Every Other Wednesday Page 11

  “That is such backward thinking,” said Alice, shaking her head. “Do they think women should vote?”

  Joan laughed. “As long as they’re voting according to their husbands’ wishes.”

  “So, what are you going to do?” asked Ellie.

  “I’m going to take it slowly,” said Joan. “As long as I don’t make any rash moves, nobody gets hurt!”

  “Let’s hope you don’t die of boredom in the meantime,” said Alice. “If I weren’t running, I’d be completely crazy by now. I’ve cleaned out and organized the girls’ rooms, the attic, and the basement, so I’m now on a first name basis with Jacob at Goodwill. And I’ve helped at the store here and there, when Dave was short a worker, and for the opening of the new store, of course. But every time I’m there, at one store or the other, I’m thinking that I belong somewhere else. Maybe I’m just out of practice, too.”

  “Maybe,” said Ellie. “But maybe you haven’t found the right thing. Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “Yes,” said Alice. “But I’ve got to find something. Time is suddenly hanging heavy. Ellie, you’ve got your bookkeeping to occupy and challenge you. Joan, what are you doing to stop you from losing your mind in your empty house?”

  Joan swallowed the bite of sandwich in her mouth and gently wiped the A.1. sauce from her lips. “Who says I haven’t lost it?” Alice and Ellie smiled at her, thinking, Joan guessed, that she was kidding. But the remark was more truthful than humorous. In the last month, she had been at the casino three or four times a week. She’d spent three hours each time at what had become her favorite roulette table, sipping no more than two vodka drinks, followed by a large glass of ice water and two cups of black coffee. And, if her calculations were correct, she’d lost a thousand dollars. The croupiers and pit bosses called her by name and hit on her almost as much as the solo businessmen did. She had not had such attention paid to her since her drinking days in college.

  “You’ll figure it out,” said Ellie. “As my mother says, ‘You’ve got a good head on your shoulders.’ ”

  Alice drizzled more dressing from the small pitcher that had arrived with her salad onto her greens. “Do you ever wonder if you’re more lonely than crazy? I really miss having Linda at home. She and I were more like friends than mother and daughter.”

  “I feel the same way,” said Joan. “While Liz certainly had her own friends, my relationship with her was much more easygoing than my relationship with Cassie. I was very regimented, very strict with Cassie, in terms of what she could and couldn’t do. I was tougher on her than I ever was on Liz. So when Liz left the house, it really did feel like I was losing a companion. Did you feel the same way about your boys, Ellie?”

  “In some ways, yes. Like you, Joan, I was harder on Brandon and easier on Tim. But they also gravitated toward Chris as they moved through high school. I know he misses them as much as I do.”

  “And what about your relationship with Chris?” asked Alice. “Has that changed?”

  Ellie reddened. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” said Alice, spearing a piece of steak with her fork. “I can’t really put my finger on it, but I feel like my relationship with Dave is different.”

  “How is it different?” asked Joan, who’d had similar, yet undeveloped thoughts run through her head.

  Alice chewed and swallowed the steak in her mouth. “I hear some women talk about how the period after their kids leave the house is like a second honeymoon. I’m not feeling that. I feel like Dave has moved ahead without me. I feel like he’s got expectations for who he thinks I am. But how can he think he knows who I am at fifty-five when I don’t even know who I am? And I feel like he’s impatient with me, or just too occupied with his own life to help.”

  “Because he’s so busy?” asked Ellie.

  “Maybe,” said Alice. “I’ve dropped to fourth place on his list of priorities, behind the business, his beloved employees, and way behind running.”

  “Okay,” said Joan, “but to take the other side for a moment, where was Dave on your list of priorities when you were raising the girls? And let me answer for you—somewhere between fourth, after Linda, Hilary, and Cathy, and tenth, after doing whatever it took to stay in shape, getting your errands done, baking, etcetera. We are lost right now because we feel like our husbands have turned their backs on us or moved ahead without us. But, in reality, didn’t we turn our backs on them first?”

  “Point made,” said Alice. “But someone had to take care of the children. And our husbands are grown-ups who can take care of themselves.”

  “I’m not sure that I did turn my back on Chris,” said Ellie. “I’ve given him attention all through our marriage. I’ve worked hard at it. My problem is that it wasn’t reciprocated. To be clear, Chris has always been attentive to me. But it’s in a way that pleases him rather than pleases me.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Alice.

  “Chris is a big doer, but he’s not a big talker—even though he said we’d have more time for conversation once the kids were gone. Tim has been gone for four and a half months, and nothing has changed. I try to talk with Chris, and while I do think he’s making an attempt to talk back more than he used to, he’s not talking in the way that I want him to talk to me. Am I doing something wrong? Am I expecting too much?”

  Alice leaned in toward Ellie. “No, you’re not. Maybe you’re not making yourself clear? That’s what Dave always tells me. I think I’m saying one thing, but he seems to be hearing another.”

  “That’s exactly what it is,” said Ellie. “How do I fix that?”

  “Good question,” said Alice. “If you can solve that problem, you can run for president, and every woman in America will vote for you.”

