The Enemy We Know

by Donna White Glaser

  “The point is that you are sponsoring a violent, abusive woman-hater who’s been attacking a … a fellow AA member, a friend of yours.”

  “Former friend. What can I tell you, Letty? Women can make a guy crazy.” And then the bastard hung up.

  I looked forward to my Wednesday night meeting, the one place Wayne couldn’t infiltrate unless he came in drag or had a sex change. Actually, if he did crash the party, most of the women would happily use his penis as a piñata. Another perk about women’s meetings is that you can always find a man-hater when you need one. Since the meetings in April were at Rhonda’s house, the service was built in. Plus, I had plenty of friends willing to jump on the bashing-wagon now that I’d broken up with Robert.

  Unfortunately, Sue and Charlie soon forced us back on track, redirecting the focus to issues of sobriety. When my turn came around, I started with some of the concerns that had been raised when Sue and I spoke.

  “One of the things that prolonged my drinking was the illusion of control that I clung to. I just couldn’t admit that alcohol had control of me instead of vice versa. Like, being possessed by an evil spirit. Pun intended,” I added.

  “When Sue and I talked this week, I realized that my whole family does this and always has. And not just about alcohol.” Around the room, women nodded, smiling softly, feeling their way through my words to their own truths. “We did it when my dad died. There’s this whole myth about what really happened, and nobody speaks of it to this day. I don’t even know if my brother and sister remember what really happened or if they’ve started believing the lie. I know Ma has. She’s still claims the cops killed him.

  “She’s spent her whole life hating and blaming the cops for my dad’s death, and teaching us to do the same. But they didn’t do it. He did. He choked to death on his own vomit. The jailers found him, but they couldn’t revive him.

  “All these years later, and we still don’t talk about it. I feel strange even now, here, with you all. Nobody is allowed—or ever was—to admit Dad died from booze. That he was an alcoholic.

  “That’s why they all ignore my getting sober. Sloppy drunk, falling-down drunk, is perfectly acceptable, but call myself an alcoholic? No way. They change the subject, won’t even look at me when I try to tell them what it means to me. It’s, like, this family legacy of secrets. Never admit you’re scared. Never look at how crazy your life is. Never be… weak.

  “That’s what I’ve been doing with this harassment thing—pretending I’m not scared or that I’m in control of it. Now he’s taken over my AA club. This meeting is the only place I can come without wondering if he’s going to pop out at me like Freddy Krueger.”

  Suddenly exhausted, I passed to the next woman, which happened to be Charlie. After the traditional AA introduction, she said, “A family legacy of secrets? That’s the alcoholic way, that’s for sure! But it’s good that you’re looking at it. You might want to check out some ACOA meetings.”

  Trinnie, our newbie, looked confused.

  “Adult Children of Alcoholics,” Charlie explained.

  “I’d have to go to the club,” I objected. “I can’t take that chance.”

  “I have an idea for that,” Rhonda cut in. “I’ll bring it up after the meeting.”

  The women continued, each taking her turn talking about life, sobriety, day-to-day hassles. As I listened, a sense of calm settled over me. It was this feeling of belonging to a group of people who, no matter how different we were, understood the worst about me and accepted it. That’s what I couldn’t stand losing, couldn’t survive without.

  Rhonda, my newly appointed guardian angel, had decided that wasn’t going to happen.

  “No man is going to keep you from anything. It’ll just take a little extra planning, that’s all.” Her emphasis on “man” turned it into an obscenity. Given her animosity to the male gender, I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear something about “Guida the Enforcer” and a “little accident.”

  “If we know when you plan to attend a meeting, one of us will just go with you. Bullies don’t like witnesses, and the key is that you will never be alone. Simple.”

  It was simple, but my instinctive response was to decline. Sue, anticipating my reaction, chimed in.

  “Rhonda’s right. You’ve been thinking about this too narrowly. You don’t have to do this alone and you’re not going to isolate yourself. It’s not too much trouble. You’re not imposing. It doesn’t mean you’re weak.”

