Rogan started in on his interpretation as soon as they hit the car. I dont buy for a second that Julia Whitmire had calmed down recently. A weekend home alone?
Exactly what a depressed girl might prefer, Ellie said.
No way. The type of girl who bangs personal trainers and hands out blow jobs at the beach in exchange for transportation doesnt suddenly calm down because shes depressed. Julias mom said she hated being alone. If Julia had leveled out, I bet you anything she had a new man on the side-someone she was being hush-hush about, even with her best friend.
Either way, were still looking at a depressed bulimic whose parents had abandoned her. No forced entry. Nothing missing. Dont forget the slit wrist and suicide note. On the other side of the ledger, weve got a missing notepad. Plus that stuff about Julia saying that Ramonas mom had been a better mother to her than her own? One more indication that Katherine Whitmire was a cold, crappy mother, and that her daughter, Julia, wasnt quite as tough about it as she let on. Who could blame her for drinking herself numb and checking out?
We still owe it to that girl and to those parents to be a hundred percent positive before we take her name from the board.
The car fell silent once again. Ellie finally reached for the radio but Rogan blocked her hand.
None of your new wave Devo Flock of Seagulls shit when Im driving. As far as Ellie could tell, Rogan thought any music by white people between 1983 and 1997 was either Devo or Flock of Seagulls.
But then the silence must have gotten to him, as well. He turned on the stereo and stopped the dial on a rap song she actually recognized. She muttered the lyrics as she looked out the window. Aint nothin but a g-thang, baby.
It was enough to get a laugh out of her partner. You kidding me with that?
What? I grew up in Kansas, not on a commune. She put a little more swagger into her performance, swaying in her seat. And now all you hookas and hos know how I feel.
Damn, woman. You got to ruin everything for me, dont you? I wont be able to listen to that again without picturing your bony butt bouncing around.
She placed a hand on her hip. Aint nothing bony about this. You just want a small piece of some of that funky stuff.
He shook his head, but he was smiling. This mean were all right?
Were always all right. You should know that by now.
But you still think youre right and Im wrong.
Yep.
Want to go talk to this homeless kid, Casey?
Nope. But I will. Last time I checked, thats what we do.
Chapter Eleven
Second Acts: Confessions of a Former Victim and Current Survivor
MAKE IT STOP
Im continually surprised at the way ordinary events trigger revelations about abuse and survivorship. This morning, my daughter awoke to the sounds of jack hammers thanks to a construction project on the street below her bedroom window. She wandered from her bedroom bleary-eyed and bed-headed, her palms pressed against her ears. Make it stop. Thats all I want right now: Just make it stop.
Make it stop. Its a perfectly rational reaction, isnt it? To want to put an end to whatever unpleasant stimuli one is experiencing? To crave the exact opposite?
Ear-shattering noise? Give me total silence instead. Blisteringly hot food? Hand me cold water. Blinding light? I shut my eyes to enjoy the darkness.
Rape? Make it stop.
But what does it mean to crave the opposite of rape? No sex? No physical contact? No men?
But rape, we must always remind ourselves, isnt about sex. Its about power. Our abusers want to exercise dominion over us. They want to steal our agency.
And so what do we do? We take our agency back, however we can.
I couldnt force that man out of my house, but I could choose not to go to school. I couldnt bar him from my bedroom at night, but I could get a fake ID and a six-pack at three in the afternoon. I couldnt stop him from eyeing me every time my mother averted her gaze, but I could start hanging around the people my mother had always called bad influences. I needed to know I could make choices that belonged to me.
We have all read about some rape case that goes uncharged or unpunished because of evidence that the victim engaged in consensual sexual activity with another man (or men) immediately after the rape. Why in the world, prosecutors and jurors ask, would a woman who had just been raped go out and have sex with someone else? They assume that a desire to make it stop necessarily translates into a lack of interest in sex.
But, once again, I thought we all knew by now that rape is not about sex. If make it stop means a craving for the opposite, then isnt it perfectly predictable that some of us respond to rape by exercising agency over our own sexual intimacy?
In my case, I couldnt protect my body from him, but I could choose to start sharing it with someone else. And of course I chose an unacceptable someone else-at once too old and too immature. That decision in turn led to its own forms of damage, self-inflicted in some sense and yet, it seems to me, still wholly attributable to my abuser.
