I was cutting across town on
Portion Road and found myself stuck in a bottleneck of slowed and stopped
traffic. Impatiently, I approached the
source of the snarl and saw that it was a garage sale. The cars ahead of me bunched up in the road,
their drivers rubbernecking.
I, too, of course,
surveyed the things lining the driveway and the lawn, glimpsing tables heaped
with clothes and small appliances, toys, knickknacks and whatnots, an old
lawnmower, chests of drawers, some chairs—the usual things one sees at garage
sales. Not that I needed anything. My looking was merely a reflex, everyone
passing doing the same. It was a bright,
cool Saturday morning in early October, and the people, in fall colors, made
the driveway and the little lawn seem festive.
Just as I was
about to turn back to the road and step on the gas to buzz away, I saw a coiled
rope, a thick pile of a coil, sitting on top of a dresser. I hit the brakes, pulled to the curb, where,
luckily, someone in a green Jeep Cherokee had just edged into the road, turned
off the ignition, and headed at a clip towards the driveway where the things
were laid out.
It
just so happened I needed a rope—a good long one. I wanted to drop the limb of a tree that was
hanging over the roof of my house, and I needed a rope to hold it and swing it
out into the yard where I could let it drop.
Neither hardware store had what I wanted—a braided rope of a hundred
feet in length—and I was headed home to do other things. The coil I spotted seemed all of a hundred
feet and maybe more.
I hurried up the
drive through a mob of elbows and backs and hands tossing things about on the
tables, tripped passed two teenage girls checking out an old Sony ghetto
blaster, and then an elderly couple leaning over the lawnmower and a worn out
air conditioner sitting on the concrete next to it. Making my way through these people, perhaps a
little impatiently, for it was getting late in the morning, I was stopped by a
woman in a long black coat blocking my way.
Her back was to me, and I stepped to my left to get around her. But she stepped the same way, pivoting as she
did, and collided with me.
“Whoa-aa!”
she said.
I
had put my hand out reflexively to fend her off, and she took offense, grabbing
my hand and shoving it away.
“Sorry,”
I said, looking past her as I tried once again to step around her.
“My
foot!” she shouted at me, “keep your hands to yourself!”
At
that, I paused and looked at her. She
was dark haired and pale cheeked. I
thought her rather fine looking, about my own age. Puzzled by her irritation, I didn’t respond
for a moment. Then I said, calmly,
“No
need for that, I said I was sorry.”
“Just
keep your distance!” she snapped.
She
turned in a huff and stomped away, going towards the dresser where the rope was
piled. I shrugged and followed behind,
slowing my pace, letting her put some distance between us. I was angry at the imputation I had tried to
manhandle her, feeling it more than unjust, considering how she had pivoted
into me. It was perverse of her to
accuse me of it. She passed the dresser
and a few seconds later I neared it. But
then she turned, as though she had forgotten something, and rapidly retraced
her steps, almost bumping into me again.
“What
the hell!” she exclaimed.
I
smiled and gestured at the rope, saying, “This is what I’m after, not you.”
I
turned then to the rope and lifted the coils to see if they were all one piece
or several wound on top of each other.
Seeing she was ignored, she let out a long breath and stormed away, and
I felt relieved, keenly aware of the intensity of her wrath. Finding the rope just what I wanted, I
hoisted it onto my shoulder and hauled it to the couple sitting at a card table
near the garage door. The fracas with
the dark-haired woman left me feeling sour as I lumbered down the driveway,
winding in and out of the mothers raiding the clothes tables, their kids
milling about the toys, getting underfoot.
A
police car was coming down the road and was slowing down as it neared the
drive, and I saw the dark-haired woman cross the street and wave to the
patrolman. She spoke hurriedly, pointing
to me, and I knew what she was doing. I was
both angry and alarmed. As I neared my
car, the policeman pulled over and got out of the patrol car. I opened my trunk, dropped the heavy burden
in, and slammed it shut. The policeman
accosted me.
