“The attacks,” she said, and I was grateful for the plural, “are they the reason you’re so thin?”
Most people thought the rape was my only attack, not realizing that his very presence, the way he came after me, felt like more attacks. He had thought the rape was consensual, and that it meant we had a relationship, so he continued to pursue it.
I looked at Eagle. Her eyebrows were up, as if they were punctuating the question.
The question. Which I had barely heard.
“Do I look that thin?” I asked.
“Honey,” she said, “you look like a strong breeze could blow you into next week.”
I smiled self-consciously and grabbed the ham sandwich. The bread here was thick sourdough, something I’d never had before coming to the Bay Area.
“I had a bunch of surgeries this spring,” I said quietly.
“He hurt you that badly, huh.” Her voice was flat. It wasn’t a question. It was an understanding.
No matter how comfortable I felt with her, I couldn’t tell a stranger about the pregnancy, the abortion, the fact that I nearly died, or about the surgeon, unable to save any part of my reproductive organs because of it all.
Tears pricked and I blinked them back. Sometimes I thought if I had just had the baby, then everything would’ve been okay. Truman would still be alive, I’d be able to have children, and I’d be fine.
But Truman would have gone after that bastard no matter what, and he would have killed Truman no matter what, and I would’ve been a single mother, raising a child I hadn’t wanted, by a man I hated.
Eagle reached across the table and put her hand on mine. I didn’t jump, which shocked me. I’d touched a lot of people today, and I’d been touched in return, and I wasn’t having a bad reaction to any of it.
“I nearly died,” I said, figuring that was what I could safely say.
She nodded. “That’s why, then.”
At first I thought she meant that was why I was so thin, but her tone seemed off for that. So, I raised my head, my gaze meeting hers. Her dark eyes were filled with compassion.
“Why what?” I asked.
“Why you understand,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
I swallow hard.
Her fingers squeezed my hand, and then she let go. She took one of the napkins, opened it, and spread it across her lap.
She put on another persona, an official one, and her voice became stronger as she spoke.
“They call it battle fatigue,” she said, “or shell shock. The Army, after World War II, instructed medics to understand that every man had his breaking point.”
I felt my breath catch. She was talking about herself now.
She ran her hands on that napkin, her gaze no longer holding mine.
“I think,” she said, “that every person has a breaking point, and I don’t think it always has to do with actual war. But some kind of warfare. Sounds like this man forced you into a war.”
He had. He had forced me into a battle, and it had lasted for months. I had met him in December, and he was dead by April, but by then, the damage was done.
By then, the damage was more than done.
“Nowadays,” she said, studying her moving hands, “they call it Gross Stress Reaction, which is maybe more accurate.”
“You’re diagnosing me?” I asked, mostly because I didn’t want to hear any more. I hated to think about how broken I was.
She raised her head. Her eyes were clear, unlike the way they had looked in the alley.
“You diagnosed me,” she said, in a way that implied she was giving tit for tat. “And you were right. I have all the symptoms, whether I want them or not.”
“I don’t think anyone wants this,” I said.
She snorted. “No shit.”
She picked up her sandwich, so I picked up mine. We ate in silence for a moment. The ham was slightly chewy, the mustard a little watery.
She finished her half of her sandwich, then met my gaze. She had a bemused expression on her face.
“So what are we?” she asked. “A two-person consciousness raising group?”
I hated that mystical hippie-dippy stuff. “Maybe just two women with something in common.”
She smiled. She had some mayonnaise in the corner of her mouth. I brushed the corner of mine, to give her a hint, and she wiped off the mayonnaise with the napkin.
“I like that,” she said. “Wouldn’t want to be too ‘mod.’”
I grinned. “The next thing you know, we’ll turn into groovy chicks wearing see-through blouses and striped pants.”
Her face twisted in a mock frown. “I think striped pants are out.”
I looked around the café, saw at least five pairs, and said, “Not here, they’re not.”
She looked too, and laughed. I had to join her. The laughing felt good. It felt right.
It felt perfect.
The decisions to go to the gym, to reach out to Eagle, to come here, had all been good ones—and I hadn’t had a positive thought like that in a long, long time.
It felt like I had turned a corner.
Finally.
15
Pammy
Jill and Strawberry had left the kitchen, thank heavens. Pammy wiped her hands on her shorts, folded the grocery bags, and put them on a shelf. She wasn’t shaking any longer, but she still felt uneasy. Eagle’s anger, Jill’s quiet fury, and Strawberry’s tears bothered her more than she wanted to admit.
This morning felt like a continuation of the entire year, with everything spiraling out of control.
Pammy put the groceries away, as a kind of meditation. Jill had bought staples that would last a few days—Wonder Bread, bologna, hot dogs, buns, cereal and some condiments. The fresh fruit looked good, but then it always did this time of year.
After the gym closed at 9:00, Stella D’Arbus was going to bring a woman and her daughter to the back door. Stella had called Pammy the night before to set all this up.
Stella was the wife of one of men who served on the University of California Board of Regents. Stella pretended to be a dedicated, wealthy housewife, but she had turned out to be one of the gym’s main supporters.
