Sketchy (11 page)

“Whirring?”

“Over and over—fast, whirring and clicking. But I don’t know—he boxed my ears pretty hard, so I had no idea what it was. And then it stopped, and that’s when he…”

“That’s when he raped you?”

Willa nods. “He choked me, and I couldn’t breathe—I just wanted it to be over. I forced my body to go limp, to let go. I prayed to die. Oh my god—I knew I was going to die!”

“But you didn’t, Willa, you didn’t die.”

Willa sobs, her body trembles, shivers. “But don’t you see? It was my fault, it was all my fault. I was so messed up… I never should have…”

This is the second time I have the urge to hug her. Instead, I drape my paisley velvet coat around her shoulders. And I take her face into my hands and force her to look at me. “Everything is going to be okay. You’re doing the right thing, Willa, you are. You’re going to be okay.”

She breaks our stare, severing the connection between us, and looks down, into the face I drew in the sketchbook.

His
face stares up at us. A face I do not remember drawing—a face that possessed me, possessed my hand—took over my pen. Drawn with her words, her thoughts, what she saw—the truth.

“No, no, no, no,” she says over and over again as her whole body starts to quiver. And she looks at me as if I’m the enemy.

I see that little light going on again, the way every addict ignites a lie, an alibi. Willa hops off the stump; her tears stop and morph into even, controlled breaths as she states, “That’s not him. I made it up, you fool—all of it. I wanted to see how far you would go with this. You’re a hack, a loser.” She flips her hair.

“What? Willa, wait… you’re scared, I understand. What you said—what I drew—was the truth.”

“According to who? You? An addict? A rehab rat? Gee, people will really believe you over me.” She laughs at the realization. “As I told the police, I don’t remember anything. Nothing. Nothing about him. Now, give me that sketch.” Willa holds out her hand.

“No,” I say. “No, I don’t believe you. You want help—you need help.”

Willa yanks my sketchbook from my hands and rips out the page. She looks at it coolly and tears it in half, in quarters, into tiny pieces as it falls to the ground. “We never met here, you got that? And if you tell anyone about today, about what happened here, I promise I will nail your skinny, black ass.”

“I can help you. Please, please let me help.”

“Get your own help, you weirdo.”

Willa walks away with my coat still draped around her shoulders, past the antique barn, and into her car, speeding off—leaving me, and the shredded pieces of the rapist—in the mud.

A blinking yellow light flashes ahead of me at the intersection, cautioning me as I mull over which way I should go.

Right toward the police station.

Left toward school.

What the hell am I thinking? Walking into a police station? Me? Willa will deny everything. And what do I have to show them, anyway? A ripped-up sketch of a man who Willa said didn’t rape her!

Nope. There’s no way I should walk into that station. No way.

The traffic light continues to blink.

Turn right.

Turn left.

I look at the sketch of the crown of thorns, which is sitting open on the seat next to me.

Shit. She’s miserable and in pain. She’s calling out to me for help. I didn’t help the girl in the Arb; I didn’t help Aggie. I
have
to help Willa.
A car honks behind me.

I turn right, toward the police station.

I keep setting the metal detector off. I take the earrings out of my lobes, the bangles off my wrist, my rhinestone belt, my silver ring… and the damn metal detector
still
goes off.

“You think it could be my nose ring?” I
so
do not want to be strip-searched by this female officer.

“Take it off and we’ll see,” she orders.

“Oh, man, if I take it out, it’d be a bitch to get it back in. Don’t you have a wand thingy—like what they use at the airport?”

She sighs. “Fine, step to the side.”

I do, and she passes the wand thingy over my body, traveling up and down my torso, between my legs, under my armpits—very awkward.

“Um… the nose ring is in my nose,” I remind her.

She fondles the police badge pinned on her shirt and glares at me.

I see my fuzzy reflection in the thick Plexiglas divider behind her and I shut up. I look like a street person. I’m soaked, no coat, wet shoes—one without a heel. I have filthy hands, and bird poop is glued to my frizzy hair. I feel the need to explain myself. “I’m normally well put together. An hour ago my hair was lying vertically, not horizontally, and my boots? They used to be suede; now they look like cardboard. And I was wearing a fabulous coat, but she took it for some reason.”

Officer lady
so
doesn’t give a shit and suppresses a yawn—her nostrils flare.

“The reason I’m here is because I have to talk to someone about the Willa Pressman case. The girl who was raped? It’s very important.”

The wand thingy goes nuts as she passes it by my nose. I bite my tongue, wanting to say, “Told ya so.”

She sighs. “You’re free to go.”

I look around the station. “But, um, where
do
I go?”

“See that jolly-looking fellow behind the desk?” She points. “Go share your very important information with him. I’m sure he’ll love to hear your story.”

I look over and see a three-hundred-pound, toady-looking man. “Him?” I ask.

She nods and belly laughs.

“Okay, I’ll do that, I guess. If I have to.” I swallow. “Thank you, though. Thanks for not kicking me out… with the way I look.”

She’s obviously not used to many thank-yous during her day and looks down at her pudgy feet in her sensible shoes and shifts her weight.

I gather up my metal paraphernalia, dump it into my bag, and hobble over to Mr. Toad. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and say, “I would like to talk to somebody about the Willa Pressman case. I think I may have some new information for them.”

“Down the hallway, on the left. The name Sergeant Daniels is on the door.” He grunts. “But I wouldn’t rush in; knock first.” He leans in close, like he’s about to tell me a secret, and hands me a lollipop. “Don’t let her know I’m not mean.” He looks at the female cop and laughs. “It’s a game with me… keeps her squirming. I like seeing her squirm,” he rasps.

