The next day, Saturday, I’m back at Sam’s house, sitting on the patio while he draws me. Mrs. Manderson made us hot chocolate. I’m wearing my jacket, and Sam has gloves on, the kind that have holes cut out for the fingers. I don’t know why we don’t go inside, but he prefers it out here.
Sam looks at me before he starts, like really looks at me, and I have to look away, because I wonder if he can see the truth about me in my eyes. Like Madison could. Does he know? Would he care? Soon he starts drawing, his pencil making soothing sounds across the paper. I just listen to the noises of the neighborhood. Cars going up the streets, a screen door slamming a few houses away. A mother yells for her kid. But overall it’s quiet. Too quiet. I don’t hear the pencil anymore. I look back at Sam. He’s stopped drawing and is sort of staring off like he’s prone to do.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He nods. But he doesn’t start drawing. “I’m just a little tired. I don’t always sleep too good.”
“That sucks,” I say, and I want to ask why, but I know. “We can stop if you want.”
He doesn’t respond. He chews on his pencil, then just holds it there, on the paper. He’s staring ahead again. “It was about a month in. Or five weeks,” he says. “I tried to keep track of the days, but it was hard.”
For a second I have no idea what he’s talking about, but then I realize where his mind has gone. Back to Anniston.
“Russell woke me up when I was sleeping. He woke me up every few hours at night. I guess to mess with my head. Sometimes for other reasons.”
He looks at me then, to see if I understand. Other reasons. And by this I know he means the abuse. I nod at him, while a knot seems to tighten in my chest.
“That night, he told me to get dressed, to come with him outside. I hadn’t been outside yet. I’d been inside all that time. Tied up. Duct tape on my mouth for a while. But by then he’d stopped doing that.”
By then.
He pauses, maybe to see if he can continue. I nod again, slowly, giving the go-ahead.
“He walked me out the door, through this courtyard. He told me to be quiet. ‘You tell people you’re Sam Hunnicutt if they ask. My nephew. My brother’s kid I’m taking care of.’ I could tell it was late. Most people were asleep. Most of the lights were out. I thought about screaming, but I didn’t. I was so scared.” Here his voice cracks a little, but he recovers himself and goes on. “He pushed me along up some steps, then into a parking lot. I saw his truck. It was red, not white. I guess he’d painted it. He told me to get in. I got in the backseat and laid down. ‘Put this on,’ he said, giving me a bandanna to wear as a blindfold.
“He drove for a long while. It was late but I was too scared to be tired. The truck went up some hills, steep ones, then down some curves. I had no idea where we were going. Finally, he slowed down, pulled off onto a gravel road. I heard him curse and stop the car. ‘Stay here. Don’t try anything.’ He took the keys. But I wouldn’t have done anything. I was paralyzed. He got back in the car and drove on for a little bit more. Finally, he stopped.
“‘Get out,’ he said. He yanked the blindfold off. I climbed out of the backseat. It was dark out, but from the moonlight I could tell we were in the woods, by some pond or something. You could hear bugs, a loud whirring sound. It felt good to be outside. To have the air on my skin. I’d been trapped in that apartment for weeks.
“‘Sit down,’” he said, motioning to a spot of grass not far from the water. So I sat.
“‘Lay back.’ I did as I was told. By then, I knew resisting would only make things worse. He sat down next to me. I closed my eyes and pretended I was somewhere else, like I always did. On a camping trip with my dad or at the beach with my family, at Gulf Shores. I could feel Rusty watching me, but not doing anything. I mean, I knew—I knew he’d dragged me out here for a reason. But then . . . Then I heard. . . . I heard crying. I opened my eyes. He was staring out at the water, just crying like a kid would, all messy and ugly. I shut my eyes again, because I didn’t want him to see me looking at him. I braced myself. I thought about Six Flags, eating cotton candy till my teeth hurt. Then I felt him move on top of me, still crying, and all of a sudden . . . I felt a pressure on my throat.” Sam stops, like he has a choke in his voice.
“I remember opening my eyes, looking up at him. He was still crying, but I realized right away that he was choking me. My first instinct was to resist, but he squashed his legs on mine, and he was so huge, so strong. I felt like I was being pressed down by a boulder.”
My hands are cold. I’m cold. I’m shaking.
“I know this sounds weird, but right then I felt like . . . a kind of relief. He was going to kill me, but it was okay, because it meant that it was all over. All of it—it was going to stop. I’d go to heaven.” Right then a tear falls from Sam’s eye and he wipes it away quickly.
“I felt myself losing consciousness. But then, I don’t know . . . I saw something.” He sits up in his seat. “Like they say, your life flashes before your eyes. And in that flash I saw Mom. And Beth. I saw them, sad and alone without me. In our house—in this house,” he says, looking behind him, then back ahead. “And I knew then that I had to fight. I don’t know where I found the strength. I was almost out of breath, and blacking out, but I fought. I started slapping him with my free hands. I kicked. I punched. And finally his hands were off my throat. He was off me. I started coughing. Throwing up. I rolled to my side and just gasped for air. I couldn’t believe it. I wasn’t dead. I rolled away from him. I tried to stand, but I felt too wobbly. I heard him stand up. I started screaming. He kicked me, yelled at me to be quiet. I balled myself up, but he came and yanked me to my feet. I thought—here’s where he’s going to finish the job. He held me by the collar of my shirt and stood in front of me, breathing heavy. His face was still wet with tears. He looked like a maniac.
“And that’s when I started begging. Please please please. I was bawling. But I tried to calm myself down because he had to listen to me. He had to. I told him I’d stay with him. I wouldn’t run away. I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone. I’d do what he said—if . . . If he let me live.”