Shelter Me (9 page)

The women screamed “Go!” and “Yes!” and “Do it!” They squeezed each other’s hands and shoulders; they howled their approval.

Mrs. Benson maneuvered her body to kick him, her foot coming down in an axing motion over his stomach. She continued to do this even after he had gone into the surrender position. Only the group calling “911!” cued her to stop. The teenager helped the
older woman get to her feet, and together they called out for the police, the girl throwing her fist into the air like a cheerleader.

Janie found tears leaking down her face, and quickly wiped her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her shirt. It was her turn next, and she screamed and stomped and axed as she’d been taught. But the whole time she was thinking of Bea Benson and her dead son.

J
ANIE HAD ASSUMED SHE’D
have to go out and buy something to eat during the noon break. But Debbie appeared with sandwiches, sodas, chips, and cookies. It was a working lunch, she explained.

“You did great, Janie,” said the incest survivor, sitting in the next chair. “You really know how to yell.” She took a sip of her diet soda and considered, “I think I should learn to swear more.”

“Sometimes it comes in handy, I guess.” Janie said. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.”

“It’s Katya.” She took another sip. “I’m really enjoying this. Are you?”

“Well,” stalled Janie. “It’s better than I thought it would be.”

“Yeah,” said Katya. “I was kind of embarrassed at first. But it’s like group therapy, don’t you think? All weird in the beginning, and then it gets really inspiring.”

“Maybe,” nodded Janie. “Chips?”

“No thanks,” said Katya, patting her flat stomach. “I’m getting married in seven weeks, and the dress shows every ounce!”

“Everybody got what they need?” called Debbie. “I want to do a little checking in to see how we’re doing after your first attack.”

“It’s not my first attack,” said one of the rape victims. There was a silent but palpable gasp as everyone recalled the vicious assault she had tearfully described.

“Oh, I’m sorry—I meant—” stammered Debbie.

“It’s okay,” replied the woman. “It was definitely my
favorite
attack.”

The group smiled in relief. They shared what they were thinking as the attacker came at them, how they felt as they struck back. The girl with acne said she saw the faces of all the kids who had taunted her over the years. Another commented on how much harder it was to watch than to fight.

“The next set of attacks is a little tougher,” said Debbie. “Before the attacker was silent. Now he’s going to say things.”

“Bad things?” asked one of the rape victims.

“Disarming things. Things that keep you from doing what you need to do.”

A
RTURO HAD GONE INTO
the office and taken off the suit. He came out and ate with them, complimenting each one on a particular poke or jab they had delivered. Janie saw this as systematic and contrived, but then he turned to her. “You did fine in the attack,” he said, “but your best defensive move is the way you hold yourself. No one’s going to mistake you for an easy target. It’s clear you’re ready for a fight.”

She knew he was sincere.

During the next round, each woman was attacked from a standing position, as before. But this time, Arturo said things from behind the mesh. Taunts, threats, even crazy things, as if he were on drugs. It heightened the tension, but this time the potential victims were more prepared with their defense. No one fell apart; no one needed to stop.

Then they learned “horizontal defense.”

“Sometimes attacks happen when we’re at our most vulnerable,” said Debbie. “Can anyone guess when that is?”

“When I’m with my future in-laws?” said Katya. The group chuckled.

One of the rape victims mumbled something.

Debbie said, “I don’t think everyone heard that, Rhonda.”

“When we’re asleep,” Rhonda replied flatly.

“That’s right,” said Debbie gently. “When we’re feeling safe in our beds, unaware of any intrusion.”

The women lay prone on the mats with their eyes closed, imagining waking up with a stranger on top of them. They learned the counterintuitive technique of allowing him to remain there for a few moments without struggling. They waited for the moment when the attacker would need to loosen his grip, when they could then spring into action, focusing their strength and intent on disabling him. Arturo supervised as the women practiced in pairs, taking turns hurling the other off. Janie found it uncomfortable and distasteful to have someone on top of her, even for the few brief moments before she pitched her partner to the mat. For others it was even more disturbing. Rhonda needed to stop several times, and eventually Instructor Debbie became her partner.

When Arturo put the attacker suit back on and stood in the corner of the room, the women couldn’t take their eyes off him. They found themselves picking at their cuticles and hunching their shoulders as each waited her turn to be attacked “horizontally.”

