by Renee James
“Don’t take any chances, Cecelia. Just let me know.”
“What will you do?” she asks.
“I’ll confront the bastard.”
She tries to talk me out of it, but I’ve thought this through. Confronting a stalker in a public place with lots of people around has all kinds of advantages, I tell Cecelia. Safety. A chance to see him close up, so I can make an identification later. And a chance to put a scare in the bastard by letting him know I’m not afraid.
“The disadvantage is, you’re challenging him,” says Cecelia.
“He’s already coming after me with bad intentions,” I counter. It’s true. He’s playing games with me, and his endgame is a surprise confrontation in a place of his choosing at a time he wants so he has all the advantages. Maybe when he finds out I’m not afraid of him, he’ll go away. Maybe not, but I’ll at least give him pause.
Cecelia agrees to follow me, of course. She’ll start when I leave the salon and stay with me as far as the El station, and we’ll talk on the phone tonight.
While I’m talking to Cecelia, the counter man delivers my salad. I dig in with gusto when we hang up. I’m close enough to the front door to feel the sun streaming in through the windows. It lights up the place in a flattering way and makes me feel like I’m in a fifties luncheonette with Charlie Chan or the Whistler hanging around outside, waiting for the shadows to set in, ready to make their appearance when it gets dark.
“Well, hello there, Bobbi.” My visual tour of the deli is interrupted by a man standing at the next table. It’s Mr. Nice. My heart beats a little faster. I’ve had a very pleasant fantasy about making love with him. I know it’s my own fiction, but it was so pleasurable I can’t help but think warmly toward him.
“Hi—” I start to return his greeting and realize I don’t know his name.
“—Mark,” he says, finishing my greeting for me. He extends a hand, and I give him mine. His hands are soft, with manicured nails. He’s wearing an expensive suit, tailored to flatter his body. He’s trim, but not in a gym-rat way. More like someone who watches what they eat and accepts the presence of moderate love handles. He takes off the suit jacket and hangs it on his chair, revealing a tailored shirt, starched and bright, and a conservative tie that picks up the blue pinstripes in his shirt and the gray in his suit. His hair is short, recently cut and perfect. He is wearing a masculine scent. His smile is white and warm. I can feel myself flush as we shake hands and it disgusts me. What kind of woman gets giddy over a handshake when she’s being stalked by a violent predator?
“I’m Mark Mendelson,” he continues. “I’ve been trying to work up the courage to call you since we met.”
This is unimaginable, but I appreciate the fib. It would be nice to go out with a normal, intelligent guy instead of the low-life men I’ve been shacking up with.
“Bobbi Logan,” I reply. He holds my fingertips an extra beat or two, and we hold the eye contact, too. I’m melting. Part of me wonders what’s wrong with me, being so easy to impress. The other part of me loves the tingles and heat waves careening through my body and mind.
He asks if he can join me. I manage to reply like an adult woman and make myself ignore my adolescent fantasies so I can focus on the conversation.
Mark owns an ad agency, works his own hours, likes to get out on nice days so he feels like he’s still alive. He’s a passionate Cubs fan because he loves sunshine, beer, and Wrigley Field.
Twenty minutes of small talk flies by. He’s a great conversationalist. He answers my questions succinctly. He’s got a nice sense of humor, a welcome relief from my succession of deadhead beaus who drone on endlessly about male drivel and wouldn’t get a joke if you put it in their mouth and helped them chew on it. The other thing, the miracle thing, is when I talk, he listens to me, like I have brains. Once, his gaze slips to my cleavage. A woman of good breeding would be irritated, I suppose, but it pleases me. I like knowing he finds my body attractive. I went through hell to get it. And, he’s a gentleman about it.
“I’m afraid I have to get back to the salon,” I say finally.
“We must do this again,” he says.
“Yes.” It’s a one-word answer, but we lock eyes, and I smile and blush. I’m sure it’s obvious I’m thinking lewd thoughts, but I can’t get myself to be embarrassed about it.
“How about dinner tonight?” he asks.
