something to counter this, some experience in the same twenty-four hours that would make me resist placing people in categories and aiming at them my full-on hate. It was my first hug from a man after the rape—black or white—and all I knew was that I couldn't give anything back.
The arms around me, the vague threat of physical power, were all too much.
By the end, Victor and I had an audience. It was something I would have to get used to.
Standing close to him, but separated from the embrace, I was aware of Mary Alice and of Diane. They belonged. The others were foggy and off to the side. They were watching my life as if it were a movie. In their version of the story, where did they fit? I would find out over the years that in a few versions, I was their best friend. Knowing a victim is like knowing a celebrity. Particularly when the crime is clouded in taboo. When I was doing research for this book, back in Syracuse, I met a woman like this. Without recognizing me at first, only knowing I was writing a book on Alice Sebold's rape case, she hurried in from another room and told me and those assisting me that "the victim in that case was my best friend." I had no idea who she was. When someone referred to me by name, she blinked and then came forward, embracing me to save face.
In Cindy's room, I sat down on the bed closest to the door. Cindy, Mary Alice, and Tree were there, perhaps Diane. Cindy had shooed the others out and shut her door.
It was time. I sat with the phone in my lap. My mother was only a few miles away, having driven up the day before to take me home from Syracuse. She would be up and puttering around her hotel room at the Holiday Inn. At that time she traveled with her own coffeemaker because she made decaf in her room. She was coming down from as much as ten cups of coffee a day, and restaurants weren't yet in the custom of serving decaf.
Before she had dropped me off at Ken Childs's house the evening before, we had agreed she would come to the dorm around 8:30 A.M.—a late start for her but a concession to the fact that I would have been up late saying good-bye to friends. I looked around at my girlfriends, hoping they would say, "You don't look so bad," or provide me with the single and perfect story to explain the cuts and bruises on my face—the story that I hadn't been able to come up with during the night.
Tree dialed the phone.
When my mother picked up. Tree said, "Mrs. Sebold, this is a friend of Alice's, Tree Roebeck."
Maybe my mother said hello.
"I'm going to put Alice on the phone now. She needs to speak with you."
Tree handed me the phone.
"Mom," I started.
She must not have heard what I thought was the obvious quaver in my voice. She was irritated.
"What is it, Alice? You know I'm due over soon; can't it wait?"
"Mom, I need to tell you something."
She heard it now. "What, what is it?"
I said it as if I were reading a line from a script.
"Last night I was beaten and raped in the park."
My mother said, "Oh, my God," and then, after a quick inhalation of breath, a startled gasp, she reeled herself in. "Are you all right?"
"Can you come get me, Mommy?" I asked.
She said it would be twenty minutes or so, she had to pack up and check out, but she would be there.
I hung up the phone.
Mary Alice suggested that we wait in her room until my mother arrived. Someone had bought bagels or doughnuts.
In the time since our arrival back at the dorm, students had woken up. There was hurry all around me. Many students, including my friends, were meeting parents for breakfast or rushing to bus stations and airports. People would attend to me and then switch off to finish packing. I sat with my back against the cinder-block dorm wall. As people came in and out and the door opened, I could hear bits of conversation.
"Where is she?" "Raped … "" … see her face?" " … she know him?" " … always weird … "
I had not eaten anything since the night before—since the raisins at Ken
The arms around me, the vague threat of physical power, were all too much.
By the end, Victor and I had an audience. It was something I would have to get used to.
Standing close to him, but separated from the embrace, I was aware of Mary Alice and of Diane. They belonged. The others were foggy and off to the side. They were watching my life as if it were a movie. In their version of the story, where did they fit? I would find out over the years that in a few versions, I was their best friend. Knowing a victim is like knowing a celebrity. Particularly when the crime is clouded in taboo. When I was doing research for this book, back in Syracuse, I met a woman like this. Without recognizing me at first, only knowing I was writing a book on Alice Sebold's rape case, she hurried in from another room and told me and those assisting me that "the victim in that case was my best friend." I had no idea who she was. When someone referred to me by name, she blinked and then came forward, embracing me to save face.
In Cindy's room, I sat down on the bed closest to the door. Cindy, Mary Alice, and Tree were there, perhaps Diane. Cindy had shooed the others out and shut her door.
It was time. I sat with the phone in my lap. My mother was only a few miles away, having driven up the day before to take me home from Syracuse. She would be up and puttering around her hotel room at the Holiday Inn. At that time she traveled with her own coffeemaker because she made decaf in her room. She was coming down from as much as ten cups of coffee a day, and restaurants weren't yet in the custom of serving decaf.
Before she had dropped me off at Ken Childs's house the evening before, we had agreed she would come to the dorm around 8:30 A.M.—a late start for her but a concession to the fact that I would have been up late saying good-bye to friends. I looked around at my girlfriends, hoping they would say, "You don't look so bad," or provide me with the single and perfect story to explain the cuts and bruises on my face—the story that I hadn't been able to come up with during the night.
Tree dialed the phone.
When my mother picked up. Tree said, "Mrs. Sebold, this is a friend of Alice's, Tree Roebeck."
Maybe my mother said hello.
"I'm going to put Alice on the phone now. She needs to speak with you."
Tree handed me the phone.
"Mom," I started.
She must not have heard what I thought was the obvious quaver in my voice. She was irritated.
"What is it, Alice? You know I'm due over soon; can't it wait?"
"Mom, I need to tell you something."
She heard it now. "What, what is it?"
I said it as if I were reading a line from a script.
"Last night I was beaten and raped in the park."
My mother said, "Oh, my God," and then, after a quick inhalation of breath, a startled gasp, she reeled herself in. "Are you all right?"
"Can you come get me, Mommy?" I asked.
She said it would be twenty minutes or so, she had to pack up and check out, but she would be there.
I hung up the phone.
Mary Alice suggested that we wait in her room until my mother arrived. Someone had bought bagels or doughnuts.
In the time since our arrival back at the dorm, students had woken up. There was hurry all around me. Many students, including my friends, were meeting parents for breakfast or rushing to bus stations and airports. People would attend to me and then switch off to finish packing. I sat with my back against the cinder-block dorm wall. As people came in and out and the door opened, I could hear bits of conversation.
"Where is she?" "Raped … "" … see her face?" " … she know him?" " … always weird … "
I had not eaten anything since the night before—since the raisins at Ken
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