The Enemy We Know

by Donna White Glaser

  “Oh, shut up. My point is that a restraining order will only leave a paper trail. It’s not a safeguard. Get it or don’t get it. Either way, what’s important is to be careful and stay alert. I know you have special training and all, but words won’t stop a knife. And no matter what, stay sober.”

  “Well, I don’t like the idea of involving the authorities,” Betty said next. Deeply religious and prone to anxiety attacks, her still-drinking husband had made the eighteen months of her sobriety a living hell. “I can’t see how a piece of paper will do you any good, and it will probably just make the guy even madder.”

  Rhonda, the group’s official man-hater, burst out, “The authorities are already involved! What, she’s supposed to roll over and let this asshole walk all over her? You let these jerks get away with an inch and they’ll beat you over the head with it. All of ‘em! Now just—”

  “Rhonda, that’s enough. You know you’re not supposed to interrupt. You’ll get your turn. Go ahead, Betty.” Using her decades-old teacher’s tone, Sue deftly re-established order.

  “I’m just speaking my opinion. Take it or leave it.” Betty shrugged indifferently. In contradiction, her voice, tight and clipped, prickled with hurt at Rhonda’s tactlessness. Betty passed abruptly.

  Unfortunately, it was a rare night that Rhonda didn’t manage to piss off someone, and lately she’d seemed especially focused on Betty. Lots of drinkers claim that alcohol loosens the tongue so that people say what they really feel. True or not, Rhonda carried the unfettered freedom of openness and honesty into her nondrinking life, much to the dismay of everyone else. Apparently, the “Truth According to Rhonda” had proven more addictive and twice as destructive as whiskey ever had, but she never seemed to hit bottom with it. We did, though. Frequently.

  In any case, there wasn’t much we could do about it. Talking with her had proven fruitless and we couldn’t kick her out for being a bitch unless she turned into a drunken bitch. We tried to interest her in other meetings, but she clung to our Wednesday group, blissfully unaware that she, alone, thought candor her best feature.

  Unlike most of the other women, Rhonda spent only a few moments on my issues, which was fine with me. In fact, it was rare for the meeting to focus so exclusively on one person’s topic. That it had was evidence of both how unusual the event was and how deeply it resonated with most of the women.

  Indeed, once Rhonda finished her usual I-hate-men monologue, the topic veered back. My headache crept another notch higher as most of the comments divided evenly between for- and against- advice about restraining orders. I grew more confused than ever.

  After the meeting, the women milled around the kitchen table chitchatting and ditching their diets in favor of a late-day brownie. Stacie and Sue made their way to my side.

  “What did Robert say about all this?” Stacie asked.

  “We haven’t really had a chance to talk about it,” I said.

  Two pairs of eyes narrowed in disbelief, and Sue’s nostrils crinkled as if scenting the lie.

  “Huh. Awful busy guy, ain’t he?” Stacie remarked.

  “Stacie—”

  “Oh, yeah, he’s so busy he doesn’t have time to pick up the phone and give his girl a call.” I practically heard Sue’s tongue sizzle from the acid in her voice. “But wait?”

  “What’s wrong?” Stacie played straight man.

  “What’s that black thing stuck to his ear at every meeting?”

  “Gosh, I don’t know? Whatever could it be?”

  “Maybe we got him all wrong! Maybe that’s, like, a tumor?”

  “You know, studies show that cell phones cause cancer. I’ve heard that,” Stacie went on.

  “I think we owe him an apology,” Sue said. “All this time, I’ve been thinking he’s an arrogant, selfish jerk and he’s actually a cancer victim?”

  “No wonder he doesn’t like you.”

  “Who said he doesn’t like me?” Sue asked, all astonished.

  “Anybody who’s ever seen him sit next to you. Believe me. He looks like he swallowed a lemon whenever you come near.”

  “He looks like that all the time.”

