‘‘What’s his name?’’ Katie asked.
‘‘Sterling,’’ she said. ‘‘Can you believe it? His name is Sterling.’’
Infected by her anger, we followed her into the gym, lively for once. And it made a difference. When I shouted ‘‘No!’’ I meant it. When I punched and kicked, it was in earnest. I was thinking about the guy in the garage. How I’d hated it that some creep could get his kicks terrifying me. I got a real rush channeling my fear and anger into positive action, using my breath to keep from getting rattled, focusing my energy into a self-protective response.
I wasn’t alone. The whole class was responding to the idea of men acting badly. When the massive cop in the Aggressor suit approached Natalie, I saw surprise and respect through the bars of his mask as she stomped, kicked, and punched him to the floor.
Then it was my turn. When we started the course, I couldn’t bring myself to shout. I said ‘‘No’’ in such a quiet voice I wouldn’t have deterred a three-year-old. Over the weeks my ‘‘No’’ had stopped sounding like an invitation to try again. Tonight I roared. When Natalie knocked that guy down and stomped the hell out of him, I was on my feet with the rest of the class yelling, ‘‘Yes!’’
It was one thing to cheer the others on, another to face this guy myself. Even if he was limping a little and not showing his earlier gusto, he was nearly twice my size and probably half my age. When I began my nonchalant stroll across the gym, I felt the same clenching fear I’d felt in the parking garage. But nothing happened.
I was almost across the room when a fat, gloved hand snaked around from behind and grabbed me. I jabbed my elbow back, hard, as I seized his hand and spun around, jerking him toward me. I slapped his ear with one hand while snapping a kick toward his crotch. ‘‘Breathe,’’ I whispered, ‘‘breathe.’’
Maybe he’d had enough, because he grabbed my kicking leg and dropped me hard. I scrambled back, planted my hands behind me, and kicked out at him, snapping good hard kicks at his grabbing hands. Then a second guy grabbed my shoulders, pressing me down. I gave a sudden sideways roll and got my feet under me, but as they moved in together, I cast the rules of the exercise aside. ‘‘Natalie. Help me.’’
Instantly, she was beside me, her feet braced and her hands up in protective, assertive fists. I curled my hands into fists of my own, and shoulder to shoulder, we faced them. ‘‘Back off. Keep away from me,’’ I growled. The new man lunged.
‘‘No way!’’ I screamed, jerking his arm so that he flew past. As he regained his balance, I should have run. That was the point of the exercise. But I’d called on Natalie for help. While my guy was still turning, I rushed her attacker and hauled him off. I grabbed her hand and we raced for the door, giggling like tweens, crossing the black safety line just before they reached us.
‘‘Thanks,’’ I said, hugging her. ‘‘You can be on my team anytime.’’
‘‘Ditto. I always forget that part about running. I want to stay and fight.’’
For a moment, she looked sad. Was she thinking about her marriage? How you can’t stay and fight if the other person’s walked out and won’t even give you a chance. Sometimes they don’t give you a chance when they stay around.
I settled onto the hard wooden bleachers. The exercise had left me feeling positive that I’d been able to assert myself. But although it was only an exercise and I’d always been ‘‘safe,’’ I’d felt genuine fear, real vulnerability, powerful anger toward my attackers. Something about that had stirred up memories of other scary times.
I’d had a blind date once where the guy had gotten drunk and violent. Instead of driving me home, he’d parked on a dark side street and tried to rape me. I’d ended up running shoeless down an icy January sidewalk, my blouse torn, rescued by a kindly police officer about my dad’s age. He’d wrapped me in his creaky leather jacket, given me tissues, and told me that it wasn’t my fault, repeating it in his certain, gravelly voice until I almost believed him.
That wasn’t the only thing, but it was the worst. I wanted to live in a world where women didn’t have to worry about things like this. Where I wouldn’t be thinking that I should send my soon-to-be-college-bound daughter to this class. Where people resolved their differences with language. But who was I kidding? I couldn’t make language work in my own home. And I was not naïve. This class had helped with the man in the parking garage. As long as there were men who got their kicks making women uncomfortable, who didn’t respect boundaries, we needed to be responsible for our own safety.