“That
woman by my car has complained that you’ve been following her and
inappropriately touched her.”
“We
sort of bumped into each other, officer.
It really was an accident. I
don’t know why she’s so offended.”
“I’ll
need to see some identification, please.”
I
reached for my wallet, looking across at the woman standing by the patrol
car. She was glaring at me. My stomach dropped. “What’s up with her?” I thought. “What does she want?”
The
patrolman recorded what he needed from my driver’s license and handed the
wallet back.
“What’s
gonna happen now?” I asked the policeman.
“Probably
not much,” he responded. “I’ll file her
complaint. That’s about it.”
“What
does that mean? I’ll be listed in the
police department as a molester or something?
It’s true what I said, we just bumped into each other. The woman’s accusing me of something that’s
not so.”
“I
have to file it, anyway. If it’s not so,
nothing will come of it.”
“Can’t
you file my protest against what she’s saying along with her complaint?”
“That’s
just what I’m doing,” the patrolman said.
When
he finished writing, he turned and went back to his patrol car and spoke with
the woman. She had a triumphant look in
her face. I noticed a crowd of people
had gathered at the roadside, all interested in what was happening. I couldn't help feeling queasy. The policeman got in his car then and sat
there, looking at me, the woman still standing by his door. They were both staring at me. Realizing they were waiting for me to leave
first, I turned to my own car, got in with a “Damn and double damn,” and drove
off.
It
was not a minor irritation. I felt the
injustice of being stared at as though I were dangerous, and that woman’s
triumphant look seared itself into my brain.
I could literally smell both the absurdity and perversity of it. “Damn,” I said to myself as I put distance
between us, heading for home.
April
was angry, too, when I told her about it.
With her, however, such emotions are always short lived. She’s such a positive type, just being home
again cheered me up, and by the time we had finished lunch and a second cup of
coffee, all traces of the incident faded.
She did observe, by way of explanation, that the feeling of persecution
by anonymous people in a crowd is probably a psychiatric condition and
suggested I should feel sorry for the woman rather than bitter. So, putting my hands in my pockets and
wandering out of doors to get to work on that tree limb, I felt contrite.
Fall
came suddenly and the coolness was fine.
Soon, the trees would go dormant, and it would be too late to prune that
limb. I cut a lot of stuff out of that
tree and had the limb cut clean of branches.
The lawn below looked like a disaster area. But now I started getting busy on that big
one. I tied one end of the rope to the
limb and tossed the rest through a crotch in the trunk above it and then
hitched the rope to the base of the tree.
Then I carried the other end up again to the limb, where I fastened
it. All I had to do now was cut the
thing, pull the slip knot, and lower it as I guided it away from the
house. I had a bucket of tar ready to
cover the wound on the trunk and was checking out the chainsaw when April
opened the door and called to me.
“Jesse! Oh, Jess!
There’s a policeman here wants to talk to you!”
“Oh,
God!” I said to myself, wiping sweat from my forehead. “What now?”
I
put the chainsaw down in the grass and went in.
He
was an impressive-looking man; policemen always are, what with their dark blue,
form-fitting shirts and badges, gold-embroidered epaulettes, wide black belts
with the gun on one side and wireless on the other, the clipboards—God, that’s
the worst thing about them, the clipboards.
Policemen have a way of concentrating the mind. And mine was concentrated just then on the
triumphant look in that woman’s face. I
was glad April was near. By contrast,
she was homey-looking and familiar, and not prone to panic in emergencies. I just looked at the policeman, and he really
sized me up as I stood there. My stomach
dropped.
“A
complaint was filed about you this morning—at 913 Portion Road.
A woman claimed you fondled her.
According to the report, you were both at a rummage sale, and you said
the woman bumped into you and that she overreacted. Is this accurate?”
“Yea,
that’s true,” I said. I gestured that he
should sit at the kitchen table, and pulled out a chair for April, because I
needed her to be there. “What’s this all
about?”
