by Renee James
Melissa dabs her eyes with the handkerchief again. Cecelia locks eyes with me and arches her brows as if to put an exclamation point on what we just heard.
“That’s when I decided I had to get out of there,” Melissa finishes.
“Did he throw the stapler at the lady?” Cecelia asks.
“No.” Melissa shakes her head.
“Did you ever see him commit physical violence against anyone?” Cecelia asks.
“No,” says Melissa. “Just seeing him explode like that was bad enough.” She shudders when she says it.
We change the subject and talk about what Melissa is seeking in her next job, her hobbies and interests, what a gorgeous day it is.
“Still think it’s Lover Boy?” I can’t resist a little dig. Cecelia has been expecting it.
“Bobbi, how can you let yourself get involved with people like this?” She means Mark, Lover Boy, the rest of the gruesome cast of characters who seem to make up the movie of my life lately.
I sigh. I’d like to parry the blow with some clever repartee, but the same thought has been rumbling through my mind since we left the bookstore.
“I’ve been stupid and out of control,” I confess.
Cecelia glances at me while she navigates the Caddy through traffic. “Good,” she says.
After a pause, I start again. “Does this happen to all sluts? They get tormented by a sex partner? It never seemed like that to me.”
“Let’s get back to the ‘stupid and out-of-control’ thought,” Cecelia says.
“Why?”
“Because that’s the one that matters,” she says. “The slut stuff is you feeling sorry for yourself. The stupid stuff is something you can do something about.”
In the twenty minutes it takes to get to the Blue Line station, Cecelia makes me give myself a tongue-lashing by answering her questions. Still, as I board the train and head for Betsy’s place, it burns me that a woman’s character is judged by her sexual activity. If I were still a guy and had slept with several different partners in a six-month period, it would be no big deal. But as a girl, I’m a slut and subject to vindictive, terrifying acts of revenge.
I take care of the dishes while Betsy takes Roberta next door to play with her friend for an hour. When she gets back, we sit at the dining table with glasses of wine, and she begins unloading the burdens of her Paris experience. It’s a tale of sunlight and soft breezes, turning to darkness and hail.
“Everything was fine until I said I had to get home for Roberta,” she says. Her words are stressed and her body language is somewhere between anxious and mourning. She hunches a little, this from a woman with perfect posture at all other times, and her eyes drop to the table frequently as she talks.
“He was miffed that I’d put her ahead of our time in Paris,” she says. “I couldn’t believe it, Bobbi. I always made clear that Roberta comes first, and he always seemed to understand that.”
“Miffed?” I ask. “That doesn’t sound so bad,” I say.
“It wasn’t at first,” she answers. “But the more I tried to explain to him that she comes first and I’d been gone too long, the more he acted like I was some hysterical, silly woman. ‘Kids need to be on their own a little,’ he says”—Betsy deepens her voice and changes her accent a little to impersonate him—“‘that’s the trouble with kids today. They have no sense of independence.’
“Bobbi, this guy has never had kids. He’s midforties, always been single, and he thinks he knows everything about parenting.” Betsy is furious, and I can’t blame her. I know the type.
“I’m glad you stood up to him,” I say. I’m not sure I would have, not right away, not in the middle of a romantic dream vacation with someone who, just a minute ago, was Mr. Perfect.
“I didn’t see it coming, Bobbi.” She puts her face in her hands. “He’s always pleasant at work. He’s fun on dates. He talks, he listens, good sense of humor. He treated me well. We had something going. He didn’t say so, but the extra time in Paris was, I think, a prelude to a proposal.”
“Was it so bad? What he said?” I ask. “Don’t you have to expect disagreements about child-rearing in a remarriage?”
“Of course,” says Betsy. “But . . . you had to hear him. He’s telling me I have it all wrong, that I’m spoiling Roberta and she’ll never be able to make her way in the world. I need to be stricter, no more telling her to do something two or three times, just once, then lower the boom. I ask him what that means, does that mean a spanking? And he says, if necessary. And I told him it would be over my dead body, then he told me if I went back early that would be the end, and I told him, no, this is the end.”
