Cuttings

9.

At age twenty-nine, Katt got lucky.

A strange man picked her up hitchhiking. He drove out an old dirt road into the woods and parked the car. He pinned her under him and tore at her clothes, slapped her across the face and left bruises. He ripped into her skin and she bled. But Katt fought hard like a wild animal and crawled out of the car. He chased her, but she ran fast. She lunged into a stream and waded up to her neck even though she couldn’t swim a stroke. She ran through the silent night with the devil on her back. She collapsed at the door of a friend’s house. Banged with both fists until the lights snapped on. Her clothes dripped with bloody water. Katt’s friend dressed her in an oversized white shirt while he washed and dried her clothes. He stroked her and nudged hot tea into her hands. Katt trembled and chain-smoked. She shivered, sobbed, felt angry and weak. Katt wished she had been strong enough to kill the stranger and vowed to buy a switchblade.

-- Another excerpt from Katt's Lives

By the fall of '98 I'm almost done with it. But I don't know that yet. I don't know that within a month he will arrive from tobacco road to begin the final dance, to provide the final push into the abyss of madness. I don't believe I'll ever dance with that devil again. I laugh at the suggestion, and I'm serious. I left him for someone else. I left him for his best friend, his brother-in-law, best man at his wedding. I chose someone else. But out of sight, out of mind; he seldom enters my thoughts.

This fall I'm obsessed with another. I've been dumped, but not really dumped. He still comes around. He still calls. I still have hope. I'm still good enough for screwing. Though not good enough for his bed, only for hotel rooms and backseats and tall grass and truck bunks. I think I love him. I think he loved me too once. I don't want to think he only uses me now. I won't think that. I bury these thoughts behind drunk clouds circling my hazy mind. It is much more pleasant to believe sex is love. Even though he only shows up once every few weeks and stays just long enough to take his pleasure. Even though I've heard he's dating other girls. Even though I saw him touch someone else's hair, but he won't so much as kiss my cheek anymore. If it is truly over, why doesn't he leave me alone? If he doesn't care, why doesn't he stay away?

I'm sleeping less. I'm so wired from pills that even the few hours stolen each week are restless fits of tossing. Five minutes of shut eye feels like an eternity. Time is screwed up. I see every sunrise, every sunset, but I like the dark the best. Sunlight hurts my eyes.

I always have an open beer. Though this fall I'm also dipping into the whiskey because I realise I am able to drink too much beer, cases disappear on nights spent alone with no customers. Rye is a cheaper habit, more profit margin, and I'm spending way too much money.

A friend shows up to help with an event Saturday, work the door, empty the ashtrays, throw people out who piss me off. He doesn't understand how I deal with this hassle everyday and stay sober. I'm sober? Since when? I've downed 16 Alpine and it's only just 2 in the afternoon. I can't remember the last time I ate. I haven't been home since Wednesday. I'm wearing men's clothes -- too tight faded Levis, a large white denim shirt, cracked brown leather belt -- fresh clothes borrowed from the man who let me shower at his place this morning after the all-night card game.

I'm missing cash but I never bother to count it, so I have no idea how much. At least $80 maybe as much as $500. I've given up carrying a purse. I don't trust people not to steal it. I don't trust people not to rifle through it and take things without my knowing. I don't trust myself to remember I have it with me. Instead I carry thousands of dollars in my right front jeans pocket in case of emergency. I need $500 on me at all times, just in case, or I'm uncomfortable. I'm a little paranoid. I think the missing money fell out of my pocket but it's impossible to know for sure.

I'm working my way through my second pack of cigarettes. I just took another handful of pills with a shot of whiskey . . . and I'm passing for sober. In this place I am the boss and I'm passing as being in control. The weight of this shocks even me . . . and I'm wasted.

Weeknights are slow. Sometimes a few people show up, sometimes nobody at all. My mother calls every night to see if I want her to come take me home. I lie and say I have customers or I have plans or I have a drive with someone else. Every night I wait for him to call or show up. And every night he stays away. Most nights I don't want to be around people, which is good because most nights people don't want to be around me. I'm weary, sick of everything. Everyone wants something from me, but nobody is honest. The human race is disappointing. I'm sad.