“Tell me what
happened,” he said, preparing to write on his clipboard.
“I stopped at the
garage sale because I spotted a rope as I was passing and that’s what I had
gone out this morning to get. I went to
both hardware stores and came up empty handed.
You can look out back, if you want—see what I’ve been doing with the
rope. It was the only thing I
wanted. I never go to garage sales. Really.
April never goes, either. Anyway,
I was heading straight up the driveway towards this rope when this woman—I
never saw her before—she just pivots around right into me. Just like that. We collided.
Then she goes and acts like I’m an axe murderer or something. She gets all worked up over it. It was nothing—an accident.”
“After you left
the rummage sale—where did you go?”
“I came home.”
“How long did that
take?”
“You mean to get
home?”
“Yes, how long did
it take to get back to the house?”
“About five
minutes, I guess. Give or take. You know how far that place is from
here. I came right home.”
“Was your wife
here when you got back?”
“Yes.”
Looking at her,
“You will verify that?”
“Of course,” April
said, showing every sign of nervousness, which was so uncharacteristic of her
that I started sweating.
“Can you remember
the time he got in?”
“I don’t know,
I’ll have to think about it. We had
lunch at noon, and I guess he’d been home about an hour by then. We talked about what happened. I guess it was around eleven. I can’t be more precise than that.”
He was writing
this all down. I couldn’t help my
nervousness. I blurted out, “Can’t you
tell us what this is all about? I can’t
believe bumping into a woman at a garage sale is such a crime!”
“Did either of you
leave the house after you got home this morning?”
“No,” April said,
emphatically. “Jess’s been working in
the yard, and I’ve been in the house.”
“Doing what?” he
said, looking down at the clipboard, trying to be impersonal.
“What I always do
on Saturdays, clean, prepare meals for the week, get in our family phone
calls—that sort of thing.”
“Did you have your
husband pretty constantly in sight during this time?”
“What are you
suggesting? He snuck away or
something? No! I didn’t see him every minute, but I did see
him from time to time. He’s pruning that
big tree behind the house. He’s been
working out their since after lunch.”
“But you didn’t
have him constantly in sight, so you can’t say for sure he didn’t leave the
house again.”
“Yes, I can say
for sure he didn’t leave. I’d have heard
him starting the car. Besides, even
though I didn’t see him every minute, I saw him often enough to say with
certainty he didn’t leave this house again.”
“Can you estimate
how many times you saw him between one o’clock, say, and three?”
“No, I can’t. I’d have to think about it. How can I be sure? What kind of question is that? What does this afternoon have to do with that
woman this morning?”
April was getting
more and more nervous. His questions
were suggesting something far more serious than a woman being fondled at a
garage sale, and she was alarmed and frightened. Something happened to that woman, and because
of what happened this morning, they suspected I might have been involved.
“Listen,” I said,
“maybe you should speak to the neighbors.
I saw my neighbor on the east, the old man—his name’s Freeman—raking
leaves. He saw me, too. I don’t know about the others, but they might
help. You really need to talk to
everyone.”
“No need,” he
said. “Not now, anyway.” He got up from the table and thanked the both
of us for cooperating. He told us, also,
not to worry. He wouldn’t tell us
anything at all about that woman. I was
too relieved he was leaving to be angry over her just then, but afterward, my
hackles were up. Some people! April and I gave each other long, comforting
stares, and we both exaggerated exhales.
Her hand was shaking. I felt like
that, too. Only it wasn’t my hand, it
was my stomach, my abdomen, my whole body, really.
I went outside
again, figuring once I was absorbed in that limb, I’d calm down. I didn’t calm down, though. I cut the limb and dropped it fine, but I had
that officer’s face in mind the whole time.
Luckily, I didn’t botch it up and ruin my roof. That would have put the finishing touch on
the day. Funny, though, I couldn’t
recall the dark—haired woman’s face. The
image that stuck was of her looking triumphant by the police car, but I
couldn’t recall the face. It was the
impression I recalled.
