Praise Her, Praise Diana

by Anne Rothman-Hicks

  It was big enough to put a smile on her face as she left. She decided that she would do what had to be done to insure a successful negotiation, and once he was happy she would start grooming him for the big stuff. It could work out well.

  There was very little traffic by the time she started driving, and she arrived at Maggie’s country house in the normal time, although it was close to one o’clock, later than she had told Maggie she would be there. She’d stopped at a roadside stand to use the bathroom and bought a fresh-baked apple pie, a few bags of fresh apples, and some newly dried fruit. But before she could retrieve her goodies from the backseat, Maggie came running out of the front door and down the steps and across the lawn, throwing her arms around Jane with all her strength, unable to speak for the moment. It was apparent that she had been crying but Maggie brushed it off.

  “I was just worried,” she said finally, straightening the collar of Jane’s shirt and hugging her again. “I expected you a little earlier and then I called and couldn’t get through.”

  “I turned my phone off while I was driving.”

  “I know. I mean I should have known. I thought you might be putting off coming again. It was silly of me. It’s just that I missed you so much. That’s all.”

  Maggie stroked Jane’s hair, gazing into her eyes. It seemed that even now she was making an effort to hold back more tears.

  “It was just a day, Maggie,” Jane said.

  “Two days, actually. Wednesday night. Thursday. Thursday night....”

  “Okay, two days. It wasn’t a week or a month.”

  “I know. I said it was silly. I just love you so much, Janey.”

  * * * *

  From the look of things, Maggie had cooked and baked all morning. She had made a picnic basket of fried chicken, potato salad, and a relish of two different colors of cabbage with a vinegar-based sauce that she had concocted from her own herbs (and thought she might be able to sell). There were turnovers for dessert and a cooler of iced tea, flavored with a hint of the mint that grew wild in one of the mulch piles near the barn. Together, they spread a blanket underneath the maple tree in the front yard, but since there had been a recent hard rain and the ground was still too wet and cold to sit on, they moved back to the porch. This hitch in her plans also seemed likely to bring tears to Maggie’s eyes.

  “I just wanted it to be so perfect,” Maggie said. “I wanted to make you happy.”

  “I am happy, Maggie,” Jane said with a laugh. “I’m happy just to be here with you.”

  Over lunch, Maggie inquired about Jane’s new client. Did it take longer than she had originally anticipated? Was that why she had been late arriving?

  Jane was reticent to discuss him because, regardless of any sort of personal dislike, he was still a client, and what he had told her was confidential. Maggie reacted with hurt silence.

  “Well, what did he look like?” she asked somewhat sarcastically. “Can you tell me that much?”

  “He had short brown hair. Somewhat thin but in pretty good shape. He said he watches the news while on the treadmill every morning. He was fairly tall. Not quite as tall as David.”

  “Was he as handsome as David?” Maggie was pushing the food around on her plate but didn’t seem to have eaten anything yet.

  “C’mon, Maggie, this is kind of dumb.”

  “It’s not dumb. I want to share your day, that’s all. I’m sure lawyers with spouses share the details of their days at dinner. Martha used to always talk about other clients. She just never mentioned names.”

  “Martha talked too much sometimes,” Jane said.

  “Okay, if that’s the way you want to be.” Maggie picked up a chicken drumstick and put it down again.

  “Are you actually worried about this guy, is that it? Maggie, he’s a manipulative pain in the ass with a narcissistic personality disorder, as far as I can tell. I almost didn’t take him on as a client.”

  “Wasn’t David a narcissist in ways?”

  “David was vain, but he didn’t think he was right all the time. He was laid back. Go with the flow. Love the one you’re with. You know that, for Christ’s sake.”

  Maggie started to cry. Jane got up and moved close to her, somewhat surprised by Maggie’s reaction. Maybe she was under stress with the payments for Diana ending and the need to find a new way to make money. Or maybe the session with Smalley had had lingering effects. She told herself to be especially careful, at least for a little while, until things normalized.

