Sound Of Gravel, The (17 page)
Other than our home in Strathmore, that single-wide was one of the nicest places we ever lived. Lane’s generosity when he built it was real, although not any more real than the nightmares he would later visit on me.
Eventually, our mobile home became sort of a truckers’ rest area for Lane, a lot like the camper before it. In addition to his jobs, he was also visiting his other two families regularly. Mom must have known what his schedule was, but she never shared it with us, so I never knew when to expect him. He might suddenly appear at any hour of the day and create a whirlwind of activity around what he needed: a warm meal, clean clothes, a shower, and a haircut. Mom would drop everything for him, only to find that he was leaving the very next day.
One night that summer, Lane arrived home late and the entire house was asleep, or at least it was until the door’s squeaky hinges woke me up. Groggy, I repositioned myself in the bed and caught slices of moonlight shining through the window. Then I heard the shuffling of footsteps. They grew louder and louder. I lifted my head just slightly, and there he was, standing at the threshold of my room. I heard Aaron’s slow breathing on the bunk below me, and a soft spot in the floor squeaked as Lane walked into our bedroom. I laid my head back down slowly, then carefully pulled my comforter up until it was over my head. My nose was pressed against it and my eyes were wide-open as I stared through the stitches and tried to see if he was coming.
My stomach tightened and my shoulders grew tense. I drew in shallow breaths and strained my eyes but couldn’t see anything. I heard footsteps. They grew louder, then stopped at the edge of my bed. I flinched when I suddenly felt Lane’s hot breath enter my ear.
“What are you doin’ awake?”
I moved my head away from him but didn’t answer.
“Hey,” he whispered. He peeled the covers from over my head. I kept my eyes closed tight. He shook my shoulder in its pink cotton nightgown. “What’s the matter with you?” He sounded as if he was chuckling, as if he was amused by my fear.
“You scared me,” I said, trying to make myself sound as big and brave as possible.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m not gonna hurt ya.” His voice was reassuring, deep, gentle, and calm. “I just wanted to come in and say good-night before I went to bed.”
I wasn’t too young to know that I’m-not-gonna-hurt-ya could mean the opposite. I imagined myself making a run for it, pouncing over the bed frame, down the hallway, and into the night. Instead, I whispered, “I think you’re gonna wake up Aaron,” and hoped that Lane would walk away.
Lane ignored me, leaning over my bunk with his unshaven face and lowering it toward my lips. I closed my mouth tightly and sucked in. My resistance to his kisses had become like a game for him. I’d resist, and then he’d beg me, and then he’d try to kiss me again, and then he’d repeat the cycle until I gave in and kissed him back.
“You’re not very welcomin’.” His lips again pecked my closed mouth. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
I felt the comforter move and his fingers work their way along its edge till they’d reached my bare neck. It was July and the heat of the covers made me dizzy. Lane bent forward to kiss me again, and when he did, I felt his fingers reach under my nightgown until they found my tiny chest.
He drew in a deep breath. “Now that feels nice.”
“Leave me alone,” I whispered. I wanted to spit in his face, to run into Mom’s room and scream.
“Feels like you’re going to need a bra soon,” he said, ignoring me, stroking my chest from one nipple to the other.
“Leave me alone.”
I grabbed his little finger and pulled it out of my gown, but my resistance only seemed to excite him. He freed his hand and slipped it back under my gown. “I don’t like that, Lane.”
“You might not like it now, but when you get married, you’re going to love it when your husband touches you there,” he whispered. “We should practice so you know what to do. You’ll like it when he touches you here too.” He reached down deeper, lifting up my nightgown, and put his hand inside my panties. His skin smelled like copper, as if he’d been sweating pennies all day. He scratched me with his calloused fingers as his hand slipped between my legs. “Does that feel good?”
“No!” I spat back in a loud whisper, tears rolling down my cheeks. “I want you to leave me alone!” I pulled hard on his hairy forearm, desperately trying to remove it. The bed creaked.