By the time I
cleaned up and changed clothes, April had supper ready. Neither of us had an appetite. April wondered whether we had heard the last
of this woman, and we speculated on what could have happened—the natural things
that would come to mind under the circumstances: rape, murder, assault. What else could have brought the cop to the
house; what else did his questions imply?
We talked ourselves into a real condition. I felt that queasy sense of disorientation
that comes when one is wrenched out of the routines of everyday life. Some ugly thing was forcing itself on us, and
I felt helpless and afraid. We both knew
there was going to be more.
The next morning
we left for church. The night’s sleep
helped. I was feeling better, more
myself, and April didn’t even mention yesterday. We arrived, as usual, a few minutes early,
and the usher, one of our neighbors, took my arm with a smile and walked us to
a pew about in the middle of the sanctuary.
He nodded as we slid in. April
was on the aisle, and I was next to her.
An altar boy had carried the big missal out and put it on the stand, and
another had put some flowers in a vase on the step beside the altar. The mass would start in a minute. I was sitting, absorbed in
reflection—daydreaming, really—when I noticed—dreamily—that someone was looking
at me. Across the aisle, several pews in
front, a woman had turned and was staring at me. At first, I didn’t think anything of it. But then, with a buzz of adrenaline, I
realized it was her! She was there,
staring at me! I leaned over to April
and whispered in her ear. The
dark-haired woman turned her face again towards the altar, so April didn’t get
a look.
All yesterday’s
sense of unease flooded back. What was
going on? Apparently, nothing drastic
had happened to her yesterday—assault, rape, murder, all those things we
imagined. She looked fine; nothing had
happened. I expected she was in the
hospital or something. What sent the cop
to the house? Her lies?
“Ignore her,”
April whispered calmly, patting my knee.
And then, almost in response, the woman rose and stepped out of the
pew. She looked agitated and alarmed and
started rushing up the aisle. As she
passed us, she paused and whispered venomously, “Fiend! Oh, you fiend!” and
then continued out of the church. April
had grasped my hand and squeezed it painfully.
We stayed through
the mass. But I couldn’t help fearing
what would happen when it was over and we filed out. I sat through the sermon distracted, my right
knee bouncing from nervousness. When we
got out, there was no sign of her.
“I never saw her
before,” April said, as we walked to the car.
“She was really upset, I could see that.
She must be mistaking you for someone else. That’s what it is. Let’s just forget about her.”
“Forget about her
calling me a fiend? God, April. She scares hell out of me. How can I forget?”
“What do you want
to do? You can’t dwell on it,” she said
sensibly. “She’ll drive you crazy.”
“We should seek
some advice before this thing gets out of hand.
That woman obviously thinks I’m stalking her, and there’s no telling
what she might do.”
“You don’t know
that. Stalking? In church?
Don’t make it worse by imagining things.
Maybe she’s crazy. She’s the one
that needs help.”
“Fine. But in the meantime, what do the police
think?”
“Well,” she took
that in, seeing my point, “today’s Sunday.
If you’re thinking about a lawyer, that’ll have to wait for tomorrow.”
“I was thinking
about a lawyer. But for now, how about a
priest? You want to go back to the
church? I’m sure Father Steve would talk
with us.”
“Do you really
want to do that?”
“Not really. OK, let’s go home.”
When we got home,
there was a police car in front of the house.
I said to April, “We should’ve stayed and talked with Father Steve. I’ve got a very bad feeling about this.”
“All we did is go
to church,” April said, angrily, “then come home. There wasn’t time to do anything, even if we planned to.
What could he want with us?”
“I hope we find
out, now,” I said, getting out of the car and waiting for the policeman. He came, unsmiling, from his car. It was a grim moment. The sun was shining, but I felt a storm had
rolled in.