  Jane had missed her too, of course. She had expressly gotten up at first light that morning to run so that she could have the early appointment with her new client and get to Maggie’s house as soon as possible. Thank God she hadn’t mentioned that excursion to Maggie. It had felt good to be out there. Her legs had felt strong, her breath came easily and the wind flowed through her hair as she ran, passing almost everyone on the reservoir track. And then she’d seen a familiar figure some distance ahead and overtook easily, only to discover it was David, jogging slowly and puffing hard. He said he was turning over a new leaf—that Heather was good for him that way, making him get to bed earlier and all that jazz. He had been running every other day for about a week and doing 50 pushups on alternate mornings, 100 crunches every morning with half as many leg extensions. The knife wound didn’t bother him.

  “Well, you’re looking good,” she’d said. “Healthy. Keep it up.”

  “You’re looking good too,” he had said. “Your new life agrees with you, I guess.”

  “New life?”

  He’d hesitated.

  “I didn’t mean to pry,” he’d said. “But I heard, you know. You and Maggie.”

  The comment had come out of left field for her, so unexpectedly that she had stammered a reply.

  “I don’t know what you can be talking about, David.”

  She had turned and run away, wanting all the way home to go back and tell him it was true, that she loved Maggie and was as happy as she could ever remember being, but she didn’t. And now she was grateful that she had not brought it up with Maggie, although the denial of their affair still hung over her.

  “I’m sorry, Jane,” Maggie said finally. “I’ve acted so badly, I can’t believe it. I guess I am just a jealous bitch. I’m so sorry. I swear I won’t do it anymore. I swear it.”

  “It’s okay, Maggie.” Jane kissed her gently. “You know, sometimes I think you just have no idea how wonderful you are, and how nice it is for me just to be with you. Because if you did realize that, you would never be worried about any rival, man or woman.”

  “Thank you, Janey,” Maggie whispered, huddling close. “You’re so kind to me, so sweet. Forgive me for the way I acted. I’m so sorry—”

  “Don’t be sorry. Eat some of this beautiful food instead. You look thin to me, as if you haven’t been taking very good care of yourself. You need your strength. I’m looking forward to an afternoon of hard work around this place. Doesn’t the barn need a complete clean out? And then, when my muscles are aching and tired, I’m looking forward to a long, hot shower.”

  “Bath,” Maggie said. “Remember, we’re going to live as though we have no modern conveniences, except the refrigerator of course. No cell phones. No electricity. We’ll have a bath in the kitchen, in a big old tub I found and cleaned.”

  “A bath by candlelight with water heated on the stove,” Jane said with a wide smile, head cocked to one side as she visualized it. “Of course, I remember what we said. And that sounds even better than the shower. Like in the old westerns, right? Those scenes were always so extremely sexy. Is the tub big enough for two?”

  “I think so.”

  “We’ll make it fit,” Jane said. “Now eat something, and let’s get to work. And no more tears.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Late Friday afternoon, as evening approached and the streetlamps started to come on, a woman stood alone at the northwest corner of Broadway and 97th. She wore black shoes, black slacks and a long-
sleeved black top with a matching wide-brimmed felt hat that cast her face in dark shadow. No jewelry attracted attention.

  A wide median furnished with two benches separated the up and downtown vehicular traffic. At this particular intersection, men from the neighborhood tended to congregate on the benches, beginning in the late afternoon and stretching sometimes well into the night. Today, several men had gathered to share a pint of whiskey and a quart of beer. It didn’t take much to loosen their tongues, and they soon began to offer their commentary freely on the individual women who emerged from the supermarket on the corner. Juggling their groceries, slightly off-balance, young or old, alone or with children, slim or fat, it didn’t matter—their legs, rear-ends and breasts were ready subject matter. And across the street, the woman watched with a cell phone to her cheek.

