Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

I felt the instinctive anger I always felt at these stories. Karl, still attractive despite the spread, was unlikely ever to leave me. It’s hard to get entangled with young honeys if you spend your life in your lab, your car, and your chair. There were young lab assistants, but anyone expecting half-decent treatment soon left unless they were as obsessed with lipids as Karl was. He looked to be the exception, though. Lately a lot of husbands were trading in their wives for younger models.

I could imagine someone youth-obsessed leaving me. My mind’s nice and tight, but from shoulder to knee I’m soft as the Pillsbury Doughgirl. Natalie, though, was fit and gorgeous. Nor did the timing make sense. They’d just moved into a new house, I knew, because every week she related another construction disaster.

‘‘He just…’’ Natalie’s husky voice quivered. ‘‘… came home one day and said he was moving on. Standing in the kitchen, right in front of the children, he says he’s finally found someone who truly understands him. Who makes him feel young again.’’

She drew a shuddering breath. ‘‘Who wouldn’t feel younger if they didn’t have to worry about homework, sports schedules, teacher conferences, plumbers, investments, and finding a retirement community for his cranky mother?’’

Her workout shoes slapped the dingy tile. ‘‘I’ve been understanding him for twenty-five years. Twenty-five years of bullying the cleaner about his shirts. Of running in from T-ball games and showering off baby spit after moving heaven and earth to get a sitter so I could meet him for dinner in Boston looking glamorous. A quarter century of dancing to his damned piper and he dumps me. It’s just not fair.’’

She jerked off her wedding band and threw it across the room. ‘‘Twenty years as a gym fanatic because he noticed every ounce I gained. Well, fuck him.’’

The shiny gold spun like a dancer on the tile, then disappeared between two lockers. The room was so quiet I could hear the small clang of metal on stone as it fell.

Natalie snatched a headband from her bag, tied back her hair, and pushed up her sleeves. ‘‘Those cops better watch out because I am mad as hell and I have got to take it out on somebody.’’

‘‘What’s his name?’’ Katie asked.

‘‘Sterling,’’ she said. ‘‘Can you believe it? His name is Sterling.’’

Infected by her anger, we followed her into the gym, lively for once. And it made a difference. When I shouted ‘‘No!’’ I meant it. When I punched and kicked, it was in earnest. I was thinking about the guy in the garage. How I’d hated it that some creep could get his kicks terrifying me. I got a real rush channeling my fear and anger into positive action, using my breath to keep from getting rattled, focusing my energy into a self-protective response.

I wasn’t alone. The whole class was responding to the idea of men acting badly. When the massive cop in the Aggressor suit approached Natalie, I saw surprise and respect through the bars of his mask as she stomped, kicked, and punched him to the floor.

Then it was my turn. When we started the course, I couldn’t bring myself to shout. I said ‘‘No’’ in such a quiet voice I wouldn’t have deterred a three-year-old. Over the weeks my ‘‘No’’ had stopped sounding like an invitation to try again. Tonight I roared. When Natalie knocked that guy down and stomped the hell out of him, I was on my feet with the rest of the class yelling, ‘‘Yes!’’

It was one thing to cheer the others on, another to face this guy myself. Even if he was limping a little and not showing his earlier gusto, he was nearly twice my size and probably half my age. When I began my nonchalant stroll across the gym, I felt the same clenching fear I’d felt in the parking garage. But nothing happened.

I was almost across the room when a fat, gloved hand snaked around from behind and grabbed me. I jabbed my elbow back, hard, as I seized his hand and spun around, jerking him toward me. I slapped his ear with one hand while snapping a kick toward his crotch. ‘‘Breathe,’’ I whispered, ‘‘breathe.’’

Maybe he’d had enough, because he grabbed my kicking leg and dropped me hard. I scrambled back, planted my hands behind me, and kicked out at him, snapping good hard kicks at his grabbing hands. Then a second guy grabbed my shoulders, pressing me down. I gave a sudden sideways roll and got my feet under me, but as they moved in together, I cast the rules of the exercise aside. ‘‘Natalie. Help me.’’

Instantly, she was beside me, her feet braced and her hands up in protective, assertive fists. I curled my hands into fists of my own, and shoulder to shoulder, we faced them. ‘‘Back off. Keep away from me,’’ I growled. The new man lunged.

‘‘No way!’’ I screamed, jerking his arm so that he flew past. As he regained his balance, I should have run. That was the point of the exercise. But I’d called on Natalie for help. While my guy was still turning, I rushed her attacker and hauled him off. I grabbed her hand and we raced for the door, giggling like tweens, crossing the black safety line just before they reached us.

‘‘Thanks,’’ I said, hugging her. ‘‘You can be on my team anytime.’’

‘‘Ditto. I always forget that part about running. I want to stay and fight.’’

For a moment, she looked sad. Was she thinking about her marriage? How you can’t stay and fight if the other person’s walked out and won’t even give you a chance. Sometimes they don’t give you a chance when they stay around.

I settled onto the hard wooden bleachers. The exercise had left me feeling positive that I’d been able to assert myself. But although it was only an exercise and I’d always been ‘‘safe,’’ I’d felt genuine fear, real vulnerability, powerful anger toward my attackers. Something about that had stirred up memories of other scary times.

I’d had a blind date once where the guy had gotten drunk and violent. Instead of driving me home, he’d parked on a dark side street and tried to rape me. I’d ended up running shoeless down an icy January sidewalk, my blouse torn, rescued by a kindly police officer about my dad’s age. He’d wrapped me in his creaky leather jacket, given me tissues, and told me that it wasn’t my fault, repeating it in his certain, gravelly voice until I almost believed him.

That wasn’t the only thing, but it was the worst. I wanted to live in a world where women didn’t have to worry about things like this. Where I wouldn’t be thinking that I should send my soon-to-be-college-bound daughter to this class. Where people resolved their differences with language. But who was I kidding? I couldn’t make language work in my own home. And I was not naïve. This class had helped with the man in the parking garage. As long as there were men who got their kicks making women uncomfortable, who didn’t respect boundaries, we needed to be responsible for our own safety.

When the two female officers who’d run the class asked how we felt, they got a chorus of ‘‘great’’ and ‘‘incredible’’ until they got to me. I told them about my mixed feelings, how I felt all jumbled up. Katie agreed, and Natalie, and another woman named Sandy, who’d had an even harder time yelling and being assertive. The officers offered sympathy but seemed annoyed, which annoyed me right back. I get impatient with people who want approved answers instead of truth.

As we filed into the parking lot, I said, ‘‘Hey, Katie, got time for a glass of wine?’’

Katie looked surprised. She’d asked before and I always said no. I’d fallen into a pattern of rushing home. There was always so much to do and I could never be certain Karl had paid attention to Bobby’s homework. Tonight, though, I wanted company.