Dina Santorelli (8 page)

Now,
the room once filled with so much laughter and movement was quiet. He looked at
the kitchen sink, filled with dishes, and imagined his mother standing before
it, yelling at his brothers in Spanish and forcing a washcloth into a tall
glass and twisting it.

"Rey,
you don't want to go outside and play?" she'd ask when she saw him lying there,
knowing full well that he didn't.

"No,
mamá
, I want to stay here," his eight-, ten-, seventeen-year-old self
would say every time.

"All
right, but be careful you don't get stuck to that couch for good!" she'd say
with a laugh, never realizing that one day her prophecy would come true.
Reynaldo had been stuck for so long, the years blowing past him, and he
wondered where all the time had gone. Still, at the same time, lying there,
wasting time idly—away from the responsibilities of his life, his brothers, the
garage—he'd never felt freer.

His
cell phone rang. Reynaldo looked at the number and picked up.

"Aunt
Ro?" Reynaldo was concerned. Aunt Rosalia never called this late in the day,
particularly from one of the mansion's land lines.

"Rey?
Rey, are you there?"

"Yes,
Tía
. Are you okay?" Her voice, usually filled with a singsongy
lightness, sounded troubled and afraid.

"Rey,
can you come and pick me up tonight at the governor's? Something has happened."

"What?"
Reynaldo asked, pulling on his shoes and grabbing his keys. "Are you all
right?"

"Yes...
No... Please come,
Reyito
."

"I'll
be there in fifteen minutes," Reynaldo said and hurried out the door.

"Wait here," Joey said,
leading Jamie and the baby, still asleep in her arms, into the upstairs master
bedroom. Even though he was in his late teens, there was a boyishness about
Joey: His hair was long, and his facial features were soft, with an expression
of textbook adolescent apathy, as if everything bored him. Even as Bailino was
doing the unthinkable in the basement, Joey exhibited zero response, and Jamie
wondered whether it was because he was a veteran of such brutality or if he had
simply zoned out listening to his iPod. One of his earphone wires dangled from
his ears, and a thumping baseline dotted the silence as he gently ushered Jamie
into the bedroom and then walked past her and out the door. Jamie heard the
dead bolt click and noticed that there was no knob on the bedroom door—a key
was needed from either side to open it.

She
stepped toward the floor-to-ceiling windows on the right side of the room. It
was difficult to see in the night, but she still could make out the hazy
outlines of the mountains in the distance, a blackness before them that was
murky and still. The moon, nearly full, was coming up just over the tree line
of the western horizon and appeared large and red, and Jamie heard the familiar
chorus of crickets through the thick glass of the windows. Other than that, she
didn't recognize anything.

The
master bedroom of the log cabin was a luxurious space decorated with an upscale
country motif and anchored by a king-size bed off to one side and a large,
wrought-iron chandelier hanging in the center. Everything looked new—no scuff
marks disturbing the gloss of the wood-strip flooring, no dust gathering in the
corners of the room, the heaps of luxurious bed linens arranged just so. Two
small rooms connected to the bedroom: The first, to the left, was a bathroom.
Jamie could see some of the bulbs of the vanity and the pedestal sink. The
other room was to her right, with the door slightly ajar. Jamie peeked in. The
room, probably once a walk-in closet, had been converted into a makeshift
nursery: The walls were white and bare, and there was a strong new-carpet
smell; a wooden crib stood in the center. A ripped-open pack of diapers was
laying on the floor, along with several unopened containers of formula, plastic
baby bottles, rubber nipples, packages of baby wipes, rattles, toys, blankets,
clothes, and socks—all with the price tags still on them.

