Our Boys

We buried her under piles of paperwork and self-doubt. The police officers played their part, asking her questions more loaded than the guns that rested on their hips. How much did you have to drink exactly? Had you spoken to these boys before? Did you think they were cute?

Nothing bad ever happened here, you should know that. The children are all sculpted from the same clay, creating duplicates that bike through the streets singing Miss Mary Mack Mack Mack all dressed in black black black. We filled the schools with the brightest teachers this country has to offer. They flocked to us with promises of a quiet life and a decent pay. Our parks are green and plentiful. On a sunny day, which most of ours are, you can see children laughing and chasing each other. In the summer, they will swim in the pond we had put in many years ago now. Yes, this really is the nicest place to live. 

So when they came with their cameras and questions we had no choice but to smile pretty. They poked and sniffed their way through our town, leaving a trail of doubt and anger behind them. They asked us questions to which we had the perfectly crafted reply.

“Upstanding,” we said. “Star players, star citizens,” and our eyes twinkled.

But they didn’t come empty handed. They came with loaded guns looking for practice. They tried to show us the pictures, but we shut our eyes. They tried to read us the tweets, but we plugged our ears. They tried to pry our eyes open and pull our fingers out from our ears to blast the video. When they succeeded, we heard our boys say it was like fucking a corpse. But all we did was scoff in reply.

“They were joking as boys do, don’t you ever joke?” We laughed, “That proves nothing.”

And of course, we knew it was true. Our boys were jokesters, tricksters. But then, aren’t all boys? So we left them in the streets, marched up to our white colonial houses and walked straight by the Adirondack chairs on the front porches. We slammed the doors, locking the dead bolt for the first time since it was installed. We drew the blinds and put a pot roast in the oven. Peeled and mashed some potatoes. And squeezed our children's hands a little too tightly at the dinner table while we droned Our father who art in heaven.

But as the night tried to chill our bones with the truth, we knew we had to be strong. Our boys needed us. We held them in our arms and cradled them all night long. Their bodies radiated warmth in our arms, and we were comforted on our future. The future of our town. When they wailed and fussed, we sang them a lullaby, rocking them gently. We told them stories of princes just like them, in lands far far away. These princes had a job to do. They left their home and went off on wild adventures to make their small kingdom proud.

We thought we were in the clear. We thought we could see the light at the end of the tunnel. The girl seemed silenced, defeated. But then the twenty-first century took over, and we were blinded by lights.

The laptops and iPhones flashed with headlines. Rape culture, victim blaming, slut shaming. The words glared at us. Every day there were new posts, new comments. Why? We screamed.

But we couldn’t dwell and we couldn’t give in. We had our boys to worry about. We made reports change, stories change. We took to the Internet ourselves.

Drunken girls always think they can just cry rape in the morning. 

She’s sabotaging their futures! Who would do such a thing?

But the more we defended ourselves, the faster the fire grew. The smoke hovered above us, trickling down into our morning cup of joe. It darkened the milk in our children’s cereal. It stained our white houses and white walls. And Mr. Clean couldn’t get it off. No matter how hard we scrubbed.

It wasn’t a surprise that Tuesday morning at 10 AM, the courthouse was overflowing with cameras and microphones. The reporters stood so tall their heads grazed the ceiling. They rhythmically wiped the dust from their notepads. Their eyes were darker than coal and their smile looked like our children drew it on. They begged us for a moment, for a statement, slithering around us, waiting for someone to give in. Their eyebrows raised, saliva dripping from their lips.

We had no choice but to stand up for our boys.

“See how they glow,” we cheered as we held the boys up well above our heads. Their halos shined so bright that the camera men didn’t even need to use flash.

“And look at her,” we pointed and covered our eyes in horror at the sight of her. Sunken in face, she was nothing but skin and bones.

“Irresponsible,” we cried. “Foolish, careless, immature.” We laughed and tried to stick horns on her head, but they kept falling off.

The judge wasn’t one of us, you should know that. He came from a big city somewhere. Maybe Philadelphia. They do things differently over there, or so we hear. He sat there with his jaw clenched. They showed the photos of a lifeless body being carried, but we looked at our hands. They read the tweet aloud song of the night was rape me and we twiddled our thumbs. They played the video it was like fucking a corpse and we shrugged our shoulders, rolling our eyes at each other. Witnesses came forward, other boys who had grown up here. We knew their mothers and fathers. We liked them. Respected them even. And they had been there. Had played their part.

Had turned on us and on our boys. Get out of jail free card. Despicable. We glared at them almost as harshly as we did at her. We don’t know how she made it to the seat, because she never took her eyes off her hands. She held them clasped together. Maybe she was holding the last bit of clean air in there and didn’t want the ashes to touch it. The fluorescent lights made her face look like plastic wrap that was spread too thin.

She spewed out lies about our boys. Although they fit alongside with all the pictures and tweets and videos and witness testimonials. She admitted to drinking. Admitted to all of it. Guilty we wanted to cry.

During the break we stood in the hall, chatting with one another. We knew the judge would rule in favor of our boys. How could he not? The case was clear-cut.

Our palms sweat as we sat on the wood, waiting. The jurors rose and you could hear the ant walking across the pew three aisles over.

“We found the defendant guilty,” for a second we think we’re rid of her.

But then we see our boys break down. Their parents collapse in our arms as they watch their children get taken out of the courtroom. Their boys look back at them, their eyes scared and confused.

The cameras are waiting for us as we walk down the steps. They shove their microphones in our faces and all we can do is shake our heads. They weren’t one of us, we say. They never were. We’re different. We smile and bid them farewell, sending them away with justice on their heels. And we took a spade out back and buried our boys, with the girl on top.

About the Author

Sarah Doran is a senior English major at Arcadia University. While here, she's studied in Scotland, Ireland, and Italy. Sarah is the 2017 recipient of the Arcadia University Excellence in Creative Writing Award, and she will be attending the School of the Art Institute in Chicago in the fall to pursue her MFA.