  She nailed it. I took a deep breath. As much as I hated having my friends rearrange their lives around my schedule, I gave in. Together, we figured out my meetings schedule for the week ahead—a process both humiliating and gratifying—before I took off for home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  When I got to the office Thursday morning, Lisa greeted me with a copy of Big Boobed Babes and the news that Mary Kate had met with Marshall to discuss her transfer to Hannah and was currently locked in her office crying. I tossed Boobs in the trash.

  “She’s upset?”

  Lisa’s eyebrows gave a “my, aren’t you clever” twitch. “I’m guessing separation issues. Hannah will have to work with her on that.” After years of typing our reports and transcribing our meetings, Lisa’s grasp of psych theory rivaled anyone’s.

  “Maybe I should go talk to her.”

  “Uh-huh,” Lisa mumbled on her way to the file room. Message delivered, she’d already moved on to the next task. As long as Mary Kate didn’t interfere with Lisa’s schedule, she could stay in her office until next Christmas.

  I sighed and set off. As I passed Marshall’s office, I peeked in. He was on the phone and gave me a little wave. I pointed down the hall at Mary Kate’s closed door and mouthed “thanks a lot!” He shrugged, waggling his eyebrows at me. Not helpful, but it scored high on the cuteness scale.

  I trudged on.

  It took fifteen minutes to get Mary Kate to unlock her door, which was fourteen and a half minutes past ridiculous. If I’d had an axe, I’d have used it.

  I felt a little more sympathy, however, when she finally let me in. Her eyes were red and swollen, her nose a puffy lump of misery. You’d think a mental health clinic would spring for a better quality tissue; ours were more effective as nose exfoliaters than as an absorbent for the liquidy stuff currently streaming down Mary Kate’s face.

  “Oh, Mary Kate,” I said, shaking my head gently. “You have got yourself all worked up, haven’t you?”

  “I know I’m being stupid,” she said. At least that’s what I thought she said. It was a bit difficult to interpret since her sobs convulsed in those hiccup-gasps that my Grandma used to call the “huff-n-puffs.”

  I sat down in the client chair. Her space was much more sparsely furnished, given that it was a temporary office shared by the two or three interns who rotated through the clinic for their practicum each semester. The bookshelf held a half-dozen dusty psychology texts with USED labels slapped on the spines. A calendar, thumbtacked above the scratched desk, displayed the office hours of each intern. I realized that Mary Kate showed up at the office far more often than her ten hours of clinical practicum dictated.

  Something else I’d missed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, touching my arm and regaining my attention.

  “Nothing to be sorry for, Mary Kate. I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t realize you would take this so hard. I just wish I’d been the one to let you know.”

  “I know I’m being silly, but I just don’t want to start over with someone else. I’ve got finals coming up, and there’s only a few weeks left of the internship anyway. Pretty soon I’m going to have to say good-bye to all my clients and that’s hard enough. Couldn’t we just leave it that you’ll be my supervisor? I promise I won’t be a bother. We could even cut back on meeting every week, if that helps.”

  “With all the stress of finals and beginning the termination process with your clients, that’s exactly what you can’t do.” Mary Kate winced a
t my use of the clinical phrase: termination. It did sound more like a Mafia expression than the professional lingo for ending a therapeutic relationship. “As you can see from your own reaction, this can be an emotionally charged experience. Separations bring up a lot of feelings for us as well as for our clients. Even for those who are ready—and I believe you are—it can stir up a lot of issues.” Okay, I lied a little about thinking Mary Kate was ready, but Hannah was an excellent clinician and I’d give her the background.

  “I’ve always hated endings,” Mary Kate’s chair squeaked as she leaned back. She kept her eyes on the carpet. “I was a Navy brat and we were always leaving friends when we moved to the next base. And I really don’t want to screw up this internship. I’ve tried a lot of different things in my life—jobs, I mean—and I finally know what I want to be when I grow up.” She smiled wanly.

