“It’s okay,” said Alice. “I deserved it.”
“You deserved what?” asked Ellie from the backseat.
“I deserved to hear what he said.”
“What—that you wanted it? That you told him to take off your pants?”
“Yes,” said Alice, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Why do you think you deserve that?” asked Ellie.
“Because I said it,” said Alice. “I did tell him to take off my pants.”
Joan took a right at the very next stop sign, turning her car onto a side street. She parked on the side of the road, switched off the engine, undid her seatbelt, and shifted her body so that she was facing Alice. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”
The tears that had been filling Alice’s eyes spilled over her lower lids and onto her cheeks, where they ran in parallel lines down to her jawbone before dripping onto her exposed collarbone. “I told him to take off my pants.”
Joan rested her back against the locked driver’s side door. She inhaled deeply. “Start from the beginning,” she said.
And so the incriminating information Alice had been keeping to herself was made public. The words explaining how she had encouraged this man sprang forth from her mouth, the gate swung open, the dam burst. The more she talked, the harder she cried. Not only had she encouraged Greg Anderson with her words, but she had also worn alluring clothing. From the backseat, Ellie kept saying it was okay. Joan leaned over the center controls to wrap her arms around Alice’s sagging shoulders. As soon as Alice pulled away, Joan sat back in her seat and started in. “Look,” she said, “there are plenty of men out there who think that women ask for whatever they get. But, as a woman, Alice, you’ve got to stick up for your right to run on a trail in the same high-tech, skintight clothing that men wear when running.”
Alice’s crying jag had given her the hiccups. “But you know what I mean, don’t you? I don’t really believe it, but I sometimes think about it, like I am right now.”
“You’re wondering if you were dressed provocatively, and if being dressed that way sent an inviting message,” said Ellie. “And you’re wondering if you made that invitation concrete by telling him to take off your pants.”
“Yes,” said Alice.
“No and no,” said Ellie. “You were dressed as all runners dress. And, by the way, you can dress any way you like, running or otherwise. Plus you had a plan. You encouraged him to focus on your pants, so you could get your whistle out of your jacket and use it to deafen him.”
“Couldn’t I have done that without asking him to take off my pants?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Joan. “It’s not like you had any more than three seconds to think about it. You were under attack, Alice, and you did the best you could under incredibly stressful circumstances. I happen to think you did the right thing.”
“You do?” asked Alice.
“I do,” said Joan. “And it worked. And you got away. And now the guy’s going to prison. This is a job well done. And this is the beginning of the end of this horrible chapter in your life.”
Although Alice was not as sure as Joan seemed to be, she nodded her head, signaling that it was okay for Joan to start the car, that it was okay to end the conversation. They were quiet for the few minutes it took to get to Alice’s house. When Joan pulled her car into the driveway, Alice thanked her friends for going with her, for supporting her throughout the entire ordeal, the event. She could look at this differently now because the man who had assaulted her was going to be locked up and because she had a gun to protect herself. As soon as she walked into the kitchen, she made herself another cup of tea and decided to make peanut butter cookies for Linda, who would be home at six from her summer job at a clothing store downtown. Just as Alice was finishing creaming the butter, her cell phone rang. Greg Anderson, Marilyn Walsh was sorry to report, had overpowered another officer and sprinted out the back door of the police station and into the woods. Alice staggered backward against the counter. The bowl of butter shattered on the kitchen floor.
CHAPTER 38
Joan, Alice, and Ellie were back at High Tide. The warm weather was conducive to having lunch outdoors on the deck. Plus, Joan was trying to stay away from the casino. Stephen had told her the best way to curb her gambling addiction was to not put herself anywhere near where it was happening. And he had used the word addiction. She had, at first, denied that she had a problem. But when Stephen presented her with the very facts she had shared with him—that she went to the casino four days a week for the specific purpose of gambling; that she had become accustomed to, comfortable with even, winning and losing large sums of money, thinking that she would either win back whatever she’d lost or win more; that she was drinking during the day, which, he said, could signal an addiction to more than just gambling; and that she had kept it a secret—she had admitted that he was right. It had been the secrecy, more than the winning, losing, and drinking, that had convinced Joan. There were many reasons to keep secrets. But one of them, the most compelling in Joan’s case, was so that someone (her husband) wouldn’t find out what she was up to. Because what she was up to, she had known all along, was questionable.
