Libby DayNOW
After my mother’s head was blown off, her body axed nearly in two, people in Kinnakee wondered whether she’d been a w***e. At first they wondered, then they assumed, then it became a loose jingle of fact. Cars had been seen at the house at strange times of night, people said. She looked at men the way a w***e would. In these situations, Vern Evelee always remarked that she should have sold her planter in ’83, as if that was proof she was prostituting herself.
Blame the victim, naturally. But the rumors turned so substantial: everyone had a friend who had a cousin who had another friend who’d f****d my mom. Everyone had some bit of proof: they told of a mole on the inside of her thigh, a scar on her right buttock. I don’t think the stories can be true, but like so much from m
