“Well, maybe, but that’s not the worst of it, Dottie. Promise not to laugh. Soon after his traveling increased, I noticed this new pill bottle in his shaving kit.”
“Why would I laugh about that?”
“You didn’t let me finish. He gets his medications from the VA and he would always take those padded white envelopes to his office-library before opening them. He carries a mild sleeping pill the VA pharmacy keeps him supplied with, plus a headache remedy, vitamins, and I don’t know what all stuff in there.
“But this bottle was from a local pharmacy and contained those little blue performance enhancement pills advertised on TV for men. Sometimes there are six and other times only two or three. It’s been emptied and replenished several times and I can tell you for a fact that he’s not using them at home.”
When Lucinda paused, Dottie began to feel she was hearing too much information. She looked down and brushed invisible crumbs from her brightly-colored batik wrap skirt.
“What do you think?” Lucinda asked. “I’m wondering if he is keeping someone, planning to leave me or, worse yet, kick me out and move her into our lovely home. Am I making too much of this?”
Dottie reached across the table to take Lucinda’s hand. Infidelity was a matter she could relate to. She had filed for divorce when she found her husband involved with his new, young office manager. And before the divorce was final, she learned a lot of other things she didn’t know about the man she’d been with for nearly thirty years. He also had a huge gambling problem, which she learned about when they received a foreclosure notice on their house. With this background, Dottie didn’t have any ready answers to Lucinda’s questions.
“I’m absolutely frantic, trying to figure out what to do,” Lucinda continued. “Every time he comes home from Essex or someplace, I check that little bottle. The amount changes every time. But I haven’t thought of a way to learn who he’s playing around with–I sure can’t follow him.”
When Dottie asked why she mentioned Essex, Lucinda explained that Hiram owned a store on the main street in that resort town and leased space to another dealer, Caroline somebody, whose name she couldn’t recall, who kept daily business hours there. Most of his customers dealt with Hiram directly by phone or came to their home, but he kept some inventory in the store for walk-ins and the summer tourist trade. Caroline would call Hiram if someone were interested in his inventory.
“Dottie, you have to help me. I’ve heard that a good time to keep your mouth shut is when you’re in hot water, and I feel as if I’m in hot water, but if I didn’t tell someone it might kill me. I can’t live without him. I lost one man and that is still unbearable. I can’t lose Hiram, too. I’m going crazy over it, can’t concentrate or get anything done. I can no longer pretend I don’t know about this. Hiram has quite a temper. He says he may be a lefty, but he’s always right.
“And despite my red mane, I can’t hold my own in a quarrel with him.” Lucinda pounded her fists on the table so hard her teaspoon bounced noisily across the smooth lacquered wood. “I never told you I was an anger management class dropout, did I?” Lucinda tried to laugh, but no sound came out. Her face just looked pained.
Dottie grabbed her by both fists. “Calm down, Lucinda. Calm down! I’m glad you told me about this. You’ve got to get control of yourself–he’s probably not worth it. Do something else besides getting sneaky. Can you go visit someone in Frankford or someplace, just get away for a few days?
“You have to try to think positively. I heard a good story for you recently. It’s about a woman who was in ill health and her hair was getting thin. She awoke one day and had only three hairs. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I think I shall braid my hair today’ and she did and she had a wonderful day. The next day she woke to find only two hairs, so she said, ‘Well, I believe I shall part my hair in the middle today’ and she did and she had a wonderful day. The next day she found only one hair on her head so she decided to wear a ponytail and she did and had a wonderful day. The fourth day she woke and had no hairs left on her head. ‘Finally,’ she said, ‘I don’t have to think about styling my hair today,’ and she had a perfectly wonderful day.”
“That’s a good one, Dottie. And you say I always tell funny stories,” Lucinda smiled in spite of herself.