After I lie to my mother I lock the doors, turn off the lights. I like the way the streetlight shines in through the windows. I like that I can see the outside, watch the parking lot and driveway, but nobody can see me. I am invisible in the darkness. The night is my favourite time, I walk all over town and through the woods and out to the river and nobody ever sees. By the glow of the streetlight I put my loonie in the jukebox. Madonna sings to me. I climb onto the pool table, lie on my back, staring into the rafters, and I cry.

Where do we go from here?
This isn't where we intended to be
We had it all, you believed in me
I believed in you

Certainties disappear
What do we do for our dream to survive?
How do we keep all our passions alive,
As we used to do?

Deep in my heart I'm concealing
Things that I'm longing to say
Scared to confess what I'm feeling
Frightened you'll slip away

You must love me
You must love me

My heart is broken. It hurts so much and no matter what I do I can't turn it off. I drink more. I party harder. I throw myself into event planning. I hook up with other boys. I crack jokes and smile a lot and drive people home even though legally I'm forbidden and undoubtedly impaired myself. Nothing helps. It hurts. And the hurting tires me.

This is my life that fall.

It's a weeknight when he comes in. Early in the week. Based on the clientele, probably a Tuesday. On Tuesday's I almost always go home and tonight I want to go home. I plan to go home.

He's a regular. A drunk. An alcoholic. No good. Everyone pities his wife at home with their new baby. He's also a friend of the guy I've been obsessing about, the guy breaking my heart, snapping my heart strings, tying them into knots. He's a little annoying but mostly under my radar, harmless, funny by times, not troublesome.

At closing he offers to give me a ride home. He's going my way. It's Tuesday and I want to go home, sleep for four hours before the insanity of weekend begins tomorrow and runs through until next Tuesday. My mind is preoccupied as we drive out the road toward the main highway. I'm thinking about things, not paying attention. My conversation is on automatic pilot, just general gossip and pleasantries, nothing serious.

He turns onto a dirt road and drives toward the river. I'm not alarmed. I know the man who lives in the house by this river. He is another friend of the man I'm in love with, and if he is home he might be having a party, and if he's having a party chances are good that the man I desire will be there. My surroundings come into clearer focus as I perk at this idea. But at the end of the lane the house is dark. Nobody home. And I fall into my disappointed thoughts.

He puts the car into park and turns off the engine. I think he must need to take a piss. He starts to talk. Damn! I'm the bartender and everybody dumps their problems at my feet. I climb further into my mind, turning over my thoughts while I nod and appear understanding.

When it happens I don't see it coming. It happens quickly. One second he is chattering away about what a pain his wife is but how much he loves his kid and in mid-sentence his lips lock onto mine as he lunges to the passenger side. But even this is not totally unexpected. This stuff happens. I'm the bartender. And guys think that means I'm up for grabs. It's an annoyance, but easily straightened out.

I pull away, put a hand on his chest. Stop. I'm sorry, but I'm not into this. You seem like a nice guy and all but I'm crazy about someone else and you've got a wife and kids and this isn't right and I'd just like to go home now, okay. This is the jist of the spiel. It works. Guys are surprised because they've heard rumours about me. They'll feed the rumour mill later when their friends want the juicy details about their encounter with me. Some guys I even have secret agreements with -- I won't tell anyone that we didn't do anything. Agreements I honour, answering with a smile and saying nothing when asked, rather than deny. What do I care about rumours? What do I care what people think? I know who I am and what I've done.

The spiel works. Usually. But not this time.

It happens so quick I don't even know how. One second I am sitting in the passenger seat, delivering the spiel, waiting for the apologetic response, and the sound of the ignition. Then I'm on my back. Pinned. Steering wheel cutting into my shoulder. Feet still touching the passenger mat. His tongue forces its way into my mouth and his hands snake under my blouse and invade my bra. It's so quick, I'm stunned, can't react. And when I do react I'm not understanding the gravity of this situation -- Hold 'er now! That's enough.

His fingers are like pincers on my breasts. He sqeezes and pulls and twists, hard -- You're hurting me. Let me up.

He ignores me, like I've said nothing. Slides a hand into my jeans -- Enough! Get off of me!

With both hands I push against him. But I can't budge him. Panic swells in my throat -- STOP!! NOW!