It went quickly, Janie surmised, because Arturo was too easy on them. Carefully he placed himself on each potential victim and silently waited to be thrown. When they kicked and poked, he pulled into his surrender position too soon, Janie concluded. He let Rhonda disable him in under fifteen seconds.

After practicing a bit more, Debbie announced, “Now we’re going to put it all together.”

Again the women waited for their turns. But when the attacker got on top of them this time, he was not careful and he was not silent. He snarled nasty, disgusting things at them. He pinned them and made them wait long moments for an opportunity to take action. Debbie crouched close by, watching each woman intently. When it was Rhonda’s turn, she inched a little closer.

“Okay, bitch,” growled the attacker, “now you’re going to get it.”

“Wait, Rhonda,” whispered Debbie, “wait for your chance.”

“I followed you back from that party, ’cause I just knew you wanted it,” he sneered.

A breathy, high-pitched keen of terror escaped from Rhonda’s lips.

“Don’t fade out, Rhonda,” breathed Debbie. “You stay right here and get rid of him.”

“You want some of this, bitch? You know you can’t wait for it.” The attacker released one of her arms and reached down toward his waist. The watchers sucked in their breath in horror.

“Go!” said Debbie. “Eye poke!”

“YOU FUCKER!” screamed Rhonda and rammed her clenched fingertips so hard into the mesh-covered face that a tiny hole appeared. The attacker’s hand flew to his face and he screamed, flailing to contain her with the other hand.

“NO FUCKING WAY!” howled Rhonda and, pulling a leg up to brace herself, pitched him off her. In an almost graceful, swooping motion she pivoted and sank the heel of her foot into his groin. “YOU—” she slammed her heel again—“CAN’T”—again—“HAVE ME!”—and again. “I’M MINE!” The heel came down more rapidly now, “I’M MINE, YOU MOTHERFUCKER! I’M MINE!”

Debbie had to intervene. As the women swarmed around Rhonda with hugs and congratulations, the attacker rose gingerly and limped toward the office. He needed a little “break.”

The only one who hadn’t had a turn yet was Katya, the incest victim. When the attacker returned, Katya lay patiently on the mat and waited for him to descend upon her. Once engaged, the attacker started his patter: “You slut,” he hissed. “You’re a little slut, just like your mother.”

“Uh, Debbie?” said, Katya, twisting her head around. “Can I speak to you for a minute?”

The attacker got off Katya, and the two women crossed the room and whispered to each other. Then Debbie motioned the
attacker over and whispered to him while Katya went back to lie on the mat with her eyes closed.

“Katya?” said the attacker climbing onto her again. “Muffin, are you awake?”

“Go away, Daddy,” she said.

“I love you so much, Muffin. I just love to be close to you.”

“Daddy,” said Katya, her voice starting to tremble. “Please go back to your own bed.”

“But, my bed is so cold, honey,” he crooned. “Mommy is so cold and you’re so warm. Just like a hot, fresh, gooey muffin.”

Katya started to cry. Janie felt as if she might be sick.

“Make him go,” whispered Debbie. “He has no right, Katya. Make him go.”

“You…” Katya breathed. “You have no right, Daddy.”

“No right?” said the attacker. “You’re my daughter.
My
daughter. You belong to
me.
”

“Who do you belong to, Katya?” murmured Debbie.

“Me,” choked Katya. “I belong to—”

“Don’t speak to your father like that, Muffin.” The attacker released his hold on her wrists to stroke her face. “I don’t want to have to punish my best girl.”

“GO!” screamed Janie, surprising herself. Katya’s head snapped toward Janie, momentarily making eye contact. “THAT’S NOT WHAT FATHERS DO!” Janie yelled at her.

Katya heaved the attacker off. He came back at her on his hands and knees and she poked at him with the ball of her foot.

“Kick!” the women screamed. “Stop him!”

“Say it!” yelled Debbie. “Tell him!”

“No more, Daddy,” grunted Katya, her kicks picking up speed. She glanced again at Janie over the attacker’s shoulder.

“He’s no father!” yelled Janie, pointing her finger at Katya. “He’s a rapist! MAKE HIM STOP RAPING YOU!”