Jamie
rubbed the blonde curls of the baby's head. She could feel the little heart
beating against her chest, which gave Jamie an odd sense of comfort. The crib
had no bumper or bedding of any kind—just a mattress covered by a thin white
sheet. It looked like a prison cell. Jamie took a deep breath and laid the
child in the crib on top of Bailino's jacket. The child stirred, but remained
asleep. Jamie grabbed a few wipes and held them between the palms of her hands
to warm them, then took a diaper and placed it under the little girl and
cleaned her with the wipes as best she could without waking her. She closed the
diaper and, unable to find a trash can, tossed the wipes on the floor.
Carefully, she pulled the jacket out from under the baby and hung it on the
crib post. The little girl shivered, and Jamie held up one of the onesies she'd
seen lying on the floor. It seemed small. She checked the label:
newborn
.
There was no way it would fit. She tossed it back and grabbed a pair of size
1T
flannel footie pajamas with a picture of Pooh Bear on the front; she slid the
little girl's arms and feet into the clothing and zipped her up. Then she
picked up the blanket from the floor and placed it over the child.

Jamie
looked down at the little girl sleeping peacefully. Her raspy wheezing had
subsided into a quiet, rhythmic breathing pattern. She pulled up on the side of
the crib so that it was as tall as the other and the child wouldn't fall out,
but a price tag prevented the hook from catching. Pushing it out of the way,
Jamie set the latch, hearing a soft
click
.

There,
she thought. Safe. For now.

She
reached for the large price tag, rubbing her fingers along the sides of the
plastic, wondering if it posed a threat to the child. There was a paper receipt
stapled to it that was stamped in black ink with the word
FLOOR MODEL
.
At the bottom, the receipt read, in small print, "Babies'R'Us, 221 Wade Road, Latham, NY..."

Latham?
Where was that
? Jamie wondered. She kept
reading. "...12110 (518) 783-0632."

Area
code 518. She knew that. Her best friend from high school had moved to Ballston Spa , New York, when she was eighteen years old, and his new phone number had the
same area code. It was near Albany, about three or four hours from Manhattan. She looked at the little girl asleep in the crib.
Is that where they were?

There
was a faint noise behind her, and Jamie was startled by Don Bailino, who was
leaning against the doorframe.

"You
have a way with children," he said, glancing at the sleeping baby. "Jamie."

Jamie's
body stiffened at the sound of her name.

Bailino
shifted the weight on his feet. "That is your name, isn't it? Jamie?" he asked,
studying her.

She
looked at the baby, who was still asleep. She didn't know whether to lie or to
tell the truth, or to say anything at all. Her thoughts raced to the blonde
woman who had screamed and fought her way to an early death. She pressed her
lips together to keep from saying the wrong thing.

"Jamie
Carter, 520 Franklin Street, Massapequa, New York 11758." Bailino pulled
Jamie's portfolio out from behind him and flipped it open to the first page.
"Graduate of Hofstra University, BA in Journalism. 3.52 GPA."

Jamie
listened in horror to the recitation of her carefully crafted resume.

"Worked
for two years at the
Massapequa
Tribune
, three at
Home
Furnishings World
as home editor, a year at
USA Baby
as an associate
editor, currently freelancing... Interests: Travel, Women's Issues, Children."
Bailino closed the portfolio and placed it on a bureau behind him in the master
bedroom. "References furnished upon request." He walked toward her.

Jamie
backed away. In this small room, Bailino was an even more imposing figure. He
was not a very young man, probably around fifty, judging by the deep lines on
his forehead and around his eyes and the graying hair just above his ears, but
his formidable body was that of a considerably younger man. The large cross
that hung from his neck was turned backward, and his white sleeves were rolled
up to the elbows; there was fresh dirt in the crevices and around the threaded
edges. The scent of his cologne was strong, as if he'd just put some on, and
filled the room like poisonous gas. His eyes were fixed upon her the same way
that they'd been in Bryant Park, and that cold, menacing look made Jamie
shudder. She bumped into the crib, jerking it a little, but the child remained
undisturbed. She was out cold.

Pressed
against the wall, Jamie shook her head no, putting her arms in front of her to
push against Bailino's body as he closed in on her, but he was like a tank. She
tried to speak, but her voice came out as a whimper.

"
Shhhh
,"
he whispered before his large mouth closed in on hers. She clenched her lips
and teeth together, but his hand grabbed the sides of her jaw and pulled it
down, forcing her mouth open, and his other hand wrapped around her head and
pushed it forward.

She
shoved her face away and gasped for breath, watching the sleeping baby as
Bailino landed powerful kisses on her neck and shoulders, sucking on her skin,
pulling it in between his teeth and stretching it until she felt like it was
going to rip off.

