by Dara Girard
The One Certainty
She had a cat.
A large black and white ragamuffin she called Rossetti because she’d been reading one of Christina Rossetti's poems (‘Remember’ or ‘Shut Out’ she wasn’t sure of the exact title but knew it was something that suited that somber Sunday afternoon awash in the scent of a cool summer rain) when the scraggly wet ball of fur showed up on the doorstep of her brick townhouse.
Strays were unusual since most animals got lost or eaten in the dense forest of trees out back that had been undeveloped for years and provided the view she craved since moving from Georgia to Maryland for a job that had seemed heaven sent after years of searching.
The cat was skittish at first, with reason Sylvia would soon discover. She’d been abused and the extent of her hard life was revealed when Sylvia managed to catch her and take her to the vet. She was a young cat, only about three years old, but she needed lots of care. To Sylvia’s surprise her new roommate seemed hungrier for attention than food. It didn’t take long for Sylvia to gain the cat’s trust and she soon took treats from Sylvia’s hand and talked when she felt the need, a soft cry, the scent of chicken in cheese gravy on her breath, but gaining attention was her biggest occupation.
Nudging Sylvia’s thigh to get stroked, pawing her knee to get brushed; sitting by her side when she watched TV or worked. Sylvia had had a cat once when she was a child, a cute little grey short haired that preferred her brother to her and kept to herself and only came to Sylvia if she had food in her hand.
Rossetti was nothing like that. She didn’t fit the description of the aloof, solitary temperament of most of her kind. She was very affectionate and purred the moment Sylvia entered the room as if her presence was enough. Soon they were inseparable.
Sylvia posted pictures of them together online: Trips to the seaside, the park, on long drives, hiking and picnicking. And Sylvia was happy for five years, even though she wasn’t supposed to be.
She’d become a dreaded cliché without even knowing it. A single woman with a cat. No children. No man. Just a career she loved (she worked as director of a recreation center), a house she adored (split level with marble kitchen countertops and large windows) and a cat named Rossetti.
It was because of that oversight (How could you possibly be happy alone with just a cat? one friend had asked with a look of loving sympathy) that Sylvia started to date. It wasn’t solely her idea of course, it was eagerly suggested and encouraged by her family and friends (the same ones who loved her cat pictures and followed her travel stories).
They warned her that she didn’t want to be one of those women. And Sylvia believed them. She was far from being an eccentric Victorian spinster saved by the distance of both location and time plus, although there were blacks in England during that era, no one could stretch their imagination that far and label her that. But they did worry that her life was unnatural.
You don’t want to be alone, they warned her.
Sylvia had never felt alone before. She’d never felt the loneliness that others wanted to save her from. A looming monster that hovered over singles and no one else. People in couples never felt lonely. The monster never consumed them. Others appeared to know best. They told her what to feel, how to feel since she didn’t know on her own. How could she be happy?
She questioned herself. Doubted herself. Since others questioned her so often they must know something she didn’t. They loved her and wanted the best for her, right?
Don’t be too picky.
You’re not getting any younger, they said.
She knew that. The passing of time had never bothered her before, but it bothered others. So she knew she had to act.
She wouldn’t be a cliché any longer if she found someone to share her life with. She would put in the effort. Change her fate. Then everything would be perfect.
The dates went well.
Until they didn’t.
I hate cats, I’m a dog man, one of her dates said, an astrophysicist who sniffed incessantly from allergies.
Then there was the physical education teacher who wanted to bike or run everywhere, including the grocery store where he liked to speed through the aisles (especially the produce section) and beat his previous time. And the businessman (she never quite understood what business he was actually in or what he did) was interesting, but then he disappeared.
The blind dates, online dates, speed dates and mixers were exhausting and she was about to give up when a friend of a friend introduced her to him.
The One.
The one who was good looking, charming, gainfully employed (he was an activities director at another rec center so they had that in common) and liked animals. They went wine tasting on their first date and many other dates followed. Sylvia settled easily into coupledom.
She didn’t mind that sometimes he didn’t like what she wore. A casually tossed remark, Are you sure you want to wear that? became frequent enough until she soon felt unsure. Was there something wrong? She’d been dressing herself competently for most of her thirty-one years, but he made every choice seem new again. She never realized that her green sweater wasn’t a good choice with her black skirt. That her light cream blouse didn’t have the right cut for a woman of her stature. Yes, she was kind of hippy and busty, she’d never really noticed how much before. She was happy to learn.
He talked about her weight only because he cared about her so much, he told her so many times and he sounded so sweet. So loving. He wasn’t putting her down. He had a sister who suffered from diabetes and he was worried about her. Don’t be so sensitive, he’d said. Or had she told herself that? She wasn’t sure.
But she didn’t want to be too sensitive. She didn’t want to take his words the wrong way. She didn’t want to be alone again. This was what being in a relationship was. You look out for each other. Ask questions.
Are you really sure you want to eat that? He asked on more and more occasions, usually in public.