And twice, she had brought someone here to hide from a bad domestic situation. This would be the third time.
Eagle hated these overnights, and honestly, Pammy wasn’t fond of them either. The first time, she had known the woman Stella helped. The second time, Pammy hadn’t known the woman at all, but Stella had stayed with her.
Pammy wasn’t certain Stella was going to stay this time. Pammy hoped so, because she had no idea who this woman and her daughter were.
Pammy grabbed some raspberries from one of the containers, rinsed them in her bare hand, and popped them in her mouth. Sweet and fresh. She really didn’t want to face Jill or Strawberry, but she had no choice.
Pammy let herself out of the kitchen. All but one of members of the previous class had finally left. The straggler was examining the boxing gloves as if they fascinated her.
The members of the next class were filtering in. This was a three-week self-defense class that Irene Roth, one of the professors in the athletics department at the university, had arranged. It was part of a summer school class, even though it wasn’t officially sanctioned by the university. Irene paid Pammy’s fees, using some grant or athletic fee money.
Irene stood at the door, a clipboard in hand. She was short and squat, solid muscle. Her brown hair looked like a fringe around her head, the bottom part of her scalp buzzed like a man would do. She said it was easier to maintain, considering she sometimes took two or three showers per day, depending on how energetic she got while teaching her classes.
She wore a blue shirt over light blue shorts, and some Peds stuck out of her sneakers. Unlike most of the women who came here, Irene’s legs were shapely, without an ounce of fat on them.
Pammy was relieved to see her, despite the whistle that Irene wore around her neck. Whistles drove Pammy
nuts. Irene used hers like an extension of her voice.
Irene was checking off the names of students as they entered.
Pammy and Irene had run a self-defense class last summer as well, and only ten girls had signed up. After the horrid winter and spring, though, this class had twenty-five students, and no one had dropped out.
They wore cut-offs and bikini tops to the first class, and since then, they dressed more appropriately, in t-shirts, gym shorts, socks, and some kind of sneaker. The girls had gotten too bruised that first class to ever wear so little again.
Pammy watched them file in. They were thin and earnest, most with short hair or ponytails, and none of them smelling of marijuana or incense, the way that some of Strawberry’s friends had.
These were the kids who continued to go to classes despite the violence and disruption of the past seven months. Some were so earnest that they even carried books into the gym. Others disappeared into the locker room to hide their purses and belongings.
Pammy squared her shoulders. She had to adjust her mood. She needed to be calm to teach a class on self-defense.
She walked to the counter, shaking out her hands and wrists, trying to ease the tension in her body. Eagle’s anger had been a powerful thing, and it had left Pammy unsettled.
Particularly Eagle’s most cutting comment: All your high-minded fucking stupid speeches about self-defense. What does that do? It means that one woman will fight until she’s fucking tired, and can’t fight anymore.
Eagle hated the emphasis on self. Of course, she hadn’t mentioned that before. But sometimes it took a push to get Eagle to express her opinion.
And she had a point. All of the tricks that Pammy taught, from remaining calm to observing surroundings to sticking fingers into an attacker’s eyes were just that: Tricks.
Either the victim got away or she didn’t. And if she didn’t get away, at some point, she would lose. Anyone—including the strongest man—could get overpowered.
And, eventually, everyone would need help.
At least, though, these classes were part of the solution, to use Strawberry’s phrase, not part of the problem. Teaching women that they were strong was helpful. Teaching young college-age women to be strong was even better.
But, considering what Strawberry had said about people disappearing, maybe it wasn’t quite enough.
Pammy stopped at the counter, her fingers trailing that flyer. Then her gaze caught a cash register receipt with a note paper clipped to it. A pen held that all down.
Reimbursement for groceries. —J.
Pammy frowned. Jill had never asked for reimbursements before, no matter how often Pammy had offered to pay.
Jill really was mad.
Pammy stared at that flyer, the girl’s grainy image looking bright and filled with promise. Photos like that on a missing person flyer made Pammy sad. She always wanted to dive backwards through the photo to the moment it was taken, warn the person that something bad was going to happen, and then hope it all got better.
But of course, it wouldn’t.
She looked up at the girls, lining up so that Irene could take roll. Irene ran everything like military boot camp: the girls sounded off before moving to their assigned positions. Irene had them so terrified that they didn’t laugh, either, like they had on the first day of class.
The self-defense class wasn’t the only session the girls had with Irene. There was more to the class, including other types of exercise and fitness.
Pammy worked with the girls for forty minutes, and then the class ran back to campus—whether they liked running or not.
Pammy had stopped watching that little running trip, because it made her uncomfortable. Irene drifted up and down the rows of girls, blowing her whistle, yelling at anyone who catcalled the group, and whacking stragglers on the butt with her clipboard.
She worked them hard, and in a form of exercise that Pammy wasn’t real fond of.
Pammy’s fingers floated across the flyer again. The girls who came for the self-defense class looked a lot more like the girl that Darla Newsome’s father had hoped his daughter would become in college.
