Protectors

by Kris Nelscott

  Pammy moved the phone to the middle of the now-cleared desk, then set the thick Bay Area telephone directory beside it. She grabbed one other, thinner phonebook. That one I recognized. I had gotten it when I signed up with the phone company for my own phone service.

  The thinner book was for Berkeley proper. You actually had to ask for the Bay Area phonebook. They kept it under wraps like it was worth a small fortune or something.

  “Thanks.” I wanted to add that she didn’t have to worry about me alone in here, but I didn’t. It wasn’t because I was out of practice defending myself—hell, I wasn’t certain if I had ever really defended myself—but because I was worried she might do what some of those white women did when I pointed out their behavior.

  They’d blush. And with that blush, I would know they had cleaned up the room because they were going to leave a black woman alone in it, not because they did that sort of thing for everyone.

  “Pull the door closed when you’re done,” she said, “and then come find me. I’ll lock it back up.”

  I nodded.

  She hovered for just a moment, shifting from foot to foot, and then she gave me an awkward smile.

  I had no idea what that smile meant—if it was supposed to reassure her or reassure me.

  She slipped out of the room, but left the door open. I debated closing it, just for my own safety, then decided against it. She had already cleaned up the desk so that I wouldn’t see or touch anything private; if I closed the door, she would probably think that I was digging into her files.

  I slid into the room. It was small and cozy, with space for the desk, two chairs, a few filing cabinets, some shelves that had mostly bandages, bottles of iodine, rubbing alcohol, and Mercurochrome. The office smelled of antiseptic, old coffee, and calamine lotion.

  I pulled out the desk chair, and sat down. The chair groaned beneath my weight, which surprised me. I had lost pounds I couldn’t afford in the spring, and now weighed 110 pounds soaking wet. The chair wasn’t very sturdy if it complained about me.

  I grabbed the two phonebooks and looked at the dates. Both were 1969, and neither mentioned when they were issued. So I looked inside the Berkeley book first, flipping the thick paper until I got to the Ns.

  I figured finding Darla Newsome in the phone book was a long shot, but a worthwhile one. Everyone who got a phone was listed in the book unless they paid extra to be unlisted.

  But most likely the phone was in the name of the landlord or a roommate or someone I couldn’t even imagine. For all I knew, Darla had been subletting the apartment and her name wasn’t even on the lease.

  I had stared at the flyer during the conversation in the main part of the gym, so the spelling of Darla’s name had burned into my brain.

  I turned pages until I reached the N-e-w names, and stopped in surprise.

  There, at the very top of the page, was D. Newsome.

  I looked at the previous page. That page listed Brian Newsome. Then I flipped back and looked below D. Newsome to find Earl Newsome.

  There seemed to be only one listing for a D. Newsome, and I’d found it easily. The address was near campus as well.

  I glanced at the phone, wondering if I should call first. Before I did, I slid the Bay Area book toward me and looked to see if D. Newsome or a variation was listed there as well.

  D. Newsome was in the book, as was Earl Newsome, but no Brian. A Boyd Newsome in San Francisco, a David Newsome in Oakland, and a Deidre Newsome in Emeryville showed up on the page. And D., with that Berkeley address.

  I closed the big book, and, before I could have second thoughts, picked up the receiver on the big black desk phone. The dial tone hummed at me as I placed the receiver between my ear and shoulder.

  The rotary dial moved poorly—clearly Pammy didn’t make a lot of calls with this phone.

  Then the phone started ringing in my ear. I jumped. The sound was louder than I had expected.

  Finally, someone picked up.

  “Yeah,” said a young annoyed female voice. “Enough already.”

  I almost hung up, but I made myself continue.

  “Um,” I said, putting on my best Midwestern middleclass manners, “I’m so sorry to bother you, but—”

  “Ah, jeez. Another country heard from,” said the voice. “Who’re you and what do you want?”

