Tina Lehman is my best example of the latter case. We went to college together, though we never knew each other or as much as exchanged hellos. What I do know is that Tina was a senior when I was a junior, and that she freaked out right around the time I started dating Richard. She’d been watching a movie with her roommate one night, in which a male character subtly coerced a younger woman into having consensual intercourse. Midway through the scene, the Lehman girl began to scream. The screams escalated into a fit of rage and horror that left the roommate both perplexed and terrified. Arms thrashing, eyes blazing, Tina Lehman began to pull her own hair out. Then she tried to scratch her eyes out. Then she ran out of the room and burst into the dormitory hallway, where she proceeded to bang her head into the painted cinderblock wall with suicidal force. She gave herself a concussion and wound up in a psychiatric ward. She was twenty-one years old. I later learned that Tina had been forcibly raped at age eleven by a dishwasher repair man. For a full decade, Tina had no knowledge she’d been assaulted because she’d repressed the event immediately after it’d happened. Ten years later, the memory had resurfaced, without warning, as she had watched a similar event parlayed in a movie. The attacker was tracked down, convicted, and sentenced to jail time.
I had no reason to believe any such demon resided within the walls of Justin’s home. But the scales were slightly out of tune. If the two of us were going to be on the phone a good while longer, perhaps I could find out why.
“Well, Justin, I was thinking we could talk a little more about your situation at home. I know you expressed some confusion earlier, and I’m willing to talk about it if you are. Do you feel comfortable with that?”
A pause. Loud thought.
Tap-tap.
“All right,” I began. “How about your parents? Do you mind if I ask you some questions about your parents?”
I made sure to speak slowly and smoothly. I knew I was addressing a delicate subject. I molded my questions carefully, aiming to progressively increase Justin’s confidence in speaking candidly. Of course, I’d be the one speaking. He’d be tapping.
I waited a moment before the reply came through.
Tap.
No, he didn’t mind. Good start.
“You don’t mind?” I repeated, to convey my respect for his privacy.
Tap.
“Okay, but if I start to move into things that you don’t wish to talk about, make sure you let me know, all right?”
Tap-tap.
I nibbled the top of my fingernail clean off my right pinkie, searching for an adequate place to begin. I didn’t want to leap into the heart of the matter right away, fearing it might dissuade him from further discussion. Moving into delicate matters is a slow process. As a stranger, perhaps it wasn’t my place to delve into such personal concerns … but I was anonymous, and this was an out-of-the-ordinary call-in. As far as I saw it, this was my job. More importantly, Justin’s mind needed to be diverted from the dangerous men lurking inside his house.
“Being seven years old, you may be unsure how to answer this question, but I’ll ask it anyway. You are an only child, you said, right?”
Tap-tap.
“Would you say that your mom and dad get along well together? At least when you see them?”
I waited patiently for a response. The loud thought that greeted me signified the boy’s uncertainty.
Tap-tap, finally.
“They do get along okay?”
Tap-tap.
I was about to ask the question in a different way when a new response came through.
Tap-tap-tap.
He wasn’t sure. I was positive it was an amendment to his previous answer, and a sure signal that there was some unrest between his parents. Often, instead of nodding or saying yes to a personal question, kids will shrug or murmur or look down, indicating confusion or outright avoidance.
“You’re not sure how your parents get along, Justin?”
Tap.
“Do you ever see or hear them fighting with one another?”
No response. I waited.
“Do they fight sometimes?”
Tap-tap.
“Do they fight a lot?”
Tap.
“So, just sometimes then.”
Tap-tap.
“Does it frighten you a little to hear them arguing about something?”
Tap-tap.
“Well, that’s perfectly understandable. No child enjoys hearing his parents fight with one another. But all parents have their disagreements. In fact, my mom and dad were two of the best people I’ve ever known, and even they had their share of heart-to-heart squabbles.”
Where are they? I wondered, thinking of Justin’s parents. My Lotensin read 8:23 p.m. The snow drifts would be piling up by now, and we usually closed the office by nine thirty. Then there was the babysitter to worry about …
“How ’bout you, Justin? Do you get along with your parents all right?”
It was a sticky question, but I was running short on things to say. It’s one thing to have to pilot conversations over the phone with strangers, but something else to have to pilot a one-sided conversation.
Tap-tap.
“Well, that’s good,” I said with reassurance. “I thought you did.”
I probed my thoughts for more possibilities, questions of a general nature that might help narrow things down to what I was looking for. Given the subtleties of family chemistry and the inner conflicts that disrupt it, I was quickly realizing how difficult it might be diagnosing the problem on my own. The tap system denied Justin the freedom to express his thoughts verbally, leaving it up to me to figure it out. I also had to consider that it was likely he wouldn’t speak his mind regardless of our system of dialogue—not unless he truly wanted to.
Perhaps you’re overanalyzing things here, Leslie. Maybe he’s just lonely, huh?
