The Enemy We Know

by Donna White Glaser

  In my heart I knew I should try to make the Saturday morning AA meeting, but I skipped it. Instead, I spent the morning participating in cat-therapy, sitting on the floor, back against the cabinets, watching Siggy pad around exploring his new domicile. After my butt finally went numb, I loaded dirty laundry into Marshall’s pristine car and set out for the laundromat. Although my building had a couple of washers and dryers, it would have meant heading down to the basement with its spiders, weird, moaning building noises, and one-way-in one-way-out cinderblock hallway. No way in hell.

  Truth was, Wayne’s invasion into the very heart of my life creeped me out way too much to chance it. He knew how I spent my work hours, he knew my darkest secret. And now he knew where I lived. But, true daughter of Denial, I chose to sit with the laundry zoning out to the music of sudsy water and the low hum of industrial dryers. Cheap hydrotherapy. Smelled good, too.

  After lunch, I headed out to Marshall’s to switch cars. If I could have figured out a way to extend my designated driver duties ’til Monday or, say, the year 2020, I would have. At the very least that would have meant stranding my boss at the enchanted cottage for several days without a ride. Probably not the best career move, although the anonymity of driving someone else’s car made it very tempting.

  A wrong turn cost me twenty minutes, but I wasn’t on a schedule. By 1:30 I was standing on the porch, knocking. When no one answered, I thumped harder. Even with the hangover he must be suffering, I found it hard to believe he didn’t hear me. Hands on hips, I slowly pivoted, scanning the clearing. A distant cracking sound, followed by a thud, drifted through the trees lining the river. I knew that sound.

  Growing up, we’d had a wood burner, and I used to go with Dad to cut wood. My job was to stack it; I hated the inevitable slivers but loved the time with my father. He’d be sober—Ma would make sure of that before turning him loose with an axe and her first born—and he’d be feeling good about providing for the family. The smell of split oak would fill my nose, an earthy mixture of sap and crisp, fresh air, promising warmth through the long winter. My dad laughed a lot on wood-cutting days. I did, too.

  I hung back from going into the woods, although I spotted a wide path next to a huge pile of logs stacked near the edge of the clearing. I couldn’t be sure it was Marshall out there and didn’t want to walk up on a stranger in the middle of the woods. As I debated waiting in the car or making myself at home in the sure-to-be-unlocked house, I spied a big, old-fashioned dinner bell at the corner of the porch. A frayed bit of rope dangled from the crown invitingly.

  Quite loud, that bell.

  I soon heard the rumble of an ATV starting, and minutes later, Marshall drove up the path wearing the flannel jacket over a denim shirt and faded jeans, looking particularly scrumptious. He exuded a sexy lumberjack aura, and, if not for his bloodshot eyes, I might not have guessed that he’d tied one on last night.

  “I was hoping you’d show up,” he said, smiling.

  A clean, woodsy smell drifted to me, and I wondered if he’d think I was coming on to him if I jumped in his lap and buried my nose in his jacket. Pulling myself together, I said, “I almost didn’t. That car is nicer than my apartment. But I figured you’d run out of food eventually and I didn’t want to be responsible for starving you to death.”

  “You should have let me keep the panties.”

  “Yeah, ’cause that’s what all the survival manuals tell you to pack. Edible underwear.” I tried to not blush, but failed. Miserably. “You know, I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.”

  “Not a chance,” he said. “And I don’t plan on letting you forget it, either. Who do you think sent them?”

  That squashed my laughter. I leaned against the porch railing, looking out across the river.

  “Letty? You don’t think it was him, do you?”

  “Who else? Somebody had my electricity and stuff turned off, too.”

  “Your phone? I tried calling this morning. It said it was disconnected.”

  “Well, not by me. In fact, I’m afraid to see what my car looks like after sitting there all night.”

  Marshall frowned. “I didn’t think of that. Maybe we should head out and see if everything’s okay.”

  “Did you find your keys?” I asked, tossing him the set of spares. Grinning, he pulled another set out of his jacket pocket.

