Red. Erica Spindler

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СКАЧАТЬ failed to show up by dinnertime. She pictured herself, how she must look—dirty, bruised and bloody, her clothes ripped. She curved her shaking fingers around the doorknob. Had anyone worried at her absence? When they saw her, what would they think?

      She opened the door and stepped inside. And smelled the whiskey. Its stench hung in the air like a cloud, and she realized dimly that her father had somehow scraped together enough money for a fifth.

      She shifted her gaze. He sat slumped in front of the television, Randy beside him, pale and tense. Her father didn’t move, but as the door screeched, her brother turned his head. He met her eyes and for one electric moment stared at her, then slid his gaze guiltily away.

      Her brother had known what his friends had planned to do to her.

      She sucked in a sharp breath, the realization spinning through her, bringing her to a point past anger or disbelief, past hysteria. Had her brother encouraged them? Had he laughed with them when they talked about how they would put a bag over her head so they wouldn’t have to look at her while they raped her?

      The sickness threatened to overwhelm her again, and she brought a hand to her mouth, fighting it back. Tears stung her eyes. “How?” she managed to say, her voice thick with tears and grief. “How…could you? You’re my brother.”

      Randy lifted his gaze to hers. She had the brief impression of a deer, frozen in the shocking glare of headlights. His expression, pinched and frightened, took on an ashen pallor.

      “When we were small, remember how we played together? None of the other children would come…near us. Remember?”

      Randy shifted uncomfortably and lowered his eyes once more. She shook her head, her pain nearly unbearable. “I would have done anything to protect you. I did protect you. So many ti—” She curved her arms around herself. “And now you…you let them…do…this to—”

      She choked this last back, unable to take her brother’s guilty silence, the damning truth of that silence, a moment longer. Turning toward the kitchen, she went in search of her mother.

      Glenna Lee sat at the kitchen table, still as a stone, gazing at nothing, her eyes vacant, her hands working at a fold of her robe. Becky Lynn stared at her, at the way her fingers moved back and forth over the worn terry-cloth.

      “Mama?” she whispered, clutching her hands together in a silent prayer. “Mama, please.”

      Her mother blinked, focusing on her daughter for the first time. Shock moved across her mother’s expression, a dawning horror, then her features cleared, relaxing into an almost childlike mask. “Hello, baby.”

      Becky Lynn swallowed. “Mama, look at me. Please.” She crossed to her mother and stopped directly before her. “I need you to see me, Mama.”

      “Of course I see you, baby.” She tipped her head back, curving her lips into a small, simple smile. “Did Miss Opal keep you late?”

      Becky Lynn shifted her gaze to the stove clock, its face cracked and coated with a film of grease but still readable. Nearly eleven. Five hours had passed since she’d left the Cut ‘n Curl. Five hours spent in hell.

      “No, Mama.” Her chin began to quiver, and her eyes filled. “Mama, some boys…they… Mama, they hurt—”

      Her mother shook her head and clucked her tongue. “She shouldn’t keep you so late on a school night.”

      Becky Lynn drew in a ragged breath, her vision blurring. “Don’t do this, Mama. I…need you. Please. I need you so much.”

      Her mother clutched her robe so tightly her knuckles poked out, stark and white even against the faded terry. “Go on to bed, baby. Everything will be better in the morning.”

      Becky Lynn took a step backward, a cry slipping past her lips. Her mother couldn’t deal with this. She wouldn’t deal with it. Turning, Becky Lynn returned to the living room. She crossed to her father, stopping directly in front of him, blocking the TV.

      “Daddy,” she whispered, twisting her fingers together, “please help me.”

      He lifted his eyes to hers. His were dull and red from drink. He grunted.

      “Some boys hurt me, Daddy. They—” Her throat closed over the words and she struggled to clear it. “They forced me…they—”

      As if suddenly seeing her, her father moved his gaze over her. “Where’ve you been, girl?”

      “I’m trying to tell you. Tommy Fischer and Ricky Jones—” She darted a glance at her brother. His head was lowered, his shoulders hunched. “They…they raped me. They knocked me down…and held my hands and feet—”

      Her father lurched to his feet, forcing her backward. “Don’t you make up stories to cover your whoring!”

      “No!” Becky Lynn shook her head violently. “No…they put a bag over my head and—”

      “Randy?” Her father swung toward his son, weaving slightly. “Those boys your friends? The ones on the team?”

      Randy glanced up, then away, looking like he wanted to puke. “Yes, sir.”

      “They at the rally t’night?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Becky Lynn fought for a breath. “It happened before the pep rally! They talked about how they were going to explain to the coach, they—”

      “Lying whore,” her father snapped. “Get out of my sight, before I beat the hell out of you.”

      Becky Lynn stumbled backward. Her mother stood in the kitchen doorway, white as a new sheet, visibly trembling. Becky Lynn met her eyes, pleading silently. Stand up for me. Mama, I need you.

      But her mother didn’t stand up for her. For long moments, she stood gazing at her daughter, unmoving save for the way she clutched and released the vee of her robe.

      Becky Lynn’s vision blurred. She had no one here. Not in this house. Not in Bend. No one who believed in her, no one who cared enough to stand up for her. Ricky and Tommy could rape her as often as they liked, and no one would care.

      She blinked, clearing her vision, looking at her mother once more, a strange feeling of relief moving over her. Her mother had set her free. Now, truly, there was nothing for her in Bend.

      Turning, Becky Lynn limped toward the bathroom.

      “Don’t come cryin’ to me if you get knocked up!” her father shouted from behind her. “You hear me? I won’t have none of your ugly bastard brats in this house. You hear me?”

      Becky Lynn closed the bathroom door behind her, muffling the sound of her father’s rage, and latched it. She crossed to the old claw-footed tub and turned on the faucets. Kneeling, she pushed the rubber stopper into the drain, then stood and stripped off her soiled clothing, avoiding her reflection in the small mirror above the sink.

      They had put a bag over her head so the wouldn’t have to look at her while they raped her.

      She stepped into the tepid water, then sank into it. It flowed sweetly over her, like a baptism, СКАЧАТЬ