“Settle down, now,” he shot back, suddenly nervous that he might be discovered. “You do what you’re told. Be a good little girl. This will help you relax.”
The next minutes felt like hours. Lane kept his hand between my legs, but all I could feel was the rapid pounding of my heart. Finally, when I could take no more, I said, “I’m gonna tell my mom.”
The words hit their mark. Shocked out of his trance, Lane jerked his hand from beneath the covers. “No. You can’t, Ruthie. She’s too sensitive. You’ll hurt her feelings if you tell her.” Now it was he who struggled to keep his voice down, he who was desperate. Thinking quickly, he promised to buy me an ice cream cone the next time he was in El Paso, but only if I didn’t tell Mom. “Does that sound good to ya?”
I didn’t care about ice cream, but I knew Lane wouldn’t go away until I vowed to keep his secret. I agreed that I wouldn’t tell. As soon as he moved away from my bed, I heard him limping across the soft floor. But I promised myself that I would tell Mom what had happened just as soon as Lane left town. He opened Mom’s bedroom door, and then it tapped closed behind him, and at last I knew the ordeal was over. My body wasn’t convinced, though. I felt numb and tense. I put my head under my covers, curled my legs up, and wrapped my arms around them. Suddenly, my hands felt cold,
freezing
cold
.
I began to shiver. It was as if I’d been frozen from the inside out. I held myself and cried till morning.
Lane had already left town by the time I woke up. I walked into the kitchen and found Mom repairing her glasses.
She worked with a tiny screwdriver, her eyes squinting as she tightened an earpiece. She looked up at me. “Is that you, Sis? I’m as blind as a bat without these things. Good mornin’, Ruthie. You look tired. Are ya feelin’ okay?”
In the morning light, Mom looked like a fragile old lady. I hesitated. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” Her voice was warm and soft.
At that moment, my brothers walked into the kitchen in their pajamas, stretching as they poured their bowls of Corn Chex.
I looked down at my sandals. “I’m okay,” I said, not looking at Mom.
As the day went on, I began to have doubts about the previous night’s events. My stomach twisted into knots when I thought about what had happened, and then I found myself questioning my memory. I went through the day with a sick stomach and a numb mind, my hands still freezing.
That night, as I always did when Lane was out of town, I lay in Mom’s bed with a library book. This time I only pretended to read while Mom finished getting herself ready for bed. Eventually, she got under the covers, propped up her head on two pillows, and opened her book. My mom loved steamy romance paperbacks. The glossy covers always featured photographs of strapping, muscular men in the throes of passion with beautiful, thin-waisted, big-bosomed women wearing low-cut blouses and loose skirts that flapped in the wind.
As Mom read, I trembled inside. Finally, I turned to face her. “Mom?”
She lowered her book from her face, laid it open over her chest, and looked down at me from beneath her glasses.
“Uh … I have something to tell you.” I bit the inside of my lower lip just the way she did when she was tense.
“What’s that?”
I found myself hesitating the way I had that morning.
“Come on, Ruthie, spit it out. You can tell me.”
I felt my mouth open. “When Lane was here last night…”
“Yes?”
“He-he-he…” I swallowed.
“He what, Ruthie?” Mom’s eyes narrowed but her voice remained soothing.
Suddenly it all just tumbled out. “He touched my private parts.” I sighed with relief.
Mom’s eyes widened. She looked completely stunned. She closed her book, set it on the nightstand, and sat up straight in the bed. “Are you sure about that?” Her voice sounded higher than usual, questioning, uncertain. “Was it an accident? When did he do that?”
Mom’s skepticism threw me off-balance and I began to question myself all over again. “Um, I think it was when he came home last night.”
“Which private parts did he touch?”
“He touched me here.” I pointed. “And here.”
“Are you
sure
he did that, Ruthie?” Now she looked irritated, like someone who hadn’t appreciated having her reading interrupted. Still, her body was frozen in place and hanging on my every word.