When the server set Joan’s chef’s salad with blue cheese dressing on the side down in front of her, Ellie asked her if she missed the casino. Joan looked up at her and smiled. This was happening more and more often as the three friends became closer, this ability to read one another’s minds or at least the appearance of doing so. “That would imply that I haven’t been back,” she said.
“Have you been back?” asked Alice, lifting a spoonful of cold cucumber soup to her mouth.
“Do you want me to be honest?”
“Does that mean you haven’t been honest in the past?” Alice swallowed the soup, the cream in it coating her throat on its way to her stomach.
“Well,” said Ellie. “There is the dishonesty that is associated with telling an outright lie. And then there is a murkier area, a void created by lies of omission.”
“Like not telling you I gambled four days a week and drank while I was doing so.” Joan speared a hard-boiled egg quarter and dipped it into her ramekin of dressing.
“Yes,” said Ellie, “exactly like that. You weren’t being dishonest. You simply weren’t being truthful.”
“I like that interpretation.”
“Getting back to the question at hand,” said Alice, digging into her garden salad.
“Which was?” asked Joan, knowing what question Alice was talking about, as if it were written on a piece of paper that was sitting on the table in front of her.
“Have you been back?”
“Yes.”
“To gamble?” asked Ellie.
“Yes.”
“Are you justifying this?”
“No, Alice,” said Joan. “I’m answering your question.”
Ellie dipped her quesadilla triangle into a small bowl of salsa. “Tell us more,” she said before biting into the cheesy tortilla.
Joan poured her dressing over her salad. “When you have something you like to do—an addiction, some would call it—it’s not always over when someone declares it over. I am looking at it differently now. I go once a week. I limit myself to a hundred dollars. I don’t drink. But, yes, I’ve been back.”
“Is it still fun?” asked Ellie. “You know, with all the restrictions?”
“That,” said Joan, “is such a cool question. Stephen would never look at it that way. For him, it’s black or white, yes or no, under control or out of control. Gambling is still fun, but not as much fun as it used to be. When you gamble in a measured, clearheaded way, the adrenalin rush turns into more of a trickle.”
“Are you tempted to return to the highs and lows of unrestrained gambling?” asked Alice.
“I don’t know, Alice,” said Joan. “Do you like the highs and lows, the power and the peril, of wearing a pistol strapped to your abdomen?”
“Hey,” said
Alice, holding her hands up in front of her shoulders. “I was just asking a question. There is no reason for you to jump down my throat.”
“It was a loaded question,” said Joan. “It was an unpleasant question. And so I simply asked you one in return.”
Alice sipped her iced tea. “I’ll continue to be an avid gun owner and carrier as long as Greg Anderson is running around town.”
Joan closed her eyes and then opened them and looked at Alice. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Alice shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, even though it did.
“Yes, it matters,” said Ellie. “Have you had any news this week from Officer Walsh?”
“She called me yesterday to tell me they think he’s still in the area, and that they are doing their best to track him down.”
“So, that’s reassuring,” said Joan, trying to make up.
“Not really,” said Alice, not ready to give her friend a pass. “I’d rather hear that he’s on a bus headed for Mexico.”
“Of course you would,” said Ellie.
Joan forked a cube of turkey into her mouth. She looked down at her plate as she chewed. And then she looked back up at Alice. “Are you afraid?” she asked.