  “My name is…Elizabeth Styles,” I said, picking the name out of the air. “I’m with the Democratic Party and we—”

  “We don’t want any,” the voice said.

  “Um, wait!” I said. “This is Darla Newsome, right?”

  “Hell, no. She hasn’t been here for a month. And she didn’t vote.”

  “Our records say she had signed on with the Clean For Gene youth campaign for Eugene McCarthy,” I said, letting myself sound as desperate as I felt. “Is that incorrect?”

  “Ah, crap, how’m I supposed to know?” the voice said. “Like I said, she isn’t here, and she didn’t strike me as the voting type. That’s too Establishment, you know? But I could be wrong.”

  “Could you leave her a message?” I asked.

  “No,” the voice said. “You people have just got to stop harassing me. I—”

  “According to our records,” I said, speaking fast, “this is our first call. Perhaps you’re—”

  “I don’t care if it’s your first call,” the voice said. “Everyone seems to be interested in Poor Little Darla, and like I keep telling you, I don’t know where she is.”

  And with that, the connection ended.

  I pulled the receiver away from my ear and stared at the little black holes for just a moment.

  My heart was pounding, partly from the anger in the voice and partly with my own audacity. I hadn’t thought lying would come so easily for me, but it had.

  I set the receiver in the cradle, feeling a little lightheaded. I replayed the conversation in my mind. Other people had been asking for Darla. Her father, certainly. But who else?

  And then I realized it didn’t matter. If enough people were looking for Darla to annoy the roommate, what was one more?

  I wrote the address down on the palm of my hand, then stacked the phonebooks next to the phone like Pammy had had them.

  Then I got up and left the office, pulling the door closed behind me. I needed to go home and take off the Chicago PD shirt, then head to the address. It wasn’t too far from where I lived.

  I emerged from the hallway to find Eagle still standing at the counter, Pammy behind it. Another woman had entered the gym with a giant purse over her shoulder, probably crammed with clothes. She wore a yellow sundress that set off her black hair.

  I needed to bring extra clothes next time. That way I wouldn’t have to go home to change.

  Then my stomach clenched. If I went home, would I leave again?

  Eagle was watching me walk, her eyebrows raised. Pammy was scratching something on a piece of paper. Neither of them looked too pleased with the other.

  The woman let herself into the locker room as if she had done it a thousand times before.

  “Well?” Eagle asked me.

  “I got the address and the roommate is home,” I said, unable to keep the excitement from my voice. “I need to head over there as soon as I change my shirt.”

  “They’re not going to notice that you exercised,” Eagle said. “Have you smelled this new generation?”

  “It’s the Chicago PD logo,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Eagle said. “You think you have time to change?”

  “I hope so,” I said. “The roommate sounded really annoyed at any call about Darla. But if the roommate leaves, I can always try again.”

  Pammy set down the pen and nodded toward the rack of t-shirts in one corner. “Just take one of those. No charge.”

  Why was everyone trying to give me stuff all the time? “I can…I can pay for it,” I said, making sure I didn’t sound as irritated as I felt.

  “I’m sure,” Pammy said, “but that’s not the issue
. If you’re in a hurry and you need a different shirt, I have one.”

  “Is that t-shirt something students wear?” Eagle asked, clearly remembering that I had said I could pass as a student.

  “I’ve sold a few,” Pammy said. “Mostly to adult women who only wear it here, but some students have picked up a shirt. I doubt the roommate will question something that says A Gym of Her Own. The roommate will notice something with the words police department.”

  She had a point.

  “Thanks,” I said, and walked over to the rack. T-shirts, sweatshirts, shorts, and some boys’ athletic socks, since they didn’t make socks like that for women. There were a few shoes on a shelf as well, with a note that listed places that sold sneakers—useful sneakers—in women’s sizes.

  The shirts were not attractive. They were white with black lettering that had been ironed on. There were some polo shirts near the back with the gym’s name sewn on them in white, but I didn’t want to take something that was obviously the most expensive thing on the rack.