They looked nothing like Strawberry, even though Strawberry was just as dedicated. Maybe more dedicated, in fact.
And that decided Pammy. She walked around the counter, and clapped her hands together.
“Everyone, look at me,” she said.
Irene turned first. Pammy recognized the frown. Irene hadn’t had the girls count off yet. Pammy was ruining the established order of things.
The girls turned as well, round eager faces, eyes bright and curious. Pammy did not know their names—she left that to Irene and her clipboard—but she did recognize the faces. None of the girls had missed a class.
Pammy made eye contact with each and every one of the girls, making sure they were paying attention before she continued.
“I have a flyer up here,” Pammy said, “that a desperate father left this morning. His daughter has disappeared.”
Irene’s frown faded a little. She tilted her head back a little as if she were realizing what Pammy was doing.
“This happens sometimes,” Pammy said as she crossed the linoleum. “Kids vanish. At least, they vanish from their parents’ perspective. The kids don’t call home. Or they move out of the dorms into an apartment and forgot to set up a forwarding address. Or they get a new phone number and don’t tell anyone.”
A couple of girls turned beet red. Apparently they recognized themselves in that description.
“But I’m beginning to think this case is different.” Pammy reached the mats.
The girls were watching her—everyone was watching her. Irene clutched her whistle as if it were a lifeline. The straggler had pushed up against the boxing gloves as if she were trying to remain invisible. Pammy couldn’t remember her name either. Janet? Joan? Julie?
It wasn’t important at the moment.
Pammy continued, “On Saturday night, a friend of mine witnessed what she believes is an abduction. She called the police, but they wouldn’t come down here.”
The entire gym had become so quiet that Pammy could hear the faint traffic noise from outside.
“Even if whatever my friend saw wasn’t an actual abduction,” Pammy said, “it was ugly. The woman was beaten and thrown into the back of a truck.”
She added the part about the truck deliberately, and it paid off. Some of the girls glanced at each other, and two, standing side by side, actually grew pale. They knew something.
“We have no idea who the girl was who was tossed in that truck,” Pammy said. “We have a description, kinda, but nothing more.”
“Was it the girl in the flyer?” a tiny blonde on the end asked.
Pammy shook her head. “We’re pretty sure it wasn’t. That girl disappeared in June. She left all of her belongings behind, including her purse. Her roommate didn’t tell anyone until the rent was due, weeks later.”
Irene’s frown had returned. She had brought these girls here because of a recent rise in campus assaults, all anecdotal of course, since no one ever thought of prosecuting or even keeping track of them. But Irene clearly hadn’t heard about the disappearances.
Pammy continued, “One of the students who comes here regularly learned about the flyer, and said she knew about several real disappearances this spring. She also said she’d been warned to stay away from a man driving a dark Ford F-350. Have any of you heard that same warning?”
Six different girls glanced at each other. One looked utterly terrified. But the girls who had exchanged glances earlier stared straight ahead, as if the words were washing right over them.
Irene glared at them. “This is not a time to be silent, girls. If something’s going on down here, we need to know.”
Another girl, a rail-thin wheat blonde who actually had some athletic potential, looked down at her hands.
“Gail,” Irene said. “If you got something to say, you better say it.”
The
wheat blonde glanced at the other girls. A brunette with feathered bangs that hung in her eyes nodded, as if encouraging the wheat blonde.
“This girl vanished from our dorm in March,” the wheat blonde said. “Like, she was there one day, and gone the next. It was like so weird. Because she’d seemed just fine before, and then, nothing. You know. Gone.”
“Did anyone report her missing?” Pammy asked and then, because everyone looked confused, including Irene, added, “Or try to find her or tell her parents?”
“The RA knew,” the girl said, referring to the resident assistant. “The RA said people drop out and we shouldn’t worry about that. It’s normal.”
Which Jill would have taken as vindication.
“Only she didn’t drop out,” the girl said. “She just left everything behind one day. And she’s not the only one. There was this kid in my chem lab who was really into the stuff we were doing, and he just stopped showing up to class too.”
Pammy frowned. Her gaze met Irene’s. Irene shrugged.
“The RA’s right,” another girl said. “People drop out all the time.”
“But I heard about the truck,” a third girl said. “Did you?”
Everyone looked at her. She was short and dark-haired, a little on the chubby side. Her cheeks pinked up.
“Well, I did. People at the…” Her voice trailed off, and her green eyes moved from side to side nervously. She wasn’t supposed to talk about something. “I mean, you know, people were talking about this guy in a truck. He would follow people, going really slow, and sometimes he would ask about someone.”
The hair on the back of Pammy’s neck stood on end. She didn’t like how this sounded.
“What do you mean, ask about someone?” Pammy said.
“Like, he had names or something. Or he’d ask if someone had seen somebody who matched some description.” The girl shrugged. “I kinda thought he was a cop.”
“You’ve seen him?” Pammy asked.
The girl shook her head. “When I heard about him, I thought, that’s what cops do. Only a guy who drives a regular truck can’t be a cop, right?”
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