My jeans are undone, open, pulled onto my thighs, blouse pushed up over my face, he's undoing his pants, I hear the zipper, feel hot skin against my stomache . . . Oh my God! Oh my God! He's really doing this. Oh my God! I can't stop him. . . . panicked thoughts, prayers, tears streaming down my face and then a sickening realisation -- NO CONDOM! Oh my God! Disease! Pregancy! . . . If I live. If I god damn live! This is how girls die. This is how girls disappear. This is it. Oh my God! He does this and he won't be able to let me walk out of here. -- NO!! GET THE FUCK OFF ME!!

And I'm flailing, pushing, striking, screaming, when he slaps me -- Shut up, you fucking bitch!

This changes everything. And fear turns to anger at my helplessness turns to hate for this man. I will not let him violate me. I will fight him with my last breath. He will have to kill me first before he gets inside of me. I wish for a knife in my boot. If I had a knife I would gut this man and watch him bleed to death. I would tear out his throat and then walk on out of here and have a steak dinner to celebrate. I'm thinking these things as I go berserk striking with fists, biting, trying to kick, somehow getting a knee free and ramming it into his groin. He weakens and I go crazier, getting out from under him, opening the car door, grabbing my things and running in one fluid motion. This too happens so quick.

I run into the reeds. It's dark. And I like the dark. I'm used to running around the woods and the river when everyone else sleeps. I'm not afraid of the night. I'm quiet now, my heart drumming in my ears as I fly across the swamp in grass above my head. Slowed only by the occasional tripping over dead wood or into big holes that knock the wind out of me. When I think I'm far enough away, I hunker down and listen. Crickets, frogs, all manner of night things sing in the grass. I can hear the river just to my left. A big splash, not like a salmon jumping, maybe a beaver. There is a dam closeby.

I hear him cursing in the drive, staggering around, muttering to himself. He comes to the edge of the grass. Takes a couple of steps into the reeds and stops -- C'mon out and I'll drive you home. I didn't mean nothing by it.

Using his best voice, his sweet voice, but I know it's a trick. Focus on my breathing, keeping it slow and light. I remember playing hide and seek in the woods when I was a kid. I remember sitting behind a tiny hill, not even high enough to hide me. I sat there, practically in the open, and watched my cousin search for me. I stayed so still and breathed so shallow that she walked right up to me and didn't see me. She came so close to me that I looked her right in the face and smiled thinking surely I was caught. But I didn't move, waited for her to speak first. She didn't see me, never found me, gave up eventually and went in the house thinking I must've somehow snuck away and gone inside.

He's walking along the edge of the swamp, calling to me -- This is crazy! C'mon out now and talk to me about this. This is all just one big misunderstanding.

The more he calls to me and I don't answer, the angrier he becomes -- When I find you, you're gonna be one sorry bitch! Get your ass out here now or you're going to get it!

I don't move. Wonder at how far the main road is across country, through the swamp, can it even be gotten to this way.

He gets into his car and shines the headlights into the grass. If I stay still I won't give myself away. The grass is much too tall and dense to reveal anything hiding in its depths. If I panic and move, the grass will betray me, sway and show where I am. If I stay still I'll be safe. Unless he comes in here . . . I plot a retreat, just in case, I believe I can outrun him. But he's drunk, confused, not sure where I've gone, so I don't think he'll launch a full search of the swamp. Plus it's late and dawn comes in a couple of hours. He doesn't have time to roam the swamp on the chance that I might be in here.

He idles his car out the lane, stopping every now and then to listen or shine headlights into the woods. He continues to call me and to threaten. My plan is to wait him out. To slowly sneak out the lane behind him. Surely he will give up at the road and go home. Then I will walk back to the club and spend the night there. I come onto my feet and start sneaking up the hill, staying in the woods about 15 feet from the lane.

He's still driving slow, still calling to me out his window, and when he reaches the road he doesn't stop. He doesn't go home. Instead he turns and putters back toward the club. When his taillights disappear, I break from the woods and run down the road in the opposite direction, toward the main highway. I don't get far before I hear him coming back and I dive into the ditch and the woods beyond. He's serious about finding me. He's not going home. He drives back and forth from the club to the main highway, out the lane and back again, threatening me out his window. We're the only two people out here tonight and he knows it, he intends to wait me out, wait until daylight when it's easier to see me. And the longer this drags on the more angry and sober he becomes.

