“I’m Kevin.”
The next night, the police went to Carney Howard’s house and pulled him out of bed where he’d been sleeping, with his wife, when they knocked on his door.
When they handcuffed him and announced the charge he said, “I can’t rape nobody; I can’t even get it up!”
That’s how they knew for sure that they’d arrested the right man.
They took him off to jail and called me to let me know that he was behind bars.
“Carney Howard painted the apartment where he took you,” they told me. “That’s why he had a key.”
That explained why he had trouble opening the door. “But he told me his name was Kevin.”
The officer said, “Kevin is his son’s name.”
His what?
He had a son. A wife. A house.
My rapist was a family man.
And I had promised I wouldn’t tell anybody.
My guilt was immediately overwhelming.
I began having a recurring nightmare.
In the dream, I was walking through a school, or a grocery store, or standing at a bus stop. A little boy appeared – maybe five years old – standing in front of me, staring up at me with huge, sad eyes.
“I’m Kevin,” he would say. “Can you help me get my dad back?”
I’d wake up sweating, terrified, wanting to scream and cry and howl. The guilt scratched at me behind my eyes, sent me into a spiral of not wanting to wake, not wanting to sleep, and not knowing how to fix a wrong I could never right.
I wanted to visit that little boy, buy him toys and food and shoes. I wanted to give him all the things his father wouldn’t be able to give him because his father was in jail.
It was my fault. I’d taken his dad away.
I dreamed this same dream for months, over and over, always waking with the same remorse.
******************************************************
Six months later, I went to court. Bonnie was back in Ohio; Larry was back in Florida. I had to tell my story with the support of someone I didn’t trust, so I was basically alone.
But I showed up.
I was instructed to sit on a bench in an empty hallway: “Your case has been delayed,” they said.
So I sat. I was sober, silent. I thought my shaking hands were nerves, not alcohol withdrawal.
I waited in the hallway for my case to be called. I waited and waited and waited. I relived all the horror as I waited. I was terrified to retell the story; I was terrified to see the man who did this to me, the man whose boy was fatherless.
After two hours, an officer of the court came out and said, “Miss Moore?”
“Yes.” I stood up and he shook my hand.
“I just wanted to tell you that you won’t be needed today; your case has been settled.”
“Settled? What does that mean?”
“Mr. Howard took a plea deal,” he said. “He’ll spend two years in prison for what he did to you.”
“Two years?”
“Yes,” he said. “You don’t even need to testify.”
I breathed.
I hadn’t realized I’d not been breathing.
“Thank you,” I said. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“How’s his son doing?”
“His son?”
“Kevin? I just feel so bad for his son,” I said.
The man softened. “As far as I know, his son is just fine.”
I didn’t feel reassured.
My rapist was in prison, and Kevin would spend two years without a father.
I went home and drank to celebrate, and to forget.