Willie Goes By William Since Then

TW: sexual abuse, rape

At 31, William Hayes is known as a good guy in his hometown of Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. A history teacher at the high school and assistant coach of the JV football team, he’s the sort of fellow who, on snow days, trudges around the neighborhood with his shovel on his shoulder, seeking out the driveways and stony steps of widows, always eager to do an anonymous kind deed. He went by Willie all the way through high school (Wild Willie, Wily Willie, Whacky Willie), but came back from his freshman year at Pitt insisting on William, with plans to transfer to the University of Scranton. “To be closer to my family,” he explained, whether people asked why or not. This aroused no one’s suspicion since William, brother to both an older and a younger sister, had assumed a sort of paternal role after leukemia took their father, a commercial pilot, when they were all in grade school. Even now, a decade after graduating college, William has to sometimes gently remind folks of his name preference, but he’s so good-natured no one notices the edge in his voice. The only exception, the only time he allows anyone to use the diminutive, is when his sisters’ children call him “Uncle Willie.” Even this makes him wince a bit. Willie is a child’s name, and it’s important to him to be viewed as a man.

None of this is on William’s mind as he parks his affordable car outside his boyhood home on a bright Saturday afternoon in mid August. He’s thinking about a question he wants to ask his younger sister, Sylvia; something he saw online last night before bed. For now, he pulls a present wrapped and bowed from the backseat and follows the pebbled path he laid with his father when he was eight. His  arrival in the crowded backyard—built-in pool, rented bounce house—is met with squeals of delight, and he’s mobbed by a half dozen nieces and nephews. Jackson, turning 6 today, scoops the gift from his hands, shakes the box, and declares, “Legos!” before running to a table stacked with presents.

William’s only able to extract himself from the other kids by promising to join them soon in the pool for a few rounds of his famous kid shot put. When he greets his brother-in-laws Eric and Darren, perfecting the pyramid of charcoal briquettes at the grill, Darren withdraws a can of beer from the cooler at his side and passes it over. William cracks it open, scans the yard, and says, “Where’s Sylvie?”

Before her husband Eric can answer, William’s mom emerges through the patio’s sliding glass door, gripping bouquets of ice pops. Holding them, she hugs her son awkwardly and says, “Everyone was waiting for you! Now we can start the games. Help your sister set up piehole.” Her sons-in-law giggle. “What’d I say now?” she asks.

William eyes the other men to silence them and kisses her on the cheek. He has always found his mother’s occasional word blunder amusing; unlike his sisters, he never corrects her. 

His older sister, Tessa, is a short stroll down the weed-less lawn, in the cool shadow of a row of pine trees on the property’s edge. She’s cupping a phone to her ear, and as William nears, she turns away, even takes a couple steps in retreat. He pauses at a box with pieces of pressed wood spilling from it. In the grass there are bean bags, red and blue. Between the kids splashing in the water and Tessa’s lowered voice, he can’t make out what she’s saying. He sips his beer in the shade, peruses the assembly instructions, wonders who she is talking to. Soon enough though Tessa nods, says loudly, “See you soon then,” and slides the phone in her back pocket. She strides over to her little brother and they embrace, warmly. She says, “Thank God you’re here. Darren is useless.”

 “I told you that before you married him.  What kind of man gets his oil changed at Jiffy Quick?”

“All the warning signs were there,” Tessa agrees.  Her eyes fall on the box.  “So I guess we need a screwdriver or something.”

William kneels down. “They usually come with Allen wrenches now. Pretty foolproof assembly.”

“Don't tell my husband.”

William withdraws a plastic bag of tools. “Your boy seems excited.”

“Jack’s six,” Tessa says. “The world is a happy place.”

William stands. A kid he doesn’t know, some friend of the birthday boy, executes an Olympic-caliber cannonball, and the impact resonates. “Were you talking with Sylvia?”

Tessa’s lips tighten. “Yeah. She’s running late. Thinks she’ll be here in time for burgers and dogs. Cake for sure.”

There’s a silence and William holds the bag of tools in his palm, as if weighing it. “So did you see that Facebook thing last night?”