  Besides, I figured a student would be more likely to buy an iron-on t-shirt than a somewhat upscale polo shirt. I grabbed the smallest t-shirt I could find and brought it back to the counter.

  “How much do I owe?” I asked as I walked past.

  “Nothing,” Pammy said.

  “No,” I said. “I pay my way. How much?”

  She sighed and said, “We’ll take care of it later,” which she had said before. She was clearly thinking that I would forget.

  I wouldn’t.

  I walked past the counter and went into the locker room. I had forgotten about the tall brunette, who stood near an open locker, wearing nothing except a pointed bra and a pair of white underpants. She let out an eep when she saw me and covered herself with the sundress.

  I smiled at her, knowing I made her uncomfortable, and grabbed the box that my sneakers had come in. For a moment, I debated whether or not I should put my street shoes back on. Then I decided to leave the sneakers on.

  I peeled off the Chicago PD t-shirt, revealing my own bra, older and not nearly as intimidatingly space-age. I slipped on the white t-shirt, the thick lettering on the front making it feel stiff.

  It wouldn’t wash well, but that wasn’t an issue at the moment.

  I ran my fingers through my hair, and decided to leave the other shirt and shoes here.

  Still, I grabbed my purse, slung it over my shoulder like I’d seen some of the students do on Telegraph, and then smiled at the woman a second time.

  She was still standing with her yellow sundress pressed against her breasts. She did not look happy with my presence in the locker room.

  I was sure that Pammy would get an earful about me later.

  I slipped out.

  Eagle and Pammy were still going over those sheets of paper. As I emerged, Eagle watched me.

  Something in her gaze seemed familiar, but I didn’t know what, exactly, it was.

  “You want me to come with you?” she asked.

  I frowned at her. Had she forgotten the discussion? Didn’t she remember that both she and Pammy realized they wouldn’t be able to pass for students?

  “No,” I said firmly. “I’ll be all right.”

  Now that I wasn’t going home. Now that I was wearing a shirt that Pammy had tried to give me as a gift. Now that I couldn’t easily back out.

  “You get out of there if it looks like there’s going to be trouble,” Eagle said.

  I almost said, What kind of trouble could there be? And then I remembered that I was being naïve. A girl had disappeared. So had several other students. And Eagle had seen yet another woman kidnapped.

  “I will,” I said. “I’ll be cautious.”

  Or at least, I would try.

  20

  Eagle

  Eagle felt a little shaky as she watched Val leave the gym. Val’s casual rejection—which wasn’t a rejection, Eagle had to remember that—Val’s casual I’ll be cautious, augmented by a half smile that acknowledged Eagle’s push, made Eagle feel stupid and awkward and sixteen again, with an inappropriate crush on one of her classmates.

  Eagle let out a silent sigh. She did have a crush on Val. It had been sudden and immediate and powerful.

  And Eagle knew, without asking, that Val did not reciprocate.

  The gym’s midafternoon stillness accented Eagle’s awkwardness. Sunlight filtered in through the plate-glass window, like it did every afternoon. But usually, the gym was filled with people.

  The emptiness felt unusual, although Eagle had no way of knowing whether or not it actually was unusual. She always did her best to spend as little time in here as she possibly could.

  “What’s going on with you two?” Pammy asked. She sounded annoyed.

  Eagle turned away from the plate-glass window. Val had left her sight the moment she stepped through the door. Eagle was just looking wistfully at the street, like a lovesick teenager.

  “Nothing,” Eagle said flatly. She moved those papers around again. They were truly disturbing.

  “It doesn’t look like nothing,” Pammy said. “Were you the one who recommended that she come here?”

  “What?” It took a second for the question to register. Pammy thought Eagle had known Val before she had come to the gym? “No. I just met her.”

  Pammy’s eyebrows went up, as if she didn’t believe that. Why wouldn’t she believe it? Was Eagle’s crush that obvious?

  Pammy didn’t say anything in response, though, which was also odd.