I decided to climb out on a limb.
“Justin, do either of your parents ever drink a lot? Like beer or booze? Stuff like that?”
He probably won’t even know what that is at his age. He can’t even—
Tap-tap.
I stiffened a bit, more by the authority of the response, I think, than the response itself.
“Is this both Mom and Dad we’re talking about, Justin?”
Pause. Waiting.
Loud thought.
Tap.
“Is it your dad?”
Tap-tap.
“Do you see your father drinking often?”
Another hesitation. Phone static.
Tap-tap-tap.
“You probably see him at night, don’t you? After work, maybe?”
Tap-tap.
“Does he usually drink every night, Justin? At least, that you can see?”
Tap-tap.
Which means he probably drinks more that the boy doesn’t see.
I often wonder which is held in higher esteem in America today—family and home life, or the race to get ahead in professional life: the lust for money and status. There are workaholics who come home at night needing alcohol to quell their nerves. They’re too bushed for the family, too drained to give anything more. A couple of drinks and off to bed. Up the next morning and back to work. You can call me a cynic, but I live in Sheldon and deal with children of these types three nights a week. I even married a workaholic, but he’s been dead for four years now, going on five.
“Does your dad sometimes get mean when he drinks in your house, Justin?”
Tap-tap.
“Does he get mean a lot?”
Tap.
“Just sometimes?”
Tap-tap.
The question of physical abuse occurred to me, but I dismissed it. Somehow, through a weathered perception I can’t explain, abuse didn’t seem to fit the mold here.
/> “How about Mom? Does she drink very much?”
Tap.
“Just Dad?”
Tap-tap.
“Your dad works hard, doesn’t he?”
Tap-tap.
“Tell me something, Justin. Do you and your parents ever get together and do things on weekends? Like bike riding or kite flying? A trip to the zoo maybe? Things like that?”
A spell of silence prompted me to amend the question. I felt I knew the answer.
“You don’t do those things too often, do you?”
Tap.
“I didn’t think so. How about friends, then? Any other boys your age in the neighborhood that you like to play with?”
Tap-tap-tap, came the response.
I was baffled.
“I’m not sure what you mean by that, Justin.”
Tap-tap-tap.
“You’re not sure if there are any boys in your neighborhood? Is that what you’re saying?”
Tap-tap-tap.
Something was amiss here. I knew I had stumbled onto something, but I wasn’t sure how to further proceed. My best guess, incorporating all I’d learned during the conversation, was the simple notion that Justin was a classic latchkey, and a very lonely one. Perhaps the boy had no friends. I remembered the other lad and his dog, Mickey, and something hurt inside me. My heart grew suddenly sore for this lonely and frightened boy of seven, squeezed into the crawlspace behind the den sofa while strangers moved through his home. I wanted to reach out and hug him through the phone line, provide him with the love my parents had bestowed upon me, put my mouth to his ear and tell him that things were going to be okay.
“Do you know of any boys in your neighborhood, Justin? Any at all?”
No response.
I waited patiently, wondering what was worth hiding with regard to the question. The vagueness of his responses lent some suspicion toward how much he was telling me. Or how much he wasn’t telling me.
“Justin? Do you feel uncomfortable with this question?”
I waited some more.
“I won’t ask if you are.”
Silence. Static.
He wasn’t answering.
“Would you prefer we drop the issue entirely?”
No response.
I waited. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.
“Justin? Can you hear me?”
No answer. Nothing.
Suddenly, my heart found the fast lane. Something wasn’t right.
“Justin?” I asked, tension in my voice now. “Justin, is something wrong? Tell me what’s wrong.”
Nothing. Nothing at all.
What is happening here?
I raised my voice. “Justin, please answer me, tell me—”
Heavy static, like a hard wind or … breathing. Suddenly it hit me, and my fingers tightened around the receiver. The boy was breathing, breathing into the phone.
Someone was in the den with him. I remembered our cue from the master bedroom, and my muscles stiffened. Had the perp heard my voice coming through the phone from behind the couch?
I half-expected the boy to start screaming, but there was only the light seashore static of phone fuzz. For the first time tonight, I was scared, truly and deeply scared. Me, a twenty-eight-year-old woman in this creaking swivel chair in the Call-A-Friend regional base.
I kept the phone pressed to my ear, listening tensely, hoping my voice hadn’t been detected. In all likelihood, Justin had one hand over the earpiece of the receiver to muffle my voice. Realizing this, I decided it was best to keep quiet and sit still. And wait.
Someone was in his den. Probing and poking around. A man whom I suddenly feared was extremely dangerous.
In a way, I felt helpless, holding a phone here in the church basement. All I could do was wait. My heart was pounding.
Silence on the other end.
Be with us now, I prayed, clenching a fist and gnawing a knuckle. Let him be okay. Just let him be okay.