This story hits my emotional hot buttons. Betsy and Roberta are the absolute priorities in my life. I identify with Betsy in her story as if I were Betsy. I feel every ounce of shock and indignation and fear for Roberta, and I feel some of my own brand of anger, too. I express my sympathies and choke back the angry thoughts clouding my mind.
“How is it at work?” I ask.
“Not too bad. We work on different floors, so I don’t see him. Only a few people know we were dating, and they aren’t talking.”
“Maybe he’ll come around and apologize,” I suggest.
“The day after Canada invades America,” Betsy mutters. She’s been hanging around me way too long.
“Great expression,” I say. “Wish I’d thought of it.”
She flashes a smile. We go silent for a minute.
“How’s your love life?” she asks.
“What love life?” I smirk.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It must be hard, after Phil.”
Somewhere deep inside me is the real me and she is sobbing. The fake me, the facade who greets the world, nods solemnly and says, “Yes.”
October is the last month of the Chicago year for perfect-weather Saturday nights, and as the month wears on, the urgency of celebrating perfect Saturday nights grows. Which is why the Blue Line platform is cluttered with riders, and when the train arrives, it’s full. It’s not the standing I mind, it’s not being able to see everyone on the car. Goon checks are automatic for me now.
I glance about when I transfer to the Red Line but see nothing more than the confusion of people hustling to exits or hastening to waiting platforms.
At the Belmont stop, I wait for everyone to clear the platform before I leave, taking inventory of the people I can see, looking for Mark or Lover Boy or some generic goon. Nothing. I take a look down Belmont from the elevated platform, a quick check for obvious ogres or boogeymen. Nothing.
I glance to the left for a second, following the first steps of the route I took the night I was raped. It happened a couple of blocks from here when I cut through an alley to save time. The beating of Andive occurred in exactly the same place. It’s a good place for an ambush, and I’m thinking, maybe I should go that way, keep the Mace at hand, slip into the shadows, and wait. If my stalker comes along, I could blind him, I could mash his testicles so bad he’d have trouble walking for days, or I could deliver an eye-gouge that would disable him for hours and maybe permanently blind him in one eye. I could also do that to some innocent soul out for an evening stroll, or coming back from the deli with a snack. I don’t know who I’m hunting.
I reject the idea and begin walking east toward home.
25
WHEN I ENTER the stillness of the leafy residential streets east of Broadway, I’m suddenly alone. The revelers are all up on Broadway or Halsted or Clark. The side streets are so quiet you could hear a heartbeat from half a block away. It’s spooky. The stately hardwoods that line the pavement swallow the light from streetlamps like voracious spirits from the netherworld, creating shadows as foreboding as black holes. Porches face the street like gaping mouths, as still as predators waiting to swallow up unsuspecting organisms who enter. Try as I might to resist it, I feel menace in the air.
I stop walking twice after hearing footsteps, but when I stop there is no sound at all. I look about and
see no one. I don’t hear footsteps until I start walking again and hear my own. I know it’s pure paranoia on my part, but the feeling won’t go away.
A block from home I hear leaves cracking underfoot so close behind me I can feel a knife being aimed for my back. I whirl and raise my hands to deflect the blow. Ten feet away, an older man with a small dog jumps and emits a startled squeak at my sudden movement. He raises both hands as if fending off a grizzly bear; his dog barks hysterically. The man puts a hand to his heart, a gesture I think, not a heart attack. I wave an apology and continue on, glancing back a few times. Finally, I take off my heels and begin jogging. I don’t stop until I’m home.