“Yes,” Alice said. “I’m terrified.” She told them that she hadn’t slept well; that she locked the doors and windows of her house and her car, even when she was home; that she hadn’t gone for a run since the day he escaped, even though she had a gun; that she looked for him everywhere; and that she was tired of her husband’s patting her hand and telling her the police would find him, as if Greg Anderson were a lost pet rather than the man who had attacked her. “And yes,” she said. “I’m back to calling it an attack instead of an incident or event.”
“How do the police know he’s still here?” asked Joan. “Maybe he is long gone.”
Alice shook her head. “His aunt lives here. Neighbors have told police they have seen him—twice—in the last week. His aunt denies it, of course, telling police that it was another nephew visiting, that the people of color on her street think all white people look alike. But one of those neighbors, a retired photographer with an expensive camera and a powerful zoom lens, snapped his picture. He was there on Sunday afternoon.”
“He’s not looking for you, Alice,” said Joan. “And even if he were, he would not know where to find you. He doesn’t know your name. He knows nothing about you.”
“But what if I run into him?” asked Alice. “What if I am minding my own business and I run into him, crossing the street in front of me while I am in my car?”
“You can run him over,” said Joan. Alice allowed herself a slight smile. “I’m joking, Alice, but that doesn’t mean I don’t take this seriously. I understand your fear, and I wish there were something I could do, that Ellie and I could do to help.”
“You are already helping by listening to me,” said Alice. “Being listened to means more to me than you may realize.” This was a reference to Dave. And Joan and Ellie were fully aware that he was not listening, had not been actively listening since the beginning.
“Hey, how is Linda’s job going?” said Ellie, knowing Alice would be pleased with a shift in conversation topics, especially if the new topic was one of her daughters. “Is she getting any more hours at Just Looking?”
Alice’s slight smile grew to a grin. “No, but she just got a job delivering pizza four nights a week. Her Honda has a SOUTHWOOD PIZZA—SIMPLY THE BEST! sign affixed to its roof and magnetic signs stuck to the driver and front seat passenger doors. She has been working for the last three nights and said she is rolling in dough. Pun totally intended.”
“Does she like working at night?” asked Joan. “Liz wanted to work during the day so, as she put it, her evenings would be free for social interactions.”
Alice laughed. “As far as Linda is concerned, her evenings are free. The pizza place closes at ten. Last night, she was home at ten thirty and out the door again ten minutes later.”
“Do you remember those days?” asked Ellie. “I had so much energy back then. Midnight felt like noon.”
“Yeah,” said Joan, “but you weren’t getting up at five thirty, six days a week, to fast walk five miles.”
“Too true,” said Ellie. “It’s easy to stay up until three in the morning when you sleep until lunchtime.”
“Speaking of sleeping until noon, raise your hand if your kid is drinking alcohol,” said Joan. All three women raised their hands. “How do you two know?”
“I can smell her breath when she comes in at night,” said Alice. “I don’t really care if she has a few beers. I just don’t want her driving afterward.”
“Our kids are much better about that than we were,” said Ellie. “They take drinking and driving much more seriously.”
“I hope they do,” said Alice.
“They have to,” said Joan. “When we were growing up, there were no drunk driving laws. There are consequences for the driver now. People get prosecuted. People go to jail.”
“And, at the very least, they lose their driver’s license for six months to a year,” said Ellie.
“Thank God for that,” said Joan. “But do you care about the drinking? Does it bother you?”
“No,” said Alice. “Don’t you think it’s part of the growing up process, of transitioning from high school to college, from dependence to independence?”
“I don’t know,” said Joan. “Maybe it bothers me because I abused alcohol in college, and I wonder if Liz will do the same.”
“She probably will,” said Alice. “I think most kids do. But she will come out of it, just like you did.”
“Have I come out of it?” asked Joan.
“You are emerging, Joan,” said Ellie. “Plus, you know and communicate with your daughter. She’s not far away. Continue to talk and listen to her. If she’s in trouble, you will hear it in her voice.”
“I hope so.”
Alice sipped her water. “A lot has changed, hasn’t it? It was so hard to say goodbye to them—but now that they’re back home, I can see that it was time for them to go.”