  I walked away, their giggles trailing like litter behind me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The media found out. While I was at my meeting, the local news—as Mary Kate breathlessly informed my voice mail late Wednesday night—ran a two-minute segment on the incident. Mary Kate had tried taping the piece, but it was over before she could figure out how to work her ancient VCR. Nevertheless, she’d been able to take notes. Apparently, they’d gotten shots of the exterior of the clinic and posted a mug shot of Wayne. Not only was he scheduled for a court appearance Thursday morning, but she’d learned that his criminal history included domestic violence. No big surprise there.

  Marshall met me in a lather at the clinic door first thing Thursday morning. The Powers-That-Be wanted to be very clear that under no circumstances was I allowed to speak to any reporters. To be honest, I didn’t expect anyone to contact me, but I didn’t appreciate the cover-our-ass approach that administration was choosing. And I really hated being told what to do. Besides, if anything would alert the media, it would be the hospital’s own paranoia. Left alone, the story would blow over, I was sure.

  I’d forgotten the extent of a small town’s curiosity, however. When a particularly obnoxious reporter discovered my hiding spot behind the dumpster—and took pictures of me puffing guiltily on a cigarette—I conceded defeat and fled back to my office and the dwindling piles of reports on my desk.

  Unfortunately Mary Kate wasn’t the only one who’d caught the drama on the nightly news. My office line buzzed and I—all unsuspecting and brain-numb from paperwork—picked up.

  “What on earth is going on there? Looks like they had a whole SWAT team busting in there. Did one of your crazies palm their Prozac?”

  “Ma—”

  “Geez, if I’da known my daughter was going to need a bulletproof vest to go to work I wouldn’t have sent her to a big, fancy college.”

  “You didn’t send me to college. I had a scholarship and paid my own way.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yeah. So why didn’t you call me? I gotta hear about the cops raiding my daughter’s workplace from Wanda Skolnik at the bank?”

  “The police didn’t raid us, Ma. A man got upset and—”

  “Listen, honey,” she interrupted, “if that’s upset, I’d hate to see pissed off. Is that what college does? Teaches you to use big words to pretty up something ugly?”

  No, Ma, I learned that from you. Do not say it. Do not.

  “Ma, I didn’t call because I know how you feel about dealing with the police. I didn’t want to…” I scrambled to find a synonym for “upset,” but it was pointless. Ma had the bit between her teeth and was off on her favorite tirade.

  “Listen, honey,” she said. “If you got cops running around there, just keep your head down and let someone else deal with them. They was bad enough before, but now with this Homeland Security stuff, there’s no tellin’ what they’ll try to get away with. They hounded your father ‘til the day he died, and look what happened! They feed off a man ‘til he snaps, and then use that as an excuse to gun him down.

  “Just wait and see what happens. This guy they caught at your place? Next thing you know we’ll be hearing he tried to escape and they shot him or something. I’ll have to tell Wanda to keep her eye on the news. If they even bother to report it. You’d be surprised how much stuff they keep from us.”

  “Listen, Ma, I’ve got a client waiting. I’ll give you a call this weekend.” Yes, I lie to my mother. But if we both know it’s a lie, does it really count?

  “This weekend? Listen, honey, why don’t you just come over? I haven’t seen you in weeks. We could play cards or something.”

  I felt bad. It was more like months since I’d been out, not weeks, but my mother was the Queen Mistress of Glo
ss. She lived in a small town less than twenty miles away where her life consisted of her job at the turkey factory, her crappy apartment, and the re-construction of her version of the past. Just when guilt nearly pushed me into a promise I’d surely regret, she said, “We’ll call Krissie, get a case a beer and catch up. Just us girls. It’s been ages.”

  “Ma, you know I quit drinking.” My mother persisted in the belief that my sobriety was a health fad like Tai-bo that I would soon get bored with. My sister, Kris, on the other hand, saw it as a judgment of her behavior. The whole thing gave me a headache.

  Ma finally relinquished me to my nonexistent client, and I dry-swallowed three Tylenol for my all-too-real headache.

  Later, when I finally dragged myself up the stairs to my second floor apartment, I was beyond ready for jammies and a drink. Sighing, I settled for jammies and a chocolate shake. Freudians call it sublimation—the transference of a negative impulse to a more acceptable one. Given the skin indents my size eight jeans left on my hips these days, I wasn’t so sure that “acceptable” was necessarily the right term.

