quickly. I don’t say a word to them, I’m looking straight ahead. I know better than to run, for that would only provoke them to chase me, like dogs. I tell myself, They won’t hurt me. They won’t touch me.

  Of the names they call me, “rat” is the nicest.

  “Hey, assholes, back off.”

  It’s Crow, on his Harley-Davidson.

  It’s Crow, braking the skidding motorcycle to a stop, jumping off in a fury to yell at his friends, ex-friends, they must be. By this time I’m pretty scared. Trembling and trying not to cry. Guys yelling at one another, pushing at one another.

  What happens is confused, clumsy.

  In this residential neighborhood across from the grounds of Yarrow High, it looks weird, like something on TV that has spilled out into real life.

  At first Crow and T-Man are shoving at each other. Then they’re throwing punches. Like a crafty little dog, Rust is circling behind Crow to attack him, except Crow turns suddenly to shove him, hard. Jax is trying to hit Crow from behind T-Man—suddenly he’s on the ground, looking stunned. Rust is backing off, squinting and cringing as if he’s been hurt. Crow has hit T-Man in the face and bloodied his nose. T-Man kicks furiously at Crow’s legs, Crow lunges into him so hard, T-Man loses his balance and falls heavily to the ground. T-Man and Jax scramble to their feet. Rust is panting through his mouth, backing away. Crow is excited and agitated, advancing on them with his fists raised, but they don’t want to fight anymore.

  Crow climbs back onto his motorcycle, which has been idling at the curb, and drives in triumph to where I’m standing. He’s breathing hard, his face is flushed and sweaty. There’s a thread of bright blood leaking from his left nostril, and the front of his black leather jacket is speckled with blood. He’s smiling at me. “Climb on, chérie. I’ll take you out of here.”

  I tell Crow I can’t. Can’t ride on a motorcycle.

  “Why not?”

  I just can’t. I’m afraid.

  Crow laughs, sounding like his father. “Hell, I’m afraid too. I don’t let that stop me. C’mon.”

  After the wreck, the terrible wreck, I can’t. Can’t.

  Except somehow, shutting my eyes like jumping off a high board into water below, I do.

  22

  “Hang on tight, chérie.”

  Oh! oh! oh!—my breath is snatched from me, the wind is rushing against my face.

  Tightening my arms around Crow’s waist. Holding Crow, holding on to Crow as I have never held on to anyone in my life.

  Crow in his blood-splattered leather jacket, jeans, and biker boots. Crow with the coiled-snake tattoo at his wrist, smiling into the wind like it’s his friend, nothing to fear.

  This wild ride. This ride through the familiar streets of Yarrow Lake suddenly unfamiliar as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope, whipping past. Oh! oh! as Crow turns, banks the motorcycle into the wind, and we’re headed away from Yarrow High and residential streets. We’re on a blacktop road bordered on one side by open, undeveloped land, newly budded willow trees rushing past in a dreamy shimmer of green. Before I have time to prepare, to react, we’re up onto, then over, a rattly wood-plank bridge over a small stream where sunlight glitters like broken glass below.

  “You okay, chérie? Want to turn back?”

  In the rearview mirror that’s stippled with rust, I can see Crow’s face, Crow’s smiling eyes searching for me. Quickly I tell Crow that I’m not afraid, I don’t want to turn back.

  Later I will wonder if Crow doesn’t always remember my name.

  For a guy who knows so many girls and women, it’s easier to call them chérie.

  I’m not thinking such thoughts now, hunched behind Crow, trying to catch my breath, staring with damp ast
onished eyes.

  How low to the ground we are! How open to the wind, to the pavement rushing beneath! How wide the driver’s seat is directly in front of me, the sheepskin saddle I must grip with my knees, awkwardly. As if my legs are being pried open. The raw keening roar of the motor that makes my heart race. Sets my teeth on edge. It’s like Crow is a black flame rushing through the landscape, and I am being carried with him like a trusting child, my hair whipping in the wind and my eyes streaming tears. I don’t have time to think of the other girls who’ve ridden behind Gabriel Saint-Croix on this motorcycle, if they gripped him tight as I am gripping him, astonished by my own boldness. Don’t have time to wonder Did they love him too? Were they happy like me?

  This wild ride. I want never to end.

  What is hard to become used to is the sky overhead. My eyes keep glancing up, like something’s wrong: I’m on a vehicle without a roof. A vehicle without sides to protect the driver and me. No time to think, Am I afraid? am I terrified? It’s happening too fast for words.

  Late April there’s a net of glimmering green cast over everything. There’s a rich, ripe smell to the air. On the open highway pavement rushed beneath us like a river.

  This wild ride, I want never to end.

  23

  “Try to see, chérie. Don’t try to remember.”

  Shutting my eyes. So many times I have tried to remember, but this is the first time I will try just to see.

  “Keep walking. Don’t stop. I can lead you.”

  Beneath my feet this wood-chip trail is spongy. Last time I was here, back in November, the trail was covered in a crust of snow in places, other stretches were muddy. This afternoon there is a dreamy look to the air, sunlight shifts and ebbs behind banks of filmy clouds. Now that we’re off the roaring Harly-Davidson, we can hear birds singing.