by Juliette Fay
“Tell her what to do!” prompted Instructor Debbie.
“Foot stomp! Knee to the groin!” the classmates called breathlessly.
The nurse’s knee flew up and her heel crashed down on the bridge of the attacker’s well-protected foot. He released her and grabbed his foot, faking pain. She backed away and he lunged for her.
“Kick! Kick!” yelled the watchers as she landed on the mats. “Kick for your life!” cried one of the rape victims. Women on either side of her instinctively reached out to clasp her hands. “Do it!” they screamed, “Get him!”
The nurse rolled over, propped herself on one side, and swung at him with her foot. The first swipes were ineffectual and only served to push him away momentarily. He kept crawling back toward her in the menacing suit.
“Harder!” the classmates bellowed. “Take him out!”
The nurse’s foot began to swing higher, her heel coming down in a hacking motion on his head. The relentless thumping on the padded helmet felt like fireworks in the women’s chests. Finally the attacker curled into the fetal position and surrendered. The nurse jumped up and screamed “911!” as they had been instructed, barely getting it out before the group rushed toward her. They hugged her and patted her, a couple of them crying. Janie was surprised to find herself caught up in the crowd, reaching out to pat the nurse’s shoulder.
One by one, they got their turns, the scenarios changing slightly each time. The woman with terrible acne yelled “BACK OFF!” with such intensity that the attacker put his hands up and walked away.
The older woman whose son had died went limp during her turn. She just lay on her back and cried. The attacker sat back on his heels as Debbie crawled up to her and murmured, “Bea, we’re with you. You’re not alone. You have to fight back.”
“No,” whimpered Bea, “I can’t.”
“You can do it,” a few called to her. “Come on, Bea. Just try.”
“No,” she groaned.
One of the two teenagers, the one who’d grabbed the iced coffee in the parking lot, approached. Surprising everyone, she lay down on her back next to the older woman.
“Mrs. Benson?” she whispered. “I would personally really appreciate it if you would make this loser evaporate.” And she closed her eyes.
The attacker surged to life, lunging for the girl who lay prone on the mat. Mrs. Benson groaned, “No!” and blocked him with her foot. He fell back, giving Mrs. Benson just enough time to come to a crouch over the girl, creating a shelter with her aging body. When the attacker lunged again, his mesh-covered face met with the heel of Mrs. Benson’s palm. He fell back again, one hand to the mesh, the other hand swiping at the girl. Mrs. Benson grabbed the arm and sunk her teeth into the duct tape.
The women screamed “Go!” and “Yes!” and “Do it!” They squeezed each other’s hands and shoulders; they howled their approval.
Mrs. Benson maneuvered her body to kick him, her foot coming down in an axing motion over his stomach. She continued to do this even after he had gone into the surrender position. Only the group calling “911!” cued her to stop. The teenager helped the older woman get to her feet, and together they called out for the police, the girl throwing her fist into the air like a cheerleader.
Janie found tears leaking down her face, and quickly wiped her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her shirt. It was her turn next, and she screamed and stomped and axed as she’d been taught. But the whole time she was thinking of Bea Benson and her dead son.
JANIE HAD ASSUMED SHE’D have to go out and buy something to eat during the noon break. But Debbie appeared with sandwiches, sodas, chips, and cookies. It was a working lunch, she explained.
“You did great, Janie,” said the incest survivor, sitting in the next chair. “You really know how to yell.” She took a sip of her diet soda and considered, “I think I should learn to swear more.”
“Sometimes it comes in handy, I guess.” Janie said. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.”
“It’s Katya.” She took another sip. “I’m really enjoying this. Are you?”
“Well,” stalled Janie. “It’s better than I thought it would be.”
“Yeah,” said Katya. “I was kind of embarrassed at first. But it’s like group therapy, don’t you think? All weird in the beginning, and then it gets really inspiring.”
“Maybe,” nodded Janie. “Chips?”
“No thanks,” said Katya, patting her flat stomach. “I’m getting married in seven weeks, and the dress shows every ounce!”