I explain that I’m watching my niece this week and can’t get out. He suggests we take her, too. I can hear Betsy howling with outrage and I can see Cecelia covering her eyes in horror if I told them I took Roberta on a date with someone I don’t know.
We try to find a convenient time during the day, but our schedules don’t mesh. Finally, I invite him over for a glass of wine tonight—just one, after Roberta goes to bed. It will give us quiet time to talk, and if my stalker sees Mark come in, maybe he’ll get off my case.
My phone rings just as Roberta and I walk into the apartment. I don’t need to check caller ID to know it’s Cecelia. She has an unnerving sense of timing, like she can see what I’m doing no matter what two places in the universe we occupy.
“Did you see anyone?” As usual, I don’t bother saying “hello.”
“Everyone I know was there,” she says. It’s her sarcastic humor voice. There’s more.
“Such as?”
“Why do you have me following you when Officer Phil is doing the same thing? I have a life, you know.” Cecelia plays the offended socialite role with the pure arrogance of one born into the nobility.
“I didn’t know he was following me. He has a detective follow me sometimes, but I don’t know when. Who else did you see?”
“Isn’t that enough? Being followed by two people with better things to do? Two people with rich and full lives, following a woman who fears being raped even though she gives blow jobs to every man she sees?”
“You’re just jealous,” I say. If we were men, we’d swap insults about our mothers.
“Jealous about Phil, yes. The others, yuck.” Cecelia’s being funny, but there’s an underlying truth to her humor, too. We all had the hots for Phil when he started connecting with the LGBT community around Boystown. And we all wondered why in the world he would choose me, an oversized woman with the self-esteem of an adolescent computer nerd, when he could have had his pick of beautiful women and handsome men.
We talk about our hectic days. I mention that I actually met Mr. Nice Guy today at lunch and we exchanged names.
“Did you exchange body fluids, too?”
“There wasn’t time,” I answer.
“What impressive self-control!” Cecelia says.
“We decided to wait until tonight,” I counter. “He’s coming over for a nightcap.”
“Bobbi!” There’s horror in Cecelia’s voice. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“Why would I joke about that?” I ask.
“You think you’re being stalked by a violent psychopath. You have your eleven-year-old niece depending on you. And you have a stranger come over for a quickie? What are you thinking?”
“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds pretty awful. But I’m hoping he’ll last longer than a quickie. He seems like a multiple-orgasm kind of guy.” I can’t help it, I just have to pull her chain.
After a long list of expletives and moralistic tongue-lashing, Cecilia stops long enough for me to get a word in edgewise.
“It’s not for sex,” I tell her. “I thought it would be nice to get acquainted, and maybe if my stalker saw a man come in and stay awhile, he’d take his business to some other victim.”
“What if he’s the guy?” Cecelia’s voice is urgent.
I’m silent for a moment. Mark couldn’t be the guy. He’s too sincere. Too nice. Then again, John Strand could make you think of nothing but his flesh on yours, even when you knew he was a murderer. I know Mark’s not the guy, but Cecelia is right. He could be the guy. I can’t put Roberta’s life at risk.
“He isn’
t the guy,” I say to Cecelia. “But I’ll postpone the nightcap until Roberta’s back home with her mom.”
Cecelia isn’t fully appeased. “Bobbi, what’s happened to your common sense? You met the guy in the deli by your shop, right?”
I mumble a yes. I can tell where this is going.
“And you saw him there before, right?”
“Yes, Mom,” I say.
“And the time you didn’t see him you got the fuck picture on your plate, right?”
“Yes.” I sigh, so she knows I’m getting bored.
“So, he’s the guy who gave you the fuck-you card. He wants to fuck you.” Cecelia is quite worked up about this.
“Why would I mind that? We’ve already established that I’m a slut, and I told you, I think the guy’s hot.”
Cecelia moans. “Bobbi! He’s probably the stalker! Think!”
“He’s not,” I tell her. I feel like I’d know the stalker if I saw him. “But I’m canceling the date, so no need to worry. I’ll let you know when we do go out. Maybe you could follow us and take movies of him humping me.”