“I’m sure,” I replied firmly.
She sat and stared at me for a bit. “Well, I’ll talk to him when he comes home next time.” With that, she whipped her body around, lowered her pillows, and turned the lights off. The discussion was over. I edged my body off her bed and walked to my bedroom. Aaron was already asleep in the bottom bunk.
A week later, Lane drove through El Paso on his way to LeBaron and stayed for the night. The next morning I was jolted from sleep by his hand on my shoulder. He needed to talk to me in the living room, he said. There, in a white undershirt and jeans, he sat on our burnt-orange couch beneath the tiled mirror and put on his tube socks, carefully avoiding looking at me.
“Your mom says that I hurt your feelings,” he said in a flat, tired voice. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry, and I won’t touch you in those places again.” With his head still down, he slipped on his army work boots and laced them up.
“Okay,” I said, relieved that at least he hadn’t denied his actions to Mom. Still, he hadn’t said he did anything wrong. Was I making a big deal out of nothing? I wondered.
Lane stood up, shook his pant legs down over his socks and boots, and then—still without looking at me—asked for a hug good-bye. I walked slowly across the room. He bent over, wrapped his arms around me, and patted my back lightly. Then, he stood up straight and strode confidently out of the room.
We are in the back of a small pickup truck that’s going so fast I can barely hold on. The truck careens down a two-lane highway at a speed I’ve never before felt. They are all here, my cousins and siblings, pressed tightly up against me, my brother Aaron huddled at my bare feet, ducking from the violent wind, all of us holding on as tight as we can. But while they’re somehow able to stay anchored, Aaron and I are inching closer to the tailgate.
“Don’t let her take me,” Aaron screams. He is holding on to my leg, clutching it for dear life with dread in his pale blue eyes. “Please!” he begs, his cheeks red from the cold, puffed from yelling. I nod so he won’t be scared, but now my feet are up against the tailgate, and the witch is close behind us. Each time the truck screeches around a curve, she gains ground.
We hit a bump; my body hurtles upward and is carried away by a gust of dusty wind so powerful that I am ripped from Aaron’s grasp. I grab for the truck’s back bumper and hold on like a flag waving in the wind, the tips of my toes scraping against the road whenever we change direction. I can’t see the witch but know she’s there, and sure enough I hear a cackling. I turn my head to see her flying ever nearer on her broomstick. I kick her away as the road beneath me passes in a blur, the yellow, dotted line an endless procession of minus signs.
“Help me! Help me!” I call out, but the wind is too strong for anyone to hear me, and now the witch’s cold fingers wrap around my ankle. I see her evil face reflected in a taillight. She smiles with black lips and jagged, overlapping teeth, the tip of her crooked nose pointed. Her black eyes are mirrored like a cat’s. They squint hard as she gives my ankle one last pull. “I’ll get you, my pretty,” her hollow voice cackles. I lose my grip.
* * *
I AWOKE WITH
a jolt, slowly realizing that I was in my bed above Aaron, still safe under my
Sesame Street
sheets and only steps away from Mom. But I couldn’t shake the dream, one I’d had over and over since Lane had first come into my room. My brothers and I had watched
The Wizard of Oz
at least a dozen times. It seemed as if it were always on TV. When I’d sleep, the Wicked Witch became my greatest nemesis. A recurring villain in my sleeping mind, she occupied all my nightmares, which felt real and terrifying. I took a deep breath as I stretched in the sunlight streaming through the window. I could hear Mom moving around her bedroom, so I shrugged off my covers and climbed out of bed to pour myself a bowl of cereal.
Later that morning, Mom called my brothers and me into the living room. We were greeted by the familiar smells of her musk perfume and Aqua Net hair spray, which I had started using on my own hair before school. She was dressed in her navy-blue polyester pants and a striped cotton blouse that fit tight around her pregnant belly. She had already curled her hair and feathered it back. So rarely did Mom fix herself up in those days, she looked like a little girl playing dress-up.