  I hoped Robert hadn’t noticed. Despite my friends’ opinions, Robert wasn’t a bad guy. He had his issues; who didn’t? And he was gorgeous. At one end, a nice, round tush while at the other, honey-blond hair so thick my fingers got stuck. Heads and tails: a win-win situation.

  Best of all, he had a decent job, his own car and a valid driver’s license—all commodities that sent his desirability rating soaring in AA. Truth was, with as many women thronging around him, I was amazed that he’d gravitated to me. Not that I’m a complete schlump, but he was the kind of guy who’d had a cheerleader on each arm in high school.

  Except that he hadn’t. According to him, he’d been the misfit in school and still resented the popular group, most of whom had gone on to college. Lacking funds, he’d poured himself into the family business, a realty agency, managing to expand it several times over the next few years. I respected that about him.

  Stacie and Sue didn’t understand his ambitious nature and thought his drive to succeed was just another form of arrogance. It was true that Robert didn’t always do well with some of the more outspoken men and women—which was most of AA, as far as that went—but he did have a group of guys he hung out with regularly. And besides, even though we’d been dating a few months, we really only saw each other on weekends. We still had a lot of getting-to-know-you to do.

  When he called Thursday night, we finally were able to talk. His concern for my ordeal soothed my jangled nerves like a cold beer in August. Not the best analogy for an alcoholic, but there you go.

  “So, what’s going to happen with this jerk? Will you have to go to court?”

  “I’m not really sure. Probably. There’s a lot I don’t know yet. Mostly I’ve kept my head buried under the paperwork on my desk.”

  “That’s understandable, I guess, but Letty, you can’t afford to be passive on this. I’m not saying that to hurt your feelings, honey.”

  “I know, Robert. You’re right. I’ll call the police tomorrow, I promise.”

  “All right. Hey, listen, you haven’t … uh …”

  “No, Robert. I haven’t gotten drunk over it.”

  “Good! Although, knowing you, you’d have said that straight out already.” Pitching his voice into a lousy falsetto, he shrilled, “Robert, I was attacked by a deranged client and I went out and got trashed over it!”

  I laughed at his theatrics and in delight at his faith in my truthfulness. While honesty isn’t automatically rebooted with sobriety, its an essential part of AA’s program.

  “Thanks,” I said, meaning it. “But I got myself to a meeting right away. I won’t say I wasn’t tempted, but everything went so fast I was in a meeting before it took hold.”

  “Good girl. But how come you didn’t call me?”

  “I did call you.” My answer came a little too quick, a little too strident.

  “Not ’til Wednesday, and you never said anything then, either.”

  “I was too wiped out after the meeting the first night. And I tried talking to you Wednesday, but you were in too big of a hurry. “

  “Letty, you know it’s difficult for me to concentrate on anything else when I’m at work. Look, let’s just leave it at this: I hope someday that I’m the person you turn to when you’re hurting.”

  A part of me wanted to continue to defend myself, but Robert’s last sentence took my breath away. Normally, he was tantalizingly aloof. And had I really tried to discuss the incident with him or had my people-pleasing instinct to not bother him shut me down before giving him the chance to be there for me? Self-doubt of my own motives as well as pleasure over Robert’s overture combined to quiet my ire. Besides, I didn’t have the energy to fight. After making plans for the weekend, we hung up and I tucked in for the night.

  Since Marshall had okayed seeing clients again, Friday was hectic with a mandatory staff meeting to evaluate how we were all coping and back-to-back sessions with the clients I’d rescheduled. The next day looked just as busy, too. I usually tried to keep my weekends free for Robert, but I decided to schedule some hours Saturday morning to pick up the overflow. With his work ethic, I figured Robert would understand, although I wished I’d remembered to tell him last night.