Cecelia finds no humor in this. She gives me ten more minutes on responsibility, safety, and sexual morality.
After we hang up, I keep my resolve and call Mark to reschedule. He’s disappointed. I try to make it sound like a better arrangement, saying I’ll cook a special dinner and serve a special wine. He accepts. His voice is warm and gracious. That makes it all the harder to sleep this night.
My last waking thought, as I try to get my mind off sex, is about Phil. Why was he following me? Did the detective see something and suggest Phil check it out? Or maybe he was just taking it upon himself to see that an old girlfriend was okay?
I try to picture him as my stalker. It doesn’t work. He’s not mean and he certainly doesn’t have to overpower me to have his way with me. If he tried to rip off my clothes, he’d just slow me down. Sex was never a problem with us. It was all the other stuff.
9
ROBERTA IS MAKING me crazy with her morning zombie routine. I’m trying to get us out the door so we can get to her school on time, but the kid just can’t quite climb into the land of the living yet.
“Did you have trouble sleeping?” I ask as I rush to the hall closet for our coats.
“No. I’m having trouble waking up,” she answers. She rubs her eyes in slow motion.
She’s not a morning girl in the best of times, but this seems extreme. I put a hand to her forehead. It feels normal, but as a substitute parent, I err on the side of anal retentiveness. I sit Roberta on the couch in the living room and dash off to get the thermometer.
She produces a reading of 98.6. Normal. I’d be relieved if I wasn’t so aware we are running late. I nag her to put on her coat while I put on mine. She’s still in slow motion.
Just as I reach for the doorknob, my cell phone rings. I make the mistake of glancing at the caller ID. It’s Paris.
“Is this a bad time?” Betsy skips the formalities. She must be getting lessons from Cecelia.
“No. We’re running to the El, but I can talk and run.” As I say it, I push Roberta out the door and lock up. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s wonderful,” she says. She’s getting laid every night. I can hear it in her voice. She tells me all the fun things they’re doing, how beautiful the city is, the book stalls along the Seine, the artists on Montmartre. I hear her, but for a moment I’m consumed by a flashing image of crawling into bed at night with Phil, feeling his hands on my body, waking up with his arms around me. The sensation disappears in a blink.
“How’s Robbie?” she asks. It’s a sudden change of direction, but it fits her mood. She’s hyper-excited and I’m glad for her. If anyone deserves a moment of intense personal fulfillment, it’s her.
“It’s ‘Roberta’ now, don’t forget. She’s fine. We’re running to the subway. Would you like to talk to her?” As I say the words, Roberta glances up at me and mouths the word, “Mom?” I nod yes.
“In a minute,” Betsy says. “First, I need to ask a favor. Two favors.”
“Okay.” I say it a little hesitantly, knowing it’s going to involve personal sacrifice, but also knowing I’ll do whatever it is, unless it involves jumping from high places.
“We’ve been invited to stay over with some friends of Alex who live here. We’ll be able to go to the wine harvest on Montmartre and . . .” She rattles off a string of art museums and buildings. I’m happy for her, all the uninhibited glee. But it’s sad, too. We went to Paris once when we were married and I was still thinking I was a man. My memories of that time are as vivid as if it happened yesterday, in love, strolling through the world’s most beautiful city. I’ll never forget it, but she already has.
“Do you mind keeping Roberta a little longer?” she asks.
“Of course. When will you be getting back?”
“A week?” Her answer is a question. They were due back this weekend; she’s talking about next weekend.
I start to tell her it’s no problem at all, but the words stick in my throat. Will Roberta be safe with me? I try to decide if my stalker represents a threat to Roberta.
“What?” Betsy asks. There’s concern in her voice. My pause before answering is an answer all by itself.
“Oh, nothing,” I say. “It’s just, my salon was vandalized a couple days ago, and I’ve been jumpy ever since. We’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. If there’s any problems, I’ll give Don’s parents a call.” The parents of her deceased husband have always been favorites of mine and they’re great with Roberta. They also live in rural Indiana, a long way from Chicago if things get nasty.