Katya screamed then, a howl that would shame a banshee. She slammed her heel into his face, forcing him to roll away from her.

She jumped to her feet and kicked him in the ribs. “YOU’RE NO FATHER, DADDY!” she screamed raggedly. “YOU’RE NO EFFING FATHER!”

The attacker surrendered. Katya put her hands to her face and wept. As the women surrounded her, Katya lowered her hands and searched the crowd. She reached for Janie, wrapping her arms around Janie’s neck and sobbing into her shoulder.

“Good work, Katya,” whispered Janie. “Good effing work!”

M
ONDAY
, J
ULY
2

W
HEN
K
EANE ARRIVED
,
HIS
mother barely stopped the car long enough for him to get out. “Thank you SO much,” she called from the driver’s side window. “I can’t thank you enough!”

Yeah, you can
, thought Janie.
You can actually thank me too much.

“I’M STARVING!” announced Keane.

Janie said to Malinowski, “Okay if they’re out here while I make lunch?” She nodded toward Keane and murmured, “This one’s kind of…busy.”

Malinowski surveyed the blond boy, who was hacking furiously with a stick in a nearby mound of dirt. “I’ll trade you for one of whatever you’re making,” he replied. “Left my cooler home.”

Janie came out with a stack of peanut butter and banana sandwiches, a bowl of grapes, cups of chocolate milk, and a box of wipes. She parked the boys on the wide front step and scrubbed the dirt off their hands. Malinowski joined them, sitting on the lower step, his square shoulders the height of the boys heads.

“Hey,” Keane said to Dylan, with a mouth still full of peanut butter. “Hey, where’s your dad?”

Janie went still, the grape in her hand hovering like a hummingbird in front of her chin. She didn’t look at Dylan, but she listened so hard she thought she could almost hear his cells dividing. In her peripheral vision, she saw Malinowski glance over at her.

“Umm…
,
” said Dylan, squinting for a second. “Uh, he’s in heaven. He got hit by a car.” He pulled the crust off his sandwich and put it on the step. “You should always wear a bike helmet.”

“My dad says I don’t always have to,” said Keane.

“You should,” replied Dylan.

“Okay,” said Keane. “Want this grape? It’s kinda squishy.”

“Pretend that’s a grape tree over there,” said Dylan. “Pretend it eats grapes!”

The boys winged the few remaining grapes toward the tree, widely missing their mark, but hooting like champions
nonetheless. They jumped up and began to search for small stones and half-rotted acorns to throw at the tree.

Malinowski piled their napkins and paper plates onto his own. “I think I hear the baby,” he said, handing them to her without looking up.

Janie hadn’t heard the baby, though the monitor was aimed out the kitchen window, as usual. When she went into the house to check, Carly was still fast asleep. Janie wondered momentarily if Malinowski had purposely given her an excuse to take a moment to collect herself, but dismissed it. How could he know how hard a simple exchange between four-year-olds could hit her?

When she went back to the kitchen to put away the peanut butter and dispose of the banana peels, she heard Malinowski say, “Boys.” He didn’t yell, or sound alarmed, but his tone was mildly menacing, meant to be taken seriously. She glanced out the kitchen window and saw him aiming a warning look at Dylan and Keane, who were facing each other, frozen in mid-throw.

“What’s going on out here?” Janie said as she strode out the door toward them.

On closer examination, each boy was holding a clod of dirt, apparently not for the first time. They were filthy. Janie caught the edge of Malinowski’s smile as he turned back to the cylindrical tubes of cement that would hold up their porch.

“Hey,” she said to the boys. “This is not a good game, someone could get dirt in their eyes or hit with a stone.”

“Sorry!” called Keane immediately, and threw down his dirt. “Sorry Mrs…. Mrs. Dylan’s Mom!”

Dylan started to laugh. “THAT’S not her name! She’s not Mrs. ME!”

“She’s Mrs. YOU!” Keane giggled.

“You can call me—” started Janie.

“She’s Mrs. YOU CAN CALL ME!” yelled Keane and fell down in the dirt laughing.

“She’s Mrs. TELEPHONE!” said Dylan.

Janie rolled her eyes and glanced at Malinowski as the boys lay in the dirt and poked each other with their muddy fingers.