One time Sylvia found herself looking down at the menu in front of her second guessing the linguini and scallops she’d told the waitress she wanted. She hesitated and felt a note of relief (or was it irritation? Worry? Fear?) when he ordered a spaghetti with cherry tomatoes for her instead.
She had been sure until he asked her. She’d been sure of herself for years. But now…now she was part of a couple and couples looked after each other, right? But when she teased him about his weight (the former Marine had packed on some pounds), she remembered the hard look in his eyes. How he met her light laugh with a glare. He said he was always a Marine and he didn’t talk to her for nearly a week after that. He wouldn’t reply to her texts, calls, messages or emails of apology. When he finally contacted her again, he said he’d been busy, but she knew better. She never teased him again.
She was lucky. That’s what her friends kept telling her. She’d gotten a ‘good one’, which sounded a tad archaic to her modern ears, but she’d been pleased.
Her friends envied her and it was better to be envied than pitied so she didn’t say anything about some of the things that bothered her about him. He was a ‘good one’.
No one noticed that she no longer posted as many travel pictures as she used to. Or that her smile was different. They only noticed the man by her side. The man who seemed to always be by her side and they felt happy for her.
Even at a dinner party when he interrupted her, making her mute in front of a crowd, no one noticed, although she did. Sylvia made excuses for him, she’d gotten good at that, and her friends laughed and nodded in understanding. That’s what you do, you compromise, her friends said.
Only Rossetti knew that Sylvia wondered if it was right. If she was truly happy or just pretending. Only Rossetti knew her conflict and the cat seemed even more eager to get Sylvia’s attention. She hated to see Sylvia leave and curled up next to her extra tight at night, her soft purrs lulling Sylvia to an uneasy sleep.
Did she settle on him? Perhaps. Maybe because she was bor
ed or just tired of looking. He made the questions stop (Are you really happy? How can you be happy alone?) and there was a victory in that. She was no longer in danger of living a dreaded cliché. Having a man changed that. His presence was a shield against the world.
Until it wasn’t.
Until it was a prison.
No one noticed it until too late.
He was subtle. Dangerous changes always are.
He was very romantic. Except on the days he wasn’t. The days Sylvia couldn’t tell anyone about because she was one of the lucky ones now. She had a man. That was all that mattered.
He didn’t like poetry. His disdain for the art form was almost violent.
He didn’t like Rossetti and Rossetti didn’t like him.
She never drew her claws or hissed at him, but when he came into the house, his polished black shoes echoing on the wood floors, she flattened her ears and kept her body low to the ground as if he were prey she was stalking. Prey she wanted to pounce on and devour. But she never moved close to him, never allowed him to stroke her, although he tried. He called to her, brought her treats and toys and smiled when he saw her. He said he liked animals and had owned two cats as a child.
Rossetti didn’t care.
Sylvia made excuses for her, just as she did with him, saying that Rossetti was a stray and that she may not be used to men. Rossetti was never happy when he spent the night. Sylvia could hear her pacing outside the closed bedroom door. Once Sylvia had opened it to let Rossetti in, but he had been so upset (Not angry just upset, he was quick to explain. I’m just not comfortable. I’m sorry, Sylvie) that she never did it again.
Sylvia thought with time things would change. That Rossetti and him would get on better.
They never did.
Her friends kept telling her how fortunate she was even as they slowly fell away and emptied out of her life so that he could take up more and more of her space and time.
Maybe if she’d said yes to his proposal he wouldn’t have gotten so angry. Maybe if she hadn’t asked for more time, some space, he wouldn’t have acted the way he did. Then she wouldn’t have seen his other face.
When he came over for dinner a week after he’d asked her to marry him, it was the first time Rossetti had hissed at him. That should have alerted her that something was different about this night.
About this man.
A man she’d known for six months. Someone she thought she’d known intimately. But a stranger had arrived on her doorstep that cool autumn night.
A stranger filled with rage.
She didn’t see it while it simmered during the appetizer. She’d made his favorite bake potato skins. She didn’t see it boiling during the main course, another one of his favorites—something hot and fried. She’d blocked out the memory now, but the scent of paprika would always make her gag afterwards. She’d made the meal especially for him (was it because of guilt because she wasn’t sure she wanted to marry him yet? Maybe. She still didn’t have a solid answer for him, but a way to a man’s heart was through his stomach and she hoped to pile it high with love).
He ate without saying much, which was unusual. He usually had a lot to say. He usually had an opinion about everything. She liked that about him. He was smart, engaging.
But that evening only the sound of a knife scraping across the white plate filled the room. Long, slow scrapes as he methodically shoved food in his mouth and cleaned his plate.
Sylvia smiled. Pleased that he’d enjoyed the meal so much. She opened her mouth to ask if he wanted seconds when he picked up the plate and smashed it in her face.
She fell backwards, hitting the ground hard. Tasting the blood from her busted lip, her bleeding nose. A silent scream trapped in her throat.
He wasn’t done.