Tessa doesn’t break eye contact but it seems to take effort. “I did,” she said. “I saw that.” With a step, she closes the space between them and sets a few fingers on his forearm. “I’m sure she’ll talk to you when she’s ready.”

He forces a smile. “You know more about this.”

Tessa’s eyes drift to the pool, so she’s not looking at him when she nods. “Let her come to you on this okay? When she gets here, don’t bring it up. That’s the best way you can support her.”

William wants to ask why exactly his kid sister needs support.  He wants Tessa to share what she knows about Sylvia and sophomore year.  Instead though, he brings the plastic bag of tools up to his mouth and rips it open with his teeth, inadvertently spilling screws and washers into the high grass.

The afternoon unfolds beneath a sky of migrating clouds, great puffy heaps of cotton.  While only Eric and Darren eventually play corn hole, boisterous and beer-in-hand, the Pokemon piñata is a hit, and the bounce house seems perpetually occupied by sweaty children.  William heaves kids around the pool, launching them in gentle arcs, and afterwards cuts up seedless watermelon to go along with the grilled meat.  Crushed juice boxes are scattered across the lawn like fall leaves.  Jackson beams through a rousing rendition of the birthday song complete with cha-cha-cha and rips the wrapping from a dozen gifts.  All the while, William watches for his sister, now and then considering a text.  In a quiet moment, he slips into the upstairs bathroom just to pull out his phone and check her post from last night.  Sylvia had shared an Ohio woman’s story of sexual assault that ended with “If you’ve been abused, assaulted, or harassed, share this story with one detail.”  Sylvia’s addition read only, “Sophomore year.”

When Sylvia finally does arrive, most of the guests have been picked up and the bounce house is being deflated by a man in overalls from Party Planet.  She’s wearing oversized sunglasses, which gives William the impression she’s been crying, and the embrace she shares with Eric seems long, her head slumped on his shoulder. 

William, who was at the time helping dole out goodie bags, catches up with her in the kitchen, where his mom and Tessa are cleaning up.  Sylvia is brewing a pot of coffee.  “Hey William,” she says.  Even inside, her glasses are still on.  She comes in for a hug and lingers in his arms.  William is silent. He feels the same heavy awkwardness he did last night, as he read the Facebook comments and tried to think of something to write.  “You are so brave,” one of her sorority sisters wrote. “God be with you always,” offered a member of their church, where William was an usher.  Last night, he couldn’t wrap his brain around how to react—when one’s sister publicly admits to being a vague sort of victim, does one click a thumbs up or a heart?  Now, as then, William is struck dumb.  So it’s Sylvia who finally speaks.  “I heard Uncle Willie was the life of the party, as always.”  She sniffles once and turns back to the coffee.  Tessa gives William a look he can’t quite interpret, but he has the feeling he was supposed to do more.  As always, he wonders what his father would do if he were still alive.

A late afternoon thunderstorm sends most of the cousins into the basement for a movie, but Jackson wants William to work with him on the Lego set he got him, a space station with a rocket.  They spread out on the dining room table with the blue prints before them.  In the adjacent room, Eric and Darren find a Yankees game on the TV and settle deep into the cushy couch.  Now and then William glances into the kitchen, where Sylvia sits with Tess and Mom, all bent over glasses of wine and speaking in hushed tones.  Eventually they relocate to the porch, Jackson joins his cousins below, and William wanders aimlessly into the living room.   Eric and Darren are both passed, heads tilted back, snoring gently, and William absently tries to follow the closing innings.   

His phone buzzes.  A text from Tessa—forty feet away--says, “I know you love her and just found out.  But she’s okay.  Been coping with this for a long time, and not alone. Let her come to you.”

He instantly writes back, “Thanks” and sends it.  A minute later, he adds, “Love.”

Letting her come to him sounds fine.  But it’s dawned on William that what he’d hoped for last night, that maybe this was just a casual incident of low-grade harassment, clearly isn’t the case. 

The game goes into extra innings but William can’t muster any genuine interest.  He keeps checking his phone for another message from Tessa and glancing out toward the porch, where the women have clearly convened for the evening. 