  “Good thing, too,” he said. “I’d have to pay to have all the locks changed if I lost the office keys. Might be hard to explain.”

  A half hour later, we pulled up to the clinic. Marshall parked next to my car and we got out. I was stunned to find nicely rounded tires and intact windows. Marshall stood back a bit, arms crossed, while I circled looking for damage.

  “Looks good,” I said, shrugging.

  He got down on his knees, examining the undercarriage.

  “Are you looking for bombs?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the brake line was cut. Everything looks good, though.”

  Unlocking the driver’s side, I got in. As I turned the ignition, the car made a not-so-lovely ratchety sound, and I remembered sabotaging myself on behalf of Mary Kate’s surprise party. I popped the hood and reversed the damage, managing to look like I knew what I was doing.

  The car started up nicely and I sat, half in and half out, feeling the deflating aftermath of adrenaline and suspicion. Marshall leaned casually against the door.

  “Everything looks good, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  “Geez, don’t get all excited or anything. That’s good news, isn’t it?”

  “I just can’t help feeling like I’m missing something. I mean, why would he miss a chance to hit my car? It was practically wrapped up with a bow for him.”

  “Maybe he had a hot date. Even stalkers have to have a night off, don’t they?”

  I sighed, and we said good-bye. Our car doors slammed simultaneously, but I waited for him to back out first while I sat pondering. Heaving another sigh, I decided he was right, I was being ridiculous. Before shifting into reverse, I checked the mirror and froze.

  The next thing I knew I was out of the car, staring at it from the middle of the parking lot. Marshall jumped out of his idling car and ran to me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I pointed at my little Focus, hating that my hand shook. “Somebody’s been in my car. Somebody’s been inside it.”

  “What? In your car? How do you know?”

  “The mirror is off. It’s pointed sideways.”

  He walked over and sat in the driver’s seat. Screwing up my courage, I joined him on the passenger side, but I couldn’t force myself to sit. I hovered in the open door, looking for anything else that felt wrong. The jumbled mess in the back seat looked like it always did. Meanwhile, Marshall leaned over and popped the glove box.

  A stiff lump covered in matted gray fur dropped out onto the passenger seat with a soft thump. Screaming, I slammed the door, clearing the distance to the curb in one wild leap. Once there, I stood with a hand clamped to my mouth, little squealy noises slipping out between my fingers, and the other arm wrapped around my middle. Marshall didn’t exactly scream, but he grunted a man-version of “ugh” and moved pretty quickly to put distance between himself and the car. We stood on the sidewalk together, a his-and-her portrait of shock and disgust.

  “That was a rat,” he said, his voice flat but overly loud.

  I almost threw up. “No. No-no-no-no-no. There is no dead rat lying on my seat.”

  “Did you see the teeth on that thing?”

  I sat on the curb and put my head between my knees. Just a little dizzy. My knees shook so hard I almost gave myself a concussion, but I was in the correct position to see if I did, indeed, wet my pants as feared. Marshall nattered on and on listing the creature’s various attributes—big as his neighbor’s Chihuahua, stiff enough to use in batting practice, fangs as long and yellow as. . .

  A little humming was in order.

  “What i
s that sound?” he broke off the litany to ask. “Are you moaning?”

  “You can’t leave that thing there.” Lifting my head, I came eye level with the car’s front end. An amazing amount of dead bugs and ragged feathers were embedded across the metal grillwork. My car was a rolling morgue. Put my head back down.

  “Aren’t you going to call the police?”

  I groaned. “What good would that do? I can’t prove anything.”

  Marshall sat on the curb beside me. “I know, but I think it’s important to document everything.”

  I chanced raising my head. “Isn’t that what they tell people to do when there’s nothing useful to do?”

  Instead of answering, he rose and dug his cell phone off his belt clip. I thought he was overriding my objections, but he walked to the car and used the camera feature to snap a couple pictures of the thing on my seat. Then he reached in, picked the vile thing up by the tail and carried it to the dumpster at the end of the lot. I shuddered at his bravery. A loaded gun to my head couldn’t induce me to touch that thing.

