Certainly, she would do nothing more than prepare icings and doughs, but she would at least be part of the process. Rosie would rather mix paints for Michelangelo than whitewash for Aunt Polly.

 

Rosie always rides in the middle of the bus. The back of the bus is too sullen, packed with teenagers in black whose angry, throbbing music leaks from headphones. In the front of the bus, the driver is too easily distracted by the rise-fall-rise, slap-slap-slap of her beanbags. The middle of the bus is where the safe people sit, in clean, comfortable clothes, reading newspapers or thick paperbacks, listening to music adjusted to an appropriate level.

 

She practices being hyperperceptive. As she flicks and catches, flicks and catches, she looks for interesting ties. She looks for women who match their shoes, belt and handbag. She reads the titles of the paperbacks held up like shields. She reads newspaper headlines.

 

At the top of the Metro section, she catches a headline that forces her to forget she is in control. She watches her beanbags fall to the floor like wounded birds. "Assistant DA accused of sexual harassment," announces the headline. It is a fairly common headline nowadays, but she is stunned by the picture of the ADA: his short, perfectly combed hair, his thin, joyless smile, his cold, black-and-white eyes.

 

She suspects if she tried hard enough, she could forget the knife, gleaming in the sunlight like a smiling eye. And she suspects if she tried hard enough she could forget the years-old bruises that, though they disappeared long ago, still ache on quiet, lazy afternoons. But she knows she will never forget Terry's cold eyes, and she will never forget his words. His voice was flat and heavy. Each word was carefully aimed and landed as solidly as a kick in the stomach. "Go on, run," he jeered, "Where are you going to run to? Try and scream. No one listens to you. No one ever did. Try and fight. You can never win. That's something you can count on, baby. You will never win."

 

That afternoon he left her, cold and frightened, but his voice remained behind, echoing in every tick of the grandfather clock, every ring of the phone. In June, Terry graduated and moved east, but his voice remained behind, tangled in the cobwebs of Rosie's mind. His voice came back to her at inopportune times. In the middle of a class discussion, he would sit beside her and remind her "No one ever listens to you." Up to bat with two strikes and two outs, he would cheer from the stands, "You can never win!"

 

Rosie doesn't need to read the article to know what his defense will be. His voice is as quick and light as icing. "It's all a complete misunderstanding. It wasn't harassment; it was harmless fun. I'm the victim here. I've already been convicted by the press. How am I going to put my career, my reputation, back together?" But when he's alone with his victim, he jeers, "Go on, fight. You can never win!"

 

Rosie knows this all to be true.

 

She picks up her beanbags and begins to juggle again. Worries slice through the air. Questions rise-fall-rise. Does he still rape? I wonder how many women he raped while pursuing his law degree? Or maybe I was the only one? Maybe I was special?

 

She looks across the aisle again and notices that his newspaper eyes, black and white, are no colder than his eyes the day he raped her. Rise-fall-rise, slap-slap-slap.

 

Doubts ride high in the air, but confidence lies heavy in her palm like a bean­bag. It's all a matter of timing, she knows, and she has a job to get today. It's a job that interests her and one she will do well.

 

It's important for you to understand Terry isn't my doing, my creation. If he were, of course I would be willing to take responsibility for his actions. But Terry is nothing more than a violent force of nature, and I am as responsible for his actions as I am for a volcano or a hurricane.

 

Should I have done a better job of protecting Rosie? Should I have given her a gun to shoot him? Should I have given her a chance to get the knife from him, perhaps while he was raping her? Given the opportunity to hurt him, even while he was hurting her, do you think she could? Do you think she could pull the trigger? Drive home the knife?

 

I don't.

 

So I have protected her as best I can. I have given her the gift for which I pray when I am alone and frightened. I have given her the ability to juggle.