Winter Study

“Robin’s drunk. Passed out. Drunk,” Adam said tonelessly, his face gone the color of ashes, his hands knotted in fists at his sides, knuckles hard-boned and sharp.

“Yep,” Bob said. “I guess this wog business was getting to her. I, for one, will be glad when the Forest Service gets us off this island. Sooner is better.”

To A

Bob wasn’t about to have his prize snatched away. A

“Jonah,” she said as she pried Robin from Bob’s embrace and draped one of the girl’s arms across her shoulders. “Would you mind making a pot of coffee?”

“I’m on it,” he said.

Supporting the younger woman, A

“When the coffee’s done, ask Jonah to bring it to me.”

They didn’t recognize the dismissal.

A

Having no idea how much Robin had consumed, what her tolerance was or if she was on any other drugs or medications, A

She settled Robin on her bed, back against the wall, legs out straight. Like a Raggedy A

“You’re in our room. You are safe,” A

Robin didn’t answer. Her eyes drifted closed and she mumbled, “Demons.”

“No demons,” A

“Drink,” Robin parroted. “Ish.” Fingers numb with whatever was in her system, she began fumbling at the hem of her sweater, unable to clutch it hard enough to lift the wool over her head. “I’m wet.”

“You have wine spilled on you. That sweater is soaked in it. You smell like a wet dog,” A

“No. No. No.” Each was a single, pitiful cry, as if against an inevitable and familiar evil she was helpless to stop. A

“You’re okay,” A

“How’s our girl?”

Fucking Bob. “Go away.”

With a jolt of guilt, A

Not raped, A

Robin’s hands, palms up to either side of her thighs on the mattress ticking, twitched like cats’ paws do when they dream. They stilled, and A

A

Katherine dead, Robin dead drunk. There were men who liked women to be objectified in this ultimate way.

A

That’s what had changed.

Rape was what hadn’t changed.

Women were in the military and they were raped by their fellow soldiers. Girls were in college and they were raped by their fellow students. Rape crisis centers had sprung up and rape counselors. Yet it was still ignored in the most essential way: people in power didn’t want to touch it lest they get their hands dirty.

This was true in the armed forces, corporate America, universities. And in the National Park Service. A friend of A

The rape was never turned over to law enforcement. Higher-ups in the park talked to the victim, offered to set up “mediations” between her and her rapist that they might learn to work and play well together. The rapist was not fired. The crime was treated as a spat between roommates rather than as a felony assault. NPS employees raping seasonals wouldn’t be good PR.

And maybe she was lying. Maybe she was exaggerating. Maybe she had it coming.

That was the unsaid, the way otherwise-decent men and women could refuse to help and still think themselves good people.

“Arthritis.”

Still limp as a rag doll, Robin was staring at A

A

“Thanks.” She shook out her hands and let them hang loosely between her knees. Bone and muscle ached. “Drink some coffee.”

A

“My mom made this,” Robin said.

The sweater was a classic pattern, deep chocolate with a band of white reindeer marching single file across the chest and the back. “It’s beautiful,” A

Robin bent at the waist to take off her knee-high mukluks and fell over sideways on the bed. A

“There.” Robin pointed at her sock-clad feet.