85

When I was ten, a guy opened the front screen door and caught me by surprise while I was watching Tom and Jerry in the afternoon. It seemed that I moved so slowly, like you do in those terrible dreams, and my head was still turning towards him as he straddled me on the old sofa. My step dad threw that sofa out while I was still in the hospital. I came back and we had a new, blue sofa from that warehouse that sells crappy sofas and crappy mattresses. It was the first time I recognized being grateful to anyone for anything.

The guy moved fast while I moved slow. My legs and right hand were pinned and my Kool-Aid spilled on the carpet. I shouldn't have had it on the floor, I thought; Mom would be mad. Even though my left hand was free, I somehow didn't think about it and it lay there, useless. The only thing I did do was yell. I had great lungs and I really let loose. The guy got so mad, he screamed at me to shut up, shut up, or I'll slice your throat.

Well, that was it; I heard he'd slice me and I screamed even more. I drowned him out, the TV out, the traffic out. I screamed and screamed--it was the only part of me that worked. He stopped trying to pull off my pajama pants, the ones with the perky princesses on them, and pulled out a serrated knife. I didn't think it possible, but I screamed even louder. I suppose that was good because the neighbors who visited the hospital told me that scream was what made them come down. The guy sliced my throat.

You figure you'd die. It stung terribly for a second then, nothing. I gushed blood all over him and he hopped back. I grabbed my throat, one finger going into the slit, and out again. Mr. James, our upstairs neighbor, squeaked open the screen door, and the guy freaked. He freaked and ran. Mr. James breathed, "Oh, my God." I'd never heard a grownup sound scared, but he sure did. I thought Mr. James left, but I guess he found a towel in the bathroom. He rolled it up like I would for swim class and pressed it to my neck. "Hold this here, Bria. Hold it tight. I'm going to call for help."

We didn't have any phone, so he ran back outside. I was scared the guy with the knife would come back, but other neighbors started looking through the screen. I sat on the old sofa with the towel on my neck. I heard Mr. James yelling outside, "Help! We need help! Call an ambulance! There's a girl hurt! Help!"

There's never a cop too far away in our neighborhood, which in this case was good. Mr. James held the screen and a younger cop strode in until he saw me. He must not have believed Mr. James or thought he was exaggerating, but when that cop saw all the blood and me with a bloody bath towel and with the red Kool-Aid on the floor and sound of Tom running after Jerry, he skidded to a stop. The older cop that came in behind him didn't hesitate. He knelt down by me, right in the blood and cherry Kool-Aid, to tell me it would all be okay. He asked me if I could talk. I nodded, though I wasn't sure. He asked me what happened. I swallowed, but it hurt and I cried a little then. I held the towel tighter and told him about the guy with the knife. I saw my pajama bottoms were on the floor, and I cried again. I can't believe it, thinking back, but I was partly embarrassed to have my pants off, and partly upset because those were my favorite PJ bottoms.

84

Jere pulled back the door's curtain just as some kid walked up to ring the bell. The kid screamed and dropped the raffle tickets he was holding.

"Sorry," said Jere. "I didn't mean to scare you." Jere's bare feet came into the kid's view. The toenails were dirty and long. A mangy cat sped out of the house and scattered the remaining raffle tickets.

"It's okay, mister. I'm okay. I was just..." The smell from the house hit the kid and he gagged on his words.

"Let me help you," said Jere, squatting and picking at a ticket. Jere's short robe rose up his rashy thighs and the kid gagged again, turning his gaze away too late, too late. For the rest of the kid's life, the image of scabby knees spreading wide as Jere squatted before him would resurface whenever he was under stress, and once when he looked in a pot of boiling roast.