Trajectory
john sweet
Three bald tires leaning up against the side of a trailer, which is not the same as the Holy Trinity. Which is not the same as this woman tied up with packing tape then raped three times, then another piece over her mouth, then another sealing her nose.
The truth, which is only a weapon. The weapon, which is always something small and innocuous. Is always something bought at Wal-Mart, paid for with a credit card and, next to the tires, a hole punched through the skirting. A child hiding underneath, but always found. A child not hiding, but hidden.
Give him a name. Give the woman a setting. An alley, a doorway, a dead end street by the railroad tracks. A city, but not the one she’s found in. A second story apartment filled with sunlight, almost warm. A girl sitting naked on the couch, says she’s sixteen, says she told me this the night before but I don’t remember, or I don’t want to remember, or I just don’t believe her.
And I was in bed with her, yes, and at some point I woke up alone. Found her on the living room floor with my roommate’s brother, the two of them wrapped up in a blanket, and she looked at me and smiled. Pulled the blanket back to invite me in, but I was tired. My head was pounding.
And of course the boy is found eventually, and then the mother, and the boyfriend has disappeared.
And her stepfather calls me on a Tuesday night, asks if she’s with me, and I have no idea what he knows. I have no idea how the hell he got my number. And I tell him that I haven’t seen her for weeks, which is the truth, and then I hang up and, when the phone rings again, it’s the police. A sergeant whose name I don’t catch, and she asks the same questions as the stepfather, and I give the same answers.
And my roommate’s brother is gone again, back down to North Carolina to stay with his parents, and a fetus is found trapped in one of the grates in one of the tanks at the water treatment plant. I can’t remember how she came to be here that night. I can’t remember if we’re still at war.
And she shows up at my door three days later, asks if she can come in, if I have a beer. She sits on my bed, flipping through a stack of CDs. I tell her that her stepfather called, that the cops called, and she nods.
What the hell is all over your arms? I ask, and she pushes the sleeves up, says Magic marker. I see smiley faces, frowny faces, a cross, an anarchy sign, and she stands up and takes her shirt off, isn’t wearing a bra, and I see that someone has drawn targets on her tips, has used her nipples for the bullseyes. I see WHORE written across her stomach, doodles all over her back as she spins around slowly. Words and pictures disappear into the waistband of her pants and I ask How far down does it go? and she takes them off, no panties, and I say Jesus Christ.
The writing is everywhere. Stubble has ben drawn on her legs, hands have been drawn on her ass, FUCK ME written up the inside of one thigh, SLUT up the other. Eyes look at me from her pubic hair.
I was staying with some guys, she says. They kept giving me booze. Kept giving me pills. I passed out last night, and she raises her arms out like she’s being crucified, stands naked in front of me. I woke up this morning like this. Everyone was gone.
You had clothes on last night, and you woke up naked? I ask, and she nods.
I’m pretty sure they took turns fucking me. She gestures with her hands. It hurts.
And I look at her. I look away. It’s the end of May, dusk, the bedroom windows open. Kids are laughing in the street. A car passes by with its stereo up loud, Zeppelin, The Song Remains the Same, and the boyfriend is still on the run. The trailer has been roped off with police tape. The windows have all been broken. The father has asked to be left alone.
And she stands in front of me, naked, near tears, and I pick up her shirt and hand it to her. Can think of nothing to say but Get dressed, and what happens is that a man has been brought in for questioning, but it won’t change anything. It won’t remove the tape, or the sock that was found stuffed in the woman’s mouth, and it sure as fuck won’t bring her back to life, but it’s all any of us have and so we embrace it. We act like justice exists. It’s such a simple form of blindness.
