Claire McNab - Quokka Question

"Have you listened to my program before?" Pen asked me.

I had to admit I'd missed that pleasure.

Pen chortled. "Be ready to be surprised."

I said I would be.

"Emily screens the calls," said Pen, indicating the whippet woman, who was seated on the other side of the dividing window, earphones dominating her narrow head. "She's got a talent for voices, and will recognize Creepy Guy-that's what we've taken to calling him-if he's on the line. I've told her to put him through like a regular caller." She rubbed her hands together. "Creepy's starting to be a bit of a challenge. I always like a challenge."

"No, you don't," I said, having read much more about stalking and stalkers since last we'd talked. "True stalkers are much more than a challenge. They're unhinged, unpredictable individuals who can go from being a mere nuisance to becoming a murderous threat."

Pen seemed ready to argue, but I went on, "Did you read through the list of preliminary steps that Ariana gave you?"

She waved a dismissive hand. "All just common sense. Besides, being a celebrity of sorts, I've already got more than half of them in place."

The basic safety precautions to take when being stalked were, as Pen said, common sense: block your address at the DMV and voter registration; get a post office box for mail; screen all calls with an answering machine; get an additional, unlisted number and only give it to family and very close friends; never accept delivery of a package unless you personally ordered the item; shred all receipts and statements; keep a cell phone by your side at all times, even inside your home, because a stalker can cut telephone wires; get a watchdog; install a security system including video surveillance of entry points; be aware of exactly where the nearest police station is; establish where twenty-four-hour stores are situated; inform neighbors, coworkers, and friends that you are being stalked so they won't innocently provide information; take a class in self-defense; consider changing your address.

I'd opened my mouth to emphasize that taking a stalker for granted had been a fatal mistake for some victims when a voice in our earphones started the countdown. The program was about to go to air. The theme music, I found, was the old Cole Porter song "Anything Goes." I had a feeling this would prove to be an entirely appropriate choice.

The music faded, and an announcer, his resonant delivery full of joyful enthusiasm, exclaimed, "Welcome to Sexuality Unchained, Dr. Penny's award-winning advice column of the air, covering all issues of adult sexuality!" He dropped his voice to add in a serious tone, "A warning: this is for adults only. Some material discussed may offend some listeners." Another burst of Anything Goes was followed by: "And here's Dr. Penny!"

I recalled that Harriet had said Dr. Penny began her program with a statement that sex was her great passion. Harriet wasn't wrong. "Sex is my great passion!" Pen exclaimed. "My great passion! A life not filled to the brim with healthy sensuality is no life at all! For those listeners new to Sexuality Unchained, let me promise you an unbridled, unrestrained, candid exploration of adult sexuality in all its wonderful diversity."

The calls began. Leaping lizards! There were some uninhibited people out there! I was no prude, but a couple of times my mouth literally fell open. Pen took it all in her stride, even the bloke who'd had a surprising experience while swimming with dolphins.

"Dolphins," said Pen approvingly. "Sexy beggars and opportunists too. You wouldn't be the only case of a cross-species romp."

"But it was male dolphin!" the bloke exclaimed in some distress. "And I'm not gay."

"Three possibilities," said Pen. "A bisexual dolphin, a homosexual dolphin, or a heterosexual dolphin with poor eyesight."

This observation generated a positive firestorm of calls, and perspiration began to run down Emily Whippet's face. Pen was obliged to state emphatically that she did not subscribe to bestiality as a way of life.

"There is no homosexuality in the animal kingdom," declared one irate woman. "These are all God's creatures, and each and every one follows God's design for natural, normal behavior."

Pen snorted at mat. "Homosexual and bisexual behavior is common. In fact, it's more common in other species than in humans. Read up on bonobo chimpanzees. It'll curl your hair."

The woman snorted right back at Pen. "I doubt anything you could say would curl my hair," she sneered.

"Wrap your ears around this," said Pen with a ferocious grin. "Bonobo chimpanzees are among humankind's closest relatives. All the bonobos that have been closely observed turn out to be one hundred percent bisexual." She paused for that to sink in. "You got that? Every last chimp swings both ways."

An inarticulate cry, and the caller disconnected.

"And that, listeners, is the sound of hair curling," said Pen with satisfaction.

It was half an hour into the program that Pen's stalker called. Whippet Emily gestured from behind the glass that she had something, then, in the next commercial break, she came on through our earphones. "Creepy Guy's the call after next-calling himself 'Robert of Agoura Hills.' I'm sure it's him."

"Put him through first, as soon as the break ends." Pen looked over at me, triumphant. "I knew he'd call."

The seemingly interminable commercials finally ended. "You're listening to Sexuality Unchained. And we're back with Dr. Penny…"

Pen purred into the microphone, "And our next call is from Robert of Agoura Hills. What do you have for us, Robert?"

"It's what I have for you, Dr. Penny."

Although masculine, it was a high-pitched, slippery voice with an unpleasant note of insinuation.

"You have a problem with your sexuality?"

"I have a problem with you, you ball-breaking bitch."

Emily made a cutthroat gesture to indicate the ten-second delay was in operation and the caller was off the air before listeners could hear his last words.

"Do women intimidate you, Robert?" Pen inquired sweetly.

He ignored that, saying, "You'll be getting a message soon-a very lethal message. You should learn from it." He sniggered. "I wish I could see your face when it's delivered."

There was a click, and he was gone.

Disappointed, Pen sat back in her chair. "That was a bummer," she said. "He hardly said a thing."

My imagination was buzzing with possible meanings of a very lethal message. "It was a threat, Pen. The message he mentioned could be a bomb, anthrax-"

"Kylie, I've heard much worse than that from callers," said Pen with a shrug, "and nothing's ever happened."

"Five seconds," said Roger.

As cheerfully outrageous as ever, Pen continued with depressed callers suffering premature performance problems, premature rejection problems-"You must be making a lousy first impression," Pen remarked at one point-as well as upbeat callers who readily shared the most intimate particulars of their sexual experiences in surprising detail.

Near the end of the program, Pen was busily quizzing a woman who claimed to have discovered some amazing techniques while traveling in Tibet, when a movement in the control room caught my eye. I was astonished to see Rube Wasinsky, his face haggard, staring through the glass at Pen.

She saw him too. "What's wrong?" she mouthed, while the caller burbled on about secret Tibetan sex arts.

When he put his face in his hands, Pen turned back to the microphone. She interrupted the woman, with, "I'm so sorry, but we're out of time," then she rapidly wrapped up the show.

Pen and I took off our earphones as Rube came into the room. "Oh, Pen," he said. "Oh, Pen."

She stared at him, white-faced. "What is it?"

"It's Oscar."

Pen leaped up. "He's hurt?"