Before Lucinda had even finished telling her sad tale, Dottie had begun thinking she should get Bashia Gordon to help her investigate Hiram Lazarus and his wandering. It was time she and her Peace Corps friend had a good sit-down together and she knew Lucinda’s intriguing story would be too tempting for Bashia’s curiosity to resist.
“I don’t know. I guess I could go visit my son, Tom, in Vermont for a few days,” said Lucinda quietly, as if considering whether a change of scene might help. “He and Hiram had a big argument the other day. They were both shouting angrily but they stopped when I opened the front door. Tom almost knocked me down as he tried to kiss me hello-goodbye and run out the door at the same time.”
Lucinda’s head dropped to her chest and new tears streamed down her face. Dottie handed her a napkin from the stack kept on the table for students’ brushes and spills. After she wiped her eyes, she became calmer, gave her shoulders a bracing shrug and told Dottie that she had asked Hiram what the argument was about, but he said it was between him and Tom.
Over dinner that evening, she brought the subject up again. Hiram first became agitated with her but finally told her that Tom wanted to start another business, a furniture store. He wanted Hiram to help him finance the project or help stock it. Hiram said he had given Tom his last loan two years ago for a homemade ice cream store like one they loved in Frankford. Tom only stuck with that through one summer and never repaid the loan.
“Dottie, Tom tries to please Hiram but doesn’t seem able to. When he was younger, he occasionally would tag along on buying trips in the region but Hiram quit taking him. He felt Tom wasn’t interested in learning the business, just in looking at the scenery in the daytime and bar-hopping at night. I think Hiram suspected he was getting involved with drugs here and there, but we never talked about it. He just quit taking Tom and encouraged him to look for work elsewhere.
“Tom moved to Vermont and has bopped around at a variety of jobs for several years, never hanging in at one thing very long. He finally took an insurance adjuster course and has been doing that lately. He was very unlike his younger brother, Chad, who joined a major accounting firm in Boston right after college.”
Lucinda said she thought furniture might be a natural for Tom, but she wasn’t sure she could convince Hiram to give him one more chance. Their voices had been explosive and loud that afternoon. Tom had picked up Hiram’s short-fuse temperament over the years. Lucinda said Hiram’s bald top was so red following that argument, it glowed as if steam might rise from it.
“It might not be such a good idea for them to try to work together,” Lucinda said. “But you’re right, I should go up there and hear Tom’s side of the story. It’d get my mind on something else, at least.
“Yes, like that comedian on Saturday Night Live used to say, ‘That’s the ticket’,” added Lucinda. “There’s always something to be gained by a new, positive approach.”
How do you tell someone they’re not going crazy when you wonder whether they are? Dottie thought as she collected their cups, plates and utensils onto a tray, which she left near the sink to wash later. Students would be here before she knew it, but first she needed to get back to the house and feed her feline housemates.
When she opened the door, she saw that the rain had stopped. Lucinda’s crying had stopped, too, but her body sagged from the weight of her weariness.
“Dottie, I lost one love–my husband, Louis, but I can’t face losing my manfriend, Hiram.”
“At least you still have your sense of humor,” Dottie answered. “Your manfriend? Never heard that description.”
“Well, I’m kind of old for a boyfriend, aren’t I?” A hint of a smile showed beneath Lucinda’s curly
red tresses as they headed for the house.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Well, that dinner was great, you sure know how to pick ’em. But why did you bring me to the casino? I remember you took me to the dog track last year. Maybe you have a hidden secret, a gambling secret!” Mark teased Bashia as they settled in a secluded settee far from the noisy bar and dining room.
The small nook was lit only by a glass-globed, triple-wick candle, definitely not enough to thread a needle by, thought Bashia. Once seated, their eyes adjusted easily.
“No, you know I don’t gamble. But I like to come here once or twice a year just to see the crowd and soak up the atmosphere. It’s my getaway. You know people travel from New York City and other places just to gamble here? It’s been an amazing development for Connecticut because Foxwoods has become one of the largest casinos in the world! And all of this on Indian reservation land! Ages ago the state gave the Pequot Indians the most devastated section of eastern Connecticut.