When the two female officers who’d run the class asked how we felt, they got a chorus of ‘‘great’’ and ‘‘incredible’’ until they got to me. I told them about my mixed feelings, how I felt all jumbled up. Katie agreed, and Natalie, and another woman named Sandy, who’d had an even harder time yelling and being assertive. The officers offered sympathy but seemed annoyed, which annoyed me right back. I get impatient with people who want approved answers instead of truth.
As we filed into the parking lot, I said, ‘‘Hey, Katie, got time for a glass of wine?’’
Katie looked surprised. She’d asked before and I always said no. I’d fallen into a pattern of rushing home. There was always so much to do and I could never be certain Karl had paid attention to Bobby’s homework. Tonight, though, I wanted company.
‘‘Sounds good,’’ she said.
I turned to Natalie. ‘‘Got time for a drink?’’
She checked her watch, then tossed her head. ‘‘Sure. Why not?’’
From somewhere to my left, Sandy said, ‘‘Mind if I join you? I could use a drink.’’
It felt odd going into the pub alone. I’d never been there without Karl and the kids. When you were riding herd on coats, hats, mittens, absentminded spouses, or moody teens and outbreaks of sibling war, you didn’t notice ambiance; you noticed how fast the service was.
Tonight, I saw beyond the menu and the popcorn. I noticed how homey and inviting the hanging tin lamps were. I saw all the laughing guys with their pregnant bellies pressed against the bar, not one of whom probably worried about homework or whether he looked fat. The smell of food made me hungry enough to order a burger instead of salad and to eat the fries instead of leaving them. Even Natalie was tucking into a great big burger.
‘‘I used to think it was just guys,’’ she said, ‘‘but sometimes a woman needs a big hunk of meat.’’
Sandy choked on her wine.
‘‘I meant the burger.’’
We discussed our reactions to the course, Sandy and Katie telling stories of clients who’d been unbalanced and menacing. Yet, as I drank wine and ate forbidden food, I realized I was having fun. I liked Sandy’s insightful comments, Katie’s punchy iconoclasm; even Natalie, despite her brittleness and desperate sadness, was a nice person to spend time with. I admired her concern with protecting her kids from their father’s neglect and bad behavior.
‘‘If you don’t mind my asking,’’ Katie said, ‘‘did you have any idea your husband was seeing someone?’’ Katie does a lot of domestic work.
Natalie shrugged. ‘‘I was trying not to see it, but it was there. There was this company dinner a few months ago. The bimbo—her name’s Tiffany—was wearing a skimpy dress, very inappropriate for a business dinner. She kept coming up and sticking her chest in his face. At the time, I thought it was pitiful and wished someone would set her straight so she didn’t embarrass herself.’’
She pushed a lonely, ketchup-daubed fry around her plate. ‘‘On the way home, I suggested Sterling get one of the older women to give her some tips. He said it was just that she was so young. Laughing, you know, like we were the grown-ups and needed to be understanding. Dammit!’’ She dropped her fork onto the plate. ‘‘Now he’s sleeping with her and I’m still supposed to be understanding.’’
Katie, whose nose was slightly pink, signaled the waitress and ordered another glass of wine. Natalie checked her watch again—kids at home and no spouse for backup—and got
one, too. Sandy said, ‘‘What the heck.’’ I didn’t want to be the only sober one, so I caved. The extra wine led to a brownie sundae and four spoons.
We were deep into chocolate when Natalie’s phone rang. ‘‘Excuse me, it’s my son.’’ She flipped it open and turned away. She listened, then said, ‘‘He what? Tonight? Why didn’t you call me?’’ There were more staccato questions, her head tipped to catch the answers over the bar noise, until she said, ‘‘Oh, honey. I know that was hard but you did just right. I’ll be home soon.’’ She snapped the phone shut.
‘‘Goddamn that man. Goddamn him. Goddamn her. He’s lucky I don’t have a gun.’’ She burst into tears.
Sandy pushed a small packet of pink tissues with Valentine hearts into Natalie’s hand. ‘‘What did he do, dear?’’ she asked. Her soft, faintly southern voice invited confidence.
‘‘He showed up at the house tonight, knowing I’d be at class. I changed the locks, see, after he left. I guess he thought he could talk his way in if it was just the kids.’’
