The Super Ladies

by Petrone, Susan

  The house next door had a small Japanese red maple on the front lawn. Its trunk wasn’t much thicker than a flagpole, but it was low enough and leafy enough to block out the streetlight. Katherine moved quickly into its shadow. If she were quiet and still, she could stay reasonably out of sight.

  A squat white guy in jeans and a dark T-shirt was standing at the open back doors of the van. He had an armful of copper piping. She had definitely heard two muffled voices. The other guy must have gone back in the house, stripping more copper.

  She had read here and there about the problem of petty thieves stripping the copper pipes and wiring from foreclosed and abandoned homes. The scrap-metal dealers didn’t seem to care about the provenance of the copper, only that they got it. It seemed like an awful lot of work for a couple of bucks a pound, but here were these two guys in the middle of the night, stripping away. The guy was wrapping bungee cords around small bunches of pipe. He had his back to the street as he quickly wrapped a cord around each end of a bundle of pipe and gently placed it alongside four other similar bundles on a movers’ blanket in the back of the van. He was surprisingly quiet and adept, as though he had done this many times before. Katherine waited until he had bundled up all the pipe. She didn’t want anything falling to the ground and making a racket. Grabbing the guy and putting him in a half nelson felt almost easy, as though she had trained relentlessly for this moment.

  “Shut up,” she whispered in the guy’s ear. “I’m not the police, and I don’t want the copper.”

  “What the hell?” he started to say. She put her hand over his mouth and tightened her grip. “Don’t say anything. Don’t call for your friend. Don’t tell the police that you were beat up by some middle-aged woman out for a run. No one will ever believe you.” She relaxed her grip on him, just for a second, as she reached for one of the bungee cords piled near the back of the van. As she did so, he tried to throw her off him, stepping backward with one foot the way every woman is told to do in self-defense class and turning his body in the opposite direction of her hold. “No,” she said, surprised at how gently the word came out, considering that she gave him a quick punch in the stomach and tightened her grip with the other arm hard enough that he grunted in pain. Should have kept a hand on his mouth, she thought, placing her hand back over his mouth before he made any more noise.

  “Now,” she whispered in his ear, “you know what will happen if you try and fight or make any noise? You will be hurt. I don’t like causing other people pain. Okay, maybe I do a little,” she added with a jerk to the arm holding him. The guy was still struggling, but it felt like she was holding down a baby, and she couldn’t help but smile at how ineffective he was in fighting against her. For a second, it didn’t matter that he was another human being, a fellow traveler who could feel pain or fear. Again she eyed the bungee cords sitting on the edge of the open van next to the movers’ blanket. She pushed him forward and bent him over at the waist so she could grab a bungee cord. With his face smashed into the bed of the van, he couldn’t make much noise. The idea that she was causing another person pain was fleeting, subsumed by the knowledge that she held a thief in her arms. She didn’t want to do him any permanent damage, maybe just pay a little retribution to somebody who was giving the neighborhood and the city a bad name. It took only a few seconds to tie his hands behind his back with the bungee cord.

  The other guy was bound to come out of the house any minute. There had to be some way to keep this guy quiet so she could get the second guy too. Katherine glanced around and spied a rag stuck into one of the molded holes on the inside of the van door. It didn’t look entirely clean but didn’t seem to have any chemicals or grease on it either. She figured it was okay to shove it in the guy’s mouth. She looked into his terrified eyes and the reality of what she was doing came screaming back to her. “Can you breathe?” she asked.

  The guy nodded.

  “Good.” She shoved him down onto the driveway. There was only one bungee cord left, and she figured she might need it for the guy in the house. Instead, she grabbed a stray piece of copper pipe. It would work in lieu of another bungee cord or piece of rope. She gave it a little test bend—the pipe offered as much resistance as a pipe cleaner, no blow torch or pipe-bending tool needed. As she started to wrap the pipe around the guy’s ankles, he pulled back in terror. “If you’re going to freak out about something, freak out about going to jail,” she said, giving the pipe one last hard bend so he couldn’t slip an ankle out.

  She stood up. “Stay there,” she commanded. It was too dark to see the guy’s face clearly, but she saw his head nod quickly. Just as well it was dark—then he couldn’t see her face either. She didn’t wear the reading glasses on her runs, but maybe she ought to start.

  She went in the side door of the house. It was a typical South Euclid bungalow, probably built in the late fifties. There was a small entryway by the back door with a few coat hooks and faded flowered wallpaper. To the left were three steps leading up to the kitchen. In front of her, the basement stairs. She stopped and listened to the quick sucking sound of two pieces of piping being pulled apart. The other guy was downstairs.

  Gingerly she placed a foot on the first worn, wooden step. At least it didn’t squeak. Katherine went down a couple more steps, then stopped. If the other guy looked over, instead of seeing the faded jeans of his buddy, he’d see Katherine’s bare legs and her running shorts. She might as well make this quick.

