Whittaker 01 The Enemy We Know (18 page)

“
Well, okay then. I better call it a night. I’ll see you soon. Be careful!”

“
Paul?” I said to air. He’d hung up before I could continue my push for how he’d gotten my number. Whether that was calculated on his part or just another example of his social ineptitude, I couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter though; I’d corner him face-to-face and get the answer I wanted. I resigned myself to getting an unlisted number the next day.

Several clients canceled on Friday, leaving me with a lot of down time. I pretended to file. What I really needed to do was call the phone company. Not to mention documenting everything that had been going on in order to make a police report. Every time I sat at my desk, however, my mind skittered away. I played lots of mind-numbing computer solitaire while subconsciously listening for footsteps of crazy men coming for me.
Man
. Eventually, I forced myself to document all of the recent nastiness.

First, I worked out the time line of his harassment. Although technically Wayne didn’t attack me until March 11
^th
, I included the dates of the two sessions we’d had under his false name.

February 19 and March 4 - phony counseling sessions

March 11 - Wayne, drunk, attacks in office

March 14 - Flowers delivered

March 15 - confrontation/threatens in work parking lot

March 20 and 21 - tires flattened

March 21 - followed to AA parking lot

March 24 - clown calls

March 28 - panties delivered and utilities tampered with

March 29 - rat in glove box

April 1 - fraudulent letter of complaint to state licensing board

Various phone call hang ups—undocumented

Porno mags arrived at the clinic sometime near the end of March

Depressing. Very, very depressing. And frightening when seen in its entirety. Since I was already immersed in the overwhelming evidence of my helplessness, I decided to address the licensing complaint. The time line came in handy, although I would have to delete the reference to AA before Marshall reviewed it and before sending it off to the state licensing board.

If I wasn’t careful, I would prove my innocence of sexual impropriety while simultaneously outing myself as an alcoholic. The licensing board likes to keep tabs on little stuff like that, and I hadn’t exactly updated them on my “condition.”

Another problem that became blaringly apparent was the lack of any real evidence. Other than the sessions under a false name and the initial attack, the rest was just assumptions or my word against his. Not only that, but my avoidance of reporting the other events to the police looked suspicious.

Enough. Time for an AA meeting.

By the time Rhonda pulled up next to my little Focus, I was a bundle of raw nerves. Not only would I be facing Wayne, but I would be seeing Robert for the first time since breaking up.

Rhonda, on the other hand, was in her element. She stuck to me like dog poop in shoe tread and was about as offensive. She entered the club glaring at each man in turn, while I smiled meekly and sent little apology shrugs in her wake. There wasn’t a man in the club who wasn’t painfully aware of Rhonda’s hater stance, and they fled before us.

As I expected, Robert and Wayne were there, but not surprisingly, neither made any attempt to approach. They stood in a huddle talking with Chad and a few others by the coffee bar. Robert cast a few carefully casual glances my way, but mostly kept his back turned. Wayne’s expression was a slap-worthy smirk, but he, too, kept his distance. I caught Chad’s eye once, relieved to see him smile and wink.

Already exhausted by the time we filed into the meeting, I passed when my turn came to talk. Though I tuned out during Robert’s talk, I had to grit my teeth to keep from bursting out when Wayne spoke. He pretended to direct his words to the various other members, but with the sensitivity of a hunted rabbit, I sensed his attention was for me and me alone. He spoke with smarmy, false sincerity about changing his ways, about his love for his woman that would help him stay straight, and about how grateful he was that he could count on all his new friends to help him through his troubles.

After the meeting Rhonda needed to talk to a friend of hers for a minute, so by the time we got out to the lobby area, it was a man-free zone. Rhonda, a canister of
Slap My Ass And Call Me Sally
pepper spray clutched and eagerly ready for use on anyone with a penis, walked me to my car. Nevertheless, I strongly suspected she was disappointed when no one tried to mug us.