  “I sent copies to my email and yours. I still think you should report it and get a file going on this.”

  He reached down to pull me up, considerately using his non-tail-touching hand—frankly, I wouldn’t have touched the rat hand—but instead of letting go, he held on. We stood there for a moment in silence holding hands. His quiet tenderness did me in, tears sliding down my face. He pulled me close, and I finally got to bury my face in that warm jacket.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  First thing I did after leaving Marshall was head to the nearest store to pick up some Lysol. My car now reeked of disinfectant, but at least I could bear sitting in it without hyperventilating from images of plague-ridden fleas biting my ankles. I sat inhaling pine-laced fumes, fervently hoping they weren’t flammable since I smoked cigarette after cigarette. My life was as out-of-control and as chaotic as it ever had been—one client in hiding, another stalking me, a crush on my boss, and dead rodents falling out of the glove box. I quit drinking to stop this kind of insanity.

  And as long as I was facing hard truths, I had to admit that I didn’t like how I was behaving with Marshall. Okay, part of me liked it. But still, it was bad enough that Robert and I lived so far apart, I now had to wonder if I was the one sabotaging our relationship. Early on, he had said he wanted to be the one I turned to. Had I even given him the chance? Instead I seemed to be letting Marshall’s attentions distract and titillate me.

  With the power out at my place, maybe this would be a good time to take up Robert’s offer to stay at his weekend rental. It might be good to have the time alone and really let him know what’s been going on. Well, most of it anyway. Maybe not the panties.

  By the time I got to the AA club, I was eager to see Robert. That is until I walked in and found sleazy Sandra practically in his lap. Technically, they were sitting across the table from each other, but her smirk when I came in said lap. I took the seat next to him and, as I hung my purse on the chair back, noticed her foot sliding down his leg. She and I locked eyes.

  “Do you mind?” I hated the high school-ish quiver in my voice and, even though she broke eye contact first, felt no victory.

  She rose, smiling, and sashayed over to join the gang at the coffee bar. I caught a couple of raised eyebrows from the gossipmongers watching the silent drama before they turned away, knowingly.

  “What’s going on, Robert?” I asked, tight-lipped.

  “Maybe you should tell me,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you all day. You’re out all night with god knows who, you blow off our dinner and ignore your messages, and then you sail in here and are rude to my friends.”

  “Do your friends normally run their feet up your crotch?”

  He had the grace to blush. “Why don’t we go outside?”

  I followed him silently. This wasn’t the best way to start a conversation; we were both defensive and on-edge. It only got worse when we climbed in Robert’s pristine Tahoe, and he frowned at the muddy parking lot slush my shoe trailed in. He reached into his briefcase on the backseat, tearing out two sheets of notebook paper.

  “Here,” he said, handing them to me.

  “What? You want me to take notes?”

  “No. Stick your feet on these. I don’t want the mats all dirty.”

  Not even years of training could keep my mouth from falling open. “They’re floor mats! That’s what they’re for.”

  “Does everything have to be an argument with you? I have to drive clients around in this truck. I don’t come to your office and sling mud around, do I?”

  My brain stalled trying to decide whether to defend against “everything an argument” or the mud-slinging crap. I settled for rolling my eyes so hard I almost gave myself a brain aneurism before slamming my feet on the papers.

  “Fine. There. Now, do you want to quit with the bullshit and tell me what the hell was going on in there with Sandra?”

  “Nothing’s going on with Sandra. She’s just a friend.”

  “Yeah. You said that already. So tell me: do you let Chad run his foot up your leg?” Screw diplomacy—he wasn’t a client.

  Robert’s jaw clenched.

  “What’s going on, Letty? Are you trying to piss me off? First, you ditch me, and then you come strolling in to the club later having a hissy fit and embarrassing me in front of my friends.”

