The Enemy We Know (Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mystery)

by Donna White Glaser

  “You know who this guy is?” he asked.

  “Yeah, but I can’t prove it. Not yet, anyway. He’s making it pretty obvious, though.”

  “You scared?”

  I almost couldn’t answer. My throat closed up, and I was afraid the sip of pop I’d just taken wouldn’t go down. A memory from when I was twelve flashed into my mind.

  Al brings Dad home after the VFW picnic, hauling him up the back steps into the kitchen. Mom takes over, guiding Dad into the bathroom and dumping him on the floor. Dad misses the toilet, of course, puke splattering noisily on our tile floor. I hate him then, knowing I’d have to clean up the mess, scrubbing the vomit from the grout lines with an old toothbrush. We stand there—my brother, sister, and I—in the kitchen with my father’s silent, steady friend, listening to the retching. I wish Al was my father.

  Sitting in his office nearly twenty years later, once again wrestling with the shame of alcohol-flavored secrets, I found myself wishing the same thing.

  “Yeah,” I finally answered. “A little scared.”

  He nodded, looking away again. “Smart girl. If the worst thing he does is go after your tires, that’s a good thing. Not for the tires, o’ course. Still, you could run through a lot of money even if that’s all he does. Especially if he gets tired of sticking nails in and starts slashing the side walls.

  “I had a guy in here a couple years ago. His daughter’s boyfriend started up the same kind of trouble. Went on almost a year. I finally put him on a budget plan. He’s still paying us off, although the boyfriend eventually moved on.”

  “I hope it doesn’t come to that,” I said. “I’m going to the cops, tomorrow and I’m going to talk to my boss too. I’m not sure there’s anything they can do, but—”

  “There’s cameras, nowadays. Those hunting ones, you can pick one up, but they ain’t cheap. Don’t wait for your boss or the cops to start taking care of you. And here.” He yanked on the top drawer of his metal desk and pulled out a gun.

  “Oh shit, Al!” I jumped in my seat.

  “Don’t be a sissy,” he chuckled. “It’s not like you ain’t seen a gun before.” His chair squeaked as he leaned back, hands folded across his belly. The gun sat on a stack of old invoices like a particularly lethal paperweight.

  “I know, but I wasn’t expecting you to haul one out of your desk. I appreciate it, Al. Really. But I think I’ll pass on the gun for now.”

  Reluctantly, he put it away. “It’s an open-ended offer, Letty. You may not think you need it now, but if you change your mind, you call me at home. Any time, and I mean that.”

  “I know you do. Thanks, Al. Actually, there is something you can do for me. I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to Ma. I’m not telling her that I’m involving the police. She’d freak.” More than anyone, Al knew my family history so I didn’t have to spell out Ma’s hatred of the authorities or of the circumstances that caused it.

  “Been a while since I seen your Ma. But if we cross paths, I’ll keep this between us. It’d just upset her anyway.”

  We waited in a not uncomfortable silence until Rick stuck his head in the office, telling us my car was ready.

  Every day, I expected to run into Wayne. Every day, the relentless dread felt like I’d swallowed broken glass. Every shadow, every crunch of gravel, every shift of movement caught out of the corner of my hyper-alert eyes added to the strain. Wayne wasn’t interested in being predictable, however, and his absence, instead of easing my tension, raised it.

  Siggy seemed tuned in to my anxiety, coming every night to lap up the food I set out, but keeping his distance. We had narrowed the gap to about three feet, but any nearer and he’d slink away, casting an apologetic look over his shoulder. I gave him food and space; if he wanted more, I was ready for that, too.

  Early Monday morning, I made out a police report to an Officer Hanson. It only took a few minutes to recognize that, in addition to gray eyes, we shared the ability to hide a multitude of emotions behind pleasant features. We smiled a lot.

  For my part, I was hiding an inexplicable sense of guilt coupled with embarrassment. I’d walked into the building under the influence of both feelings, and neither made any sense. Despite my best efforts, both emotions resisted attempts to exorcise them, which only increased my irritation. I’m a therapist, after all; I’m supposed to be good at this crap.

