There was no experience in Margaret’s life for rough treatment, intentional or not. She had never known hostility, except perhaps when the grades were posted and she made superiors in every course. Then a few of the boys chided her about being “the brain,” and she could see that they were jealous. Women were not attacked, certainly not molested. Rape was so unthinkable as to be unthinkable. Margaret had never been with a man, but she had kissed Ed Garvey Jr. the night before she left for college, and sometimes three or four girls would gather in her room to laugh and talk about school and boys and what it must be like to be married. From those meandering sessions she had learned about sex, or at least had listened to her friends’ stories, many of which sounded like scenes from romantic novels rather than actual life experiences. From these social discussions Margaret had pieced together the basic physical aspects of love. But for her, love was still a synthetic vision of a couple walking in gardens of fragrant roses and honeysuckle. She dreamed of holding hands and expressing undying devotion, pledging to help each other and to share lives. She never really understood the word “lust,” but she knew that sometimes her own body would feel different, like the night she kissed Ed Garvey and she felt light-headed, hot as if she might perspire, but not sure why. Her friends assured her that boys felt the same way, but they never mentioned that boys could be mean about it.
Margaret knew something was wrong because the person behind her never said a word, and there was a faint smell of something on his hand, maybe kerosene or ink. She could feel the rough weave of his coat scrape against her face. She tried to scream. Then another hand rushed to her throat, discovered the top button of her jacket loosened as she had left it, and moved down to force the second button through the eye of her blouse. The hand forced its way under her blouse, moving down. Then the fingers were on her breast, slipping beneath her brassiere, and then pulling out, one hand hitting her throat as the other left her mouth. She gasped for air. There was a terrible moment of confusion when she simply didn’t realize what had happened. Everything was a blur. Her head was spinning, and she felt weak in her arms and legs. Coughing, she grabbed her skirt as she fell off the bench. She knew she had to run, but her legs just buckled as she tumbled forward. She struggled to her feet and stumbled forward onto the porch of the closest house. The door opened, and a porch light came on. Dusk must have arrived while she was dreaming. It was a woman’s voice speaking, and Margaret could not see her, did not know her, but fell into her arms crying, “Help me, help me.”
Mrs. Olsen had seen almost every girl attending the College of Emporia as they walked by her house each day. She said hello, and occasionally some girls would stop to talk. Usually lonely, they told her about where they were from and how much they missed their parents. She had seen Margaret before, so pretty with her sandy red curls that seemed to flow out of the ribbons, and her strong hands with long fingers. Mrs. Olsen had noticed her often because she was tall, at least in this community, and at five feet seven inches, usually could be seen bobbing above the other girls. She wore the standard black or gray skirt that almost touched the ground, flared over several petticoats, black lace shoes that covered her ankles, and a white blouse with starched collar that gave her a priestly look. There was little unusual about this costume, except for the fit. Her outer jacket was pulled tight and buttoned from throat to waist, a small waist no doubt accentuated by a corset and exaggerated by the size of her bust. With so many layers of clothes, almost all contours of the body were minimized, but the dimensions of Margaret’s chest and waist were so in conflict that not even the most pious of men could resist a calculating glance, a moment of wonder that such a waist could hold so much above.
Margaret’s nose was a little too straight and too long for most people to call her cute, a favorite term of the time, but Mrs. Olsen thought her a handsome girl anyway. She helped Margaret onto the couch.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Margaret Chambers,” she stammered.
“What happened?” Mrs. Olsen asked. “Did somebody hurt you?”
She asked the question in the most general way, not accusatory, and not reflecting any particular fear that might be lingering in the street. There was none. There was no fear of other human beings, of being robbed or beaten or raped, because those things simply did not happen. Rather, fear was derivative of natural phenomena, a horse that veered and kicked a pedestrian, a windstorm that shattered windows or felled a tree, one of those new cars that people seemed to have trouble controlling, or a rabid animal that might have wandered in from the nearby fields.
But Margaret was not thinking of any of those things. Her mind was jumbled, fearful but not understanding, knowing she had been violated but not sure how. The idea of a rough arm scratching her cheek, a hand over her mouth, a hand grabbing her, almost like in a fight, was so vulgar, so crude. She began to shudder at the thought, a stranger’s hand had touched her breast, had so quickly invaded the sanctity of her clothing. She remembered laying them out this morning, when she was so happy—her beautiful lace petticoat that her mother had made, the finely starched blouse that she had pressed herself by heating the iron in the fireplace. She liked ironing because the fire was warm, and the result of her work left such a straight edge, such a fine orderly garment for presenting herself to the world. It seemed impossible that such a proper form could be so soiled.
She instinctively knew that she could not talk about it, indeed must never mention it to anyone. It was so shameful that anyone would pick her for violation. Her friends talked of boys stealing a glance at her ankles, and her best friends sometimes whispered that she had a wonderful figure. She could never answer the inevitable question—why her?—and did not want to. Certainly not to Mrs. Olsen. This kindly lady clearly had no idea what happened and would probably find Margaret’s explanation hard to believe. Margaret suddenly realized that no one would ever see this boy, or at least she assumed he was a boy, surely no adult would do such a horrible thing. She knew instinctively this event could only reflect poorly on her, indicating some weakness that must have made her a victim, or even incite gossip that she had enticed the man, or that she had a secret lover. She almost gagged at the thought, clutching her throat, and tightening her stomach to steel herself against the possibility of sickness.
“Thank you,” Margaret said without answering Mrs. Olsen’s question. “I must go. I just saw something and it scared me. Thank you for helping me.”
“My husband will be home soon,” Mrs. Olsen said. “I’ll have him walk you back to school.”
“No,” Margaret said. “Please. I’ll be all right.”
Margaret stood to test her legs, holding first to the arm of her chair, then to Mrs. Olsen’s arm, realizing by the feel of her heavy coat that Mrs. Olsen must have been leaving the house as the attack occurred.
“It was just shadows,” Margaret said, composing herself, and testing Mrs. Olsen again.
As if reading her mind, Mrs. Olsen said, “I didn’t see anything dear, but in these times it could have been anything. Sometimes just the spirea and barberry bushes can be frightening. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. Thank you,” Margaret said as she pulled the door open, pushed the screen, and moved out to the porch. The Wickham Lumber Yard bench was just below the steps, empty and unthreatening, just a few pieces of wood on this now-empty street. She wondered if anyone else had seen what happened. She walked down the steps and started back to her room, carrying a stain on her breast that she could still feel, and the nudging of a guilt that she was somehow responsible. She hurried down the sidewalk, desperate for the security and privacy of her room.
Margaret Chambers had always wanted to be a schoolteacher. She thought often of that day,