Nicola Griffith - Always

Their eyes glazed; it was enough, for now, to have introduced the topic. “If you think there’s someone in the house who might mean you harm, get off the bed. Mattresses are bad places to get pinned down. Get up and shout that you know they’re there, that you’ve called the police, and that you want them to leave. Shout out to them where all the doors are. Tell them you won’t come between them and an exit—that you just want them to leave. You always want an intruder or potential attacker to leave rather than have to fight you to escape. The point is to survive, not to win. When you’ve shouted, you should call the police. Call nine-one-one. Stay calm. Stay on the line. If anyone comes for you, don’t hesitate to use whatever force you need to stop them from abusing you. It’s your house.”

“So you should always know where the phone is.”

“Yes. You should have nine-one-one and a neighbor’s number on speed dial. You might even consider calling nine-one-one on your land line and your neighbor on your cell.” Because in Atlanta 911 was variable. Sometimes you got put on hold. Sometimes the dispatcher got things wrong. Sometimes they didn’t think women in danger were a priority. “You should also know where the cutoff valve for your water mains is, and for the gas; you should know where your circuit box is, where your spare keys are, where your fully stocked first-aid kit is. If you need to know, it’s likely you’ll need to know in a hurry. Find out now. Be prepared. It doesn’t do any harm.”

I paused.

“In our very first class I asked you to consider what you might be willing to do in various circumstances. I think you now have a better idea of what that means. However, we haven’t discussed what happens afterwards. What happens if you do defend yourself and you do hurt someone.”

Sandra was looking at her fingernails as though she’d never seen them before, but if she’d been a cat, her ears would have been pointing at me.

“The law might seem designed to protect those in need of protection, but occasionally defendants find it works more to protect the status quo. Officers of the court don’t much care for women who hurt people if for one minute a case can be made that you didn’t have to. So always be prepared to make a case. You’re allowed to use reasonable force if someone attacks or threatens to attack you. There’s usually a little more leeway if someone intrudes into your home. You have to show that the threat of attack is credible. Many judges and juries will not be kindly disposed towards anyone who seriously hurts a male, white middle-class citizen and can’t show bruises, or have no witnesses to testify to a knife or gun. I will deny saying this if anyone ever tries to quote me, but I’ve been a police officer and, frankly, there have been times when I wished the defendant had been willing to help the laws of evidence along a little.”

Jennifer frowned. “What do you mean?”

“She means make shit up,” Pauletta said, and looked at me.

“If you have to. Nine times out of ten, if you follow the guidelines I’ve given you, you won’t have to. Just document what actually happened. But be prepared. Who is your best friend? Would she or he be willing to back you up in court? Do you have your friend’s phone number on speed dial?”

“I couldn’t lie to a police officer,” Jennifer said, shocked.

Pauletta said something under her breath.

“What?”

“I said, you’ll probably never have to. You shouldn’t worry about it.”

“What do you mean?”

Tonya looked at the carpet, Pauletta glanced at Kim, who flicked her nails and shrugged, and Suze snorted. Nina smiled kindly. “Honey, I think what she probably means is that you’re the kind of person the police will always treat nice. A lot of us are. Nice clothes, wedding ring, good job, white skin.”

“I don’t see—”

I had a sudden appalling vision of Jennifer’s face, or Tonya’s, or Katherine’s, streaked with dirt and tears, and the flash of police lights, and her saying, No, no, Officer, he didn’t have a gun; no, he didn’t have a knife; yes, I did date him, but only once, about a year ago. What’s that got to do with anything? And the looks of contempt from everyone around her as she was led away; the officer’s big hand on her head as she was bundled into the car; staring bewildered at the plastic restraints on her wrists. But he said he would hurt me. And I only hit him in the throat the way she taught us.

“Some of you are less likely to have trouble than others, yes, but the law tends to come down very heavily on women who hurt men. If you can afford it, keep the number of your lawyer on your cell phone.” Sandra put her feet together and scrunched her toes into the carpet, and suddenly I knew what they reminded me of: Luz’s feet. Young, untrammeled. The feet of a child who needed someone to protect her.

“What if we don’t have a lawyer?” Christie said. “What do we do?”

“Call me,” I said. It just came out.

THE NOISE OF THE CHAINSAWS RIPPING THROUGH THE BRANCHES ON THE CHERRYtree made my head ache. Wherever Kick was, her headache would be worse. The tree surgeon, Guttersen, and his son, Ben, lopped off the first few smaller branches of the limb overhanging Kick’s dining room extension. They fell onto the concrete with a dry rustle. And then the rustling turned to thumps as the small branches gave way to medium-sized ones.

“Yo!” Guttersen let his saw stutter into silence and Ben followed suit, and Guttersen waved at the man in the truck standing by the huge winch. With an industrial beeping, the arm and canvas sling swung ponderously over the garage to the tree. Guttersen and Ben strapped and wrapped the right-hand limb. Guttersen checked his work, nodded me and Ben back, then yanked his saw to life. The teeth tore through most of the foot and a half in two minutes. He signaled the winch operator. The engine note changed up a gear and the cable tightened. Guttersen cut through the last few inches. With a creak, the sling sagged slightly, and then the limb rose majestically and was swung over the garage and into the bed of the truck.

Guttersen put his hands on his hips and grinned. He looked at me. “Sweet work.”

I nodded.

“Just in time, though, eh?” He pointed with his saw. Where the limb had been sheared away, the wood was dark inside, rotten to the core. “Could have come down anytime. Bye, bye, garage, maybe even the side of the house. The whole tree needs to come down. Could fall on the neighbor’s house. On the neighbor. Big liability.”

I pondered. “How long would it take?”

“Another thirty, forty minutes.”

I didn’t know where Kick was. My head hurt. I looked at the lopsided tree. Rotten to the core. Dangerous. Big liability.

“Go ahead.” As soon as I said it, my stomach rolled. I would have said it was a hangover, but last night I hadn’t had even two beers.

Guttersen started on the left-hand limb. Ben took his chainsaw into the bed of the truck and carved the severed right-hand limb as though it were a roll of butter.

I wandered down to the bottom of the garden. On the other side of the fence, the fluffy cat hunched under a raspberry bush, ears flat. “No rats,” I told her.

I sat on the grass. It was dry and prickly. Up close, I could see how much moss there was in the turf; although summer had barely begun, it was already greener than the grass. I had always thought Seattle was like Ireland, eternally soft and damp and green.

The sky was mostly blue, with a few aggressively cheerful little white clouds. A breeze came from the south, gentle, but strong enough to keep the smell of furious engines downwind. I turned my face to the sun and closed my eyes, and breathed in the scents of sun-dried earth and burgeoning berries.