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I Trusted Him

Bill Tope

I gazed down at my cousin Rebecca, sitting
at my feet, upon the curb along the street in
front of my house. Her face was wrapped in
her hands. She was crying.

Becky had been raped, by another cousin,
Mark, from the other side of my family. Mark
had told me, “Tonight I’m gonna do her.” I
looked quizzically at him. “The dirty,” he
elaborated. Still I looked at him blankly. “I’m
gonna screw her, Stupid,” he finally spelled it out.

“Mark,” I warned him, “I don’t know if Becky even
likes you.” He blew this off. “Once she gets a load
of the Winters’s touch, she’ll open right up--if you
know what I mean.” I knew what he meant, but
she had never indicated to me that she had any
interest, sexual or otherwise, in Mark. They barely
knew one another; in fact their only common thread
rested in knowing me.

But Mark seemed very confident--he always did--
and according to him he’d have Becky falling all over
herself to get close to him. And what did I know? I was
just fourteen and Mark was a whole year older and
accordingly, more worldly.

During one of the families’ never-ending get togethers,
he had lured her from the living room and they had gone
together upstairs. I had always felt rather protective of
Becky; she was my favorite among my more than a dozen
cousins and, unlike most of them, including Mark, she
lived nearby, in the neighborhood. She was a beautiful
girl, and so smart, too! I mentally kind of shrugged.

But that was the night before and now, with Becky
sobbing and my feeling paralyzingly helpless, I sat beside
her, held her hand as she tried to explain what had
happened.

“He raped me, Pat,” she said bluntly. I winced. “But, I
thought you kind of liked him,” I muttered. “I barely know
him,” she corrected me. “The only reason I followed him
upstairs is he said you wanted me to.” I blinked in surprise.
“Mark said that we were all going to do something together,”
she went on. “And I know you like him. I thought I could
trust him, you know, if you did.” I felt my cheeks burning. I
was at least in part responsible for the assault. Becky’s
words kept echoing in my mind I trusted him.”

Finally I found my voice. “I didn’t tell him anything,” I said.
“Yes,” she said bitterly. “I know that now.” Next I asked, “did
he hurt you?” She took a deep shuddering breath. “Yeah, he
hurt me, Pat.” I didn’t want her to go on but she did: “He did
it on your mom and dad’s bed and I bled--a lot. Then he just
left! I had to hurry and change the bedding and everything
and then smuggled the sheets out of the bedroom...” She
began to weep anew. What should I do, I wondered bleakly.

“Did he say anything?” I finally asked. “Yes, he did. He said
I wanted it, that I wanted him. When I called him a lying
sonofabitch, he slapped me, hard, again and again. Then he
punched my stomach and said that if I told anyone, he’d call me
a liar and that you would back him up, say that I really wanted
to have sex with him.” I closed my eyes in self-loathing.
“Besides,” she added, “he said, you’d never forgive me if I
ratted out his favorite cousin.” I knew then just what to do.
Taking out my phone I dialed 911. I gave the dispatcher my
name and address, said, “I want to report a rape.”

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