“You went to school with the asshole.”  Eric’s voice startles William, and he turns to see his brother-in-law awake and stone-cold sober, staring at the screen as they return after a commercial.  He turns to William.  “Guy’s name was Reagan.”

“Wait,” William says.  “What?”  He’d assumed sophomore year meant college,  not high school.  An image of Ted Reagan, a lanky blonde kid he barely knew, rises in his mind.

“Like the president.  Do you remember the son of a bitch?”

William nods.  “He graduated with me.  Played wide receiver I think, but second string.”  On the TV, the fans erupted but neither man turns.  “Eric, what the hell are you telling me?”

Eric doesn't lean forward, and his voice is flat.  He stares blankly at the William.  “Some graduation party you had.  She went into the pool house to change into a bikini and this shitwad walked in on her, locked the door.”

“Jesus,” is all William can say.  He remembers that party.  Lisa Albright threw up in the hydrangeas, and Henry Osterman spent the night drifting in an inner tube.  He has no memories of Ted Reagan even being invited, let alone showing up.

Eric goes on.  “He never touched her.  Just himself.  But she was a child.  Half naked.  Thirteen.”  His voice cracks and William thinks he might cry, but Eric inhales and settles.  He reaches for a beer that’s surely gone warm, takes a swig anyway, and finishes what he has to say.  “I found this out at a couples’ retreat a year ago, the one the church sponsored in the Poconos.  She cried all night, just laid in the hotel bed next to me and trembled and wept.  Since then she’s been seeing some lady every other Thursday afternoon, eighty-five bucks a pop.”

A dozen questions rise up in William’s mind, along with images he consciously pushes past.  Eric asks, “What kind of a man does that sort of thing?”

William’s mind strains to stay in the moment and not succumb, but Eric stares at him as if waiting for an answer only he could provide.  He’s grateful when the nieces and nephews come flooding in the living room, a stampede that startles Darren awake.  The Disney movie has ended.  The kids want to know if they can catch fireflies and make s’mores.

Plagued by memories, William sits in his car in the parking lot of the Bowl-a-rama! outside town, wedged between a rundown McDonald’s and a closed porn shop.  As the midnight closing nears, only a handful of vehicles remain.  Soon, the wait will be over.  William keeps thinking about what happened that long-ago night, trying to replay the evening’s events, but always altering the ending.  Alone in his silent car, now and then he forces back tears.  Other times he lets them flow freely.  His mind turns occasionally to his father, what he’d think of all this.

William’s phone now shows three texts from Tessa he hasn’t read and one from Sylvia, “Uncle Willie doesn’t say goodbye?”  After leaving the party, William drove home, but only stayed long enough to drink a beer, pace the kitchen, and confirm Ted Reagan had no Facebook profile.   However a Google search did turn up his name and an image:  Reagan helping out some bowl-a-thon to benefit a kid with M.S a couple years ago.  Ted was still bean pole skinny but had grown a thin moustache.  Without anything like a plan, William had driven across town and sure enough, found an older and more bent version of the Ted Carter he knew from high school working a shift behind the front counter.

From a bar stool in the “Tenth Frame” snack area, William watched Ted disinfect multi-colored shoes, make small talk with customers, walk out to help reset someone’s video scoring system.  William drank two beers and then a third, looking for tell tale signs that Ted was a sexual predator.  But his onetime teammate’s eyes did not linger on teen girls strolling by.  He did not leer at little boys.  Reagan seemed industrious, courteous, altogether unremarkable.  Now and then he looked at his phone, and William imagined that Ted was on Facebook under some pseudonym, that he was checking his sister’s post and feeling a weighty guilt.

In his car, William checks the post, which now has over 200 likes and hearts, 64 comments.  He envisions typing in “Ted Reagan” but doesn’t, since that would surely be used as evidence of premeditation.  As memories long submerged have clawed themselves to the surface, William’s only consolation has been imagining the violence he will release on Ted Reagan, the slim but necessary comfort this will provide.

