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Red. Blue. Red. Blue. I wished the harrowing sirens would stop.
I was in a cop car- Maycomb’s only cop car, mostly for decoration, for Heck Tate lived with us on the shitty side of town and was within walking distance of most bar fights, petty thefts and land disputes. The sheriff was before me then, my Papa in the passenger seat beside him. We’d been driving home from the station.
Why we’d rushed to the station in what seemed to be the deep, dead of night was beyond me. I had a pounding headache, a series of stinging bruises, cuts and scars that together looked like a strange, grotesque art piece- I wanted more than anything to crawl into bed and cry, but Papa had other ideas. I suppose he wanted to prevent any gossip spreading. He had ran for Mr Tate the second he finished with me; even before then, his blows lessened in their intensity as I could see the great plan formulating behind his eyes.
Sometime between Papa coming and going, I had fainted. My mind had shut off as soon as the initial punches were over and he reached for his belt buckle- I felt like I wasn’t there, was floating- but I came to my senses to find the sheriff kneeling beside me, holding me gently in his arms. I had no idea when or how he got to be there. I felt sleepy, and I tasted blood trickling onto my lips from my nose, hence the conclusion that I’d collapsed, fallen forward, then boom. Nothing. Black.
I panicked when I registered the hands on my biceps and darted, pushing my back against the wall. When my head hit the wood, I saw black spots, and could barely hear Mr Tate’s faraway voice telling me I was hurt, but safe, and that he was just trying to get a good look at me. He was being very gentle with me, but Papa’s glowering face over his shoulder was arguably what convinced me to cooperate. Mr Tate briefly inspected my face, fingered the bump on my head, the handprints on my throat. I rested uneasily, feeling very ungraceful. I wondered self-consciously if he would guess that I’d been raped, (had he dealt with many cases like this?), until I looked down and saw the gaping tears in my dress, which left my chest and thighs much more exposed than I was comfortable with. I must have gasped, or moved to cover them, for Papa suggested he take me into the bedroom and help “get me half-decent.” The idea eased the sheriff’s mind as well- I guess he didn’t like being so close to me when I was practically half-naked and my father was right there, breathing down his spine.
At first, I was angry that they thought I needed help to *dress*, like a child, until I found that I really did. I stood up and immediately swayed sideways. Papa caught me roughly by my shoulders in his large hands and marched me into the bedroom. There, he communicated to me his stroke of genius, the plan to frame Tom Robinson, as I’m sure Mr Tate knew he would. Even underneath his manic, frenzied anger, I could see the barely-concealed pride at having seized control of the situation, having found a way to warp my harlotry into a heroic save on his part. I hadn’t the energy to resist, to feel guilt; it was all smothered by the physical pain and confusion I felt, and for all I remembered of that night *on* that night, it could’ve been Tom who beat me, only common sense prevailed.
I found Mr Tate pacing in the barren living room when i entered, still being escorted like a prisoner. He smiled when he saw I’d been made more comfortable, but his grimace from before prevailed again as he eyed my bruises.
“I’ve been thinkin’, Bob. I reckon she needs a doctor,” was his announcement. My father scoffed, and replied with a chuckle that I’d taken some fierce knocks before, I’d be okay. Plus, they both knew what’d happened me- it was apparently part of Papa’s story that he’d walked in on Tom taking advantage of me, which was a horrible, awkward thought.
The sheriff sighed, and began to explain that if I *had* been raped, it would be needed for medical evidence and whatnot. Papa replied dismissively that if Mr Tate wanted to pay Dr Reynolds for a checkup, he could. Until then, “as long as I was okay”, he wanted to focus on swearing out a warrant, then and there apparently.
I felt like fainting again at the thought of trekking to the station, close as it was, but was validated as the sheriff also looked uneasy at the prospect. It was far for me, I was barely conscious, it could wait. He discussed claims of me having pains down *there* and struggling to walk, but they were baseless without the doctor. Papa was as good as his word- then and there, he reiterated- but conceded to the idea of the sheriff leaving to fetch the car for me, for fainting on the pavement would be much more problematic than fainting on the floor.
There was little money poured into maintaining Maycomb’s roads, and that much became evident to me as every bump and hole in the road sent stabs of pain shooting up between my legs. The sirens and their screams made my ears ring and my head pound so ferociously that I leaned into Papa, who was beside me, for support. He seemed surprised at the unusual amount of affection, but remained cold and distant. The station itself offered little respite to my senses- stark white walls, deathlike silence and harsh, cold furniture made me feel like I was in a hospital. While Mr Tate had fetched the car, Papa had debriefed me on the specifics of my fictitious assault, so the lies were fresh on my tongue as I delivered them to the sheriff. I was monotonous, he was weary. Each incriminating lie felt like a faraway ache, like small pricks from a needle. I think I sat for an hour detailing the chores I was doing, the layout of my house and the living room where I’d been beaten, and most confusingly, the specifics of the assault, though I think I was let off easy as it was just the warrant, not the hearing, and I was probably concussed. All the while, Papa hovered behind me- a devil on my shoulder, silently dictating what I could and could not say.