  I felt even worse when I walked my client Sarah up to the reception area and discovered that a beautiful bouquet had been delivered. Three plump roses—one a deep red, one white, the last a blushing pink—nestled in a froth of greenery and white and purple blossoms. Upon closer inspection I identified lily of the valley, violets, and baby’s breath. The whole arrangement was bordered by ferns and leafy stalks with tiny bunches of white flowers, whose scent hinted of an herb. Centered on Lisa’s desk and surrounded by precariously high stacks of manila client files, the lovely blossoms looked as out of place as a peacock in the desert.

  I thought it was someone’s birthday until I noticed the amused grins directed my way. Lisa, Mary Kate, and Carol, our addictions therapist, crowded into the tiny front office, giggling. Sarah, catching the mood, circled around to lean over the half-wall dividing the office from the lobby. All eyes were on me.

  “Looks like someone’s been a very good girl.”

  “What are you talking about? Are these for me?” A goofy grin bubbled up from my heart, spreading across my face irrepressibly.

  I crossed to the desk and stood looking down in amazement. A stiff, white envelope addressed to “Violet Whittaker” perched in the greenery. As I pulled the card out, the girls crowded in, shamelessly peeking over my shoulder at the inscription: “To my ‘forward Violet’—Thou hast all the all of me.”

  Whoa.

  “So, who’s the Romeo?” Lisa kidded.

  I turned the card over, searching. No name anywhere.

  “Um …” I said.

  “Letty! You’re kidding, right? You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?” Carol said.

  “Well, I’m dating a guy, but we’re not to this stage yet. We’ve only been going out since January.”

  “You might not be at ‘this stage,’ but he sure is!”

  “Maybe with all the craziness on Tuesday, he’s realized how much he cares,” Lisa piped up.

  “That’s so romantic! I never knew your name was ‘Violet.’” Sarah was leaning so far over the partition she nearly tipped over.

  Displaying slightly better manners, Mary Kate, who had been hanging back, moved forward, touching a rose petal gently with her fingertip. “They’re beautiful,” she said, smiling.

  “They sure are. You know something? I’ve never gotten flowers before.”

  “Really? Not even for prom or something?”

  “No, I—”

  In an instant, the atmosphere changed. Lisa snapped to attention, bustling up to Sarah at the partition. Carol scooped a stack of files into her arms and vanished into the filing room. I turned around. Marshall stood, arms crossed, leaning against the door jamb.

  His eyes rested th
oughtfully on the vase of flowers, then moved to mine. I blushed and looked away. Reaching blindly, I picked up the vase, accidentally splashing water down my front. Feeling ridiculous, I crossed the room to the door.

  Instead of moving aside, he hesitated a bit too long for comfort, then stood back abruptly, letting me pass. I scurried up the hall like a runaway bride fleeing the chapel; his scrutiny and the half-formed suspicion flitting through my mind warming me uncomfortably.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I usually tried to get to the club at least twenty minutes early so Robert and I could share a cup of coffee and chat with friends before the six o’clock meeting. Tonight, even though I could have left them in the car, I ended up running the flowers home instead. Made me late, but I couldn’t quite convince myself that Robert had penned that passionate declaration. On the other hand, who else could it be? At least I had a chance to grab a quick cigarette before meeting Robert. He didn’t smoke.

  Chewing gum and newly spritzed with perfume, I pushed through the double doors of the HP & Me. It was ten after six and the meeting had started. A few stragglers hung around the bar drinking coffee and catching up. I grabbed my mug, filled it, and headed for the big hall in the back where the larger meetings were held. Robert volunteered as this particular meeting’s treasurer, which was why he hadn’t waited for me. Plus, waiting made him crazy.

  His clear blue eyes lighted on me as I crossed the hall and found a seat. Whatever issues he’d had as a teenager had been transformed into a prototype for a Norse god in later years. A dark blond with highlights women were forced to pay serious money for and a physique kept tight from daily workouts at his Minneapolis gym, he was a stunner. He even had those crinkles at the corners of his eyes that came from smiling—or in his case, squinting to read the fine print of contracts at house closings. Either way, very attractive as evidenced by the dramatic increase in female attendance at the Friday night meetings when he’d appeared on the scene a year and a half ago. I wasn’t there, but Sue was happy to fill me in on the competition—and all the attendant rumors—when Robert started talking to me early on.