So now, just after midnight, William is glad to see the neon letters of Bowl-a-rama! extinguish and two figures emerge from the dark building.  They split up, neither apparently taking notice of him parked beside a clothing donation bin.  He watches Ted Reagan stroll into the cone of yellow illumination beneath a buzzing light and starts his car.   The other employee reaches his vehicle and pulls out, leaving them alone.

Reagan is twenty feet away from his pick up when William slow rolls past him, then swings around to circle like a shark.  Reagan stops and looks up from his phone.  He does not move.  William cuts the wheel, inserting his car between Reagan and the white pick up truck he was heading for.  He jams the gear shifter into park but leaves the engine running as he gets out, slams the door, and says, “Hey Ted.”

“Christ,” Ted says, one eyebrow high.  “Willie?”

This old name ignites something in William and he lurches forward, but Ted sidesteps the flailing punch and William stumbles, nearly losing his balance.  Ted makes a break for his truck while William recovers, turns, and sprints after him.  As Ted fumbles with his keys, William crashes into his body, driving Ted’s face into the window.  The two of them collapse in a heap, with William on top.  He looks down on Ted’s confused and terrified eyes and says, “I got it in my head to beat you near death tonight Ted.  If you confess, you might go home with some teeth left.”

Ted’s face shifts.  “Of course,” he says.  “Your sister.”

William inhales sharply.  “So you don’t deny it, you sick fuck?”

“I don’t,” Ted declares.  He takes a deep breath, like a cliff diver.  “I was a young, drunk, stupid shithole and none of that makes what I did any less wrong. Over the years I thought about writing her an apology but didn’t want to upset her, you know?  Make it worse.  A few Christmases ago I saw her at the mall and almost got up the nerve to speak to her, ask her forgiveness.”

“Fuck forgiveness!” William says, then he plows his right fist across Ted’s chin, twisting his cheek into the asphalt.

Ted cringes, keeps his eyes closed, and starts to weep.  William seems to be surveying Ted’s reaction as he whimpers.  “Go on,” Ted says.  “I won’t stop you.”

William leans back, holding his clenched fists still before him.

Ted glances up.  “I mean it.  Whatever you’re gonna do, I’m okay with it.  I won’t tell nobody it was you.”

William tries to understand what Ted is saying, the permission he is granting.  After a half minute, Ted says “C’mon!” and lifts his head, then drives his skull into the surface of the parking lot with a dull thud.  “Beat me,” he demands, slamming his head again.

Dazed, William rises.  This is nothing like he envisioned.  Blubbering with tears, Ted gets to his feet and William hopes he will fight now, but instead the man smashes his forehead into his driver’s side window.  When he turns back to William, his face is streaked in blood.  He reaches through the shattered glass and then rips open the door, yells, “Let’s go!” He puts his right hand in the frame and slams the door with a sickening crunch.  Then again.  Ted drops to one knee, cradling his mangled hand, the fingers akimbo. 

William backs away, still facing Ted, who doesn’t look up when he says, “Tell her I’m sorry, okay?  Your sister.  Please just tell her I’m sorry.”  He drops into a fetal tuck.

As he rushes back to his car and speeds away from the scene, William knows he’ll never tell Sylvia about Ted’s apology.  He’ll never mention a word of what happened here to anyone.  Instead he’ll bury the memory in the same dark chamber where he keeps the recollection of what happened during finals week at the end of his freshman year.  

Her name was Samantha and they’d flirted all semester in History of American Architecture.  She invited him to an off-campus bash and they drank Alabama Slammers and danced to the B-52’s and laughed.   Later, after she brought him back to her dorm room, they made out and things got heated, intense.   William remembers Samantha saying, “Slow down a bit” then “That’s a little rough” then “Hey stop.  Stop.”  But William didn’t.  He gripped Samantha’s hair and grunted on top of her and he did not stop.  After he was done, he collapsed next to her.  She wasn’t crying but didn’t say anything.  In that dark silence he put his pants on, shoved his bare feet into his sneakers cause he couldn’t find his socks in the dark and didn’t want to turn on the light.  When he opened the door to leave, sockless, hallway light spilled onto Samantha, sitting with her knees tucked up to her chest.  She fixed him with a look he’s never been able to shake and said, “Why’d you do that, Willie?  Why, Willie, why?”