“Who’s on first?” he said with a smile.

“What’s on second,” she answered. “Do you have kids?”

He shook his head. “Nieces. But they’re teenagers now, so they’ve kind of lost their sense of humor temporarily.”

“These two think they’re Abbott and Costello.”

“Boys and dirt,” he said. “Instant happiness.”

She looked at him, taking in the scar on his right arm as it shifted obediently with the movements of his ropy muscles, and the calm, mildly amused set of his dark eyes. And she could think of not one thing to say. He went back to work. She told the boys to meet her at the swings in the backyard and she would bring them pirate hats.

W
HEN
K
EANE’S MOTHER ARRIVED
she looked at him and sighed. “What happened?” she asked Janie.

“Oh they got filthy, playing in the dirt out front and, so I put bathing suits on them and turned the sprinkler on in back. I hope that’s okay.”

“No, it’s fine!” Heidi insisted, running a hand over Keane’s clean wet hair. “I just feel bad he made such a mess. Wait, whose clothes are those?”

“They’re Keane’s, from when he wet his pants at school. I took them home by accident and then washed them, but I forgot to get them back to you.”

“It’s pretty rare to find Keane cleaner at the end of the day than when he started,” Heidi said. “Thank you so much.”

“Stop thanking me. How was work?”

Heidi gave a meaningful smile over the boys’ heads. “Uneventful.”

Janie smiled back and nodded. The boys ran over to inspect the bugs on the grill of Heidi’s car.

“Are you…I don’t mean to be too personal…,” said Heidi.

Then don’t
, thought Janie.

Heidi continued, “Are you thinking about dating at all?”

“No.”

Heidi nodded quickly. “It’s too soon. Only six months since your husband passed. Way too soon.”

“How do you know when my husband passed?”

Heidi gave her an incredulous look and stammered, “Uh…Well, we all…they told us at school. I just remember Valentine’s Day was my turn to send over a meal and that was exactly a month after it happened. I wanted it to be really nice because it was the first month anniversary of his death, and it was Valentine’s Day for goodness’ sake, and I just felt so…”

“Bad for me.”

“Well…,” said Heidi. “Yeah.”

Janie handed her the bag of Keane’s muddy clothes. “Sorry I didn’t get to wash them.”

“Oh God, don’t worry about that,” she said, snatching the bag. “We’d love to have Dylan over some time. Maybe on a Sunday? Keane’s usually with his father on Saturdays.”

“Maybe,” said Janie. “We have church on Sundays, so it gets kind of busy. We’ll see how it goes.”

“Oh,” said Heidi. “Okay.”

When they’d gone, and Dylan had returned from running along the edge of the front yard, waving and yelling to Keane as they drove away, he put his arms around Janie’s waist and collapsed against her. “That was so fun,” he sighed.

“Keane’s pretty entertaining,” said Janie, rubbing his small shoulder blades. “Is he nice to you?”

“Yeah,” said Dylan. “He’s my best friend.”

“H
EY
, I
GOT THIS
un-freakin’-believable cake that’s past the sell-by date. How about if I stop by with some takeout?”

It was 5:45, and Janie’s daily downward spiral was halted before impact by a call from her cousin Cormac. For a brief moment,
Janie imagined a balding man floating behind a metal desk in the Cosmic Department of Prayer. He was stamping hers, “Answered.” Not that she had actually prayed. But maybe there was a God, and maybe He saw her lying on the living room rug with the baby gnawing on the hem of her T-shirt and the small boy begging her for just one more game of Candy Land, the most heinously annoying game ever invented, and He could tell that dinner was going to be bowls of Rice Krispies for yet another night. And maybe He was feeling merciful.

“Sure, that’d be great.” And trying not to sound desperate, she added, “When will you be here?”

“We’re at Ricky’s Ribs. We already ordered, so about fifteen minutes.”

We?

“Cormac’s coming!” Janie told Dylan, who was a little confused by her sudden burst of energy. “Ten-second tidy!”

Janie put Carly in her “activity center,” a circular seat surrounded by rattles and mirrors and toys. On average, Carly enjoyed “activities” for about twelve minutes before she would scream for release. Janie called out “Ten…nine…eight…” while Dylan scrambled to put away the toys, and she darted into the kitchen to put the breakfast and lunch dishes into the dishwasher. She ran a sponge over the counters and the kitchen table, and dusted up the battalion of Cheerios spread under the chairs.

