Read Online Havoc-on-Hudson by Bernice Gottlieb - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bernice Gottlieb
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the car door; it was up. That meant unlocked. I kicked off my shoes, so I could run if I got the chance. The high, narrow heels had metal shanks, I knew—perfect weapons. I reached down in the dark and grabbed one, held it tight. A strange calm came over me. Suddenly I was in possession of my wits.
I envisioned headlines in the Daily News—School Girl Raped on Manhattan Beach. I wasn’t going to let that happen.
Josh shrieked the car to a halt, rammed it into Park, and swiveled toward me. The look on his face was monstrous. Grabbing my neck with both hands, he started to choke me.
I fought him, biting his wrists, scratching him, kicking.
“Motherfucking bitch!” He grabbed my ponytail, pulled me towards him, punched me in the side of my head. The pain of the blow was stunning. My ears rang. My vision blurred. He pulled my sundress from my shoulders, reached down and ripped off my underpants.
With all the strength I could muster, I lifted the shoe with the stiletto heel and struck him right in the eye. He dropped the underpants, raised both hands to his bloody eye. I grabbed the chrome door handle, pushed open the car door, rolled out, jumped to my bare feet, slammed the door on his grasping hand, and started running. It was dark and all I could see was sand. I didn’t know which way to go. Bare feet thumping on the hard sand, I just kept running. In straight lines. In circles. Anywhere, just to get away from him.
Behind me, the car motor roared to a start. Then the brights came on, picked me out, the only human creature on the beach. The roar and the lights came after me. “I’m gonna get you, you crazy bitch!” I ran in ever-tighter circles to make it harder for him to hit me. I didn’t feel the broken shells cutting into the soles of my bare feet. It was days before I could walk again.
I was never a praying person, but, God help me, I prayed that night. I prayed as I ran, as I stumbled, as I staggered.
From nowhere a police car appeared in front of me, shrieked to a stop, and two cops jumped out. One, a young redhead, caught me, held me by the shoulders, steadied me.
“He’s trying to kill me … he’s trying to kill me!”
The other cop, bald and burly, jumped in front of the now-slowing convertible, slammed his fist on the hood, brought Josh to a halt.
I heard it all. The creep told them that I was some slut he’d picked up, some whore who’d led him on, that going to Manhattan Beach had been my idea. That, then, for no reason, I’d turned on him, brutally attacked him. They looked at him, up and down. He was six feet tall, a muscular young man in the prime of his life. Yes, his face was pocked and bleeding from stiletto-heel wounds, one eye was swollen shut, blood dripping down his cheek. They looked at me. I was seventeen, looked younger, slender and underdeveloped, five feet four. My dress was ripped in half. My panties were gone.
The younger officer rummaged through the car’s front seat, came out with the torn panties dangling between his thumb and forefinger. The big cop reached behind his belt, pulled out his handcuffs, slapped them on Josh, shoved him in the backseat of the squad car. Shoved him hard. Josh screamed, his voice high and hysterical, “You won’t get away with this! My uncle …” The cop mumbled something I couldn’t hear, slammed the car door, and that was that.
Then the redhead sat me down on a bench and bandaged my feet tightly to stem the bleeding. While we waited for the paddy wagon to come and get Josh, he told me that someone in the apartment building had seen me running away from the car and notified them. The officers drove to the precinct station, took down my story. I could hardly talk. I was in shock.
It was 2 a.m. when the squad car pulled up in front of my house, and my parents were waiting for me, frantic with worry. They’d called Gloria when I missed my curfew. She said she’d been dropped off at 10 p.m. Then they’d called the police.
No
I envisioned headlines in the Daily News—School Girl Raped on Manhattan Beach. I wasn’t going to let that happen.
Josh shrieked the car to a halt, rammed it into Park, and swiveled toward me. The look on his face was monstrous. Grabbing my neck with both hands, he started to choke me.
I fought him, biting his wrists, scratching him, kicking.
“Motherfucking bitch!” He grabbed my ponytail, pulled me towards him, punched me in the side of my head. The pain of the blow was stunning. My ears rang. My vision blurred. He pulled my sundress from my shoulders, reached down and ripped off my underpants.
With all the strength I could muster, I lifted the shoe with the stiletto heel and struck him right in the eye. He dropped the underpants, raised both hands to his bloody eye. I grabbed the chrome door handle, pushed open the car door, rolled out, jumped to my bare feet, slammed the door on his grasping hand, and started running. It was dark and all I could see was sand. I didn’t know which way to go. Bare feet thumping on the hard sand, I just kept running. In straight lines. In circles. Anywhere, just to get away from him.
Behind me, the car motor roared to a start. Then the brights came on, picked me out, the only human creature on the beach. The roar and the lights came after me. “I’m gonna get you, you crazy bitch!” I ran in ever-tighter circles to make it harder for him to hit me. I didn’t feel the broken shells cutting into the soles of my bare feet. It was days before I could walk again.
I was never a praying person, but, God help me, I prayed that night. I prayed as I ran, as I stumbled, as I staggered.
From nowhere a police car appeared in front of me, shrieked to a stop, and two cops jumped out. One, a young redhead, caught me, held me by the shoulders, steadied me.
“He’s trying to kill me … he’s trying to kill me!”
The other cop, bald and burly, jumped in front of the now-slowing convertible, slammed his fist on the hood, brought Josh to a halt.
I heard it all. The creep told them that I was some slut he’d picked up, some whore who’d led him on, that going to Manhattan Beach had been my idea. That, then, for no reason, I’d turned on him, brutally attacked him. They looked at him, up and down. He was six feet tall, a muscular young man in the prime of his life. Yes, his face was pocked and bleeding from stiletto-heel wounds, one eye was swollen shut, blood dripping down his cheek. They looked at me. I was seventeen, looked younger, slender and underdeveloped, five feet four. My dress was ripped in half. My panties were gone.
The younger officer rummaged through the car’s front seat, came out with the torn panties dangling between his thumb and forefinger. The big cop reached behind his belt, pulled out his handcuffs, slapped them on Josh, shoved him in the backseat of the squad car. Shoved him hard. Josh screamed, his voice high and hysterical, “You won’t get away with this! My uncle …” The cop mumbled something I couldn’t hear, slammed the car door, and that was that.
Then the redhead sat me down on a bench and bandaged my feet tightly to stem the bleeding. While we waited for the paddy wagon to come and get Josh, he told me that someone in the apartment building had seen me running away from the car and notified them. The officers drove to the precinct station, took down my story. I could hardly talk. I was in shock.
It was 2 a.m. when the squad car pulled up in front of my house, and my parents were waiting for me, frantic with worry. They’d called Gloria when I missed my curfew. She said she’d been dropped off at 10 p.m. Then they’d called the police.
No
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