Page 91 of Dirty Filthy Boy
"Emily kept a journal."
For a second, my heart stops. "Did she?"
"Yes. I read part of it. The happy times when she first arrived in college. She was so full of hope and dreams then." Looking off into the distance, she heaves a laborious sigh.
Her daughter had been much like my sister. Jeanie had hopes and dreams of her own. She wanted to sing and dance on Broadway. That's how she first caught the attention of Tommy Hawkins. At a high school performance ofOklahoma. After he'd seen her act, he'd applied for a job in our farm as a laborer. And then he'd raped and beaten her, killing off her chances of a happy future, never mind the stage.
I need Mrs. Suarez to know she's not alone in her pain. Maybe that will comfort her, even in some small way. "I have a sister, Mrs. Suarez, who was abused, as well. Much like Emily, she had hopes and dreams. But they were taken from her. So I understand." I squeeze her hand. "Truly, I do."
Her eyes shimmer with tears, even as she struggles to bring forth a smile "Thank you, Ms. Perkins. I really believe you do."
"So you do not know what's in the rest of the journal?"
"No. And neither does anyone else."
"How can that be? Wouldn't the police have looked at it?"
She shakes her head. "Emily had a very nosy roommate who loved to pry into her things. So she glued a book cover around her journal so her roommate wouldn't know what it was. The police must have thought it was a book, as well. I only realized it was her diary two years ago, when I donated some books to our local library, and the librarian pointed out the writing inside." For a couple of seconds, she's silent. And then she firms her shoulders and stares right at me. "I think you should read it, Ms. Perkins."
God knows I want to, but I have to be honest. "What if I find . . . something unpleasant about Emily?"
"You won't. My Emily was true blue. I trust you, Ms. Perkins. Publish the truth. Maybe then I can lay my guilt to rest."
I understand what she means. She's probably blaming herself for her daughter's death. Somehow, she should have known what her daughter was going through even though she was thousands of miles away. She's suffering the same guilt I've felt since that monster raped my sister. Maybe it's the price we pay for surviving. "Thank you, Mrs. Suarez. I won't betray your trust."
After a short goodbye, I head to the Longview airport for the long trip back. During the two-hour layover in Dallas-Ft. Worth, I read the relevant sections of Emily's journal which reveals the great, big ugly truth of what happened that night, including the identity of the person who could have stopped Emily from getting raped. That truth brings me no joy.