“Now look who’s laughing—this rocky, hilly acreage has spawned a multi-million dollar business. I just hope the Indians are getting their share of the profits. I’m sure there must have been people who knew how the Bureau of Indian Affairs works and I read somewhere that Donald Trump is invested in this as well.”
“Really?”
“This has been such a success, big business is trying to persuade the BIA to recognize other so-called ‘tribes’ who want to get on the bandwagon.”
Mark settled back on the sofa shaking his head, “Big business is beyond me. Look at this place. It’s so weird to see all this money changing hands. Isn’t there supposed to be a depression in Connecticut?”
The illusion of wealth and splendor was everywhere. Three-foot thick pillars stretched to the thirty-foot ceilings, reflecting the voluminous gold and chrome on railings, decorations and archways. Beautiful, deeply sculptured carpeting muffled the footsteps of the crowds. Tall artificial foliage isolated small clusters of seating.
Bashia squirmed in her seat. She deliberately avoided the reason for their evening date by prattling on about the significant number of jobs created by the casino project. In order to get permits to build, the owners had agreed to give the state twenty-five percent of the profits from the slots. “That reportedly amounted to over thirty-three million dollars last year, and doesn’t include what Foxwoods makes on the gaming tables.
“This casino continues to grow–from a bingo hall ten years ago, to gambling rooms, theater, shops, a high-rise hotel, restaurants, conference rooms, spas, skywalks and dozens of parking lots. It’s a good place for me to watch other people acting foolishly and spending their money.” She paused, as their waiter came toward them with their after-dinner drinks.
He placed their daiquiris on a cocktail table in front of them, laid out napkins and a small tray of pretzels and asked, “Is there anything else, Sir?”
Mark shook his head, paid the waiter and thanked him.
Bashia took a sip of her drink. She hesitated, “But I really want to have a serious talk with you. You know we’ve had some good times together and some times haven’t been so good, ’cause I freeze up and I think you deserve an explanation.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking there must be something bothering you. Is there a reason for you giving me the cold shoulder? I wondered if I had bad breath or something,” he smiled and reached for his drink.
“Stop! This is serious! I haven’t told anyone about this, not my children or anyone, but I think you will understand since you must have run across it in your work.”
Mark frowned, placed his drink back on the table and turned to her. “Oh? I’m glad to be considered your confidant, but for Pete’s sake, what is it?”
Bashia lowered her head, sat silent for a moment, then blurted out, “When I was in Jamaica, I was raped.”
“WHAT?”
Taking her chin in his hand he turned her face toward him, looked in her eyes and saw the fear. He placed his arm around her shoulder and drew her close. Flashes of sexual assault victims he had interviewed in New Haven ran through his mind. This shouldn’t be happening to a gal like Bashia, he thought. Not Bashia. “What happened?” he asked softly.
She glanced aside, unable to look at him. “It was while I was in the Peace Corps. I was riding my bike out of Christiana–it was my fault! So awful! We had been warned not to go off by ourselves, but I was the only volunteer in Christiana and I liked to explore the area.
“The island is so lush and green and at the same time heartbreaking because of the poverty, unemployment and low level of education.” She stopped, gripped her hands together, then looked at Mark.
“Go on.” His face revealed no emotion.
She quietly told him about the day she took a bike ride up the hillside, the sudden appearance of a near-toothless Jamaican man wielding a machete, and their struggle before he threw her on the ground and raped her.
Mark squeezed her hand and looked about to be sure they weren’t being overheard in their dim nook. Clusters of people busily talked to each other, hurried to the gaming tables or the evening show, paying no heed to them. He nodded and gave her a quick smile, encouraging her to continue.
“Oh, God,” Bashia ran her hand through her hair. “It was so crazy. That day I was aching to get away from my hot apartment and the squawking chickens in the yard. I pulled my bike from the crawl space and headed down the road leading to the hills.”