I thanked her, waiting until she started her own car, figuring she had at least as many enemies as I. Adventure over, we drove our separate ways.

Minutes later, I parked outside my apartment complex and made my way to the front. As I made my way up walked along the sidewalk, I envied Rhonda’s pepper spray and decided to ask where she’d got it. And was it legal?

The back of my neck prickled as soon as I entered the lobby area. The light bulb at the top of the stairs had gone out, leaving the upper landing just outside my apartment in shadows. Adrenaline flipped the ON switch for my heart, racing blood through my body.
Fight or flight?

I stood next to the main door wondering if I should call the police or rouse one of my neighbors. I’d feel stupid if it was just typical landlord miserliness, but I’d seen too many serial killer movies to discount my gut fear. I decided to climb halfway up the stairs, which would give me a sightline down the second floor hallway and still leave a safe exit if Wayne stood drooling in the shadows, clutching a chain saw. Fighting a nearly overwhelming need to pee, I moved forward, alternating between a stealthy crouch and the pee-pee dance.

The hallway was clear, but an object splotched with garish red dangled from the doorknob of my apartment. My mind registered it as blood, but a closer inspection showed a gift bag decorated in bright red Japanese anemones. A present?

I poked at the bag.

Some tissue shifted and a cloth doll with black button eyes peered up at me. Her face, round and sweet, peeped out from under a bonnet fashioned from an antique lace hankie. One arm rose out of the froth of tissue, waving.

I smiled. It really
was
a present. I reached to free her from the garish wrapping when my fingers closed around smooth metal. I gasped at a sharp pain. The bag dropped, spilling the contents to the floor.

Blood dripped from my ring finger, dotting the carpet and forming uneven blotches on the tissue paper. A fillet knife had been driven deep into her back, slicing through the rose-patterned dress, skewering a scrap of white paper to her tummy.

I wouldn’t cry—part of me believed the bastard would somehow know, and I refused to give him that—but I couldn’t stop the broken whimpers that slipped past gritted teeth. I nudged the doll over with my toe, kicking the tissue around, looking for more booby-traps. Apparently the bag had disclosed all its secrets—just the doll and the knife.

And the square of paper.

Since it wasn’t an emergency, it took the police an hour and a half to show up. While I waited, I bandaged my finger and took a picture of the knife and doll
in situ
. Not wanting my neighbors to trip over—or even see—the pile, I brought it all in to the kitchen table. I debated about 2.5 seconds before pulling the knife out and reading the note.

Being your flaue what fhould I doe but tend,

Vpon the houres and times of your defire?

I haue no precious time at al to fpend;

Nor feruices to doe til you require.

Whoa. I stopped after the first four lines. After a few moments of studying the scrawling calligraphy, I figured out that, yes, it really was English. Once I deciphered out that the letter “F” was an “S” and that “U” often meant “V,” it made a wee bit more sense. I started over again.

“
Being your slave, what should I do but tend

Upon the hours and times of your desire?

I have no precious time at all to spend

Nor services to do ‘til you require.

Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour

Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,

Nor think the bitterness of absence sour

When you have bid your servant once adieu.

Nor dare I question with my jealous thought

Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,

But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought

Save where you are how happy you make those.

So true a fool is love that in your will,

Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

I copied it. I also took a few moments to delete all references on my time line to AA and just left “club.” Let ‘em think it was a health club. In a way, it was.

There wasn’t a whole lot the police could do when they showed up, but I hadn’t expected a whole CSI crew anyway. It was a different pair than had been by before; one older and fairly fit, the other a young, pre-obese rookie. They took the knife and sonnet to hold in case there were further developments but warned me that Chippewa Falls just didn’t have the forensic resources to work up every case. Small town, small budget. However, if a “serious incident” occurred, it would help build the case. My finger throbbed in silent protest.

“
Have you considered a restraining order?” Sgt. Durrant, the older cop, asked.