When I get inside, I throw the dead bolts and let the relief begin pouring from my overwrought mind. I pour myself a glass of wine and play Mozart on my sound system, which miraculously escaped the destruction of my intruder with just a few scrapes. I sit in my new overstuffed easy chair, a surprise gift from Phil, one of just two pieces of furniture in the living room, and my favorite. I look out at the street through lace curtains and think how sweet it was of Phil to bring me the chair, how nice it feels to have someone caring about me, even if it isn’t in the romantic sense. My heartbeat returns to normal. I pull a knit blanket over my shoulders and snuggle, glad to be safe and warm, relaxed, soaking in Mozart. I review what I know about Mark and Lover Boy, and what I suspect, and what to do when I find out which one is the stalker.
I lapse into a kind of trance, my mind blank, my senses turned off, my world drifting in a kind of half-sleep. It ends with a slamming noise at the back door, a jarring, violent bang, like a brick hitting the wall. My heart leaps into my throat. I instinctively cower in the chair and pull my arms up over my head. Then I realize someone may be trying to break in. I’m better off fighting than waiting to die. I dash for the back door, stopping to snatch the Mace from my purse, then a thick, sharp butcher knife from the kitchen.
I look through the peephole into the back hall. Nothing is stirring in the hallway. I ease the door open, rehearsing how to respond when the predator jumps out at me. First the Mace because I don’t have to be accurate. Then the knife. My adrenaline is pumping hard, focusing my mind on survival. If I get a chance to use the knife, I’ll do it without hesitation and go for a fatal wound and won’t feel anything but relief if I’m successful.
The hall is deathly quiet. I tiptoe out of my flat, look up the stairs, hoping to see my tenant coming down with his bat. Nothing. I pad silently to the outer door and look out its peephole. The patio is dark and silent. Nothing moves. I debate whether or not to open the door and take a better look. It might be what the intruder wants, a clear shot at me. Or it might be nothing. The noise might be my imagination, or something might have fallen on its own, and if I don’t investigate it, I’ll never get to sleep.
My internal debate gives way to my long-standing determination to walk this earth as an independent woman or die trying. I shift the knife to my left hand, make sure the Mace is pointed away from me in my right hand, and silently open the dead bolts of the door. I turn the knob with my knife hand, with the fleeting thought that this ability is another advantage to having man-size hands. The latch bolt recedes and comes clear of the plate, releasing the door from the frame. With the stealth of a cat burglar, I crack open the door and peer out. The area I can see is empty, but I can only see a few feet into the blackness.
My heart is pounding, and I can feel beads of perspiration on my face. I force myself to finish the job. I find the switch for the outdoor light with my Mace hand and rehearse what I’m going to do before I throw it on. When I’m ready, I flip the light switch and fling open the back door, then hurl the storm door open and burst onto the patio, Mace held high in one hand, the knife in the other.
Nothing. It’s as eerie as a haunted house at Halloween. The stillness feels like a soundless fuse, working its way to an explosion that will blow out eardrums and make hearts explode. I probe the darkness at the edges of the light on one side of the doorway. Nothing. I check the other side. All I find is a large rock, the size of a softball, lying at the foot of the wall, along with chips from the brick it slammed against. I realize the rock was thrown from the darkness behind me, beyond the reach of the light. I whirl, hackles raised, Mace at the ready, to meet the ambusher.
Nothing.
Someone is taunting me and I’m helpless. My inner coward screams at me to get back inside and lock the door and call the police. My inner warrior sneers that there’s nothing here and the police probably think I’m crazy already and besides, I should handle this pervert myself.
I’m still in self-debate when a loud bang, like a gunshot, comes from the front of the house. I duck, my breathing stops, my head swivels from one side of the house to the other, expecting a gunman to burst into view. A second later, I run inside, slamming the doors behind me, throwing the dead bolts, then race to the front door. As I look through the peephole, another bang erupts, so loud it hurts my ears, so close I can feel the vibrations in the door. I drop to the ground and begin crying, no longer able to hold back my emotions. I crawl like a snake into the living room and find my phone. As I dial the emergency number, another explosion goes off.
“Is this an emergency?” The dispatcher’s voice is calm, like she’s reading the paper and her husband’s calling to check in.