Her eyes traveled around the table to see if we understood. ‘‘He didn’t come to see them. He hasn’t spoken to them since he moved out. Not even a call on Sammy’s birthday. He came to get our financial records. For his lawyer.’’ She hissed the word ‘‘lawyer’’ like the guy was a real snake. Probably was. When my sister divorced, she had a snake. She said it made all the difference. ‘‘My lawyer said don’t give him anything until we’ve made copies.’’
She drained her glass. ‘‘That isn’t the worst of it, either. He brought her with him.’’
‘‘To your house? When the kids were home and you were out?’’ Katie said. ‘‘That’s really low.’’
‘‘The kids were good, though. They wouldn’t let him in, so he banged around in the garage and the mud-room, then left.’’ She drummed on the table with her fists. ‘‘I’d like to beat his head in.’’
Katie grinned in that manic way she does after a little wine. ‘‘What about her head? Why is she off the hook? She’s not some innocent seduced by the wicked wolf. She went after a man she knew was married. I mean, she’d met you, for heaven’s sake. Anyone with any values knows that’s wrong. Now she’s showing up at the house to rub all of your noses in it. Whatever happened to discretion? For that matter, whatever happened to shame?’’
‘‘It does take two to tango,’’ Sandy said.
‘‘Yeah,’’ I agreed. ‘‘All these weeks we’ve been going to class, learning how not to be a victim, how to assert ourselves in threatening situations. What’s more threatening than someone out to destroy your marriage? And who’s doing the threatening? She is.’’
Natalie brightened. ‘‘I know where she lives. What kind of car she drives. And she never stays all night at his hotel.’’
‘‘How’d you learn all that?’’ Katie asked. ‘‘You hire a detective?’’ Natalie nodded.
‘‘So what are we waiting for?’’ My voice cut through their wows. ‘‘Maybe we should have a talk with the young lady. Point out the error of her ways.’’ I try to speak like an educated woman, but I love clunky old clichés like ‘‘the error of her ways.’’ And, as we know, alcohol lowers inhibitions.
They responded to my modest suggestion like I’d yelled, ‘‘Charge!’’
We paid the check. Natalie called her kids. By the time we were in the parking lot, I was having second thoughts. I’m a facilitator, not an instigator, and despite the meal, company, and restorative wine, I was still jumbled. I wasn’t even sure why I’d made my crazy suggestion.
‘‘Maybe we should rethink this,’’ I said. ‘‘What do we do when we get there?’’
‘‘No way. It’s brilliant,’’ Katie said. ‘‘It’s not like Natalie’s going to beat this girl’s head in. Why shouldn’t she have a chance to say how she feels? That’s all we’re going for.’’
Put that way, it sounded absolutely reasonable.
‘‘I’ll drive,’’ Sandy said. ‘‘I’ve got a good head for wine.’’
If this were a movie, we’d have jumped into something big, shiny, and black. Probably been wearing leather, too. Or navy blue FBI-style jackets with NINJETTES in goldenrod letters. And stilettos. But this was a quiet suburban town and we were a clump of slightly tipsy matrons. We all piled into her Subaru wagon.
Natalie took the front to navigate. Katie and I dumped L.L. Bean canvas totes, an umbrella, rain boots, South Beach snack bars, and assorted audio-books into the back and fastened our seat belts. This was either going to be fun or a monumental disaster.
Tiffany lived on the first floor of a three-decker on a quiet Cambridge street. We found a parking space just one house away, and waited. Trees just leafing out overhead were a soft yellow green under the streetlights and the air coming in the open windows had the earthy scent of spring.
‘‘I don’t see her car,’’ Natalie whispered. ‘‘She’s got one of those Mini Cooper things. A yellow convertible.’’
‘‘That would be hard to miss,’’ Katie said.
‘‘Last time she came back around eleven,’’ Natalie said. ‘‘She’d better come soon. My oldest won’t go to bed until I’m back.’’
‘‘Last time?’’ Sandy said. ‘‘Natalie, have you done this before?’’
‘‘I came once, thinking I’d talk to her, but I lost my nerve.’’
‘‘I hope she didn’t see you,’’ Katie said.
‘‘Nope. There could have been sixteen muggers in the bushes and she just went tripping past in wobbly little heels, paying no attention to anything. I’ll tell you, I could have—’’
‘‘Everybody duck,’’ Sandy said. ‘‘There’s a car coming.’’