“Everybody got what they need?” called Debbie. “I want to do a little checking in to see how we’re doing after your first attack.”
“It’s not my first attack,” said one of the rape victims. There was a silent but palpable gasp as everyone recalled the vicious assault she had tearfully described.
“Oh, I’m sorry—I meant—” stammered Debbie.
“It’s okay,” replied the woman. “It was definitely my favorite attack.”
The group smiled in relief. They shared what they were thinking as the attacker came at them, how they felt as they struck back. The girl with acne said she saw the faces of all the kids who had taunted her over the years. Another commented on how much harder it was to watch than to fight.
“The next set of attacks is a little tougher,” said Debbie. “Before the attacker was silent. Now he’s going to say things.”
“Bad things?” asked one of the rape victims.
“Disarming things. Things that keep you from doing what you need to do.”
ARTURO HAD GONE INTO the office and taken off the suit. He came out and ate with them, complimenting each one on a particular poke or jab they had delivered. Janie saw this as systematic and contrived, but then he turned to her. “You did fine in the attack,” he said, “but your best defensive move is the way you hold yourself. No one’s going to mistake you for an easy target. It’s clear you’re ready for a fight.”
She knew he was sincere.
During the next round, each woman was attacked from a standing position, as before. But this time, Arturo said things from behind the mesh. Taunts, threats, even crazy things, as if he were on drugs. It heightened the tension, but this time the potential victims were more prepared with their defense. No one fell apart; no one needed to stop.
Then they learned “horizontal defense.”
“Sometimes attacks happen when we’re at our most vulnerable,” said Debbie. “Can anyone guess when that is?”
“When I’m with my future in-laws?” said Katya. The group chuckled.
One of the rape victims mumbled something.
Debbie said, “I don’t think everyone heard that, Rhonda.”
“When we’re asleep,” Rhonda replied flatly.
“That’s right,” said Debbie gently. “When we’re feeling safe in our beds, unaware of any intrusion.”
The women lay prone on the mats with their eyes closed, imagining waking up with a stranger on top of them. They learned the counterintuitive technique of allowing him to remain there for a few moments without struggling. They waited for the moment when the attacker would need to loosen his grip, when they could then spring into action, focusing their strength and intent on disabling him. Arturo supervised as the women practiced in pairs, taking turns hurling the other off. Janie found it uncomfortable and distasteful to have someone on top of her, even for the few brief moments before she pitched her partner to the mat. For others it was even more disturbing. Rhonda needed to stop several times, and eventually Instructor Debbie became her partner.
When Arturo put the attacker suit back on and stood in the corner of the room, the women couldn’t take their eyes off him. They found themselves picking at their cuticles and hunching their shoulders as each waited her turn to be attacked “horizontally.”
It went quickly, Janie surmised, because Arturo was too easy on them. Carefully he placed himself on each potential victim and silently waited to be thrown. When they kicked and poked, he pulled into his sur
render position too soon, Janie concluded. He let Rhonda disable him in under fifteen seconds.
After practicing a bit more, Debbie announced, “Now we’re going to put it all together.”
Again the women waited for their turns. But when the attacker got on top of them this time, he was not careful and he was not silent. He snarled nasty, disgusting things at them. He pinned them and made them wait long moments for an opportunity to take action. Debbie crouched close by, watching each woman intently. When it was Rhonda’s turn, she inched a little closer.
“Okay, bitch,” growled the attacker, “now you’re going to get it.”
“Wait, Rhonda,” whispered Debbie, “wait for your chance.”
“I followed you back from that party, ’cause I just knew you wanted it,” he sneered.
A breathy, high-pitched keen of terror escaped from Rhonda’s lips.
“Don’t fade out, Rhonda,” breathed Debbie. “You stay right here and get rid of him.”
“You want some of this, bitch? You know you can’t wait for it.” The attacker released one of her arms and reached down toward his waist. The watchers sucked in their breath in horror.
“Go!” said Debbie. “Eye poke!”
