Give Me Your Heart (30 page)

Sex secrets. He’d heard his own mother scream not once but many times. He was sure this was what he’d heard, in the night, in the upstairs bedroom when the door was shut. As a young
child, years ago. That was when he’d heard the screams, he believed. Not that he wished to think about it; he did not. He would not think about it. His mother and his father. He would not
think of how profoundly they disgusted him, as he would not wish to think of how profoundly he would disgust them if they knew him. There was a chill solace in this, that Jess’s parents did
not know him. No more than you would know the heart of a stranger glimpsed on the street, at a distance. By the age of thirteen Jess could no longer bear to be touched by his mother; all that was
finished between them. Jess’s little-boy love for his mother, whom he’d adored.

And now Jess’s father. It was hateful of Jess’s father to enter Jess’s room without being invited inside. Rapping his knuckle on the door and opening the door in nearly the
same gesture. And now interrogating Jess. Grave gray distrustful eyes fixed upon Jess and both fists clenching, unclenching, as if of their own volition. “You’re telling the truth,
Jess, aren’t you? Look at me, son.”

“I am looking at you, Dad! I am telling the truth.”

Son.
No one in actual life said
son.

Son!
Jess was no one’s
son.

Always now he would realize this: no one’s son. For his father did not believe him, and his father did not love him. From this time forward, Jess would long remember.

Especially Jess could not have told his father about the blood. He had not seen any blood, that was a fact. That was the truth. Hadn’t seen any blood smeared on the girl’s body, the
insides of her fleshy thighs and in her tight-coiled bushy pubic hair lavish as a strange wiry growth. And on her young round breasts, olive-skinned, with nipples like purple stains. So much blood,
on the girl’s legs, on the sheets, and on the mattress, on the guys’ penises and groins. A wild crazy scene made deafening by high-decibel music. You couldn’t have heard the girl
screaming.

It was known that the girl was drunk, and drugged, and out of her mind, hysterical. Crying, and accusing. Making threats. Yet she’d been eager to go with the guys, she’d been
flattered, made to believe that they “liked” her. Maybe one of them “loved” her. Maybe he’d be her boyfriend. (Maybe!) By that time no other girls remained at the
beach house. All the white girls had left. These were senior girls, departed by 4
A.M.
Originally a half-dozen vehicles had been parked in the coarse sand above the house. Bay Head police would
determine from tire tracks, but by the time police officers arrived, summoned by Bay Head neighbors, at 4:40
A.M.
, only the Trailblazer remained. Jess Hagadorn had not been there, of course. Jess
Hagadorn had not been within twenty-eight miles of the Jersey shore. This was a fact to be pledged to his parents: Jess had been home at that time, in his bed. Through the night sweating and
sleepless and by 6:25
A.M.
still awake in a misery of nausea and head-hammering pain, having stumbled into the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom not once, not twice, but three times to vomit into
the toilet bowl. And with shaking fingers flush the seething vomit away. And Jess’s parents had heard him, of course, and had reason to claim
Our son was home. Our son came home early from
a graduation party. Not long after midnight, our son returned home. Our son is a good boy, a trustworthy boy and an honor student, we trust our son and had no need to wait up for him. Our son has
said that he had a few drinks
—
beers
—
at one or another of the graduation parties, but he had no drugs. Not ever drugs. Our son has pledged to us: not ever drugs. Our son
knows nothing about what is alleged to have happened to any underage girl, our son has pledged to us that he has told the truth, and we believe our son. Our son will be attending the University of
Pennsylvania in the fall, an Ivy League school.