The warrant was a droll affair, overall, and I began to think that I didn’t give a damn about covering my tracks, no matter what kind of slut the townsfolk saw me as, when the sheriff stood up slowly and announced he was going out to find Tom Robinson, who hopefully hadn’t pulled a runner. I turned to Papa, white with terror, but he merely raised his eyebrows mockingly, as if to ask what I thought would happen. I suppose it made sense to arrest him and bring him in, I just wasn’t prepared for having to *see* him- my light, my escape. How could I look him in the eyes and send him away when he’d been my only source of hope- my geranium- for the past year? The headache had subsided to my anxiety as the full meaning of the past hours came to me. I could not disassociate.
And when he came in, cuffed and bound, he didn’t even look angry, or shocked or betrayed. He just looked disappointed, like he’d expected me all along to betray him. I stared forcefully at the floor. Like most things, it happened rarely in Maycomb, but I supposed in other towns, it was common for negroes to be done in wrongly for things like rape. Lynchings, white folk cheating black folk, it was all commonplace, and then it came to me that I was exactly like Papa. I had taken advantage of and weaponised Tom’s kindness, assuming he wanted nothing more from me than what every man wants from a woman. In one silly moment of immaturity and rashness, I’d disrupted, maybe destroyed his life forever. Hell, if Papa hadn’t walked in and I’d just* let him go*, this mess would be over in a day- I’d apologise, we’d laugh about it. But I was stupid, careless, and I took advantage of him. All the flowers in the world couldn’t hide the fact that when it really came down to it, I was just as selfish as my father.
That thought disturbed me greatly, after everything that I’d done to challenge people’s perception of me being like *him*. Seeing the worst reaches of my personality being put so clearly on display left me feeling hopeless, and in my despair, I concluded that if trying to *love* Tom only brought us both pain, then maybe it was safer to hate him. It was less personal that way.
So I didn’t meet his eyes. I didn’t want to know what he was thinking, I didn’t care. I sent him away. If Papa or the sheriff were shocked by my sudden vitriol, they didn’t show it. Mr Tate gave bland reassurances that I’d done very well, and justice would be served thanks to my speaking up, but I knew he didn’t believe a word of it. He and Papa sat in the front of the car on the way home, discussing the specifics of how the warrant would be sent off, obtaining a lawyer from the court, a trial. I was floating again. I felt numb, and my headache was back. I wanted to ask the sheriff to turn off the sirens, but I found I lacked the energy.
The familiar buzz of life surrounded our junkyard when Papa and I returned, so I knew my siblings had been home for a while. I didn’t need Papa to help me inside- I stumbled on myself, and the small reserve energy that usually, I always had for my family was gone. I went straight to bed and curled in on myself, trying to overlook the strain it put on my bruises. It was nothing less than I deserved, I supposed.
______________
Some time later, Papa voiced the thoughts that had been tattooed in my brain. I perched on the edge of the bed he made us share, making myself as small as possible, but it wasn’t enough. Meanwhile, he had his hands on his stomach, fingers intertwined, legs spread, and was watching me smugly, that I knew, though my back was to him.
“Why did you do it? What were you thinkin’, baby?” He laughed, and I felt the familiar sting of anger and hurt pride that I always suppressed when opening up to him. I wouldn’t this time.
“I don’t know.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What, did you just decide on a dime you wanted to screw him? Are you that much of a whore?” He always had to stick his foot in it. “Ah, but then you sent everyone away. Was that my money you used?”
I could tell he wasn’t mad, per se, anymore. He’d never in a million years be *okay* with what I’d done, but I knew he genuinely just wanted to hear my pathetic reasoning, and shame me. He’d find a way, no matter what I’d told him. Maybe there was no way to maintain my pride.
“No, I saved, but it wasn’t just for him! I thought everyone deserved a treat.” I shifted further away from him. “An’ I didn’t wanna screw him- that ain’t what you saw.”
“Sure you didn’t, sweetheart. Do you think I’m fuckin’ stupid? You think I dunno what you are, what you want?”
I felt tears prick my eyes as he laughed at me again. I looked so small next to him. “It’s nothin’ to do with what I want, I thought he wanted it! That’s- that’s the only reason most guys would come’n do your chores for free. I-I thought he liked…”
I realised I’d said too much when I heard the glee in my father’s voice. I’d given him sufficient material to humiliate me with. “You thought he *liked* you, s’that what you said? Baby, he was married! He’s got, what- three kids?”
“And he’d be the first guy to cheat on his wife, would he?” I worked hard to keep my voice a whisper, not wanting to wake my siblings and having them delight in the drama as well. I thought sadly that, at the very least, they wouldn’t enjoy seeing me upset. “I never said I thought that he was totally into me, I just thought that… since he wasn’t bein’ a total asshole, that was the only other option…”
Papa shook his head. “Christ, you are stupid. Ever been friends with a guy, Mayella? What, you think that guys can only be perverts or assholes- no in-between? You’ve been in the house that long, I’m gonna hafta teach you how to talk to people?”
It’d be pointless to bring up the effect his relationship had had on my perception of men, so all I said was “No, I think you’ve taught me enough.” My tears were flowing freely on my pillow now, but I didn’t bother to wipe them. I didn’t even bother to hear his response, as everything faded to black once again.
It always did.