“YOU FUCKER!” screamed Rhonda and rammed her clenched fingertips so hard into the mesh-covered face that a tiny hole appeared. The attacker’s hand flew to his face and he screamed, flailing to contain her with the other hand.
“NO FUCKING WAY!” howled Rhonda and, pulling a leg up to brace herself, pitched him off her. In an almost graceful, swooping motion she pivoted and sank the heel of her foot into his groin. “YOU—” she slammed her heel again—“CAN’T”—again—“HAVE ME!”—and again. “I’M MINE!” The heel came down more rapidly now, “I’M MINE, YOU MOTHERFUCKER! I’M MINE!”
Debbie had to intervene. As the women swarmed around Rhonda with hugs and congratulations, the attacker rose gingerly and limped toward the office. He needed a little “break.”
The only one who hadn’t had a turn yet was Katya, the incest victim. When the attacker returned, Katya lay patiently on the mat and waited for him to descend upon her. Once engaged, the attacker started his patter: “You slut,” he hissed. “You’re a little slut, just like your mother.”
“Uh, Debbie?” said, Katya, twisting her head around. “Can I speak to you for a minute?”
The attacker got off Katya, and the two women crossed the room and whispered to each other. Then Debbie motioned the attacker over and whispered to him while Katya went back to lie on the mat with her eyes closed.
“Katya?” said the attacker climbing onto her again. “Muffin, are you awake?”
“Go away, Daddy,” she said.
“I love you so much, Muffin. I just love to be close to you.”
“Daddy,” said Katya, her voice starting to tremble. “Please go back to your own bed.”
“But, my bed is so cold, honey,” he crooned. “Mommy is so cold and you’re so warm. Just like a hot, fresh, gooey muffin.”
Katya started to cry. Janie felt as if she might be sick.
“Make him go,” whispered Debbie. “He has no right, Katya. Make him go.”
“You…” Katya breathed. “You have no right, Daddy.”
“No right?” said the attacker. “You’re my daughter. My daughter. You belong to me.”
“Who do you belong to, Katya?” murmured Debbie.
“Me,” choked Katya. “I belong to—”
“Don’t speak to your father like that, Muffin.” The attacker released his hold on her wrists to stroke her face. “I don’t want to have to punish my best girl.”
“GO!” screamed Janie, surprising herself. Katya’s head snapped toward Janie, momentarily making eye contact. “THAT’S NOT WHAT FATHERS DO!” Janie yelled at her.
Katya heaved the attacker off. He came back at her on his hands and knees and she poked at him with the ball of her foot.
“Kick!” the women screamed. “Stop him!”
“Say it!” yelled Debbie. “Tell him!”
“No more, Daddy,” grunted Katya, her kicks picking up speed. She glanced again at Janie over the attacker’s shoulder.
“He’s no father!” yelled Janie, pointing her finger at Katya. “He’s a rapist! MAKE HIM STOP RAPING YOU!”
Katya screamed then, a howl that would shame a banshee. She slammed her heel into his face, forcing him to roll away from her.
She jumped to her feet and kicked him in the ribs. “YOU’RE NO FATHER, DADDY!” she screamed raggedly. “YOU’RE NO EFFING FATHER!”
The attacker surrendered. Katya put her hands to her face and wept. As the women surrounded her, Katya lowered her hands and searched the crowd. She reached for Janie, wrapping her arms around Janie’s neck and sobbing into her shoulder.
“Good work, Katya,” whispered Janie. “Good effing work!”
6
MONDAY, JULY 2
Malinowski’s out there with those big cardboard tubes in the holes, pouring heaping gobs of cement into them. Hope fully the yard will stop looking like it’s been attacked by giant gophers sometime soon. I should probably be paying him time and a half for keeping Dylan entertained. School’s out and camp doesn’t start until next week.
His little friend Keane is coming over. When I called, his mother (whose name is Heidi—doesn’t it just figure? All she needs is pigtails and a little Swiss jumper), practically kissed me over the phone. Apparently she took him to work one afternoon last week, and he knocked over the water cooler, among other things.