  Instead, my mind picked at the lies Wayne had accused me of—having an affair with him, cutting myself, violating ethical standards. Hideous to think someone might believe any of that. Nobody had questioned me about them, and I’d convinced myself that it was because they couldn’t possibly take Wayne seriously. On the other hand, Marshall knew about it, so some attention had been given to it. Of course, I had no way of knowing if Hanson had even heard the story in the first place. Or cared, in the second.

  My decision to omit mentioning Wayne’s appearance outside the HP & Me club raised my anxiety an extra notch, too. Why should I have to reveal my most shameful secret just because some asshole was throwing a tantrum over the disappearance of his favorite punching bag? But explaining why it had taken more than a week to report the incident could be a problem.

  So I lied. Sue me.

  Which, of course, increased my guilt. Certain that Hanson knew I was lying, I fell back on the therapist’s trick of staring at the center of his nose bridge. It gave the impression of staring deep into his eyes, but in reality I was counting the number of hairs that trickled across the broad plain between his brows. Twenty-four. And a blackhead.

  Felt pretty confident until I realized he was staring deep into my eyes, making me wonder when I’d last tweezed.

  In the end, he took the report and filed it. If I decided to go forward with a restraining order, at least the incident was documented.

  When I met with Marshall later, he was considerably more sympathetic, but equally short on action. I brought up Al’s idea of installing a camera in the parking lot.

  “I know money is always an issue,” I said, “but safety should take priority. If none of us had seen Wayne before or if he hadn’t stuck around long enough for the police to catch him…” Unexpectedly, my throat closed, cutting off the rest of the sentence: Wayne could have killed me and gotten away easily.

  “If it had been a blitz attack, you mean.” Marshall filled in the blank.

  I cleared my throat. “Exactly. And that’s not impossible. We’ve just seen that.”

  Frowning, he ran his hand through his dark hair. I braced myself. “I see your point, Letty. I do. But I don’t see how a camera would help as a preventative measure. I agree wholeheartedly that we need to be more security conscious, but I’m more concerned about finding ways of keeping you safe and out of harm’s way in the first place.

  “I’m also doubtful that the board would ever go for the idea of a camera in the parking lot. There would be issues of vandalism or theft. And inside the clinic? Then you get into all kinds of problems with client confidentiality and so on. I just don’t think they’ll go for it.” Although his words and tone conveyed professionalism, his eyes spoke volumes about how sorry he was to be the bearer of bad news.

  “It’s too late to ‘prevent’ anything. I’m already in harm’s way,” I pointed out. “Right now it’s just a nuisance, but what if he escalates? I can’t just ignore him.”

  “I know we can’t. We have a board meeting coming up, and I’ve already put security first on the agenda. This won’t be brushed aside. And, no matter what, we’re not going to risk any more run-ins in the parking lot. If I’m not available to walk you out, then ask Lisa or somebody. You are not to go out alone under any circumstances. And that includes when you get here. You have a cell phone; just buzz the office when you pull in and we can watch out the door.”

  I sighed. I hated the idea of being babysat. Marshall leaned back in his chair, watching me, a gentle smile on his face. He knew I was struggling with the thought of asking for help every time I walked outside.
But I was spooked enough at this point to give in. At least until this blew over.

  “Letty?”

  I met his eyes. He was holding a slip of paper between us.

  “Call me first. Here’s my cell phone number.”

  I reached out to take the paper. He didn’t let go. It hung suspended tautly between us, connecting us. Again, the eyes, dark and limitless.

  “You don’t have to wait until you need an escort to give me a call, you know. If you need to talk or something. Feel free.”

  Face hot, I tugged the paper from his grasp, nodding.

  Walking down the hall toward my office moments later, my breath whooshed out. Hadn’t realized I’d been holding it. Wow.

