All the same, he was starting to worry. He had seen them make that sudden turn down the side street. But he knew those streets. He knew there was nothing down there for them. He knew it. There was nothing down there but machine shops, auto shops, and housing projects filled with refugees from African wars. Imagine, the wretched of the earth, refugees from Somalia and the Sudan, the desert, the baking heat, the sand storms, being relocated to Maine. It was like a cruel joke. Don’t like all the warfare, you desert nomads? Here, try snow and ice six months out of the year.
A car was coming along the avenue.
Hal looked at his shoes.
It passed, and he looked up. A green Ford Taurus. The broken taillight shone bright and white as it receded in the distance. They were heading for the highway.
“Ha! I knew you couldn’t leave me!”
He stepped into the shadows and ran for the Caddy.
It was cramped and dark in the trunk.
At times, little beams of light stabbed in through some crack above their heads. It was hard to breathe. They were on their sides, hands cuffed in front of them, facing each other. For a while, Pamela had hyperventilated. Now, as Lola watched her, Pamela simply lay there, eyes wide like saucers, tears streaming down her face, her lower lip quivering.
“Listen!” Lola hissed. “Pamela! Listen to me.” Pamela was beyond listening.
The car hit some kind of dip in the road. They went down and then up. It was like riding a roller coaster. Lola nearly fell over on her face. The car accelerated, and she guessed they were on the highway now.
“It’s going to be okay,” she said, not sure if she was saying it to Pamela or to herself.
She thought of the moment the two men burst into the apartment. Smoke was on the phone, shouting something into her ear. Then that massive man with the stringy hair was there. He seemed to fill the entire room. And she had fought him. Kicked him. Punched him. Knocked the gun out of his hand. Knocked him down.
When he had slapped her, it was like a car crash, the force of it. He was that strong. She had been stunned. No one had ever hit her that hard before. And she knew he hadn’t hit her nearly as hard as he could.
But he wasn’t unbeatable. None of them were. They could be beaten, and she could do it. Maybe if Pamela… no, Pamela was a goner. Well, you could hardly blame her. Two strange men storm the apartment, handcuff them, and whisk them off.
To where?
Where are we going? Who are these men? The questions piled up. She had never seen either of them before in her life. She pieced it together. They were the ones who had attacked Smoke. Did they know Mr. Shaggy and Mr. Blue Eyes? Maybe not. Smoke had said it had something to do with him – they wanted money from him. Why did they want money from Smoke?
She sighed heavily.
All these men.
She had defined her life in relation to them. If she could, she thought she would thank those boys that raped her now, if she ever saw them again. Unfortunately that in itself would be hard to do. But she would if she could because the boys had awakened her. They had created the Lola that existed now.
At first, she had crumpled up and died inside.
After she was raped, she had dropped out of school, she had quit dancing lessons, she didn’t go anywhere. She didn’t see her friends anymore. She stopped taking an interest in anything. She stayed in her room and watched soap operas on television most of the day. She didn’t even read.
One day when she woke up, there was a thin, paperback book on the table next to her bed. Her grandmother had gone out to run her errands, but that book was there. It was called Sandinista Woman. It had a photo of a woman on the cover, a Hispanic woman in a green camouflage military outfit.
Lola didn’t pick it up at first. First she watched TV. But later in the day she grew bored with the television, and she picked up the book. It was the story of exactly that, a woman who had fought with the Sandinista revolution in Nicaragua. The woman had been captured by the fascist forces of the Nicaraguan government, and raped by dozens of soldiers. It was a source of terrible shame for the woman, until she met other women who were fighters for the cause. They came to realize there was nothing to be ashamed of in their suffering, that indeed it was a badge of honor. Gradually, all of the women came to realize this, as did the men who fought alongside them.
Lola read the book in two days, stopping only to eat and use the bathroom.
Still, she didn’t buy it right away.
The next day, a flyer slid through the crack under her bedroom door. It showed an Asian man flying through the air, kicking and shattering a brick that must have been suspended ten feet from the ground.
DEFEND YOURSELF! The flyer read. Learn devastating self-defense techniques from a master. At the bottom of the flyer it said Special Women Only Classes Available. Below that, her grandmother had scrawled in pencil.
Interested?
So she joined. What else was she going to do? She couldn’t stay in that room forever. At first it seemed like a joke. The basic techniques she was learning, she didn’t think they’d work on anybody. But times passed, and months later she wasn’t so sure.
She started to come alive again.
And as part of being alive, she began to think of revenge. They had stolen her old life from her, but now she had this new life. She was increasing in confidence, and with that newfound confidence came a new question. Could she get back at them somehow?
If so, how?
She began to keep alert for news of them. Five boys, one older than her by a year, a couple her age, one a year younger and one a year younger than that. Kendrick. Tyrone. Abel. Michael. Ishmael.
A whole year went by and she was still musing on this subject. She had changed – she was astounded by the things her body was capable of. It still didn’t mean she could take her revenge with that body, though.
Michael died in a drive-by shooting. A week later, Tyrone and Abel were arrested for the crime. A year after that, Ishmael was shot in the groin and then in the back by an unknown assailant or assailants. He lived, but he was paralyzed from the waist down. The rumor went that not only was he impotent, but that his member was actually obliterated. That left only Kendrick alive and on the streets. And he had disappeared.
Five years ago, it came to pass on a chilly evening in March that she climbed off the bus three blocks from her apartment and her dying grandmother, and began to walk home. It had been raining all day, and had just stopped recently. The ground was wet, the air was wet, and she could see her breath as she moved along. Just in front of her, a big man shuffled along in a long and ratty trench coat. From behind him, all she could see was the slope of his back, the shake, rattle and roll of his legs, and the fluffy crown of unkempt nappy hair piled on top. She moved along behind him, walking slow, watching the tall man weave.
The back was familiar, but she almost couldn’t believe it was him.
On this strip, nobody was around. Two young crack dealers lolled on a bench to their right. One said something to the other and they both laughed. Tall and skinny, they looked to be about twelve years old. They both wore big bubble TROOP jackets, their legs sticking out the bottom like pipe cleaners. They looked like some new kind of dinner bird, fattening up for Christmas.
Lola watched the big man approach them. He said something, but they shook their heads. “Ken, you used up all your credit already. Go on back to Gary, you want credit.”
The big man shuffled on.
The kid called him Ken. Her heart did a lazy barrel roll. It had been years since she had seen him.
She let him get another ten yards past the prepubescent dealers. Then she moved in. “Kendrick?” At first her voice came out as a croak and the man heard nothing. He just shambled along, bopping to some music only he could hear.