Mr. Hartmann wouldn’t listen to either of them. He gave them a lecture on professionalism and unacceptable office behavior, and then terminated them both. Joy was beyond shock at this point. This wasn’t even high school anymore. They’d gone back down to kindergarten. She’d tried to protest, vigorously, but it did no good. He wasn’t listening. He told her to stop being “hysterical.”
“You’re a real disappointment, Flynn,” Joy shot over her shoulder as she went to her desk to get her things. It took longer than she thought it would. Her hands didn’t seem to be working properly. It was all she could do to shovel her books and notes and pictures into the box. Someone had given her a cardboard box. She kept her head down as she worked. It felt like everyone was staring at her, but whenever she looked back up, all eyes in the office managed to direct themselves elsewhere.
She caught a side glance of Quintus packing up his desk. He had to work with one hand, as he held a blood-soaked white handkerchief up to his nose with the other. A couple of other guys were helping him. She saw one of them nod sympathetically and pat Quintus on the back. What the hell? Yes, so sad that poor Quintus might get in trouble for attempting to rape a co-worker.
Oh. Attempted rape. That’s what had just happened. That’s what had just happened to her. In her office. She hadn’t had a chance to think yet. Now her mind had begun working again, and it didn’t help. She leaned over her desk, closed her eyes, and took several long, deep breaths. Nobody gave her a reassuring pat on the back. Nobody helped her with her things. Nobody talked to her.
She looked up as she finished to see Quintus’s back heading out the door to the hallway, and felt an icy chill go through her. What if he decided to wait for her outside? Joy grabbed an official Dodona Journal-branded letter-opener from her desk, and worked it around so it was resting in her palm while she held on to the box’s handle. If she needed to, she could quick-drop the box and start stabbing. That’s right, she was stealing office supplies, and no-one was going to stop her.
But she didn’t see Quintus on her way out, and, after walking five blocks, she let herself relax a bit, deciding that he wasn’t going to come after her today after all. She didn’t put the letter-opener away, though.
Chapter 10
Recovery
She realized she was exhausted. Putting one foot in front of the other had become a major struggle, and she’d become aware of weird sharp pains all over her body, including one right on her cheekbone that throbbed with every step. Had she been punched? She didn’t remember being punched. She could’ve banged herself against something in the broom closet, but she couldn’t remember that happening, either. The full details of the assault were fuzzy in her brain—confused sensations of flailing around in the darkness. And truthfully, she didn’t think she really wanted to remember it any more clearly than that. She wanted to go home and forget this had ever happened.
Her apartment wasn’t far, but it felt like it took forever to get there. She reached the foot of the stairs leading to the door of her brownstone, when a familiar voice called out, “Yoo Hoo! Joy! You’re home early.”
It was one of her neighbors, the Widow Jakuba, a large, matronly Kossar woman who lived in the biggest and nicest apartment in the ground floor of her building. Her husband had died some years ago, before the war began, but she kept herself busy with her hobbies, one of which was leaning out her street-side window and saying hello to people.
Joy looked up and tried to answer. Usually she’d toss off some pleasantry in Kossar, which Mrs. Jakuba loved, and Joy could get some practice in—keep the language fresh in her mind. But right then and there, she couldn’t summon the energy for it. In fact, just saying anything was a struggle.
“Heavens, girl—is something wrong? You look terrible. Did something happen? Are you all right?”
Joy heard the warmth and caring that underpinned her neighbor’s alarm, and it undid her. No-one else had asked her that. Not her boss, and none of her co-workers had asked her if she was okay. It wasn’t asking much, just to get some basic human caring and decency. But Joy had almost forgotten it existed. She sat down on the street and began to wail.
The next thing Joy remembered was being enfolded in a big warm presence as Mrs. Jakuba was out on the street and soothing her. Joy found herself coaxed inside Mrs. Jakuba’s apartment for some mothering, as she was allowed to cry herself out, and explain what happened. Joy got to learn a bunch of new Kossar swearwords to describe Quintus and her boss. She kind of liked the phrase “born from the ass” for Quintus. She’d have to remember that one.