Hadn’t known the girl. He had not. All he knew was, he’d tried to help her. He’d been the only one to help her. Driving home, and his mistake was, he
must’ve made a wrong turn off 1-95. Exiting in the rain at a place he’d never heard of, Glasstown, or Glass Lake, somewhere beyond Trenton he had needed to fill up the gas tank, in a
7-Eleven beside the gas station he’d bought a cola drink for the caffeine charge, needing to clear his head, badly he wanted not to be making this drive home, Thanksgiving weekend and his
mother had insisted Jess you must come home, what will the relatives think, yet he’d delayed leaving campus, leaving Philadelphia in a stream of slow-moving traffic on the expressway, the
drive to North Hills wouldn’t take more than a few hours but he’d been awake much of the previous night and as he drove hunched over the steering wheel something fluttered teasing and
tormenting at the periphery of his vision like those tiny white moths you see batting themselves against screens in summer in the night; in the grubby 7-Eleven store he’d been distracted by
the TV set above the cashier’s counter, a surveillance TV showing a fraction of the interior of the store, and Jess saw his own figure on the screen, his back to the camera, shift to the
right and the TV figure shifts to the right, shift to the left and the TV figure shifts to the left, turn and walk toward the rear of the store and the TV figure walks out of the frame but (you
have to assume) is picked up by another TV monitor in another part of the store. Except in the men’s room there were no TV monitors. (Were there?) Leaving the men’s room, he was
surprised to see—at least he thought this was what he was seeing, happening so fast as these things do, you don’t know how to assess what you are seeing, even to know if in fact you are
seeing it—the door to the women’s restroom was being opened and shut again, and opened and again shut, as if to tease, had to be a child playing, a little girl with shining dark eyes
peeking at Jess from behind the door, giggling, Jess smiled at her but kept on moving for there was something strange about the little girl, quick Jess left the 7-Eleven store without a backward
glance and immediately forgot the incident, if you could call it an incident; now having taken a wrong turn to get back onto 1-95 he found himself on a narrow country road outside a small town
(Glasstown, Glass Lake) and that hammering-harranguing pain in his head was beginning
Why! Why are you here!
waiting for a freight train to pass, long lumbering noisy train humping and
hammering at his head, Jess’s eyes ached as if he’d been staring into a blinding light, gripping the steering wheel of the Audi (his mother’s former car she’d passed on to
Jess when she bought a new one) waiting for the damned train to pass, badly he wanted not to be here, badly he wanted not to be driving home for Thanksgiving, he had disappointed his father by
declining to study engineering, he had disappointed his mother by declining to be the reliable loving son his mother required; and in a nearby field a child suddenly appeared, a small figure
running and stumbling in the tall grass, in the icy rain, out of a stand of scrubby trees the child seemed to have emerged, Jess stared blinking and incredulous:
Is that a child? A little
girl?
She was lightly dressed for the chill dank air of November, in what appeared to be a dress with a short skirt, and over the dress a soiled sweatshirt, her legs bare, she was bareheaded
and her small face contorted in a look of terror. Behind Jess the driver of a pickup leaned on his horn, for the freight train had passed, the last of the noisy lumbering cars had passed, red
lights were no longer flashing but Jess had not noticed, and when Jess failed to move forward across the railroad tracks the pickup swerved around him in an explosion of pent-up annoyance, and
other vehicles followed, for no one seemed to have noticed the child so strangely alone in the field, or if they’d noticed had not cared. Quickly Jess shifted to park, got out of the car, and
ran into the field to approach the little girl asking what was wrong? had something happened to her? for clearly this was an emergency situation. Clearly the little girl was in distress and needed
help. All this Jess would explain afterward and many times he would explain, though to be precise, what happened would have happened so swiftly, yet so disjointedly, like a badly spliced film,
mysterious pleats and gaps in the narrative, and the figures blurred and not always fully within the frame. The fact was: a little girl of about nine had run out of a scrubby woods about fifty feet
from the road where Jess Hagadorn had been waiting for a freight train to pass, near dusk and an icy rain was falling, the girl appeared to be desperate, ill-clothed in a pink cotton dress and a
sweatshirt, her legs were bare, on her bare feet were filthy sneakers and in fact the girl’s clothing was filthy, stained and covered in burrs, and her hair was disheveled and matted, her
mouth looked soft and bruised like a fish’s mouth after the hook has been torn out. Her hair was ashy blond, almost white, ghostly and luminous on this dark November day, and as Jess stooped
over her he could decipher only part of what she was saying: “—want go
home.
Want go
home.”

Was the child lost? Or had she run from a nearby house, or a car? Had she been injured? Had someone been chasing her? There was no one visible in the field; no vehicles parked on the road,
except the Audi; no houses in sight. Jess asked the girl where her home was? where had she come from just now? where were her parents? was she hurt in some way? but the girl was too agitated to
answer, whimpering, shivering, and wiping at her eyes. So Jess took her hand.