  This was by no means her first time stationed here, and she knew some of the men by name; which ones were likely to elicit the loudest laughs, which mimicked the passing women with their own exaggerated body movements, which were especially coarse in their comments. Tonight, she had a surprise for them.

  “Any time,” she said.

  A van pulled up and six women got out. Each wore a down coat that hung to her ankles and a knit cap pulled low on her head to hide her hair, and each one grasped either a baseball bat or an axe handle firmly with two hands. The men sat dumbfounded as the women descended upon them swinging, connecting seasoned white ash and hickory with heads and arms and ribs, causing screams of pain as bones were broken, skulls cracked, teeth loosened, and flesh battered.

  “Enough!” the woman across the street said into her phone, and at her word the driver signaled the others who immediately piled back into the van. It sped off into the darkness, heading west toward the river and then north again.

  Less than a minute had passed, and the men were stretched out groaning on the sidewalk, blood oozing from mouths and ears and split skin. The liquor bottles lay beside them, splashing their contents into the gutter.

  The woman made one more call.

  “Susan Hempten,” a voice answered.

  “Hello, Dr. Suzy. Just wanted to report that women have fought back again this evening.”

  “Judith? Is that you?” Susan asked.

  “Never mind who it is. It’s a woman. That’s all you need to know. Do you want the address or not?”

  “Give it to me.”

  * * * *

  Much later that night, Judith opened the door to Sheila’s apartment and closed it behind her almost soundlessly. She stood motionless in the unlit hallway, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, listening for some proof that Sheila was asleep. The ticking of an antique mantle clock in the living room could be heard quite clearly. It was one of Sheila’s prized possessions, bought for her years ago by a group of graduate students to express their gratitude for her love and guidance. Every few months it would begin to lose time, and occasionally just stopped altogether. Then Sheila would call a guy she knew in the Bronx who had to be about a hundred years old and still worked on mechanical clocks as a paying hobby. He would come and take off the back and blow out the dust and apply a little oil and get the old machinery to start moving again. This would bring a smile of utter delight to Sheila’s face, as if he was some sort of miracle worker, and she would give him $50 or $100, whatever he felt like ripping her off for.

  The first time Judith had heard that ticking, lying beside her sleeping mentor at two in the morning, she had wanted to throw it out the window. But now it didn’t bother her, even on the nights when sleep was most elusive. Now it did not seem to be a measurement of her time on this earth slipping away.

  She took a step and the wooden floor creaked.

  “Judith?”

  The voice came weakly from out of Sheila’s room, cracking with phlegm. Even she must have been appalled by the sound of it; the sound of old age, of weakness. Sheila cleared her throat.

  “Is that you?” Sheila called again.

  Judith hesitated. Sometimes she would stand absolutely still, imagining Sheila lying there in her bed, full of anticipation at first, then a little afraid that some stranger had entered and was making his way to her room. Judith could easily wait her out if she wished. She could stand perfectly still for an hour or more, listening until Sheila’s breath turned to rasping snores. It was a kind of betrayal. Judith knew that. She was learning just how many forms betrayal could take.

  “Yes, it’s me,” she said finally.

  “Please come here,” said Sheila.

  “It’s late.”

  “Please.”

  Judith walked through the living room and into Sheila’s bedroom. Her eyes had adjusted and it was easy for her to make her way. The chairs, lamps, and end tables all were visible as gray-brown shapes in the gray-brown darkness; the way objects appeared in her dreams.

  The bedroom door was open. Sheila lay flat on her back, her face turned toward the door. Pathetic.

  “What is it?” Judith asked.

  “My back hurts. And my legs. Especially the knees.”

  “Why don’t you take a Tylenol? Shall I get you one?”

  Judith was being deliberately difficult. She knew it wasn’t a painkiller that Sheila wanted to help her sleep. But she made her ask.

  “I took some Advil earlier. It didn’t help. Would you rub my back?”

  “It’s very late ...”

  “Please, Judith.”

  Judith approached the bed, and Sheila turned slowly over onto her stomach. As Judith pulled back the sheet and blanket, Sheila let out a shivering sigh.