  Given her age, I knew she’d come to counseling the long way around. She’d previously admitted to changing her major five times. Mary Kate reminded me of the lost souls who used to wander around Europe trying to “find themselves.” I could relate. I’d done my own kind of wandering.

  Meanwhile, she sat looking up at me with big, drippy eyes. I felt like I was kicking a puppy. A sick, sad, lonely, orphaned, blind puppy. With fleas. We talked for another twenty minutes while I tried to convince her to see some of the advantages in the change. Among other things, she would get the benefit of a different professional perspective, a counselor-supervisor with a different set of skills, and she wouldn’t have to worry about crazed, knife-wielding ex-clients crashing through the door during their meetings. While she never did seem fully convinced, she eventually resigned herself to its inevitability. At least she stopped crying, which was good enough for now. Besides, I had clients waiting.

  When I got home that night, the phone was ringing. Not thinking, I snatched it up before checking the Caller I.D. I regretted my impulsivity even before hearing the strange male voice on the other end.

  “Letty? Hi! Wow, I didn’t think you’d answer. Cool!”

  “Paul?”

  “Yeah. Listen, I didn’t see you tonight so I wanted to let you know that the coast is clear. You know? Like, if you wanted to come to a meeting. You don’t have to worry—it’s cool.”

  The disconnect between my ability to understand why I was talking to Paul, who as I far as I knew shouldn’t even have my number, and his secret agent lingo made me hesitate a long moment.

  “Hello?” Paul ventured.

  “I went to a meeting last night. How did you get my number?”

  “You did? Where at? Did you go to the one at the Methodist church? I thought that was on Thursdays.”

  “It is on Thursdays. I went to my women’s group. We meet at each other’s houses.”

  “Aw, that sounds cool. I wish the guys did that.”

  Actually, they did, but no one would tell Paul. I interrupted him as he started a rambling monologue about the meeting he’d just attended. “Paul? How did you get my number?”

  Although I hadn’t yet arranged for an unlisted number, Paul shouldn’t have been able to look it up for the simple reason that he shouldn’t know my last name. And even though he had driven me home one time, I’d made sure to have him drop me a few blocks over. If someone at the club was giving out my number, I wanted to know.

  “Oh, I asked around. It wasn’t easy, either.” His voice projected pride in his sleuthing. “I didn’t want you to stay away from the club just because of that guy. He’s such a jerk. So I figured I’d come check it out and let you know it was all clear.”

  “You mean you went to the club even though you might run into Wayne?” I was kind of impressed. Still creeped out, but impressed.

  “Yeah, well, I got here early and waited across the street to see if he went in. What did you say his name is?”

  “Wayne, but he’s calling himself Randy. Just… be careful, Paul. And you don’t have to keep watch for me.” Or call me. Ever. “The girls and I have come up with a plan so I can still make meetings and not have to worry about Wayne.”

  “Yeah, I have an idea, too. I just got a few things to check out first. But, listen, the other reason why I called? I was wondering if you maybe wanted to get something to eat sometime? Or coffee? With me?”

  I should’ve seen it coming.

  “Gee, thanks, Paul. But we’re not supposed to date in the first year. No major changes, remember? And you’ve only been sober a couple weeks.”

  “Thirty-one days. You went out with Robert, didn’t you?”

  “And look how that turned out,” I said. “I really need to focus on the program, and so do you. Things are just too crazy right now.”

  “Oh. Okay. I understand. Well, I’ll see you at the club anyway. Right?”

  “Sure. Hey, Paul, where did—”

  “Well, okay then. I better call it a night. I’ll see you soon. Be careful!”

  “Paul?” I said to air. He’d hung up before I could continue my push for how he’d gotten my number. Whether that was calculated on his part or just another example of his social ineptitude, I couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter though; I’d corner him face-to-face and get the answer I wanted. I resigned myself to getting an unlisted number the next day.