  Later, when my two o’clock appointment hadn’t shown up, I wandered up to the front. Checking the schedule, I saw that it was a new client. Or, at least, it was supposed to be. Unfortunately, it’s not unusual for a new client to ditch the session at the last minute. I always wondered if the crisis that initiated the call had resolved itself or if the brief flicker of courage that reached out for help had dwindled before they could get to the building. And I had to admit, it felt a little like being stood up for a blind date. Even though I didn’t take it personally, it was a nuisance. By the time I realize they aren’t coming, it’s too late to start a different activity, and, of course, there’s no charge for an initial session skip.

  As I stared at the schedule, I discovered an unusual amount of new clients had been scheduled with me this week. Counting this afternoon, five in all—today’s, two on Tuesday afternoon, one on Wednesday, and another on Friday. I enjoy the freshness of starting work with a new client. Keeps my mind off myself… and off other distractions as well.

  Lisa was entering data into the computer but looked up with a grimace as I studied the calendar.

  “No-show, huh?”

  “I hope not, but it’s not looking good. Can I see his file?”

  She handed me the manila file. A lot can be learned from the basic information given in the first contact. Gender, age, initial complaint and so on. Of course, the information was scant, the vast majority of the forms still blank. Something about the name, though …

  “Lawrence Harmon?” I asked.

  “Huh?” Her brief episode of empathy over, Lisa’s eyes stayed glued to the screen, fingers dancing across the keyboard as she funneled data into the system.

  “Doesn’t that name sound familiar?”

  “Nope,” she answered.

  “Bozo,” said a voice from the lobby.

  I leaned over the half-wall. A tiny lady in turquoise sweats, presumably waiting for a family member, sat reading a two-month-old news magazine.

  “Did you say something?” I asked, not sure if she was talking to herself or commenting on an article.

  She lowered the magazine. “Larry Harmon.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s Bozo the Clown. You know? Big red nose, blue jumpsuit? Bozo!”

  Straightening back up, I met Lisa’s eyes. Now she was paying attention.

  “Uh-oh,” she said. “You don’t suppose …?”

  Not answering, I picked up the phone and jabbed in the numbers listed on Harmon’s intake form. A shrill atonal squeal pierced my brain as a fax machine attempted to interface with my ear.

  “Damn!” I slammed the receiver down.

  “Heard that,” Turquoise muttered from the lobby.

  “Lisa, what’s the name of the other new client?”

  “Umm, let’s see.” Normally unflappable, she clicked to the scheduling screen, overshot into calendars and had to click back. “Robert Keeshan?”

  I leaned through the window. Turquoise raised her eyes from the magazine. “Clarabell. From Howdy Doody.”

  I plopped into a chair, fuming, while Lisa pulled up the remaining names.

  “John Favreau, Bill Irwin, and Carl George.”

  The names weren’t familiar to any of us, including Turquoise, which gave me a moment of hope. Unfortunately, when we Googled them, we discovered Favreau was an actor who’d appeared on Seinfeld as Eric the Clown, while Irwin portrayed Mr. Noodle on Elmo’s World. Carl George gave us some trouble, but when we switched first and last names we found a ton of references for an “American clown who received the coveted Golden Clown award.” From Princess Grace, no less.

  Clowns. All of them.

  Trudging back to my office, I spent the hour needlessly filing my nails down to slivers.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I may have been angry over the prank, but Mary Kate was absolutely livid. We went to Culver’s for lunch on Wednesday, and she was still spittin’ mad. Unfortunate, since I was sitting across from her at the time.

  “Mary Kate, relax. It was just a prank. I’d rather he did that than flatten my tires again.”

  “Why doesn’t he just leave you alone? You already told him you don’t know where Carrie went. What’s the point of harassing you?”

  “My guess is partly revenge and partly to stay connected to Carrie. I’m a surrogate.”

  “A surrogate?”

  “Sure, it’s a form of transference. He’s taking his feelings for Carrie and dumping them on me. Just like they teach us in school.”

  “Does that mean he’s in love with you?” Mary Kate’s face was taut with emotion.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’d have to think about it some more. I’m just talking it through, myself. I guess I’ve mostly been focusing on the revenge aspect. Was what he felt for Carrie love? Carrie had mentioned he was into games, remember?”