I closed my eyes and waited. Silence has a sound.
CHAPTER 6
I MET RICHARD IN the heart of my junior year. I was out on the campus green with some friends, eating an ice cream when he walked up to me. It was his fearlessness, I think, that most resonated with me. Most guys can’t summon the courage to approach a girl in the presence of others and ask her out.
Richard did just that. I had never seen him before.
I was licking off the top of my cone when he approached from behind and tapped my shoulder. I turned around, and there he was: short brown hair, clean-shaven, a silk tie flapping against his chest. I looked him up and down, and vanilla ice cream dribbled across my lower lip. For a moment he said nothing. He stared at me, his lips gently set in a Mona Lisa smile.
He stuck his hand out. I shook it.
“My name’s Rich. I transferred in last week, out of BU.”
I was momentarily speechless. It takes the human mind several seconds to catch up when it’s been caught off guard. I opened my mouth to reply, but he did that for me.
“You’re Leslie, right?”
I nodded quizzically. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s me. Nice to meet you.”
My circle of friends had fallen silent. I felt their half-smiles around me.
Richard remained unflappable, his eyes unmoving. They were blue and deep.
“I was wondering if you’d like to go out sometime. Tonight maybe? Tomorrow? Some night this week.”
His eyes remained planted on mine.
“You mean, like—”
“You know, just dinner. Nothing fancy. I heard the tavern up on the corner has good food.”
That struck me also because the Red Bull Tavern had outstanding food. The guy had transferred in last week. Already he knew the restaurants and my name. What else did he know?
I felt the group power around me. The girls were tomb-silent as they watched and waited.
“Sure, I guess,” I said, and he smiled confidently, as if he’d known from the start that I would oblige.
“Tonight okay?”
“Yeah, I guess. As good as any.” I smiled genuinely, wondering what I was getting myself into.
“All right then. I’ll meet you at … seven thirty?”
I nodded.
“Right here. We can walk.”
“Great.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it,” he said with that Mona Lisa look. Then he turned and ambled across the green, hands in his pockets. We watched him the entire way, but he never looked back.
For a minute, no one spoke.
“Well, that was strange,” Ali mumbled from behind. I barely acknowledged her, transfixed by the back of Richard’s button-down, growing smaller and smaller.
“Strange?” someone else said. “That was easy. It’s not supposed to be that easy, Leslie.”
Those words stuck with me. I agreed that it wasn’t supposed to be that easy. My mother had warned me to be wary of aggressive men.
“Vultures, Leslie—that’s what they are,” she said. “They’ll take advantage of you and then fly off in search of fresh meat.”
But Richard turned out to be anything but a vulture. On the contrary, he was the most sincere man I’d ever met. I learned that evening that the aura of confidence he’d exuded that afternoon was his true self. He had no problem transgressing beyond small talk into deeper issues. Furthermore, he spoke with a degree of insight and understanding I hadn’t encountered in a guy before, as though he related in some way to every facet of my life.
He paid for dinner and escorted me back to my dorm. He didn’t kiss me. Rather, he shook hands and thanked me.
“I had fun,” he said, boring into me with those sure eyes of his. “I really did. I hope we can do this again in the near future.”
“Me too.” I paused and
then added, “My number’s in the directory. Give me a call sometime.”
“I will,” he said. I knew he meant it. It was funny, I thought. One evening with this guy, and I already knew him—knew him on a subconscious plane of mind that was too natural yet too abstract to define.
A week later, the Lehman girl freaked out, sending vibes across the campus. By that time, Richard and I were officially together. We dated steadily throughout the remainder of our college lives and got engaged in the spring term of senior year. We married upon graduation.
Richard was immediately accepted by a major engineering firm in Sheldon that his uncle owned. Strings, strings, and more strings. Given the circumstances, Richard was destined for corporate ascent. It took him a mere three years to climb the corporate rungs that would probably require upwards of a decade from an ordinary employee. He had attained the position of vice president of finance by the time of his death.
His disease began months earlier, however. Patrick was born when we were both twenty-two, in the first full year of our marriage. I had conceived on our honeymoon.
After Patrick’s birth, Richard was on his way in the corporate world and directing more and more of his attention toward that area. I was on maternity leave from my accounting firm with full benefits, home with the baby and keeping the apartment in order. That was one of the most fulfilling times of my life, nursing Patrick on the rear balcony, reading westerns and listening to the birds chatter incessantly around me. I was a mother, rearing my own child. It felt great to be alive.
Six months later, we moved into the house that Patrick and I still occupy, in the pith of Sheldon affluence. Richard was making more than most forty year-olds, and there was much ground to be consumed, he told me. Life was upon us, he said, resting in the cups of our palms.
“We’re gonna be rich, Leslie, hon. You know that, don’t you?”
I nodded, smiling. “And we’re gonna go on trips and cruises every other month—”
“—Alaska—”
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