  Several clients canceled on Friday, leaving me with a lot of down time. I pretended to file. What I really needed to do was call the phone company. Not to mention documenting everything that had been going on in order to make a police report. Every time I sat at my desk, however, my mind skittered away. I played lots of mind-numbing computer solitaire while subconsciously listening for footsteps of crazy men coming for me. Man. Eventually, I forced myself to document all of the recent nastiness.

  First, I worked out the time line of his harassment. Although technically Wayne didn’t attack me until March 11th, I included the dates of the two sessions we’d had under his false name.

  February 19 and March 4 – phony counseling sessions

  March 11 – Wayne, drunk, attacks in office

  March 14 – Flowers delivered

  March 15 – confrontation/threatens in work parking lot

  March 20 and 21 – tires flattened

  March 21 – followed to AA parking lot

  March 24 – clown calls

  March 28 – panties delivered and utilities tampered with

  March 29 – rat in glove box

  April 1 – fraudulent letter of complaint to state licensing board

  Various phone call hang ups—undocumented

  Porno mags arrived at the clinic sometime near the end of March

  Depressing. Very, very depressing. And frightening when seen in its entirety. Since I was already immersed in the overwhelming evidence of my helplessness, I decided to address the licensing complaint. The time line came in handy, although I would have to delete the reference to AA before Marshall reviewed it and before sending it off to the state licensing board.

  If I wasn’t careful, I would prove my innocence of sexual impropriety while simultaneously outing myself as an alcoholic. The licensing board likes to keep tabs on little stuff like that, and I hadn’t exactly updated them on my “condition.”

  Another problem that became blaringly apparent was the lack of any real evidence. Other than the sessions under a false name and the initial attack, the rest was just assumptions or my word against his. Not only that, but my avoidance of reporting the other events to the police looked suspicious.

  Enough. Time for an AA meeting.

  By the time Rhonda pulled up next to my little Focus, I was a bundle of raw nerves. Not only would I be facing Wayne, but I would be seeing Robert for the first time since breaking up.

  Rhonda, on the other hand, was in her element. She stuck to me like dog poop in shoe tread and was about as offensive. She entered the club glaring at each man in turn, while I smiled meekly and sent little apology shrugs in her wake. There wasn’t a man in the club who wasn’t painfully aware of Rhonda’s hater stance, and they fled be
fore us.

  As I expected, Robert and Wayne were there, but not surprisingly, neither made any attempt to approach. They stood in a huddle talking with Chad and a few others by the coffee bar. Robert cast a few carefully casual glances my way, but mostly kept his back turned. Wayne’s expression was a slap-worthy smirk, but he, too, kept his distance. I caught Chad’s eye once, relieved to see him smile and wink.

  Already exhausted by the time we filed into the meeting, I passed when my turn came to talk. Though I tuned out during Robert’s talk, I had to grit my teeth to keep from bursting out when Wayne spoke. He pretended to direct his words to the various other members, but with the sensitivity of a hunted rabbit, I sensed his attention was for me and me alone. He spoke with smarmy, false sincerity about changing his ways, about his love for his woman that would help him stay straight, and about how grateful he was that he could count on all his new friends to help him through his troubles.

  After the meeting Rhonda needed to talk to a friend of hers for a minute, so by the time we got out to the lobby area, it was a man-free zone. Rhonda, a canister of Slap My Ass And Call Me Sally pepper spray clutched and eagerly ready for use on anyone with a penis, walked me to my car. Nevertheless, I strongly suspected she was disappointed when no one tried to mug us.

  I thanked her, waiting until she started her own car, figuring she had at least as many enemies as I. Adventure over, we drove our separate ways.

  Minutes later, I parked outside my apartment complex and made my way to the front. As I made my way up walked along the sidewalk, I envied Rhonda’s pepper spray and decided to ask where she’d got it. And was it legal?

  The back of my neck prickled as soon as I entered the lobby area. The light bulb at the top of the stairs had gone out, leaving the upper landing just outside my apartment in shadows. Adrenaline flipped the ON switch for my heart, racing blood through my body. Fight or flight?