  Mary Kate nodded. I noticed we’d both avoided mentioning his name.

  “Anyway, it might be smart to consider his motivations. I’ve been so busy reacting, it would be good to take a step back, examine the big picture.”

  Looking at Mary Kate, I smiled. A blob of ketchup dotted the side of her mouth, her face bright with excitement at using our professional skills to address the problem. If she’d had a tail, it would be wagging. Impulsively, I reached across the table and grabbed her hand.

  “Thanks, Mary Kate. It’s been good to talk this out. I feel better.”

  She flushed with pleasure, dropping her eyes, and I realized how important such a small thing as a compliment could be to her.

  “Hey, how’s the big party coming along?” I asked.

  “Oh!” She sat up straight, excited again. “It’s this Friday after work. It’s so great! Everyone’s coming.” She must have seen the brief look of consternation flitter across my face. “You can come, can’t you? You have to!”

  I hated missing yet another AA meeting, but I could probably meet up with Robert at the restaurant later. Besides, I knew how important this was to Mary Kate.

  “I’ll be there,” I said. I even kept the sigh out of my voice. “Wherever ‘there’ is. Where are we meeting up?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? Sherm’s.”

  “Sherm’s? The bowling alley?”

  “Yeah, on Columbia. It’ll be great. Everyone loves bowling … right?”

  Warring emotion flickered across her face like an old-time movie reel: happy confidence in the allure of renting used shoes and heaving a weighted ball down a slick pathway at a bunch of skinny pins, exhilaration at being in charge of the festivities, and deep down—surfacing in the dilation of her pupils and the slight quivering of her lip—fear that she’d screwed up, that people would laugh, that she’d been a fool.

  “Hell, yes, everyone loves bowling!” I couldn’t have been more enthusiastic if I’d had pom-poms and a butt-skimming miniskirt. “How are you getting him there?”

  “I need your help with that. With all this stuff going on with you, I figured we could use it to our advantage. How about if your car ‘broke down?’” Her fingers and eyebrows waggled imaginary quote marks. “You could tell Marshall you need a ride and then ask him in.”

  “To bowl a couple of frames?” With a straight face yet.

  “For a beer, whatever. Do you think it would
work?”

  I thought about the subtle glances and smiles passing between Marshall and me in recent days. My mouth went dry. Took a sip of watered-down Diet Coke.

  “I think so.”

  Needless to say, I didn’t mention to my women’s group later that night that I was taking my boss out for a beer. Why borrow trouble? Besides, Stacie had brought in a new girl, Trinnie. Even though she’d had a First Step meeting at the club, we decided to do another. When it was my turn, I took a deep breath and told the story of my slide into misery.

  “My last drunk was on November 17. Hard to believe that was only a few months ago. There was a conference in Madison that a few of us from work went to. It was like a college road trip, and we stayed over at the conference hotel for the weekend. It was nice, you know? We didn’t have to worry about driving because there was a bar in the hotel and several within walking distance.

  “I’d always been careful the few times I went out with co-workers. Mostly, I just avoided drinking around them altogether. I’d leave early and let them think I was going home, when really I was heading across town to drink with my buddies. I kept those two worlds separate.”

  Several women nodded in understanding.

  “I started the night out thinking I’d just have a few drinks,” I continued. “But that didn’t go quite as planned. Don’t know why I thought it would. I have no idea how much I drank, but you know the saying: One is too many and a hundred not enough?” Soft laughter around the group was answer enough.

  “Anyway, I ended up blacking out. Not for the first time, either. I have no idea what I said or did. Somehow, I made it back to the hotel room I was sharing with the other two girls, but they ended up sleeping somewhere else because I puked all over myself and the bathroom floor. Then I passed out in one of the beds, still covered in my own vomit.

  “I was so hung-over the next day that I had to leave the seminar three times to throw up. Nobody spoke to me on the way home. Which was okay because it gave me time to really think. To see myself through their eyes.