  Five more steps brought her to the concrete basement floor, to a utility sink, a few stray lengths of copper pipe, and a tall white guy about her age, older than the guy outside. He was tall enough to reach into the rafters of the basement ceiling without standing on his tiptoes. With a wrench in his right hand and a short length of copper pipe in his left, it looked like he was down to stripping the last bit of copper in the house. For a split second, Katherine was reminded of the Grinch robbing every house in Whoville of its Christmas decorations. There was no telling if this guy was as mean and Grinchy as the Grinch. He must have heard her, because the guy turned and looked at her.

  “Who are you?”

  Katherine didn’t reply, just rushed him, grabbing the wrench out of his hand as though it was a flimsy plastic sword. Twisting the guy’s arm behind his back and bending him over the utility sink came easily, like they were choreographed moves, like she had practiced. He was taller than she, but it didn’t matter. She had the element of surprise and outmuscled him without even trying. Within a few seconds, she had his hands bungeed behind his back, but then he kicked backward like an angry horse and knocked her off her feet. Katherine was flat on her back on the dirty, wet basement floor, watching as one of the guy’s long, thin legs came flying at her face. Instinctively, her hands clapped in front of her, catching a worn Chuck Taylor knock-off an inch in front of her face. He was balancing on one leg, just for a split second, but Katherine took advantage of it, pushing him off her with all her considerable might. The guy flew back against the utility sink. With his hands tied, he fell sideways to the floor with a loud thud and an equally loud “Fuck!”

  “Don’t lower my property values, asshole,” she said and gave him a kick in the stomach. He didn’t need to know she didn’t really live in this neighborhood. She ran up the basement stairs and back out to the first guy, who was still lying on the driveway by the back of the van.

  She wasn’t sure what time it was, but the night was starting to be a little less hazy. She wanted to get away before sunrise, before anyone saw her. She stood over the first guy and asked, “Where’s your phone?”

  The guy’s eyes grew a little wider, as though he was afraid she was going to hurt him. He rolled over onto his side, revealing a cheap pay-as-you-go cell phone in his back pocket. Normally, the thought of touching a stranger’s rear end or grimy jeans would make her balk, but she just grabbed the phone and used it to call 911. She didn’t give a name, just said she saw some guys stealing cop
per from an empty house and gave the name of the street. She could hear the 911 dispatcher asking questions as she wiped her fingerprints off the phone with her shirt and let it drop on the end of the driveway.

  A noise from behind made her turn. The second guy was stumbling out of the side door, his hands still tied behind his back with the bungee cord. “You…bitch…” he gasped.

  “Yes I am,” she replied and started running.

  IC_SuperLadies posted: The only downside of Super Lady Patrol: you go through a lot of running shoes.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Abra got the text from Richard on Friday afternoon when she was at work. He wanted to come by the house and get the drywall and lumber out of the garage. She was about to go into a conference call and couldn’t respond properly, couldn’t have the conversation about whether he had a right to the drywall or the lumber or the handful of tools and whatever else he’d no doubt walk away with. He would text when he knows I’m at work, she thought. This wasn’t even a text conversation—any fool could see it needed a phone call. Any fool but The Evil Richard Brewster.

  Richard managed a restaurant. He got to work around two thirty, so he must have texted her shortly after he got to the midlevel not-fine-dining-but-not-a-chain restaurant he was currently managing. He wouldn’t respond if she texted him back, wouldn’t respond until after he shut the place down for the night around midnight. And even if she told him to go jump in the lake, he’d no doubt show up at the house on Saturday morning between ten and eleven, just as his text promised. He didn’t even ask if Abra would be home, just assumed that she would be, that he could come and disrupt her life and take what was technically his but had been paid for with her credit card. Abra could paint and do minor maintenance, but major home improvement wasn’t her deal. She would never use the drywall or lumber, but that didn’t mean she wanted to give it to him.

  On the train on the way home, she mentally tossed around potential responses—locking the garage and making sure she wasn’t home, dumping everything on the tree lawn and posting a “curb alert” on Craigslist, burning all of it. The idea of being polite and civil also crossed her mind. After all, Richard was, in essence, going to clean her garage. Even with a small car, having all that extra stuff piled in the garage made for a tight squeeze. Abra had just decided to be the bigger person and give him all the lumber and drywall without a fuss and was looking forward to not having to climb over that mess anymore when a couple of young men caught her eye.

  The train was full, packed with people of all ages who were no doubt looking forward to the weekend. A college-aged girl was standing just in front of her, holding on to one of the plastic straps that hung from the ceiling of the car. Abra had been behind her going through the turnstile, and the girl had asked her which train was going to Shaker Square. The girl wore a headscarf and spoke English with a heavy accent. Abra couldn’t quite place the country but guessed she was from somewhere in the Middle East. Abra had told her which train to take and given the girl a warm smile. Her Dominican grandmother had always told stories of her first few days in America and the random strangers who helped her. Abra always tried to repay the favor whenever she met someone who was clearly new to the U.S.