Afterward explaining he’d had no choice but to take the child’s hand and lead her back to his car, no choice but to urge her to walk with him, assisting her, half lifting her over a
ditch and into his car, and yes, Jess was wondering if this was the wisest thing to do yet under the circumstances not knowing what else he might do, what choice he had, for there appeared to be no
one in sight, no one to flag for help, and no houses visible from where he stood. He thought,
The crucial thing is to help. To help her. To rescue her. That is the crucial thing.

In the Audi Jess tried to comfort the girl, wiped at her tear-streaked face with a tissue, asking her in the calmest voice he could summon where she lived? had she wandered off from home? had
someone brought her here, to this desolate place, and left her? Another time asking her, had she been hurt? For he saw that the little girl’s clothing was stained with something
darkish—was it blood? And her hair was clotted with—was it blood? He couldn’t see any visible injuries, but he was hesitant to examine the girl closely, reluctant to lift the
skirt of the soiled dress to examine her legs. “Where is your mommy? Your daddy? What has happened to you?” Jess’s heart was pounding rapidly in his chest and his mouth had gone
dry. For he knew that there was danger here, even as he knew he had no choice but to seek help for the girl. All his senses were alert, like wires yanked tight. The girl was shivering convulsively,
so Jess turned up the heat. He saw that the girl’s eyes were an anguished blue, her nose was reddened and needed blowing. Her small angular face was dirty, the luminous blond hair disheveled
and matted as if she’d been sleeping in the woods, or had been held captive in some terrible place, like a cellar.

All this while Jess had been fumbling with his cell phone, punching in 911, but the calls failed to go through. He could make no sense of the girl’s stammered and incoherent words and so
he made the decision to turn the Audi around in the road and drive in the direction of Glasstown, or Glass Lake, though he had no idea how far the town was. He assured the stricken girl that he
would get help for her: he’d take her to the police, or to a hospital. He assured her that she would be safe, and taken care of, and no one would hurt her again, but instead of comforting the
girl, Jess’s words seemed to upset her, for she became more agitated, protesting, “No—go
home.
Want go
home.
Go
home!”
And Jess said, “But where
is your home? Can you tell me? In this direction? Is this the right direction? Or—”

Jess was driving through icy rain that pelted the windshield and the roof of the Audi like a fusillade of nails while at the same time still trying to call 911 on his cell phone. In the little
plastic window barely visible to Jess’s squinting gaze were the discouraging words
NO SIGNAL
.

Afterward Jess would explain how reportedly he’d asked the sobbing child where she lived, what had happened to her, had she been injured, what was her name; and the girl answered what
sounded like “Dada and Mummy will be mad at me and hurt me worse if they know that I’m not—” but Jess couldn’t make out the girl’s final words, which might have
been “at home” or “in bed.” Jess said, “‘Hurt you worse’? Did your parents hurt you?” which seemed to upset the girl even more, so that she kicked
and threw herself about in the passenger’s seat, crying, “They will! They will! They will hurt me—worse!” Hoarse guttural sobs racked the small body. The girl’s face
was contorted, ugly. Tears leaked from her eyes and mucus from her nose. Jess was driving frantically in the rain, looking for the lighted windows of a house, or another vehicle on the road; he
despaired of locating Glasstown, or Glass Lake; possibly he’d taken another wrong turn, or the road had forked and veered off in the wrong direction.
Life plus ninety-nine years
would
be the sentence.
No possibility of parole
would be the sentence, to be begun shortly after his twenty-third birthday. Though he would try to explain, countless times he would explain the
desperation with which he’d sought help for the distraught little girl, trying to reason with her even as he’d begun to see that it was hopeless, he could make no sense of what she was
saying, needing to take hold of the girl’s arm to restrain her, for she’d been flailing her hands in a way dangerous to the driver of the Audi; at once the girl gave a sharp little
shriek like a cat being tormented, pushed Jess’s hand away with the rude alacrity of a much older girl, she shrank from him and began crying harder, striking the side of her head against the
passenger’s window in an inexplicable and maddening reaction, provoking Jess to think,
That will leave a mark on the window, that will be evidence unless I wipe it away.
Though knowing
that, in this nightmare unfolding about him like a deranged film, he would never have the opportunity to wipe the window clean.