“Why do we have to clean up so much?” asked Dylan, as she smudged a remnant of cream cheese off his face. “Cormac’s not tidy.”

Janie thought of Cormac, who would likely show up with chocolate glaze on his white cotton baker’s pants and confectioners’ sugar on the back of his neck. “No,” she answered, “but it’s good to do when someone’s coming over. We don’t want him to think we’re messy all the time.”

“Or too sad to put our toys away.”

Janie looked at him. His T-shirt was too short, she realized. It
hiked up above the waistband of his shorts when he moved. How had that happened? How did children keep growing no matter what?

“Mom, the bottom of your shirt’s all wet with baby slobber.”

The front door opened as Janie slid a clean gray T-shirt over her head and came down the stairs. “Rib guy!” boomed Cormac, setting down two big brown bags.

“Yuck!” yelled Dylan, who ran to sit on one of Cormac’s huge, sticky sneakers and wrap his arms around Cormac’s tree-trunk of a calf.

“Okay, Chicken-Nugget-and-French-Fry guy! How’s that?”

“Sweet!”

Cormac walked over to rescue Carly from her toy-encrusted prison, dragging Dylan along with his foot, and revealing Barb, who had been standing behind him.

“Hi,” she gave a little wave to Janie.

“Oh,” said Janie. “Hi.”

Barb removed her shoes, baby blue canvas espadrilles with four-inch wedge heels, and placed them tidily by the front door. Her toenails were painted hot pink.

“You don’t have to take off your shoes,” said Janie.

“I always do when I go somewhere after work, otherwise I’d drag flour all over your nice clean house. Plus,” she said with a shy grin, “they’re killing me.”

Janie surveyed the outfit: a thin, pale pink T-shirt with cap sleeves that clung delicately to her breasts; white cotton pants that matched Cormac’s, except they were clean and didn’t seem to bag around her narrow thighs; and a pink-and-white smiley-face printed belt, which held the pants about a half inch below the hem of the shirt, revealing a flawlessly flat and well-tanned stomach. Her navel was neither innie nor outtie. It lay snuggly in its little cave like a pearl.

It was the scrunchie wrapped around her honey-highlighted hair that made Janie want to spit. Pink smiley faces to match the
belt.
Where do they sell this crap?
wondered Janie.
On the sidewalk outside of Wal-mart?

Cormac gathered up the children and hauled them into the kitchen, and Barb carried in the bags of food, leaving Janie with nothing to hold but her disgust. Cormac tickled and juggled the kids into their seats. After they settled in to eat, Cormac excused himself and headed to the bathroom.

“So…,” ventured Barb, holding a rib delicately between her thumb and forefinger. “It must be nice to live in the house you grew up in.”

“Uh, it’s okay.” Janie sank her teeth into the meat, pulling off a large chunk so that she had to suck in the last bit of it.

“Bet the price was right, anyway,” Barb joked.

“We paid market value,” said Janie still chewing.

“Oh, I didn’t mean…of course you wanted to be fair to your mother…”

“And my brother.” Janie reached for a napkin and wiped a spot of grease from her chin.

“Of course.” Barb served herself a spoonful of creamed spinach. “Have you changed it much? Redecorating your mother’s house could be a little…touchy?”

“She couldn’t have cared less. She was so happy to get that job in Italy I could have lit the place on fire and she wouldn’t have noticed.”

Barb chuckled uncertainly.

“Lit what place on fire?” asked Dylan

“Thinking of torching something, chickie?” said Cormac as he strode back into the room and folded his large frame into the wooden chair.

Janie rolled her eyes. “No one’s lighting anything on fire, it was just a figure of speech.”

“What peach?” asked Dylan.

“You!” said Cormac, with a light poke to Dylan’s belly. “You’re a peach!”

Dylan giggled and climbed onto Cormac’s spacious lap. He slid his chicken nuggets over next to Cormac’s pile of ribs and butternut squash. Cormac gave him a greasy kiss on the cheek. These were the moments Janie feared the most: the times when she felt so grateful and so bitter all at once.