“Okay, thanks.” I unwrap the lollipop—orange, my
favorite, and now that I think of it, my breakfast—and pop it into my mouth.

“Remember to knock first,” he croaks.

The uneven sound of my heels echoes off the cold cinderblock walls as I clunk down the hallway. Not wanting to disturb any serious police business, I take my boots off, mourn their condition one last time, and stuff them into my bag. I continue down the hall, cautiously shoeless.

I come to a closed door, and like Mr. Toad promised, “Sergeant Daniels” is spelled out in tarnished brass letters.

Daniels.
The name rings a bell. Detective Daniels.
Oh, shit.

Athena Day School for Girls—fall, eleventh grade—a year ago. It was an assembly day—“Just Say No to Drugs Day.” A Detective Daniels was the guest speaker, and I’m sure he felt pretty lucky walking into a high school packed with hundreds of horny teenaged girls in uniforms—he being the only male on the premises. And I vaguely remember that he was sort of cute, in a tall, blond kind of way. Giggles erupted when he walked in accompanied by Sally, a drug-sniffing beagle.

“Shit,” Aggie said to me. “He brought a canine with him.”

“You’re not carrying, are you?” I asked.

“Just a bag. But damn, I heard those mutts sniff out as little as a seed. Here, Bea, you take care of it.” She stuffed the baggie into my backpack.

“Aggie! That’s not fair! What am I supposed to do with it?”

Miss Roberts, our bio teacher, walked by. “Um, may I please use the bathroom?”

“After the assembly, Beatrice. You’ll have to wait. We’re about to begin.”

“But I started”—I feigned embarrassment—“you know, Aunt Flow’s come to visit.”

“Who’s visiting you, dear?”

You’d think a biology teacher would’ve understood the reference. “Um, I have to go ride the cotton pony?”

“I do not know what you are talking about, Miss Washington. Now take a seat.”

“My period!” I blurted out. “I’ve started my period!”

Of course all the girls heard this, and having a man in the room made the giggles even louder. And Miss Roberts, embarrassed in front of Detective Daniels, dismissed me as the beagle started sniffing the air, following a scent, walked directly toward me, and bayed.

Aggie gave me the thumbs-up, and I was out of that auditorium lickety-split, before the dog blew my cover and revealed Aggie’s stash. I threw myself into the nearest bathroom, stuffed the plastic bag under a pile of paper towels in the wastebasket, dumped a wad of fresh towels on top, and prayed that the janitor wouldn’t clean up before I could get it back to Aggie.

My prayers went unanswered, as later in the day, after finally making it back to the bathroom, I found the trash can empty, a new, clean plastic liner clinging to its sides. Aggie was so pissed at me for ditching her weed. “What were you thinking? A trash can? Come on!” She didn’t talk to me for
a week, and to make matters worse, I did start my period.

I cursed the detective and his dog that day and now wonder if it’s the same cop I’m about to meet, and if he’s been promoted to sergeant, and if I’ll be sniffed out again.

“Get down on the ground, hands above your head. Now!” a man’s voice demands through the cheap plywood door.

I knock.

A series of gunshots flies through the air. I instinctively duck; my knees hit the door, and it inches open.

Peeking through the crack, expecting to see something gnarly going on, I instead spot two grown men playing an interactive video game—Manhunt. They are pointing their remote controls like guns, shooting and swearing at the screen in front of them.

“Got him!” a tall, lanky cop celebrates. (Yeah, it’s the same Daniels.) “I blew you away, Cole!”

“No way, Daniels, you missed him—you hit the dummy!” The shorter cop taunts, “I set you up, you fool!” He performs a little jig around the room.

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“OH MY GOD,” I say. And all the fear, the anxiety of confronting the “men in blue” evaporates. The shorter cop, the trigger-happy one, turns and points the remote at me, ready to obliterate my existence.

I raise my hands in the air and feign fright. “Please, please, please don’t shoot me. I’m a good guy—really, I am.”

The tall cop laughs a little. “Detective Cole, put your weapon, uh, I mean, the remote down.” He turns the video game off, smoothes his blond hair, rubs his almond-shaped green eyes, and attempts to look important, sound important. “Uh, I’m Sergeant Daniels, he’s Detective Cole. Can we help you?”

“I hope so, but after that, I have my doubts.” I hold out my hand—my cold, dirty hand. “Bea. Beatrice Washington.” Sergeant Daniels takes it without hesitation.

“And you’re here because…?” the sergeant asks.

I don’t have time to fool around. I have no idea how I’ll explain my lengthy absence from school, so I march over to his desk and dump out the contents of my bag. The wet shoes come clumping out first, then my wallet. The jewelry, pens, my sketchbook are tossed out with the torn pieces of the sketch.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Detective Cole approaches, placing his hand on his holster—the real one.

“She tore it up, and I need to redraw it.” I place the hair, the ears. I think a nostril is part of the cleft and put it under his chin. “Damn, that’s wrong.” I look up at the sergeant. “Do you mind if I use your tape?” I don’t wait for the answer and pull off a few pieces from the dispenser on the desk. “This is part of his nose for sure, and his mouth goes here, with the cleft underneath…” I sigh with frustration. “It was so good, real, alive. It must have looked like him because she went hysterical, crazy wild, and then stopped like a switch
turned off, denied everything, and tore it up. Suddenly it
wasn’t
him, even though she knew it was, even though she described him to me—everything about him. Damn. And now look at it. A mess. I’m a mess, too. This whole day is a mess.”