  “Really,” Eagle said, feeling defensive. “I met her in the alley. After that hippie-dippy ding-a-ling insulted me.”

  The color left Pammy’s face. Eagle wasn’t sure why.

  “Don’t call her that,” Pammy said. Her voice was tight with disapproval.

  She was defending the ding-a-ling. After all Eagle had done for the gym.

  Eagle sighed audibly this time. “She upset me.”

  “Well, you didn’t exactly respond in an adult manner,” Pammy said.

  Eagle’s eyes narrowed. “She wasn’t willing to help us.”

  “Actually,” Pammy said, “I convinced her to. She’ll bring the lists back.”

  “Not that we need them,” Eagle said.

  She slid the papers to one side. She had taken out a plain piece of paper while Val was in the locker room and had started to scrawl the names of the missing on them. Now, Eagle grabbed the pen and poised it over the last name she had written down.

  “We do need Strawberry’s lists,” Pammy said. “What if her names aren’t on this list?”

  Eagle’s shoulders tightened. Part of her had hoped that this list in front of her had all the names on it.

  “Oh, God,” she said. “I don’t want to think about that.”

  She’d been doing enough thinking already. As she had copied the names onto her sheet of paper, she had been thinking of that woman who had been abducted, wondering if her name was here.

  Eagle doubted it; she had thought the woman older than the average college student. But that had been a fleeting impression, one she couldn’t quite quantify.

  “If we’re going to do this,” Pammy said, clearly still thinking they were arguing over Strawberry, “then we need as many names as possible.”

  “Yeah,” Eagle said softly. “I know.”

  What Pammy probably didn’t realize was that the names made people real. Before, they were hypothesis, facts, figures, occasional thoughts. They weren’t actual human beings.

  Their names made them someone. They still weren’t as real as that woman had been, screaming on the street, but they were people now, with histories, loved ones who wanted to know where they were, and lives that could be lost.

  Eagle shuddered. She might never know what happened to the people on this list. Some of them were probably in other cities, maybe at other colleges, living their lives, oblivious to the fact that their fellow students thought they were missing.

  Others were probably in troub
le or on the streets somewhere.

  Or dead.

  She closed her eyes for a moment. Dead. So many missing and dead friends. Soldiers, patients, colleagues. She once kept a list of her acquaintances who were MIA, secretly hoping they had gone AWOL and weren’t in the hands of the North Vietnamese.

  “You okay?” Pammy asked. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Eagle looked up. She had stopped writing. She hadn’t realized that. She had just stopped doing anything.

  “I mean, you just seemed different with Val,” Pammy said.

  Eagle blinked. Her mind had gone so far from that discussion that it felt like it had happened days ago already.

  “I…like her,” Eagle said, hoping that wasn’t a confession. Pammy didn’t need to know what Eagle really meant.

  “Yeah, me too,” Pammy said, smiling. “She seems sensible. Damaged, though.”

  Eagle nodded, remembering the conversation at Caffe Med, wondering if that had been in confidence. She needed to treat it that way. The fact that they both suffered from some kind of reaction to the wars they had gone to—whatever war had claimed Val.

  “We’re all damaged,” Eagle said. “That’s why we’re here.”

  Pammy’s expression flattened. That was how she sometimes showed surprise. Or didn’t show it. Or tried not to show it.

  “Here,” she said. “The gym.”

  “Yeah,” Eagle said. It was true. Much as she fought the gym and the stupid, naïve things that Pammy had done, the reason most of the adult women came here was because something had happened to them, something bad. They wanted a way to combat the badness, wanted a way to make things better.

  Pammy offered that. It was a service, whether Eagle approved of every part of it or not.

  “That’s why we’ve got to find these people,” Eagle said.

  “Because they’re in trouble,” Pammy said, as if she were trying to understand.

  “We don’t know that,” Eagle said. “But we have to assume some of them are. And we know that Val is right: we need to take care of our own.”