He had come to say
that this woman claimed again I was
harassing her, and that I should be careful for the present to stay in
company. Since the woman seemed to think
I was a danger to her, he warned, in the end, she might be more of a danger to
me. With that, he left. Both April and I stood on the drive staring
at the patrolcar as it took off. His
manner was so cool and abrupt, he stifled us.
Neither of us caught the implications of that “again.” I wanted to ask a thousand questions, but
before I had got the presence of mind, he was gone.
A new worry came
to afflict us. Was I, were we both, now,
in danger? We gathered from the taciturn
cop that the police now knew something about this woman and that what they knew
concerned them enough to warn us.
We must have
looked odd standing on the driveway in our Sunday coats, staring silently into
nothingness—if there were anyone around to see.
April and I were married two years, and neither of us felt ready to
start a family. We had moved into this
house in July and knew our neighbors enough to say hello but not more than
that. Being new in our jobs, we had no
large circle of friends, either. We felt
pretty alone. All we had was each other.
“The cop said stay
in company,” April said sadly, taking my hand.
“I suppose that means me.” She
pulled me along to the house. “You don’t
have another woman to stay in the company of, do you?”
“God, no!” I
groaned. “Don’t even think it. All I want is you. I want all other women to go away.”
This “staying in company” turned
out to be difficult. It wasn’t long before we realized what a problem
it was. We both felt hemmed in, me more
than April, and, since we hadn’t seen the crazy woman in any of our gettings
about, we began finally to relax. Time
passed, and we returned to normal.
It was sometime
after the New Year when we finally began to forget about her that the crazy
woman reentered our lives. This time,
however, it was different. She rang our
doorbell. It was a Friday evening, about
nine o’clock. April and I had gone out
to dinner and had only been home a few minutes.
I answered the door, and when I saw who it was, I didn’t know what to
say. I stepped back and she stepped
in. Then I called to April.
An uneasy moment
passed and April came in from the bedroom, where she had gone to change. She stopped short as she entered the foyer
and then approached inquisitively.
“This is,” I began
to say, but not knowing her name, I paused, and April said, “I know. . . .”
Then the crazy
woman, looking apprehensive, and trying not to catch our eyes (I noticed how
she avoided them), said, “I’m sorry to intrude, but I had to come and say I’m
sorry about the trouble I’ve caused, I was wrong. It’s all over.”
I was more than
surprised, I felt angry and annoyed and put upon and a host of other feelings
rushed over me as well, and I was about to say something flippant, something I
know I would have regretted, when April flashed her eyes at me and shushed me
up.
“Won’t you come
in?” April asked gently, reaching for the woman’s arm, but she stepped back and
avoided April’s hand.
“No,” she said, “I
don’t want to. I’ve just come to say I’m
sorry and want to leave.”
“We’re glad you
came,” April said, again gently.
It was clearly
painful for the woman. She wore the same
black coat as when I first saw her and put her hands in its pockets to get a
grip on herself. She was about to say
something when, on an intake of breath, her whole body trembled. Then, the breath held for a second, she
gasped, “I’m an unhappy person, Oh, Lord, unhappy.”
She turned, then,
and opened the door. As she stepped out
into the cold, she turned back to us and said, in a terrifying voice, “Hell!”
and then, before closing the door, “Hell!”
For a moment both
April and I were suspended in that word, caught as though it were a spell she
cast behind her to keep us from following.
Then April rushed to the door. We
saw the crazy woman open her car door and get in. She backed out of the drive so fast, the rear
bumper of the car hit the pavement of the street. We saw her bounce. Then she put the car in drive and sped off.
“What do you
think?” I said, as we watched the crazy woman drive away.
“I think I’ve
never seen anybody so haunted,” she said.
“Do you think it’s
over? I mean, what she said? Do you think we can believe her?”
“For us, maybe,
yes. It’s been over for a while, for
us.”
I stepped outside
and took a deep breath. The winter night
seemed, well. . .dark. Then April came
out and hugged my arm.
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