She spent the rest of the day lounging on Mrs. Jakuba’s couch while being stuffed like a goose. At first she’d said she wasn’t hungry, but she changed her mind when the hot, savory plates arrived on the coffee table and the rich aroma reached her nose. She didn’t bother objecting when Mrs. Jakuba insisted she stay over in the guest room. Why not? Couldn’t hurt to do that just for tonight.
“And tomorrow, bright and early, we are going right to the City Guard,” said Widow Jakuba.
“What?” said Joy.
“That no-good miserable bastard assaulted you, right? This is criminal, yes?” she said. “Back in the old country, a masher like him would get fifteen lashes and spend a day in the stocks, in freezing Kosstan weather, so he learns his lesson. Jails here are too nice, but still he should see the inside of one. That will teach him a thing or two.”
Joy took a second to savor the mental image of Quintus shivering in cold, bare jail cell. But really, she just wanted to put this whole mess behind her and move on with her life.
“No, this bastard needs a lesson, or next time he will go after some poor girl who is not tough like you. We are going.”
Joy hadn’t thought about that, but Mrs. Jakuba was right. What would have happened if she hadn’t taken those supplemental KIB combatives courses? The thought chilled her—made her stomach flip over, so she tried to put it out of her mind.
But the next morning, Joy and the Widow Jakuba went to the nearest City Guard station to report the assault.
If anything, the Guardsman on duty was even less helpful than her former boss’. He just sat there the whole time, as she was trying to calmly recount the events of the assault, and the events leading up to them, with this look on his face, like “why are you bothering me with this crap?” Joy was glad Mrs. Jakuba was there, to get upset and berate the Guardsman for his attitude. It spared her the effort of having to do it herself. Eventually the guard agreed to take her statement, though it was obvious he was only doing it to placate the Widow Jakuba and get rid of her.
But Joy could tell by his questions that he found the whole thing to be trivial. No, she hadn’t actually been raped. She’d fought back and got away. What had she been wearing? A business jacket, blouse, and a sensible skirt—what did that have to do with… No, her blouse had been buttoned up to the top, but… About mid-thigh, no hose, what…
Because it was hot out, that’s why!
It went on like that until Joy was so bored and disgusted that she just wanted it to end. The real kicker was when he noted that she seemed super calm for an assault victim. And real put-together, too. He sure wished he could get through a fight and look so nice in the mirror the next morning.
Actually, Joy did have a number of nasty bruises, and she’d been prepared to show them. But no way was she taking her clothes off for the benefit of this jackass, not when it was obvious it wouldn’t make any difference anyway. The real kicker was how now her ability to appear calm was being held against her. So if she got emotional then she was hysterical, and if she didn’t then she was a calculating liar. She lost either way!
She trudged out of the station with Mrs. Jakuba’s arm around her, with the widow still yelling back over her shoulder about how her taxes paid the Guardsman’s salary, so he’d better do his job proper.
Joy knew it was futile. At most, all they’d do is send someone to interview Quintus, and he’d point to his busted nose and
whine about how she was some kind of psycho bitch who’d attacked him out of nowhere. If they even bothered to do that much. At least there was some kind of written legal record of the assault. That was something, she’d supposed. Not much, but it was all she was going to get.
Joy spent another couple of days letting Mrs. Jakuba pamper her, though after the first day the widow began to insist that Joy call her “Tishka,” which meant “Auntie” in Kossar. Honestly, getting cared for like this was a real change of pace for Joy. Growing up, she’d been the eldest of seven kids, so most often she’d been expected to help her parents run the household. So unless she’d been super-sick, like can’t-get-out-of-bed-without-puking levels of ill, it was her taking care of everybody else.
And the idea of lying around because she’d had a hard time and felt sad? Ridiculous—but Tishka didn’t see it that way, and Joy opted to not argue with her.
