The Sacrifice by Joyce Carol Oates Read Free Book Online Page B

behavior, Iglesias thought. But Iglesias wanted to think The girl has been badly hurt.
    Mrs. Frye said sharply to her daughter, “I’m tellin you, girl. You just answer this p’lice off’cer’s questions, then we goin home.”
    Sybilla continued to hunch shivering inside the blanket. She had shut her eyes tight as a stubborn child might do. Her upper lip, swollen like a grotesque discolored fruit, was trembling.
    Iglesias had been told that the girl’s assailants had rubbed mud and dog excrement into her hair and onto her body and that they’d written racist words in black ink on her body.
    When she asked if she might see these words, Sybilla stiffened and did not reply.
    “If you could just open the blanket, for a minute. The curtain is closed here. No one will see. I know this is very unpleasant, but . . .”
    Sybilla began shaking her head vehemently no.
    In a plaintive voice Mrs. Frye said, “She don’t need to do that no more, Officer. S’b’lla a shy girl. She don’t show her body like some girls. They took pictures of the writing, they can show you. That’s enough.”
    “I would so appreciate it, if I could see this ‘writing’ myself.”
    “Ma’am, that nasty writin is all but gone, now. I think they washed it off. But they took pictures. You go look at them pictures.”
    “If I could just—”
    “I’m tellin you no , ma’am. It’s enough of this for right now, S’billa comin home with me.”
    Iglesias had been briefed about the “racist slurs”—scribbled onto the girl’s body “upside-down.” Clearly it was already an issue to arouse skepticism— upside-down? She would study the photos and see what sense this might make.
    Iglesias had placed a recording device on the examination table. Mrs. Frye objected: “You recordin this, ma’am? I hope you aint recordin this, I can’t allow that.”
    The small spinning wheels were a provocation. Iglesias had known that Mrs. Frye would object.
    Carefully she explained that it was police department policy that such an interview would be recorded. “A recorded interview is for the good of everyone involved.”
    “No it ain’t, ma’am! Like with pictures you can mess up what people say to twist it how you want. Like on TV. You can leave out some words an add some others the way police do, to make people ‘confess’ to somethin they ain’t done. You got to know that, you a cop you’self.”
    Mrs. Frye spoke sneeringly. The sudden hostility was a surprise.
    Iglesias had wanted to think that she’d been persuading Mrs. Frye, making an ally of her, and not an adversary. It was a painful truth, what the woman was saying, yet, as a police officer, she had to pretend that it wasn’t so.
    “Not in this case, Mrs. Frye. Not me .”
    Mrs. Frye folded her arms over her heavy breasts. She was wearing what appeared to be several layers of clothing—pullover shirt, long-sleeved shirt, sweater, and slacks. On her small wide feet, frayed sneakers. Iglesias saw that Ednetta Frye’s nails had been done recently, each nail painted a different color, zebra-stripes on both thumbnails, but the polish was chipped and the nails uneven. The girl’s nails were badly broken and chipped but had been polished as well, though not recently. The daughter wore no jewelry except small gold studs in her ears. The mother wore gold hoop earrings, a wristwatch with a rhinestone-studded crimson plastic band, rings on several fingers including a wedding band that looked too small for her fleshy finger.
    “See, ma’am, I can’t allow my daughter to be any more mishandled than she’s been. No recordin here, or we goin home right now.”
    The woman didn’t remember Iglesias’s name or rank. You had to suppose. She didn’t intend a sly insult, calling Iglesias ma’am.
    Iglesias could only repeat that recording their conversation was for the good of everyone concerned but Mrs. Frye interrupted—“Nah it ain’t! You must think we are stupid people! Have to be pretty