“Does this mean you like the empty nest?” asked Joan.
“No,” Alice said. “At least, I’m not particularly enjoying the bird I now share it with.”
“This will change,” said Joan, who was not sure why she’d uttered these words. Her relationship with Stephen had changed, but she wasn’t sure it was for the better.
CHAPTER 39
Joan told herself that she needed to go to the casino to do some shopping. Her mother-in-law’s birthday was coming up, and the only place to find something for someone who really did have everything was the Gallery of Shops. She thought she might be able to find a gift that Sandi would not buy for herself or did not already own, either in the Coach store or at Tiffany. And, she told herself, it was a good idea to pay for whatever she purchased in cash. Stephen was on a cash kick, as he called it, using paper money for everything from gas to dinner out. He had five hundred dollars in his wallet at all times and told Joan that using cash instead of a credit card was the best way to actually spend less. They didn’t need to spend less—Stephen was making more money now than he had in his other banking job—but he was also on one of his periodic Spartan kicks, giving away things to the Salvation Army, eating less, living frugally. These phases didn’t last long, Joan had learned over the years, so she always played along. The added benefit of paying for everything in cash was that Stephen would not know how much she spent on the gift for his mother, or how much she spent on other things. Satisfied with her reasoning, Joan stopped at the bank on her way to the casino and withdrew five hundred dollars.
Because the easiest way to get to the Gallery of Shops was through one of the gaming floors, Joan decided to make a quick detour to the roulette tables, just to see what was happening. Her footfalls were silent on the plush, patterned carpeting. But everything else around her made noise—conversations people w
ere having at tables she passed; the slot machines dinging; dealers calling cues to patrons; ice cubes hitting glassware at the bar; and, as she got closer to the roulette tables, the ball skipping in the wheel. She smelled cigarettes, in spite of the casino’s air filtration system. She smelled warm beer and Scotch, perfume, cologne, deodorant, and sweat. And as soon as she saw her table, she knew she wanted to sit down, had wanted for days to sit down and play. She lifted herself up onto the padded seat and leaned back against the smooth, curved wood backrest. It was as if the chair had been custom made for her, so perfectly did it fit her body—more so than any seat she could think of, including her family room couch and the cushioned chairs in her doctor’s office. The casino chair was better: firm enough to support her back and soft enough in the seat to please her bottom. One of the omnipresent “Indian Princess” servers was at her side within seconds, asking Joan if she’d like a vodka with soda or vodka straight up. Feeling in control, Joan proudly declined the offer, and then turned to her purse. She took the money from the paper envelope given to her by the bank teller and handed it all to the croupier, named Traci. Two hours later, it was all gone, every dollar, every chip.
She told the croupier that she’d be right back—and she was, with three hundred dollars, the most the nearby ATM would give her. And in another hour, that was gone, every dollar, every chip. Traci told her she could write a check at the bank tellers’ window and get more cash. She felt sure, Traci did, that Joan’s luck would change. But Joan had heard Traci’s pitch before and decided to leave the table and the gaming area and do what she had come to the casino to do, even though, if she were honest with herself, she had to admit that she had already.
She walked into Tiffany and strolled alongside the cases, looking at the gemstones, the silver, and the gold. Her eyes landed on a pair of gold ball earrings, and she knew she had found the perfect gift. She asked for help from a sales associate, who smiled her way through explaining the properties of the earrings: 18-karat gold, 8-mm sizing, part of the legendary bead collection started in the 1950s, with a very affordable price point of six hundred dollars. Joan asked to try them on, and they were, indeed, stunning in her ears. When the sales associate was called away by another customer, Joan spun slowly in place, so she could look around the room; all the other employees were occupied, either on their phones or helping other customers. She casually walked to the case closest to the exit, lingering there, pretending to look at silver chains. She counted to ten, glanced over her shoulder to find no one paying attention to her, and walked out of the store.
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