Crush - Alan Jacobson [160]
She closed the file folder and pushed it aside, but kept her left hand on the table. “You know what? I want to back up for a minute. I’ve been rude to you, and that was wrong.” She placed her hand on the exposed, noncasted area of Mayfield’s, careful to avoid quick or awkward movements. She was trying to establish a connection with him and didn’t want anything disrupting it. “Can we start over?”
Mayfield looked down at their hands. He looked up at her, a distant look in his eyes. Confusion.
Vail pressed on. “Tell me something.” Her voice was soft, non-threatening. “Tell me about your mother, John.” His eyes narrowed. He was listening. Like taming a lion, his tremendous power was suddenly neutralized. “Your mother is sitting right there,” Vail said, nodding toward a seat to her right, in the corner of the room. “It’s empty, but she’s sitting there. Say something to her.”
Mayfield turned his head slowly, his eyes remaining on Vail. For the first time, he looked unsure of himself.
“Go on, look at her. I’m not going to judge or hurt you. No one else is here. Just you, me, and your mother.”
Mayfield’s eyes remained on Vail a long moment, then they swung to his left, toward the empty chair. He quickly looked away, then back at Vail. “I can’t.”
“You can,” she said soothingly. “Tell her what you feel, what’s on your mind. Tell her what you’ve always wanted to tell her.”
Mayfield turned his entire head this time. Facing the empty chair, staring at it, his eyes moistened. A minute passed. Then two. Finally, he said, in a low voice, “You let it happen. Why did you let him do that to me, Ma? Why?”
Vail leaned in, ever so slightly. “John, what was it that she let happen to you?”
“My father. It was my father.” He licked his lips. Hesitated, sat there quietly another moment before continuing. “I was thirteen. He wasn’t happy with me. I was a scrawny kid, unsure of myself. I walked slumped over. I disappointed him. He wanted me to play varsity football but I was too small. Guys in the neighborhood would spit on me, they beat me up, stole things from me. Made fun of me.” He stopped. The tears flowed down his cheek. “He called me a little runt.”
“It’s okay,” Vail said, barely above a whisper.
Mayfield sniffled. Still looking at the empty seat. “My father wanted to make me a man. So he hired a hooker, a whore. I ran out, but he caught me in the kitchen and dragged me back into the bedroom. Tied me down.”
Vail knew where this was going before Mayfield said it. “She raped you?”
“He said I needed to be a man. He stood outside the door and listened. I saw his feet underneath the door. Standing there.” He dragged his nose across his shoulder. Face down now, he talked to his lap. “But I was a man now. I’d had sex with a woman, with a whore. And my mother let it happen.”
“Was she there, too?” Vail asked softly.
“There?” Mayfield shook his head. “She was always working. She was never there. My father couldn’t keep a job, so he was always at home, getting drunk and smoking pot and playing cards. My mother was never around. But she knew what was happening, and she did nothing.” He lifted his head and turned to the empty chair. Took a deep, uneven breath, slumped forward and put his right elbow on the table.
“I don’t think your mother knew. I don’t think she’d let that happen to you, John. Did you ever . . . tell her?”
Mayfield swung his face toward Vail’s. “I couldn’t.”
Vail nodded slowly. “I understand.” And, honestly, she did understand. What thirteen-year-old could face his mother and tell her he’d been raped by a prostitute? The details of how it happened were unimportant. It was too embarrassing for most thirteen-year-olds to admit. Telling your mother something that personal, face-to-face, was out of the question. The evolution of John Mayfield into serial killer was now clear. She lowered her eyes, saddened by the series of events that led to this man in front of her having taken the lives of so many innocent people. People who had nothing to do with John Mayfield’s failed upbringing.
Piercing