But she had to get on with her life—get back on that horse. Though she found she slept better if she blocked her apartment door by propping a chair beneath the doorknob, in addition to the deadbolt and security chain, and kept her stolen letter-opener right by the nightstand. Later, it occurred to her that the letter-opener might be taken away or used against her, so she saved up some empty tin cans and tied them to the chair, so they’d make a racket if the chair fell over. And she did the same to her window, in case someone tried to climb up through the fire escape and break through that way.
So that made her feel better, though occasionally she still had these weird half-dreams in the middle of the night, where it felt like some stranger had gotten in and was lying on top of her, and she’d try to break free, but find herself paralyzed, stuck in that terrified state for several minutes until she’d manage to thrash herself awake, grab the letter-opener, only to discover the “intruder” had just been her own blanket.
Crazy—the tricks your mind could play on you while you were sleeping. Nothing really to be afraid of. She was certain she’d never told Quintus where she lived. Well, maybe in conversation she might’ve let something slip that could’ve been a hint, and he was a reporter, too. He should know how to research people—but even so, that would be a needle-in-a-haystack kind of search in a big city like Dodona. Well, Flynn had her apartment address, but he’d never give that out to Quintus, or anyone who shouldn’t have it. He’d turned out to be a jerk, but she should be able to trust him that far. Hopefully.
Chapter 11
Blackballed
After a week or so off, Joy felt it was time to get back to her life. She updated her resume, typed out a bunch of extra copies to leave with potential employers, and started to make the rounds with the other local papers. The Kallis Chronicle was the Journal’s biggest competitor, so she started there. She wasn’t fond of their editorial slant, but they did have a reputation for quality, and were most likely to have foreign correspondent positions.
She had a very pleasant chat with the front desk receptionist, who had been working there for years, and seemed to be pretty up on all the latest office news. Obviously she wasn’t in any position to make hiring decisions, but her eyebrows went up when Joy mentioned her language skills, and said that she’d heard they’d been looking for Kankulese, Kossar, and Anyan-dialect Xiaish speakers, so she might be able to take her pick, to expect to hear back in a few business days, and to check back at the desk if she hadn’t heard anything in a week or so.
Joy walked out feeling better than she had in over a month and hit the rest of her route with a renewed energy. She had nothing but positive interactions with the other papers as well, and she returned home at the end of the day feeling satisfied and hopeful.
Even if the Chronicle didn’t have anything, one of the other papers surely would. All she had to do was wait a few days for a letter, or maybe even a courier-message, and then her life could get back on track. She could put this whole mess behind her, and forget it had ever happened.
But a week went by, and Joy didn’t hear anything. No interview requests arrived in the mail. Joy tried to be patient, but it was hard. In the meantime, she typed out more copies of her resume, and went through a new round of submissions, broadening her search to include magazines, lifestyle publications, even some specialty-interest sheets, like fashion, theater, and the like.
After two weeks of not hearing anything, she decided to check back with the Chronicle. Joy found the same receptionist as last time, but something felt off. She seemed much cooler and guarded. Her friendliness from earlier was gone, replaced by professional politeness that felt more and more strained the longer the conversation went on. Joy didn’t get it. She’d been told to check back if she hadn’t heard anything in a week. She’d been encouraged to. But now she was being treated like a nuisance, even though all she’d done was follow directions.
Joy was about to leave, but needed to use their restroom first. As she was coming back from that, she overheard snatches of a conversation echoing down the hallway.
“Got rid of her… didn’t seem dangerous, but I guess you can never tell…” That was the secretary.
“…knows people, even if his politics are nonsense… said she loves drama… violent, broke a man’s nose…” This was a new voice. Sounded like an older man. Probably someone senior at the paper. The voice had that sort of authoritative boom of a man used to giving orders. Joy moved to one side of the hallway and slowed down, carefully placing each foot so her steps made no noise.