She had a sense of humor about it, though, which I didn’t expect. She said, “The upside is my boss is no longer trying to get me to go out with him.” I guess giggling, pants-wetting, hyperactive boys do come in handy sometimes. As human shields in the dating game, if for nothing else.
Oh God, Malinowski is letting Dylan hold the cement hose…but he seems to be getting most of it into the tube. He’s imitating the cement coming out now, in a pantomime of barfing. Malinowski is laughing.
Every once in a while, for just a second, everything’s okay.
WHEN KEANE ARRIVED, HIS mother barely stopped the car long enough for him to get out. “Thank you SO much,” she called from the driver’s side window. “I can’t thank you enough!”
Yeah, you can, thought Janie. You can actually thank me too much.
“I’M STARVING!” announced Keane.
Janie said to Malinowski, “Okay if they’re out here while I make lunch?” She nodded toward Keane and murmured, “This one’s kind of…busy.”
Malinowski surveyed the blond boy, who was hacking furiously with a stick in a nearby mound of dirt. “I’ll trade you for one of whatever you’re making,” he replied. “Left my cooler home.”
Janie came out with a stack of peanut butter and banana sandwiches, a bowl of grapes, cups of chocolate milk, and a box of wipes. She parked the boys on the wide front step and scrubbed the dirt off their hands. Malinowski joined them, sitting on the lower step, his square shoulders the height of the boys heads.
“Hey,” Keane said to Dylan, with a mouth still full of peanut butter. “Hey, where’s your dad?”
Janie went still, the grape in her hand hovering like a hummingbird in front of her chin. She didn’t look at Dylan, but she listened so hard she thought she could almost hear his cells dividing. In her peripheral vision, she saw Malinowski glance over at her.
“Umm…,” said Dylan, squinting for a second. “Uh, he’s in heaven. He got hit by a car.” He pulled the crust off his sandwich and put it on the step. “You should always wear a bike helmet.”
“My dad says I don’t always have to,” said Keane.
“You should,” replied Dylan.
“Okay,” said Keane. “Want this grape? It’s kinda squishy.”
“Pretend that’s a grape tree over there,” said Dylan. “Pretend it eats grapes!”
The boys winged the few remaining grapes toward the tree, widely missing their mark, but hooting like c
hampions nonetheless. They jumped up and began to search for small stones and half-rotted acorns to throw at the tree.
Malinowski piled their napkins and paper plates onto his own. “I think I hear the baby,” he said, handing them to her without looking up.
Janie hadn’t heard the baby, though the monitor was aimed out the kitchen window, as usual. When she went into the house to check, Carly was still fast asleep. Janie wondered momentarily if Malinowski had purposely given her an excuse to take a moment to collect herself, but dismissed it. How could he know how hard a simple exchange between four-year-olds could hit her?
When she went back to the kitchen to put away the peanut butter and dispose of the banana peels, she heard Malinowski say, “Boys.” He didn’t yell, or sound alarmed, but his tone was mildly menacing, meant to be taken seriously. She glanced out the kitchen window and saw him aiming a warning look at Dylan and Keane, who were facing each other, frozen in mid-throw.
“What’s going on out here?” Janie said as she strode out the door toward them.
On closer examination, each boy was holding a clod of dirt, apparently not for the first time. They were filthy. Janie caught the edge of Malinowski’s smile as he turned back to the cylindrical tubes of cement that would hold up their porch.
“Hey,” she said to the boys. “This is not a good game, someone could get dirt in their eyes or hit with a stone.”
“Sorry!” called Keane immediately, and threw down his dirt. “Sorry Mrs…. Mrs. Dylan’s Mom!”
Dylan started to laugh. “THAT’S not her name! She’s not Mrs. ME!”
“She’s Mrs. YOU!” Keane giggled.
“You can call me—” started Janie.
“She’s Mrs. YOU CAN CALL ME!” yelled Keane and fell down in the dirt laughing.
“She’s Mrs. TELEPHONE!” said Dylan.
Janie rolled her eyes and glanced at Malinowski as the boys lay in the dirt and poked each other with their muddy fingers.