It's apparent I must take drastic action. I cannot wait him out. I cannot get out of here via the road. Again I wonder about the swamp and whether I can get through it to the main highway. I make my way back there through the woods. Navigating in the grass is difficult. It's like a jungle, stretching feet above my head and thick. I could use a machete to hack my way through. When I get out of here, I will acquire very sharp blades of all shapes and sizes and make them into my new best friends. I come across a chain link fence, can't get over it, can't go through it, and after following it for several minutes I decide I can't go around it. The swamp is fenced off from the main highway.

I'm tired and frustrated and I can still hear him looking for me. Night cover is nearly gone. The sky is lightening to a dark grey. I'm running out of time. I hear the river to my left and make for the shore. If I'm standing on the riverbank when he comes back and shines his lights, he will see me. This part of the river is not very wide and in summertime very shallow . . . it's fall. I can't swim. But I'm out of options. I wade in. One step and I'm knee-deep. The water is cold and moving fast. Another step and the water covers my thighs. The rocks are slippery under my boots. I need to be careful not to fall. I step and sink to my waist. My jeans grow heavy with water, weighing me down. The opposite shore is further than I thought. It's possible the deepest part will be over my head. Step and I'm in to my chest. The water is dark and strong. Another step and my shoulders go under. Oh God, am I halfway? Is this the deepest part? Difficult to stay upright. Step and my neck is covered, the river laps against my chin. At least if I die out here it will be on my terms. I think I understand Virginia. The river is powerful but also comforting. It would be easy to let my knees buckle and float away. In the next step I might be over my head and have no choice but to try to float or swim. I take the step and the water drops back around my shoulders. I hurry now, getting to the shore as quick as I can.

I am soaked through. The birds are awake and singing. I have very little time before full daylight and with it people going to work, getting kids off to school, going about their mundane lives as if terrible things haven't happened in the night. If he's still out there, I will be a conspicuous target. I run. This side of the river, doesn't have tall grass. The terrain is spongy, mossy, wet, slippery. But I don't slow. I run until my chest burns, until my ribs feel like they're ripping into my lungs, and then I run some more. I run as if he is right behind me. I can outrun him, I know I can. I zip across the marsh in my wet clothes. I climb the shale rock cliff under the overpass and hit the main highway at a trot. When I hear a car coming I run into the next yard and continue making my way through people's backyards. I hope nobody sees me. I hope nobody has dogs.

Within minutes I reach my friend's apartment building and collapse against his door, knocking. He is sleeping. This is a given. It's still a couple of hours before he will be getting up to go to work. I knock louder. I'm panicked, here, in broad daylight, in the open air outside his building with cars passing on the street. When the door opens I start sobbing uncontrollably. He pulls me in and locks the door. -- What the hell happened to you?

I can't talk. It's all gibberish. My teeth are chattering. I head straight into the bathroom to strip. He brings me one of his shirts and helps me undress. My clothes are filthy, full of mud and grass stains, stinking like the river. We throw everything into the washing machine. I get into the shower. I can't get the water hot enough. I stand under the shower head with my eyes closed and cry as the water massages my scalp and cascades over my body. I towel off, put on the big shirt, start the washer and join him in the living room. He shoves a cup of hot tea into my hands and makes me take a sip. -- Ok. Are you going to tell me what happened?

I don't say anything. I can't. If I say it out loud it will be real. Maybe I can leave it in darkness, leave it in the night. I don't even realise that I'm crying again until a teardrop splashes into my tea. -- Something happened. Somebody did something to you. Now, I want to know what and who.

He's upset by this. He's afraid for me. Angry for me. Ready to gather a posse and go hunt some people down. I set down my tea and go to him, climb into his lap, wrap my arms around his shoulders and burrow my face into his neck breathing in his familar safe scent. We sit on the couch and he holds me like that until he thinks I've drifted off and gets up to carry me to bed. When he lays me back on the bed he's surprised to see my open eyes looking at him. He whispers that he thought I was asleep and starts to leave. He's got to get ready for work but I don't want to be alone. I don't know if I can be alone. I grab his hands and pull him onto the bed with me, lay my head on his chest. He strokes my hair and tries again -- Do you want to talk about it?

I raise my head, rest my chin on his chest and look into his eyes -- I need your help. I need to buy a good knife. A hunting knife maybe. Something you'd use to gut a deer. But not too big, too heavy to carry. As long as it's sharp. That's all that matters. Sharp and concealable. Maybe a six or eight inch blade . . . .