“Well,” Betsy says, “that’s the other thing I wanted to ask you about. My parents want to have Roberta this weekend. Would you be willing to—” She stops. It’s a hard sentence to finish. I’ve always referred to Betsy’s parents as Mr. and Mrs. Hitler, though that analogy is probably unfair to Eva Braun. I’d rather eat monkey brains than spend five minutes in their presence. Her dad still calls me “Bob” and makes cracks about my genitals. Her mom can’t say anything because she’s got a fifty-foot flagpole up her ass.
“Will they be stopping by to pick up Roberta, or are we meeting them at some secret location that’s safe for white Christians?” I can’t help myself.
At the mention of her name, Roberta squints at me. She makes her face into a question and points skyward, our secret symbol for her righteous Wisconsin grandparents. I nod yes.
“Would you be okay if they stopped by to pick her up?”
“Sure. It’ll feel like I’m starting a new life when they leave. But maybe you should check with Roberta, first.”
After several more reassurances I’ll allow her parents to come and go in peace, I give the phone to Roberta. I tune out when she gets to the “Oh, God, Mom” part. I try to keep my feelings about the Hitlers to myself, but Roberta’s a smart kid and she has her own issues with them.
By the time we get to the El station, Roberta has consented to spend the weekend with her maternal grandparents, and I have resolved not to wrench her grandfather’s heart from his chest when he asks me if I still have a dick.
As I emerge from Roberta’s school, I’m deep in thought about this weekend, how awful it will be seeing Roberta’s grandparents again, wondering if I should call Mark and let him know I’m free, wondering if that would be too horribly obvious that I’m desperate for sex and love, or at least sex. Despite these powerful thoughts, I’m suddenly struck again by the feeling that someone is watching me. The feeling is overwhelming, like the person is just behind me and I could hear his footsteps and the rustle of his jacket as he lifted a blunt weapon to strike me.
I whirl around. Nothing. I walk toward the Blue Line station, but the feeling dogs me. I stop suddenly and turn a full circle, slower this time, looking in all directions for anything out of place. There are people walking toward the train station, and others going
the other direction toward downtown Oak Park. Several regard me with a double take, like I’m a lunatic seeing ghosts. I don’t care. My pulse is pounding as I realize, this time the stalker has followed me to Roberta’s school. My mind floods with terrifying images of a burly goon snatching Roberta and disappearing into the sprawling chaos of the Chicago metro area. This needs to stop now. I keep looking. The monster is here, somewhere.
At the edge of my vision, I see unusual movement. On the corner, on the other side of the street, a parade of pedestrians bolts across the pavement. Through their flashing legs and moving torsos, I can see fragments of a man who squats slightly, aiming a camera with a long lens toward me. When the last pedestrian passes, he realizes I’m staring at him. He startles and dashes down the side street, out of my view, disappearing like a mirage, one moment a terrifying reality, then the next, a memory that makes me wonder if I’m hallucinating.
But in my gut, I know he’s real. I didn’t get a good look at him, but he seemed like a big man, tall, hefty, white, casually dressed in gray slacks and a light-colored, collar shirt. I trot across the main avenue against the light as best I can in heels, my breasts bobbing up and down like basketballs, my heels clicking on the pavement like castanets, my ankles wobbling. A rush-hour motorist honks angrily because he has to slow down to avoid hitting me. I keep jiggling and jogging down the sidewalk into the residential street where the photographer ran, one hand finding the can of Mace in my purse and getting it ready, my eyes scanning the lawns and driveways for my prey. Halfway down the block, I stop. If he’d gone any further, I would have seen him from the corner.
I slowly work my way back toward the place where I first saw him, peering at every tree and shrub, looking for nooks and crannies that might shelter a fugitive. I stop and take off my heels so I can pad around on the grass to check behind a garage, the can of Mace out of my pocket, held at the ready. I’m sure the man will come flying at me from some hidden position. I’m sure he’s here, on this property, around the garage. My breath comes in tortured gasps, partly from running, partly from fear. I’m out of my mind to be doing this, but I need to get this creep before he terrorizes Roberta.