Katie and I nearly knocked heads as we squinched down in the small backseat. If it was Tiffany, she must have been driving about one mile an hour. I had a crick in my neck by the time Sandy whispered, ‘‘It’s her. Now what do we do?’’
‘‘Natalie talks to her,’’ I said.
‘‘Natalie stays in the car. She knows Natalie,’’ Katie said. ‘‘The three of us will do the talking.’’
‘‘I thought I was going to talk to her,’’ Natalie said. ‘‘Isn’t that why we came?’’
‘‘Mmm. But I’ve been thinking,’’ Katie said. ‘‘You’re in a divorce, you want to keep right on your side. You don’t want her getting a restraining order, claiming you’ve been stalking her, do you?’’
‘‘I never thought of that.’’
‘‘She’s getting out of the car,’’ Sandy hissed.
‘‘Then what are we waiting for?’’ I popped upright and grabbed my door handle. We were here and the facts hadn’t changed—this young woman was causing Natalie and her kids so much pain. We might as well do it.
Tiffany wore a short skirt, pink cashmere bolero over a lacy, low-cut camisole, and cute little pink high-heeled mules with black polka dots. The purse slung over her shoulder, big enough to house a small rhino, held a matching pink tennis racket. Her multicolored hair hung in an expensively nonchalant shag and her lips gleamed like pavement on a rainy night. She didn’t look much older than Cassie. It was tragic how when girls were young and naturally lovely, they slathered themselves with makeup.
‘‘Tiffany?’’ Sandy spoke in a ladylike, unthreatening voice.
The girl’s vaguely sullen ‘‘Yeah?’’ reminded me of my own teenagers. ‘‘Do I know you?’’
Sandy shook her head. ‘‘We wanted to speak with you about your affair, dear.’’
‘‘Affair?’’ Tiffany gave a little bark. ‘‘What affair?’’ She clutched the giant satchel closer to her side, dismissing us with a scornful look. ‘‘Not that it’s any of your business.’’
One of my mother’s clichés, ‘‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,’’ pressed to get out. We probably didn’t look like much, three middle-aged women in baggy workout clothes and clean white gym shoes. But Katie was president of the local bar association. Sandy had won awards for her work with traumatiz
ed children. And I spent my life teaching parents and teens to communicate about issues of trust and honesty and taking responsibility for your choices about risky things like drugs, sex, alcohol, and speed. What I did saved lives.
‘‘Your affair with Sterling Burke,’’ I said. ‘‘Family relationships matter, Tiffany. When you disrupt a marriage and come between a father and his children, that’s not only selfish, it’s immoral. Did you ever consider that?’’
She tilted her head in an I-can’t-believe-this-is-really-happening gesture. ‘‘You’re joking, right?’’ she said. ‘‘I mean, seriously, you didn’t tootle in from the suburbs to talk to me about morality.’’ She gave a disdainful sniff, a fanny about the size of two softballs twitching under her abbreviated skirt. ‘‘Look, if some pathetic woman can’t hold on to her husband, that’s not my problem.’’
This little lightweight had a lot of nerve calling Natalie pathetic. It was hard to raise kids, run a house, hold a job, and sustain a marriage. I held on to my temper and tried to explain.
‘‘But sleeping with a married man is a problem, Tiffany. It interferes with important, established relationships. Sterling’s relationship with his wife. His relationship with his four children,’’ I said. ‘‘In some states, you know, alienation of affection and adultery are still crimes.’’
I studied the peaceful city street, the uneven brick sidewalks and budding trees. Such an unlikely place for me to be climbing onto a soapbox. ‘‘Before you started this affair, did you consider the pain you were inflicting on his family or whether you have the capacity and willingness to be a competent stepmother?’’
‘‘Stepmother? Oh, please . . .’’ She rolled her eyes. Brown eyes a lot like Natalie’s. ‘‘I am so not interested in children. I’m what? Twenty-five? Natalie can take care of them.’’ Her self-satisfied smile revealed unnaturally white teeth. ‘‘I’m taking care of him. Now why don’t you three witches fly back to the suburbs and stir your cauldrons or something? I’ve had a busy evening and I’m tired.’’
Sisters On the Case Page 21