Part of survival is getting to a place where we are able to exercise true free will, not just a reaction or rebellion against the abuse. Yesterday I wrote about forgiveness, not of our abusers, but of the people who enabled them. We must also forgive ourselves for reacting to the abuse in destructive ways, harming ourselves and others in response to our loss of power. We have to learn how to accept our pasts and determine our own futures. Its the only way to really make it stop.
This evening the blog was being read on a display laptop at the Apple Store in the Meatpacking District. The reader made a point to stand close to the computer, blocking the screen from view of the crowds of shoppers who provided further anonymity.
It did not take long to type a reply to the post:
I will show you damage. I will show you loss of free will. I will show you harm. And you will never make it stop.
The typist did not know that on a different computer, at a public library in the suburbs of Buffalo, an ex-convict named Jimmy Grisco was doing some online reading of his own.
Chapter Twelve
Ellie loved the arch at Washington Square Park. Serving as a frame for the view up Fifth Avenue to the Empire State Building, the arch had an impressive historical pedigree, with origins dating back to George Washington, but Ellie would always think of it as the spot where Harry dropped off Sally after their road trip home from Chicago.
She also thought of it as the usual location of Marty, the citys best hot dog vendor. They were in luck. Tonight was one of the first warm evenings of spring, and he had set up shop just west of the fountain.
After they parked on Waverly, she led the way to the snack cart. Lets stop here for a dog.
How is it that wherever we go you have a food stop within a one-block radius? Its like youve got a culinary map of this city implanted in your brain.
Actually, she did, but on this particular night, she was more interested in Marty himself than the fact that he used Hebrew Nationals, stocked Fresca in the can, and always had fresh buns. Marty had been her eyes and ears in this park back when she was on patrol.
She loaded her bun with yellow mustard and relish, while Rogan opted for ketchup only. So, Marty, do you know a street kid around here named Casey? Male, about twenty years old? Hangs out here with some of the other homeless kids?
Not sure you have the right info, but I know who you mean.
Why do you say we dont have the right information?
Youll see for yourself. The one youre looking for is over there.
He pointed to a kid practicing handstands in the grass just north of the dog park. Ellie thanked Marty and she and Rogan started making their way toward Casey. Halfway there, she realized what Marty had been alluding to.
You mind if I take the lead with this one? Ellie asked.
You still think youve got it going on for teenage boys, huh?
Like you dont turn on the charm for the cougar crowd when opportunity calls. Just promise me you wont say anything thats going to scare this kid off. In fact, just dont say anything.
C asey Heinz?
Casey wiped his palms on his khakis and looked around as if someone else might step forward to have this conversation.
Thats pretty good, Ellie said. Itd kill my wrists if I tried something like that. Probably a sign I spend too much time typing up reports at a computer. Your friend Ramona told us we might find you here. She introduced herself and Rogan with a flash of her badge.
At the sight of Ellie scribbling his name in her notebook, he added, Heinz like the ketchup, not like hind legs.
Casey short for anything?
The pause was barely perceptible, but it was there. Nope. Just Casey.
Got it, Ellie said with a smile. You knew Julia Whitmire?
Casey short for anything?
The pause was barely perceptible, but it was there. Nope. Just Casey.
Got it, Ellie said with a smile. You knew Julia Whitmire?
I knew her. I mean, only through Ramona, and not like the two of them, but, yeah, sure, um, Id say we all knew each other.
Julias mother mentioned meeting you one time at the townhouse. Did you go there often?
Casey raised his eyebrows in surprise. I cant believe I even registered on that womans radar. Oh, wait, let me guess? She didnt remember me at all. Just some homeless kid?
I think from the streets may have been her phrase of choice. She said there were a few kids over that day. She had mentioned two boys and a girl, to be exact.
Yeah, I think it was Brandon, and this girl we see at the park sometimes named Vonda.
Did you go to Julias regularly?
Oh, huh-uh. Id been there maybe four or five times, and usually it was just to swing by to meet her on a day out with Ramona. That was bad luck the one night her mom came in. Vonda was always fawning all over Julias clothes the couple of times wed hung out by the fountain together.
Here at the park, you mean?
Yeah. So then Julia told me the next time I saw Vonda, I should try bringing her around because Julia had all these clothes she wanted to give away. We were just about to leave when her mom came home. She acted like we were going to walk out with the china or something.