She stopped and looked at him. “Geekers, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. But sometimes I can’t help myself, being so distant with you. I wish I could erase it all, like the delete key on my computer, or take a pill and make the nightmares go away. I’ve tried that–taking a pill, and it doesn’t work.”
“I know, Bashia. I’ve seen similar reactions in other women. No wonder you’re having nightmares. You need to talk about it. How long has it been? You need to tell me and face it square in the eye or it will drag you down all your life.”
He paused, and then continued, his voice low and calming, “I’m glad you’re willing to use me as a sounding board.”
Encouraged, Bashia replied, “I thought if anyone would understand, you would, but I don’t think all cops are as sympathetic as you are.” She buried her face in Mark’s shoulder and cried. He held her close and stroked her hair, whispering, “It’s going to be alright.”
She choked back sobs, twisting Mark’s handkerchief in her hands. “I’ve tried to block it out. I want to forget, but can’t. I have this fear of getting too close to a man, of getting physical. I want to scream. I’m so sorry, Mark.”
“And I’m sorry this happened to you. I can’t say I know how you feel ’cause I’m not a woman.” He pulled her closer to him, running his hand up and down her back. Her hair smelled like lilacs when she nestled her head against his chest.
He had counseled many rape victims and always felt sorry for them, regardless of the circumstances. He often wondered if they had foolishly placed themselves into a position that made the rape possible or invited it.
But his heart went out to Bashia, wanting to wash away the trauma. Nothing like that will happen to you again, not while I’m around.
Finally, he spoke quietly, his head still close to her tear-streaked face. “Bashia, you need to free yourself of this nightmare or it will continue to eat at you. You’ve taken the first step–telling me, and I appreciate your confidence. But now you need to take the next step.” He paused while she composed herself. “You need to go back to Jamaica.”
Shocked, she sat up stiffly and looked into his steel blue eyes. “What? What are you talking about? Jamaica? I don’t think I could ever go there again.”
“I can understand how you feel, but we have found that if a person confronts the scene or the rapist, they are more able to rid themselves of the fear, or at least release it from their mind. Kind of wipe the slate clean. It’s a psychological thing, looking at the scene in another light and not associating it with the raw trauma.” H
e intentionally avoided the word rape.
Bashia stared at him, her mind in a whirl as he continued, “We could plan a long weekend. You could show me around the island and the places you enjoyed, besides taking a look at that frightening scene. There’ll be nothing to fear, I’ll be there with you all the way.”
She held her fist to her mouth, trying to hold back more tears. She thought Mark made sense, but could she do it? Her bad memories had obliterated the good times she had there. Could she show him Christiana, the school where she taught and that hilly road?
Bells and whistles jolted them back to their surroundings. Bright lights flashed and a voice boomed over the public address system announcing a big winner at the slots.
“Well, at least someone got lucky today,” she said, regaining her composure. She felt as if she, too, was a winner in a small way now that Mark knew her secret and was willing to help her overcome her fears. “In fact, maybe I’m the lucky one, getting this off my chest and onto yours. But I don’t know about Jamaica. How can I go back there?”
“You have to go back. I’ll take you.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Wait! Bashia, stop! Where did the road go?” screeched Dottie. She sat up straight in the car, her hands braced on the dashboard. “Do you know where you’re going?” A large expanse of water faced them.
“Yep. Over the river and through the woods, down 154 and into Essex. And to get there, we take the ferry. I thought it would be neat to show you this very old area. Ivoryton made piano keys, Centerbrook made brooms and witch hazel, and Essex was a shipbuilding center in colonial times.”
“I appreciate the sightseeing ride, but I don’t see any ferry.”
“It’s on the other side. See, it’s heading this way now.”
Dottie watched in fascination as the ferry–barge–approached them, low in the dark water of the Connecticut River. Only one vehicle was on it. “We’re going to drive this car on that?” she asked.
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