Angels Dance on the Head of a Pin

“What will you tell the police?” “I told you, I won’t call the police.” “But they’ll want to ask you questions,” she said, not looking at me, but off toward the lake. “Why would they ask me anything?” “The car was parked in front of your hotel and you were the only person staying here.” “But I didn’t do anything.” “But my mother knows that you were with me last night. And they won’t be able to ask me because I'll be gone.” “Me, too–I’ll be in Oak Park. But... but... I don’t get it. You really killed him?” She slowly nodded. “DEAD dead?” She nodded again. “How?” I asked, mostly because I still couldn’t believe what she said and was looking for some way that she might be mistaken. “I hit him, between the eyes... with a champagne bottle... a lot.” “I thought you liked him. H-he was teaching you to drive; helping you with your homework; and he was going to send you to college–in Italy Why?. Who wouldn’t want a father like that? Heck... he was home every night for you.” “He... he... ah... .” Her voice got really soft and almost inaudible. He was going to-rape me... again.” “Oh,” I said, realizing what her reluctance to go home last night was all about. “I did... like him,” she said. “Just... just... not that way. It started very nice, and and and sweet like, every Tuesday and Thursday... when mom was teaching. It was Our thing: doing cool stuff, trying new wines, talking about what it would be like living in Milano. Then, mom was gone all the time, night classes and fieldwork and he started drinking more... Before long, it was... just him... at home... alone... with me... get the picture?” I did–I got it... but I was having trouble wrapping my mind around it. A college professor? Her stepfather? I sat silently recalling what I’d read in Kinsey about RAPE and INCEST, followed by the image of his hairy hand on the shift knob of the ’Vette, sliding up her legs when he shifted into second, skipping third, again into fourth, accompanied by the roar of the engine and the squeal of the tires. “Oh... I see,” I said. Now, now I wanted to kill the guy myself. Picturing him as the slimy grease ball he was, I saw him with the snarl of Eli Wallach, Valera, in The Magnificent Seven. “Are you sure... ? I mean... do you know for sure... that he’s... you know?” “Oh, he’s dead, all right,” she said, her emotions swinging from sobbing disbelief to vitriolic vengeance. “What does a future priest say to that?” Trying to come up with something comforting to say, I ventured, “Well... I think maybe he got what he deserved.” “No... . He... he... didn’t... . He... didn’t,” she sobbed, her mood swinging back to the other extreme. “Then... why didn’t you... ?” “I thought he just liked me... a lot. He was fun. Made me feel…Grown up, you know, like a somebody. At first, like he was taking care of me. I didn’t think he would... would... Too much wine...maybe…I think. I’d wake up and he’d laid down next to me, asleep and he was so gentle. Afterward, I thought maybe he’d…ah …I felt like…he…you know. But then I thought I must’ve dreamed it… k- kind of. But, I ah… I knew better.” I was dumbfounded. Nothing had prepared me for what I was hearing. All I could do was listen. Rape had never been one of my vocabulary words, neither for school nor in my nonacademic research. One heard it on the news from time to time but it was no more significant than larceny or forgery. I found myself getting angrier and angrier. She continued, at a whisper, “That was months ago, you see. And... well... it... it... it happened again, then it seemed like it was never going to end–he had it all planned, at least till I finished college. Then this morning, when I said... I didn’t want to be his... you know... he said, (imitating his voice) ‘Ha! You can’t put the cork back in THAT bottle! Speaking of bottles, he said, “mix us a couple more mimosas.’” “M-mimosas?” I asked–another example of my language deficit. “It’s a breakfast drink–champagne and orange juice. We often had them for breakfast. When I came back, he was... naked... going in to the shower. I handed him his mimosa through the door and he grabbed... my... wrist... pulling me in with him. I still had the champagne bottle in my other hand and I raised it over my head to threaten him...” She demonstrated with the Coke bottle. “The rest of the champagne poured out, all over my head... and he laughed at me again. He said, (again trying to imitate his voice) ‘Ooh, Baby–you’ve got more fire than your mother ever had! Come in here–let’s get dirty.’ He pulled me toward him... and I ... .” She looked up at the empty Coke bottle. “I...ah… right between the eyes. He fell onto the floor on his mimosa glass and I hit him again, and again, and again. I killed... him.” She ended her dimostrazione and lowered the Coke bottle with a sigh that took her shoulders lower than I had ever seen anyone’s slump before. My mind was clouded with my own vengeful thoughts. I wondered what Clarence Darrow would say if he were here. In this case, “Resist not Evil” didn’t seem to fit. Neither did offering the other cheek. Anyone, except maybe Jesus or Clarence Darrow, could see she was justified. “Maybe you SHOULD call the police,” I said. “It sounds to me like he had it coming; it was self-defense, or... an accident. They’d be on your side. You’re the victim!” “No,” she said, “It won’t work. I... I’ve hit guys before. I have to go away. I can’t go back to that school.