"Nooo..."
she wheezed, wincing from the pain, the tiny bites feeling like slices of a
razorblade.

Bailino
released his grip, but before Jamie could react, he slammed his body against
hers to hold it in place as his hands quickly undid the button and zipper of
his khakis. His pants and underwear slid to the ground, and as he kicked them
to the side, he grabbed her hand and placed it on his hairy groin.

"Noooo,"
Jamie said again, trying to pull away.

"Touch
me," he rumbled, his voice a heavy whisper.

"I...
I can't." Tears streamed down her face, stinging the area around her mouth,
where Bailino's five o'clock shadow had left her skin raw.

He
grabbed her hand and, cupping it with his, placed it on his penis, which felt
like a missile in her hand. He held it there and squeezed, a small gasp
escaping from his mouth, which he threw again onto Jamie's, his saliva covering
her lips and cheeks. Pinning her shoulder back with his free hand, he moved his
lips down to her chin, his tongue following the crevice of her cleft, and then,
methodically, to her neck, the area between her breasts, and down to her
stomach and below her waist. Jamie picked her feet up off the floor, hoping
gravity would help overcome his hold, and it did: She slid until suddenly
Bailino crouched down and threw her over his shoulder with ease.

"Please,"
she cried, as she picked her head up and saw the baby through the bars of the
crib get further away as he carried her out and into the bedroom.

The
large muscles of Bailino's biceps worked like the well-oiled gears of a tractor
as he flopped Jamie onto the bed and charged forward. Before she could catch
her breath, he was on top of her, ripping her shirt open, pulling her bra
straps down from her shoulders, and burying his face between and under her
breasts. Piece by piece, the layers of the white luxurious bedding fell to the
floor as Jamie groped for something to hang onto, feeling as if she were
grabbing handfuls of fluffy snow while dangling from atop a cliff. Bailino's
large hands groped at her body, squeezing her nipples, and Jamie slapped at his
hands, pulling at the coarse patches of hair along the fingers in a futile
effort to pull them away. She reached outward for something, anything, to use
as a weapon.

She
managed to turn over and wrap her fingers around the top of the headboard, but
Bailino heaved her arm back, sending a searing pain through her shoulder, and
then flipped her onto her back again and landed on top of her. While Jamie
struggled to regain her breath, Bailino flicked her hands aside, pushed her
skirt up and tore at her underwear, which was still wet with urine;  Jamie felt
a surge of pain as Bailino pressed open her legs and jammed into her, slamming
her head into the delicate iron scrollwork of the headboard. She called out,
but Bailino covered her mouth with his hand, and her nostrils flared as she
sucked air through her nose. The weight of his body was overpowering, and she
grew lightheaded as she tried in vain to push him off. Bailino pounded against
her, banging her again and again into the headboard, causing the hanging
pictures above to bounce in the same rhythm. As the intensity grew, a low growl
emanated from Bailino's lips, and their eyes met as they bobbed up and down in
synchrony, faster and faster, until suddenly everything stopped.

Bailino
dropped his hand from Jamie's mouth, and the air went rushing inside, filling
her hungry lungs with oxygen. His body, laced with sweat, lay on top of hers,
and the two of them remained still, heaving, breaths slowing. The crown of
Jamie's head ached, a pain that shot down to her eyes and sinuses, and the
sores along her neck and shoulders prickled against the pillowcase. The open
air felt cold and abrasive to the scratches on her face, and there was an
intense throbbing between her legs, where Bailino was still in her, but all she
could think about was having to look into his eyes, having to face him in the
stillness of the room, in the wake of what had just happened and might happen
again.

But
she didn't have to. Bailino slipped off and plopped onto the mattress beside
her, his arm reaching around, his hand slipping under the band of her shredded
underwear. His body began rising and falling in soft, steady pulses, and Jamie
sighed with relief, savoring the moment she had to think, to figure out a game
plan that would somehow get her out of there—and the baby too. But instead her
eyes blinked with fatigue and, slowly and unwillingly, she passed out next to
the man who raped her.