“
I’ve considered it, but…” I shrugged helplessly.

“
I know. There’s not much a piece of paper can do, but it does give us a heads up when we respond to things like this.” He held up the paper bag holding the knife. “For some creeps, an R.O. really is a deterrent.”

“
And sometimes it pisses the guy off even more,” the slightly pudgy cop added. His partner gave him a dirty look.
“I wasn’t sure if I had enough for a restraining order, and the fact of the matter is”—I took a deep breath—“I’m in AA. I can’t have that made public knowledge. It would really hurt me in my job.” I swallowed with a suddenly dry throat. When I met the older cop’s eyes, they were crinkled in a sun-weathered smile that made my stomach uncoil.

“
I’m a friend of Bill W. myself,” Sgt. Durrant said. Bill W., along with Dr. Bob, is a founder of AA; a reference to either is short-hand for a fellow Twelve Step member. “You don’t have to mention it when you get the R.O.”

“
I know, but Wayne said that
he
would. I don’t want to take that chance of him sending another letter to the state board. I just can’t.”

“
I tell you what: we’ll go talk to him. Sometimes that’s enough, too.”

Meanwhile, Pudgy was trying to decipher the poem, a confused look on his face. “Is this a code?”

“
No, it’s just an old-style font, I think.” I explained about the F’s and U’s.

“
Is that on purpose?” he asked. “You know, like, F U?” His partner rolled his eyes and sighed.

“
I… uh… didn’t think about it that way. I suppose it could. I think it’s more likely from the Renaissance period or something.”

“
Well, I don’t get it. It don’t make sense,” Pudgy said.

Changing the subject, I held up the doll. “Are you taking this?”

“
We probably couldn’t get fingerprints off that even if we tried. We have the picture,” he held up a copy I’d handed over. “I think this is enough. Unless you want us to?”

“
No, I’ll keep her.” I was secretly pleased. Both the doll and I had suffered similar brutalities under Wayne’s hands. I felt a curious—and embarrassing—affinity to her.

Before leaving, Durrant agreed to call me after he’d talked to Wayne. I spent the night on the couch, clutching the doll since Siggy, sensing my anxiety, kept his distance. When I woke in the morning, stiff-necked, the doll was damp from my tears and Siggy lay curled on my belly.

I lay there fretting about the police talking to Wayne. The smart-me knew it was way past due, but my childhood indoctrination of secrecy kept my stomach churning. Instead of feeling better about involving the police, I regretted the decision. Completely illogical, of course.

Sighing, I rolled off the couch, nearly squishing Siggy, and trudged to the desk. The scanned copy of the FU-sonnet lay waiting. Jagged, black blotches defined where the knife had pierced the original, marring the clean, white spaces, top and bottom. A quick read-through of the text made my head hurt. I needed coffee.

Reading it outloud helped, too. While the exact meaning remained fuzzy, themes began to emerge. Slavery, jealousy, bitterness, humiliation—all combined to deny the overt message of devotion.

I couldn’t imagine Wayne writing it, but maybe that was snobbish of me. Even if someone else did write it, which seemed more likely, the choice of the particular sonnet meant something for Wayne. Maybe it symbolized his “love” for Carrie. An abuser often accuses his victim of willfully inciting his anger— hence “deserving” it— portraying himself as powerless to prevent the ensuing violence.
“Why are you so demanding?” “Why do you question everything I do?” “Why do you make me hit you?”
The sonnet seemed to echo the very questions that are screamed in a woman’s face right before the fist connects.

I could see Wayne’s twisted mind believing that watching a clock, monitoring his woman’s movements and interactions, proved his devotion. But I continued to struggle with the notion that he would express himself in iambic pentameter. And yet, in our two therapy sessions together, I had thought him a sensitive, hurting introvert.

The
knife
sure fit. The blade alone was six inches long and thin as a razor blade. Wayne seemed like the type of outdoorsy guy who would gut his own fish. And like it.