  “I was listening to the news tonight,” Sheila said. “There was another report of an attack by women wearing the Diana uniform. It was outside the supermarket on 97th and Broadway. You know, where the guys are always hanging out?”

  “Of course I know it. Weren’t you harassed there last week?”

  “I never used the word ‘harassed.’ And I certainly wouldn’t have handled it that way.”

  “No one ever said you would. We all know where you stand.”

  “Don’t be nasty, Judith.”

  “Nasty? It’s simply a fact. We all know you would want to talk to them. Educate them. Others think it is time to act. And those women are very busy these days.”

  She tugged at Sheila’s nightgown until it was high above her waist.

  “Are you saying you didn’t already know about it?” Sheila demanded.

  “I’m not saying anything at all on the topic, and you’re foolish to ask. Assault is still against the law, even if it’s only justice those women are administering.”

  “An old fool, is that what I am? Me and my ideas, ready for the scrap heap?” She let out a sound that was part groan of pain, part beleaguered sigh. “After all I’ve done for you?”

  Judith’s hand’s worked in long slow arcs from the small of Sheila’s back up to the roundness of her shoulders, dipping lower, then rising higher again. She counted the circles, the movements up and down. She kept to the routine.

  Sometimes when she worked on Sheila she thought about other women. This too was a betrayal of Sheila, she thought. Not just the deed, but the imagining of the deed. A month ago, the very thought would have been inconceivable, but now?

  “No one is putting you on the scrap heap, Sheila.”

  “You’ve taken over the group. It was my group and they don’t even want to hear from me anymore. They listen only to you. And you’re leading them into confrontation and violence, Judith. No good can come of it.”

  Judith’s hands seemed independent of the conversation, operating of their own volition. They wound across the width of Sheila’s back, drifting over the cloth of her underwear to the thick thighs, down to the knees and then the calves, moving slowly, massaging deeply, soothing the knotted muscles into lassitude.

  “Good has already come of it, Sheila. Women are beginning to believe in their own power. Men are beginning to think twice about how they act and what they say.”


  “What you are doing is wrong,” Sheila said, although her tone had changed, softened by the progression of the massage, the work of those hands, pressing lightly but with such wonderful firmness as though they had an intimate knowledge of each muscle, each nerve. She didn’t want to argue now. “That man is being tortured ...”

  “That man deserves everything he has received,” Judith said. “And will receive.”

  “You’re ... They’re not going to kill him are they?”

  “The Women’s Court has decreed his punishment.”

  “It’s not right.”

  “If he killed her, doesn’t he deserve to die? An eye for an eye, isn’t that what the Bible says?”

  “You frighten me when you talk that way, Judith. Please stop.”

  “Don’t be frightened,” Judith said. “I don’t believe they will kill him. They have a different punishment in mind.”

  She bent over and kissed Sheila three times, in the middle of her broad back from her neck to her waist. Sheila’s body shifted in response, seeming to grind into the mattress.

  “I worry for you,” Sheila said. “That’s all. I lie here at night in this apartment and I worry for you. You’re all I care about these days, Judith. You know that, don’t you?”

  “And I, you,” Judith responded. Her words nearly caught in her throat. She felt a great wave of hatred for herself. She was like the one who had betrayed her when she was so young: her mother’s brother, the straight arrow. He had treated Judith as no one ever had, telling her she was smart and pretty and mature, making her feel so special. He had doted on her, coming to visit her at night, their secret time, to kiss her, pet her, to explain to her why she sometimes felt the urge to touch herself down there. The bastard!

  Why had she now become like them? Why was she betraying the first person who had shown her real love, loyalty? Because for once in her life she had the power to choose? There was no more hateful reason than that.

  Her hand drifted up to Sheila’s shoulders and eased in tight circles down her sides, grazing each breast, stopping this time at the edge of the elastic on her underwear. She slipped her fingers under. “Shall we remove these?” she asked.