Juliana hadn’t realized she was screaming, or trying to scream. So quickly this was happening. Desperate thrashing to throw the man off her, smelling liquor on his breath, still astonished, stunned, how abruptly the playfulness had ended, still Mr. Hermann’s face was contorted in a grin, she heard a grunting kind of laughter as he straddled her, pushed up the T-shirt, tore at the panties. Was it play? (Irving Hermann sometimes tickled his children like this, or almost—rough-playing to make them shriek with laughter, kicking wildly.) Juliana tasted acid at the back of her mouth, panicked threat of vomit even as she tried to draw her (naked) knees up to shield herself from Mr. Hermann, propel him from her, but the man was too heavy, too determined.

Grunting atop her—Oh!—uh!—uh …

For a panicked moment Juliana couldn’t breathe. Crushed by the man’s weight that was dense, compact, like clayey earth. Then like a frantic animal she managed to squirm out from beneath him, yanking down the T-shirt, with outspread fingers trying to shield herself where he’d torn the panties, but by this time Mr. Hermann too was on his feet, chagrined, backing off, dazed, muttering to himself words Juliana could not decipher but understood were not directed toward her. With both hands he brushed his unkempt hair back from his forehead, panting as if he’d been running, angry-sounding, unable to catch his breath.

Juliana stammered for him to leave her alone, please go away and leave her alone, she wouldn’t tell anyone Juliana promised, begged, by anyone meaning only just Mrs. Hermann of course and so hearing this Mr. Hermann laughed harshly, as if Juliana had said something meant to be funny, or so stupid that it was funny.

Hesitating, then deciding. Deciding no, not worth the risk.

Adjusted his clothing, gave another brisk swipe to his hair, lurched to the door, and was gone.

Soon then, Juliana heard footsteps directly over her head, heels coming down hard on the low ceiling.

Gone! It was over as swiftly as it had begun.

She was weak with relief. She was smiling, a sick sort of smile, with relief. Looking then for a way to secure the lock at the door, but there appeared to be none, nor was there a double lock at the door leading into the interior of the house, so Juliana dragged a chair to this door, hoping to secure it, like a character in a movie. To secure a door with a chair like this was somehow funny.

Trying to comprehend exactly what had happened, and what it meant, what had happened.

Juliana would be most struck by how quickly the assault had happened, how rapid the transformation from playfulness to actual hurt and a threat of greater hurt, recalling the ordeal in the college boy’s car behind the Blue Moon Tavern years ago, exactly that, and then too the smell of the other’s breath, hot, hissing breath, drunkenness.

No way to protect herself. If she’d screamed …