  The two guys had gotten on the train at the previous stop and chosen spots on either side of the girl with the headscarf. One ended up facing her, his right hand holding on to the plastic strap next to hers, the front of his body moving dangerously close to hers. The second had moved to her side, holding on to the back of a seat so that his left arm practically encircled her waist. Unless she decided to plop down in the lap of the stranger sitting in the closest seat, the girl couldn’t get away from them. And the train was crowded enough that there was nowhere else to go.

  Abra was behind all three of them, standing near the door, holding on to the molded plastic handle on the back of the closest seat. She was close enough to hear one of the guys say, “Hey, what’s your name, girl?” He was a wiry-looking African American kid, with thick hair cut short on the sides and high on top, making him look taller than he was.

  For a second, the only sound Abra could hear was the clattering of the train as it clipped down the tracks through midtown Cleveland. Most of the people nearby were staring at their phones, while a few gazed out the window or read a book. No one else was paying attention as the girl said quietly, “Anja.”

  “On ya?” the first guy said. “I’ll bet you are.”

  The girl gave a little jump and looked sharply over her shoulder at the second guy. He was white and round-faced with a buzz cut that looked about as long as the bearded stubble on his face. It was as though his entire round head was a scuzzy peach with two beady eyes and a gaping mouth.

  Abra followed the girl’s eyes downward and saw his hand groping the back of her loose, dark olive pants. Anja instinctively scooted away from Scuzzy Peach Face and inadvertently moved herself closer to the first guy. Abra wasn’t just angry that they were harassing this girl; it was the casual, almost gentle way Scuzzy Peach Face grabbed her ass and the nonchalant way Mr. Fade Hair spoke to her, as though this was the accepted way of getting to know a stranger, that really ticked her off. Without thinking through the consequences or whether it might look odd that her messenger bag purse now seemed to be floating in midair, Abra went invisible.

  She grabbed Scuzzy Peach Face’s wrist and pulled his hand away from Anja’s rear end. At the same time, she lifted one moderately priced Cole Haan pump-clad foot, aimed it between his feet, and slammed her heel down on his instep. You were supposed to do that move if someone came up behind you, but she was delighted to see it also worked if you were standing behind the perpetrator. It also helped that neither he nor Mr. Fade Hair could see her.

  Scuzzy Peach Face let out a “Damn!” and lifted his foot in pain at the same moment the train lurched to a stop at the next station. He lost his balance, fell against the seat opposite him, and landed on his knees on the floor of the car. Mr. Fade Hair looked at Anja as though she was responsible for harming his friend. “What the hell you doin’?” he shrieked.

  “I do nothing,” Anja said. Now that Scuzzy Peach Face was partly out of the way, Anja moved backward, away from Mr. Fade Hair. Abra sidestepped out of the way so she could pass. The other people in the car were staring at the trio in shock. The car doors opened and a few people carefully stepped around Scuzzy Peach Face. One of them bumped into Abra but kept going. No one made a move to intervene. Abra held her invisible ground. She’d let her bag drop to the floor and hoped no one would walk off with it.

  Now that a few people had gotten off the train, there was a bit more room to maneuver, and Anja walked to the back of the car where there was an empty seat. Scuzzy Peach Face was on his feet now and made a move to follow her. As he walked by, Abra gave him a hard punch in the back. There was no one visibly close enough to have hit him except for Mr. Fade Hair. He turned to face his friend. “What was that for?”

  “I didn’t do nothin’.” Mr. Fade Hair gave him a little push toward the door. “Come on.”

  “Fine,” Scuzzy Peach Face said, adding, “Fuck that bitch!” loudly enough to carry to the far end of the car. He sauntered out the open car door.

  Mr. Fade Hair paused just long enough to flip his middle finger at Anja. She was safe, surrounded by other people, but no one seemed to know how to respond. Abra did.

  As Mr. Fade Hair stepped off the car, she gave him a hard push on the back so that he fell forward onto the platform at the East 55th Street station. He was on his feet almost instantly, his angry, screaming face visible through the windows of the car as the doors closed and the train began to move again. Once in motion, the train filled with the buzz of conversation, more active than it had been before. Abra tried to listen, but there were too many conversations going on at once. She heard snippets—“shameful” and “cowards”—but it wasn’t clear if the speaker was referring to Mr. Fade Hair and Sc
uzzy Peach Face or to all the people on the train who had only watched, not helped.

  A month ago, Ara wouldn’t have gotten involved. She knew herself well enough to know that. Did it even count as getting involved if no one knew, if no one could see her? That wasn’t why she had helped. Being acknowledged wasn’t the reason you helped another person. You helped because it was some sort of universal duty to help other living beings in need.

  She had dropped her bag near an empty aisle seat. There was an older, heavy-set African American woman sitting in the window seat. Abra quietly sat down next to her and waited until she was sure the woman’s attention was focused out the window. Then she let the light bend around her again and became visible. Even though Abra tried to be as discreet as possible, the woman still jumped a bit in her seat and gave a little yelp of shock when she saw a person sitting next to her.