Becky, Mark's assistant, said that Mark had left the office, but she would be glad to put me through to his voice mail.
"Mark, it's Derek. I guess you've heard from Kathleen." The scene replayed in my head of Kathleen standing in the doorway of her and Mark's bedroom; I couldn't express the terror I still held from that moment. "Mark, if you need anything, or if I can help, I know I can't do much at this point, but please call and let me know how you're doing." I hung up the phone and rubbed my aching forehead.
Confusion, guilt, and grief banged my thoughts like Ruby thumping Walterene with pulled-up daisies. I needed to get out. I needed to leave town, leave the mess behind. I wanted to go back to San Francisco, to never think of Mark, Daniel, Vernon, Mr. Sams, Gladys, or any of them again. I wanted my old life back. Grabbing my running shorts from the dirty clothes pile, I yelled to Ruby, "I'm going for a run."
Without another word to her, I left the house and started running as hard and fast as I could, keeping my mind on each step. Sweat formed and dripped down my face as the heavy blanket of humidity kept the sweat from evaporating and cooling me. A car came up behind me, and as I glanced back, it signaled to turn on the street I was about to cross; I jogged in place at the corner waiting for the driver to turn, but he didn't drive by. I looked back and the car was gone. "Bitch," I muttered and crossed the road.
I kept running faster and faster. As I approached Park Road, the light changed, so I ran across the four lanes and toward Freedom Park. The sun's rays filtered through the thick leaves of the overhead oak and elm limbs leaving me running in cool shadows. Freedom Park was the place we'd gone for summer concerts by the duck pond, to festivals and on field trips when we were kids in school. It was a popular, beloved gathering place, away from the concrete and cars of downtown; Freedom Park was the outdoor heart of Charlotte, nestled in the old neighborhoods, protected from mindless development, and open to everyone like a plump, happy mother opening her arms and offering a cookie and hug to a hurt child. I needed that hug. Rounding a corner to a new baseball field built on the edge of the park, I spied a water fountain, and headed straight for it. Energy drained by my sweat, I drank and drank, then splashed the water on my sweltering head, face, and chest. For a Friday lunchtime, the place was almost deserted. A sidewalk wound through the park, so I walked it to cool down and catch my breath, focusing on what I would say to Mark. He would be upset, of course, about Kathleen knowing, but would he convince her nothing happened? Would he try to deny it? How could he? Kathleen acted like she suspected; it hadn't been like "Oh my God," it was more "How long has it been going on?" I added another name to the list of people wanting me out of Charlotte.
The sun beamed hot on my back. Cranking back up to a jog on the concrete walkway bordering the pond, I discovered slick piles of goose shit posed slippery hazards to my run. I veered to the right on a dirt trail that headed into the woods. The cooler, shaded trail let me concentrate on Mark, not on goose droppings or the scorching sun. What is he thinking right at this moment? He had left the office, probably after Kathleen had called. Maybe he was trying to call me. Two young women jogged past me, they said "Hello" as they ran, but all I could do was nod an out-of-breath "Hey."
A thought broke through: Mark might be calling right now. I decided to turn back. As I followed the trail to what I believed would take me back to the pond, a dark-haired man stepped out from behind a tree and grabbed my arm. Luckily, sweat made me slippery, and he lost his grip.
I sprinted away, but heard his footsteps fast behind me. Not having the breath to keep running at a getaway speed, I knew I would have to fight. No branch or rock was within reach; his hand grabbed my shoulder and jerked me back.
I fell, rolling across the damp dirt and soggy leaves.
Struggling to get out from under his weight, I saw his face. He wasn't familiar; he could have been the man who followed me the day before in town, but I wasn't sure. His identity didn't mean much to me at the moment; I just wanted to get away.
A hit to the stomach knocked what little breath I had out of my body. I couldn't breathe in. I gasped for air, but continued to struggle with the stranger. He didn't seem to have a weapon, no knife, no gun, no blunt object. I hadn't felt anything but the strike of his fists to my stomach, jaw, and side of my head. I got a good hit to his nose, and he rolled off for a second. Pulling in a lungful of air, I felt I was breathing again for the first time in hours. By my second breath, he was back, pounding on my body.
Is this it? Death? In the woods?
Blood smeared my hand. I wasn't sure if it was his or mine. A hard left hook to the chin caught himby surprise, and I saw the bewildered look in his eyes and his bloody nose.
"Didn't think a fag could fight, did you?" I pushed him off me. I was on my feet first, and when he started to get up, I kicked his knee out from under him. He fell with a thud. "Remember the Observer building?" I yelled.
He pulled himself up to his good knee. "Fuck you, faggot." His scratchy voice froze me for a moment, a moment I didn't have. With my next kick, intended for his balls, he grabbed my foot and tripped me to the ground. "You bastard," he hissed. His hands tried to pin me to the damp decaying leaves. The dank smell of his body, or maybe it came from the forest floor, sickened me. I struggled to keep my hands free and fighting.
With a swift tug on my arm, he flipped me over, and twisted my hands behind my back. The fiend jerked down my running shorts. "Now," he growled, "you get what all faggots want."
Tremors shook my body. Rape. The word couldn't convey the brutality, hate, and viciousness of the act. He forced my face into the raw dirt with his shoulder as he held my wrists tight. I felt him struggling to unzip his pants with his free hand. This was my last chance to get away. With all the strength I could gather, I bucked my hips up to knock him off my back. He fell to the side and lost his grip on my wrists. Kicks to his head forced him back further.
My shorts around my knees tripped me as I scrambled to get up. I pulled them back up, and on hands and knees, struggled to get away from his snatching hands.
"There! There!" a woman screamed.
I turned to see the two female joggers with a man from the park patrol. The scratchy-voiced man, stunned by the presence of others, stopped to look, too.
"Hey, asshole," I yelled to get his attention. He turned his blood-and-sweat-smeared face toward me, and I did my best Emma-style kickboxing strike to his nose.
He yelped in pain as blood gushed from his flattened nostrils.
AGAIN, THE POLICE recorded a statement from me, and when I refused to be taken to the hospital, drove me back to Ruby's. The asshole, identified as Bert Carter, was taken to Presbyterian Hospital with a broken nose.
Ruby fussed over me. I tried to calm her down, so I could talk to the police more: Who is Bert Carter? What does he have to do with me? Why? Why? Mainly, what I wanted to know was why.
The police told me nothing.
After a hot shower and a few too many cigarettes, the phone rang. Ruby said, "It's Daniel. He heard about the…" She didn't have words for it, neither did I. "Do you want to talk to him?"
"Yeah." I took the phone from her. "Hey, guess good news travels fast."
"Are you okay?" His low, soft voice soothed my frayed nerves.
"I think so. A little shaken, but I'll be all right."
"I saw the police report," he began.
"How'd you do that?"
"I have my sources," he said. "Can I come over? I want to see that you're okay."