He came at her with the knife. Shoving the tiny square table aside, rattling the once carefully arranged dishes, determined to get to her.
She saw a flash of black and white leap through the air. Sylvia wasn’t sure what it was at first until she heard him scream then she knew.
Rossetti went for his face. He stumbled backwards, fighting her. The wild creature didn’t let go. Until he managed to grab her and throw her to the ground. She hit the sideboard and didn’t move.
He turned his rage on the still form and raised the knife.
Sylvia grabbed the tureen and hit him with it.
It wasn’t hard enough to make him go down, just stunned him and increased his rage. He spun towards her.
She saw his intent shining in his eyes.
He planned to kill them both.
She didn’t plan to die.
She fought, struggled, prayed as she felt the knife penetrating her flesh. She bit him, clawed him, kicked him, but his rage gave him power.
But I love you, she said, her words ripping from her throat, echoing her confusion. How could he do this to her? Didn’t he love her too? Hadn’t he wanted to marry her?
He didn’t answer. She didn’t think he heard her, or no longer cared.
Sylvia looked up into a face she’d never seen before. Eyes that expressed nothing. Her shield, her safety was an illusion.
She’d learned that too late. She wasn’t lucky. And now she had no friends left to witness that.
She turned her face away ready to die.
Then she heard a cry and a yelp both animalistic—one from a cat the other from a monster.
A renewed strength entered her. No, she wasn’t alone. She had Rossetti. Sylvia saw the small white and black cat biting into the monster’s flesh, scratching at his skin; it gave her enough time to act.
She escaped his grasp and made it outside, the rush of cold air brushing against her skin in a whisper. She saw the sight of a lit jack-o-lantern sitting on her neighbors’ stone steps smiling like a ghoulish beacon of safety.
She survived but not without scars. Not without nightmares. The stitches and the surgeries reminders of what she’d endured.
He cried in the courthouse.
He cried when he was convicted. He told her how much he loved her. How she didn’t understand. He hadn’t been himself. He loved her so much. He blamed his actions on combat—on a flashback. He asked for her forgiveness and for a moment she saw the man she’d let into her life and heart.
A heart he’d tried to stop.
But in the courtroom she didn’t see the monster of that night. Just an ordinary man. A ‘good man’. A man who was supposed to keep her from becoming a cliché. And she felt tears stream down her face.
She moved from the house she’d adored and the job she’d loved. She settled into a new town and slowly made friends. People who didn’t know anything about her past. And as the years passed, people teased her about her cat, Rossetti, who’d also survived the attack with scars and followed her like a shadow.
These new friends wondered when she’d go out and meet someone. She was fun and attractive they told her. She shouldn’t be alone. She always smiled and said nothing.
There was nothing to say. She knew something she hadn’t known back then. Slowly, as she started to post new pictures of her and Rossetti on their travels together her joy returned, she pushed past the darkness of the past.
She realized she wasn’t broken. She never had been. She hadn’t needed a man to fix her life, to save her from her singleness. She wasn’t alone. She wasn’t unhappy. When the right man appeared he would know that too.
For now…for always…she was grateful. There were few things she was certain of but she was certain of this: She had her life. Her freedom. She had a cat named Rossetti. A cat that had been there for her when no one else was. A cat that loved her no matter what and filled her heart with joy. She was a single woman with a cat.
And that was more than enough.
Wrong Turn
Wrong Turn
About the Story
Beth Wilcock lives in fear.
Someone keeps calling and leaving threatening messages.
The phone calls sta
rted after a simple car accident.
An accident that will escalate to something much worse.
Wrong Turn
Wanna die, bitch?
Beth Wilcock hurried to her car, the cold breath of winter seeming to laugh at the attempts of the heat seeping through the large vents in the underground parking garage. The January weather seemed determined to make its presence known and the slightly chilled air touched her cheeks with icy cold fingers, making her shiver. Or it could have been because of the phone call from last night. She didn’t want to think about it too much.
Wanna die, bitch?
But she couldn’t stop herself. She knew that voice. Feared it. The first time she’d heard it, she’d dismissed it as just a crank call. She figured it was some drunken kid calling from the university close by. The Virginia suburb where she lived and worked had suffered an ice storm that had closed businesses for three days, people had gotten bored and pranks weren’t uncommon.
Then it happened again.
And again.
And again.
For weeks.
He always started with the same three words; the same low male voice. He didn’t try to disguise it. As if he wanted to taunt her. As if he wanted to say “I know who you are, but you’ll never know me.”
“Why are you doing this?” she’d once asked him.
He never gave her an answer. Or a reason. He took pleasure in her fear. He also took pleasure in her anger. When she shouted at him, using the foulest language she could think of, he just laughed, and it sounded like the thudding echo of nails being driven into a coffin—final, cold, deadly.
She hadn’t gone to the police yet. The calls were short and varied. She had no proof, just her suspicions of who she thought he was. She knew the police would suspect the wrong man—the rapist who was stalking women in the metropolitan area, who stalked his victims first.
