Warren Murphy: Encounter Group

I'm sorry.

Your loving husband, John (no Bull) Schutz

Amanda was crushed. Then her natural anger rose to the surface. She paced the floor of her model kitchen, which was equipped with year-round air-conditioning, and tore savagely at her long blonde hair.

"That creep! I gave that man everything. I catered to him. I trusted him. I shared with him. That miserable creep! There probably isn't enough money to support me for a year in that stupid bank account."

And there wasn't. Nor in Amanda's personal account either— the one her husband had set up and maintained because Amanda had demanded an account of her own so she could continue to feel independent while her husband worked.

* * *

The first thing Amanda did was to run to the Georgetown Women's Crisis Center. When the counselor there found out that Amanda hadn't been beaten or raped by her husband at any time, the counselor wanted to send her home because she was convinced Amanda was lying.

"All husbands beat their wives," explained the counselor, who had listened to horror tales of abuse of women by men for the seven years she had worked at the Georgetown Women's Crisis Center and as a result had assumed that all men were despicable and beat their wives or girlfriends regularly each Friday night.

"But John didn't," cried Amanda, who was in tears by now.

"How long have you two been married?" the counselor demanded firmly, while pretending to take notes.

"About three months."

"In that case, I'm sure your husband hadn't gotten around to beating you yet. Some men actually wait a few years before they start. It's some kind of game they play."

That fit in with Amanda's current attitude toward men, but it didn't help her situation and she said so.

"Well, I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do for you if you haven't been raped or beaten," the counselor repeated sternly.

"But I just want someone to talk to!" Amanda cried.

"Sorry."

The next thing Amanda did was to go home to her father. She knew she couldn't afford the mortgage payments on the house her husband had left her with, so she went home telling herself that her father would take her back in a minute.

"Besides, he owes me for what he did to Mom."

Except that Edmond Bull didn't owe anyone any longer. He had died only a few weeks before.

He had written her several letters from the hospital as he lay dying, but she had torn them up unopened.

She went to their family house but found that it had been purchased by strangers a few days before. She went to the family lawyer to claim her inheritance.

"Your father had a modest number of real estate holdings and some stocks and bonds," the lawyer said.

"When do I get it?"

"You don't," the lawyer said.

"What do you mean?"

"Your father left his money in equal amounts to the American Legion, the Moral Majority, the Citizens Against Abortion, and to the local Police Athletic League," the lawyer said.

"He left me nothing, the rat bastard?"

"Well, he left you this." The lawyer handed her an envelope. Inside was a crisp new $1 bill and an itemized accounting of all the money Edmond Bull had spent on his daughter since high school, feeding her, buying her clothes, sending her to school, financing her one-woman revolution. The amount totaled $127,365.12.

"I'll fight the will," she said.

"You don't have a chance," the lawyer said.

"You're just another woman-oppressing flunky, just like my father," she said.

"Yes, indeed," the lawyer said with a smile.

Amanda was crushed. In just a few short hours, her life had been turned upside down. Amanda's faith in men— one man, anyway— had been destroyed. And her faith in women was a little shaky, too. After wandering Georgetown's student-filled streets in a confused state, she decided it had something to do with the corrupting influence of nearby Washington. Maybe some kind of conspiracy. What kind wasn't exactly clear, but lately even the women she met were as bad as the worst MCP she'd ever met. There had to be an explanation somewhere.

Because it never occurred to her that the problem might not be one of men versus women, but of human nature, Amanda decided to head west to seek a better life.

At the point when Amanda Bull, no longer Bull-Schutz, loaded her most prized possessions into a backpack and set out in search of truth and equality, she still didn't believe in flying saucers, but she unknowingly took her second step toward forces beyond her comprehension.

"Maybe if I became a lesbian..." Amanda mused as she trudged backward along Interstate Highway 81 with her thumb cocked. It wasn't long before a lady trucker offered to take Amanda as far as Little Rock, Arkansas. She jumped in and began telling her tale of woe. By the time they rolled into Arkansas the next day, Amanda was wondering aloud if gay might not be the way after all. Her enthusiasm got a rude shock and turned to indignation when the lady trucker pulled over and made an aggressive pass at her.

"Keep your hands off me!" Amanda yelled. "Who do you think you are, anyway?"

"Hey, now. What was all that crap you've been feeding me since Memphis?"

"That was different! I'm not ready yet," Amanda said, and bolted from the truck. She ran off into the red oak forest, which was clotted with darkness. She was too shocked by her recent experience to fear anything that might be waiting in those woods. And so she picked her way, her flashlight chasing rabbits and owls and the shadows of rabbits and owls.

The moon, a silvery moon like a faraway dime, came up before Amanda realized she was hopelessly lost.

"Damn all men!" she said. "I think I'm only making things worse the deeper I go."

But, having no other choice, she continued on.

Her flashlight expired not long after that. Then she saw the light. It was a hazy, mellow kind of light a distance off in the trees. Low to the ground, it made the red oaks look like dark ghosts before a witch's cauldron.

Figuring the light to be a house, Amanda crept forward. But before she even got to the circle of light, a figure came out of nowhere and shone a light in her face.

"Halt!" a voice challenged. "Friend or Foes?"

"Uh... Friend— friend!" Amanda said. "And there's only one of me."

"Hah! Wrong answer. You should have said FOES."

"But I don't even know you," Amanda protested.

"That's okay." The light flipped up to reveal a bearded, jovial face, like a wood gnome with an acned past. "I'm Orville Sale, with FOES."

"Foes?"

"Yep. It stands for Flying Object Evaluation Center."

"Center doesn't start with an S," Amanda said.

"Well, we came up with the initials first and then had problems finding words that fit. Someone suggested Center because the C sounds like an S, so we used it but kept the initials as FOES. Anyway, that's us in the clearing yonder. We're scanning."

"Scanning what?" Amanda wanted to know.

"The skies, of course," Orville Sale said. "We do this every Thursday night."

"I don't get it," said Amanda, who didn't get it.

"Well, c'mon. I'll show you." Orville said, leading Amanda toward the clearing. "What's your name?"

"Amanda Bull-Sc— uh... Amanda Bull."

"Hey, all you folks! Meet Amanda."

There were about a dozen people of varying ages in the clearing. Although it was one o'clock in the morning, there were blankets and open picnic baskets on the ground, as well as a bundle of portable searchlights aimed into the sky. Most of the group had binoculars, and others were taking turns looking into the eyepiece of an eighteen-inch Newtonian telescope, which would have provided an exceptional view of the skies if it weren't for all the ground illumination. They stopped their activity long enough to wave or shout in greeting when they saw Amanda and Orville approach. Then a minor argument developed over who was next at the telescope.