“Yes!” I say it in a screaming whisper, urgent, but quiet enough so the gunman outside can’t hear me. “Someone is shooting at my house,” I exclaim.
She asks for my address and tells me a squad is on the way. “How many shots have been fired, Ms. Logan?” She’s calm, matter-of-fact, but she lets me hear concern in her voice, too.
“Three,” I reply.
“Are you wounded?” she asks.
“Not yet.”
“What damage have you seen?”
Her question makes me think. There’s no broken glass. I haven’t heard bullets striking anything inside. “None. Yet.” My voice squeaks, I sob like a terrified wretch.
“Ms. Logan, you stay low for another minute or two. The squad will be there before you know it. The officers will check the area. I’ll stay on the line with you and I’ll let you know when they signal all clear. Until you hear that from me, don’t open the door for anyone. Okay?”
I sob my okay.
I hear them arrive and I hear a police radio as one of the cops circles to the back of the building. A few minutes later, the dispatcher relays the all clear and tells me the officers will come to the front door and I should let them in.
I do. They are polite and respectful. They found the remains of three cherry bombs on my front step. The rock in back was, as I surmised, the instrument used to make the initial bang. They are familiar with my stalker problems and the vandalism of my home. It all came up on the computer as they responded to the call. Everything but the identity of the villain.
“We’ll increase patrols in the area,” the lead cop tells me after a fifteen-minute interview about the incident. “But be careful. Don’t go out alone after dark. In fact, try not to go out alone any more than you have to.”
I nod, but his advice makes me feel empty. I don’t have anyone to escort me. It’s worse knowing that, knowing I don’t really count to anyone that way.
“You might consider getting a security system,” he adds. “If you can afford it.”
“I’m doing that,” I say. “It gets installed next week.”
The patrolmen say goodnight, I thank them profusely, then I’m left alone in a world poised in hushed stillness and quivering muscles, awaiting the next explosion.
Phil’s call comes early in the morning.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” he says. I heard about last night. Are you okay?”
“Yes.” My answer is cautious. I have no idea why he’s calling.
“I’m parked in front of your place. I’m going to be poking around. I didn’t want to scare you.” He delivers the short sentences in a staccato burst, as if anticipating an object
ion from me.
“Thank you, Phil,” I say. I’d like to say more, maybe thank him for his interest, maybe ask him what he’s looking for since he always identifies himself as a desk man or a PR guy and not a crime-fighting kind of cop. But I don’t say anything. I just throw on some clothes and start the coffee. I catch sight of him walking along the side of the building, heading for the back. When I poke my head out the back door, he’s eyeing the stone that started my night of terror.
“I have coffee on,” I say. I wish I’d put on makeup and done something with my hair, not to be seductive but just presentable.
He looks at me and smiles slowly.
“I’ll leave the door open,” I say.
He thanks me. I rush into the bathroom and make my hair tidy and pat on a little makeup, then to the bedroom and slide into skinny jeans and a tee. I hurry back to the kitchen just as Phil comes in.
“That smells great,” he says. Good move. We avoid the awkward silence that starts meetings between ex-lovers.
“Thanks for coming by,” I say. “It means a lot.” I try to say it without getting gooey. I block from my mind the memory of waking up next to him, of feeling like a special woman. I busy myself placing cups and saucers and milk and sugar on the table.
“Did you get any sleep?” he asks as we sit down across from each other.
“A little. Do I look horrible?” He was asking to be nice, but I have this sudden vision of myself with raccoon eyes and blotchy skin.
“You look great.” He says it with such distinctive charm. It’s not phony and it’s not a throwaway line. He makes it sound like I’m the most beautiful woman he’s seen in ages. God, I miss that.
“The department is really working on this,” he says. “I want you to know that.”
I nod and tell him how much I appreciate the concern. The Chicago Police Department has its faults, some of them highly publicized, but it has been one of the most progressive in the country in its dealings with transgender people.