  “I did not ditch you.” I took a deep breath trying to calm down. Didn’t work. “I joined my co-workers for my boss’s birthday party at a bowling alley, which I told you about several days ahead of time.

  “Secondly, I was not ignoring your calls. My utilities were shut off, including my phone, and my cell was charging. I didn’t even get your messages. And for your information, I’m not required to check in with you!

  “Third,” I was ticking the various points off on my fingers, so angry they shook, “you can expect a ‘hissy’ fit any time I walk in to some bimbo playing footsie with Mr. Happy!”

  “You know what?” Robert’s face flushed an ugly burgundy. “You know why I wanted to talk to you? I wanted to tell you I agreed to sponsor the new guy. I wanted to share that with you. Instead, I have to deal with all this drama.” Not averse to his own drama, he punctuated the word by waving his hands in the air.

  “Drama?” My voice rose precipitously. “If you paid any attention to what was going on in my life, you wouldn’t talk about drama. Just this morning—”

  “You know what?” he interrupted. “Maybe you need to take a look at the common denominator here.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Letty has problems with a guy at work. Letty has problems with a girl at the club. Letty has problems with her boyfriend. How many meetings have you missed lately? When was the last time you met with your sponsor? Maybe you need to take a long, hard look at your part in all this. Even Sue, your own sponsor, is asking me what’s going on with you. And, I have to tell you, I’m starting to wonder myself.” Shaking his head, he exited, slamming the truck door.

  I knew he was full of shit, but the part about Sue bugged me.

  I sat for about ten minutes trying to calm down. Instead, I found myself replaying the scene, coming up with all the things I should have said. Sighing, I got out of the truck. The notepaper stuck to the bottom of my shoes like a trail of cheap toilet paper. I peeled them off, wadded them up and threw them back on his immaculate floor. Let Mr. Neat Freak clean them up.

  Sue showed up a short time later. I was tempted to sit out the meeting and talk with her privately, but Robert’s comments rankled. I settled for asking her out for coffee after the meeting.

  We went to The Brew Ha-ha which, although ridiculously expensive, was close to the AA club. Instead of the traditional, northern Wisconsin rustic décor, it tended toward funky eclectic and attracted a young crowd. Sue looked vaguely cranky and out of place as she perched in a modern
istic, orange scoop chair.

  “Why are we here?” she asked, her gaze settling like a sleepy lioness on a group of teen girls two tables over. One girl with a hunk of metal skewering her lower lip tried a little alpha-female posturing, tossing her hair back and rolling her eyes, but the other three shifted nervously under Sue’s teacher-aura.

  “Because I haven’t talked to you lately and Robert said you were asking about me. He made it sound like you were worried.” That got her attention.

  “He did?”

  “Were you?”

  “Well, I might have said something like ‘How’s Letty doing?’ but if I was worried about you I wouldn’t waste my time asking him. I’d come straight to you.” Her eyes bore into mine. “Is there something I should be worried about?”

  I filled her in on the hell Wayne continued to put me through all the way up to the rat-in-the-box incident, finishing with the argument with Robert.

  “I think he was just trying to put me on the defensive,” I concluded.

  “Sounds like it worked. But if it got you to come talk to me, I guess it could be worse. I bet you picked this place because it’s not likely that Robert and Chad and the rest are going to pop in here for a nonfat, soy latte.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You don’t have to tell me what the fight was about—unless you want to, that is. But I need to know if it’s something you might drink over.”

  I smiled. “I can’t see myself drinking over this. I’m upset, but I’m not… I don’t know… I’m not distraught, you know?” Sue nodded. “And anyway, it seemed like we were fighting about two different things. I was pissed about Sandra, and he was angry that I hadn’t called him.”

  “Why hadn’t you called him?”

  “My phone was out.”

  Sue crooked an I-don’t-buy-it eyebrow at me.

  “It was! Well, I suppose I could have used Marshall’s cell phone but—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Sue put up a traffic cop hand. “Marshall?”