“Heard she was a looker, though. What do you think? Worth an interview for that?” This was the man again.
“I suppose she’s pretty enough. I don’t think it’s worth wasting anyone’s time over.” The secretary had that strained politeness in her voice again. “Maybe that’s it. I’ve known some women like that—they’re used to always getting their way because of their looks. They keep expecting the whole world to work like that.”
“She’s in for a rude awakening, then,” said the man. “Word gets around in this industry. Nobody with any sense wants to hire a viper to poison their office. Maybe she’ll learn her lesson, maybe…”
Joy backed away, shaking in anger. She resisted the impulse to run out, confront them, tell her side of the story. But that wouldn’t do—she already knew it in her gut. They wouldn’t listen. She’d only make it worse. It would be just more fuel for the “Psycho Ms. Fan” narrative.
“Word gets around?” Of course—every industry has networking, people attending the same social functions. This was especially true in journalism. And she was being smeared. How far did this go? How many papers were in the loop on this?
She wandered back down the hallway, hoping there was another exit somewhere that way, so she didn’t have to deal with them—ignorant, smug jerks! She was so distracted that she nearly didn’t see Quintus.
She froze in pure dread, until she realized he hadn’t noticed her yet. He’d fixed his attention on another woman, a short brunette. He was leaning over her and chatting, one hand planted on the wall above her head. It looked like he’d intercepted her coming out of the restroom. Joy thought her smile seemed a bit nervous. Joy turned around and walked back towards the lesser threat of the front desk as fast as she could without running, looking neither right nor left, not acknowledging anyone until she’d made it to safety out the front door.
She found a park bench somewhere to quietly collapse for a while. So, that’s how it was. SHE was bad news. SHE was a problem. SHE was violent and unstable and needed to control her temper. But not Quintus, no. Not creepy harasser rapist fucking asshole Quintus. HE was free to move on like nothing had happened. He was allowed to make excuses and put everything on her, and be believed, so he could go right on terrorizing more women out of journalism. Joy had a fleeting thought of that other brunette in the Chronicle building. Sorry, sister, but there’s not a damned thing I can do for you. Ms. Joy Song Fan’s got her own problems to deal with. You’re on your own. Because your bosses sure as shit won’t lift one fucking finger to help you. I can guara
ntee you that.
Joy returned to Mrs. Jakuba, but she didn’t get quite the level of comforting that she’d hoped for, only because Joy had to spend a great deal of energy talking her down from storming the Chronicle offices and giving them a piece of her mind. It left her even more exhausted than when she’d arrived, though it was gratifying to have at least one person on her side.
That was important, because the longer this whole mess went on, the more difficult it became to avoid the nagging suspicion that maybe some part of this was her fault, that maybe she really had done something wrong. She’d been friendly to Quintus at first—maybe too friendly? Had she actually said something to give him the wrong idea? Maybe she should have worn longer skirts. Those thoughts crept around her brain, despite her efforts to dismiss them, or confront them with all her reporter skills, like a hostile interview.
“So, you’ve been thinking we were too friendly with Quintus at first? Maybe we smiled too much at his jokes, and we playfully slapped him on the arm that one time? Well, answer me this—how many times did we clearly and directly tell him ‘No’ after that? You can’t remember exactly? But that’s because we did it so often, right? Give me an estimate—a minimum number?
At least a dozen times? So, which is more important, some subjective interpretation of a minor bit of body language, or the actual words a person says? And writes, as well? Remember that note? Do we or do we not have a written record of us telling him to get lost? Oh, and you want to talk about skirt length? How many other women wear skirts that exact same length?
Did we or did we not a skirt almost exactly that style as part of our KIB uniform? Okay, let’s check then… it’s an inch shorter, so what? Does that justify assault? Well, does it? That’s a yes or no question. Well, then, please describe to me the exact amount of clothing a woman has to wear to make an assault on her person acceptable.”
The Legend of the Red Specter (The Adventures of the Red Specter Book 1) Page 5