  FEBRUARY

  CHAPTER 19

  When Alice heard the weather forecast on the radio, she decided to postpone her run until the afternoon, when the sun would be out and the temperature would climb to the mid-thirties. Lately, she had been running in the morning, after Dave left for work and before her day got started. And, because she owned two running stores, she certainly had all the gear for winter running. But, unlike Dave, Alice didn’t enjoy running in freezing temperatures; she preferred running in the spring and fall, on a crisp day, under a startlingly blue sky. Dave loved running in any kind of weather. In the winter, he’d walk back into the house with a grin on his face and often say, “It feels good to be alive.”

  And so, after eating a late breakfast and doing a few errands, Alice changed into her running tights, long-sleeved shirt, jacket, socks, and shoes. She grabbed a lightweight hat, a pair of gloves, and the whistle Joan had given her for Christmas from the basket that held such things in the back hall, and walked out the door. Six minutes later, she was parked in the empty lot adjacent to the head of her latest favorite running trail, which the town plowed and salted as needed in the winter. On it, she could run along the river for a mile before turning into the woods for a two-mile loop and then returning to the same section of trail to end her run. She was now up to four miles, about half of what she had run on a regular basis when she was younger. She ran it in just over forty minutes; she had run the eight miles in her mid-twenties in just over fifty-five minutes. At first, this new, much slower time was hard for her to accept. But Dave had commended her progress, telling her to focus on the future instead of on the past. Plus, it was winter, she told herself. Once spring came, she could run in shorts and a T-shirt, in perfect fifty-degree air, and her mile-per-minute ratio would improve.

  She got out of the car and stood next to it for a moment to perform what she called an assessment. This was the time to decide about the hat, gloves, and jacket because she didn’t like carrying anything in her hands while she ran. She always had her phone with her, but she could zip it into the back pocket of her pants and barely notice its existence. She brought it along for a few reasons: One, she would be available if one of her daughters called; two, she could use the phone if
she got injured and needed help; and three, it stored her music. She had made herself a dozen running playlists, ranging from a cappella singing and acoustic guitar to hip-hop and rock. She chose to run without her hat, but with her gloves. And Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run would serve as her inspiration.

  Alice turned into the woods just after Bruce had finished jamming through “Night” and was wailing the lyrics of “Backstreets.” Her legs were fully warmed up and her knees, which routinely gave her trouble, felt better than they had all week. It was the warmer temperature, she thought. It was kinder to her joints. Her hair, normally held captive by a coated elastic, flew untethered behind her. She felt strong as she ran along the narrow section of trail bordered by thick evergreen trees; her breathing was easy, normal even. A split second later, shoved from behind, she was facedown on the trail, with blood spurting from a flattened nose and something on top of her. “Get off of me!” she screamed, not turning her head to see what she was certain was a bear. There had been news reports of a black bear near the trail. Runners had been advised to make noise along their route. When Alice reached for her whistle, the thing on her back lifted her head by her hair and smashed her cheek back down on the icy pavement. A flash of light exploded behind her eyes, and excruciating pain filled the right side of her face. Blood was now pouring out of her nose. “As soon as you give me what I want, bitch.” Alice’s heart, a cable-snapped elevator, dropped into her stomach. It was not a bear or another wild beast; it was a man, a rapist. Her breathing quickened; her heart rate soared; sweat soaked her armpits. She told herself to calm down, but her body didn’t listen. Her bladder released a tablespoon of urine. He pushed himself up off Alice, but quickly put one knee on her back, keeping her pinned to the ground. He put his mouth to her ear and kissed it. He whispered, “You’re going to make this nice and easy, sweet blond baby.” Alice used her hands to push off the ground, but he used his to shove her back down. She closed her eyes, focusing on the whistle around her neck. Because it had bounced up and down on her chest when she ran, she had tucked it into her jacket at the end of the river section of the trail. “I’m going to spin you over onto your back, so I can get at what I want.” And when he flipped her, she instantly understood the formidability of her foe.

  Dave was five foot eleven, one hundred sixty pounds; this man was taller and bigger, maybe fifty pounds heavier. He was dressed in oversized black jeans and a very large, puffy black coat. He had red hair and green eyes and very white skin, with no trace of pink from the cold. He had no facial hair, except for two thin lines of short hair that served as eyebrows. He looked to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. She willed herself to stare at his face, to remember details that she would be questioned about later. She wondered for a moment if there would even be a later, or if this man would rape her and then kill her. “You think I’m handsome?” he asked her, his calloused hand wrapped around her neck. He leaned in closer. “You staring at me because you think I’m handsome, pretty lady?”

  Alice’s heart thundered beneath her jacket, beneath her whistle. She had no saliva; her breathing was shallow and rapid, like it had been when she gave birth to her daughters. She felt nauseous. But she forced herself to look into his eyes, to concentrate on what was happening. She had thought about this moment, all women did, about what it would feel like to be overpowered by a man with evil intent. And she had seen this kind of scene played out in movies and on television, and she had thought, at the time, that she would be like all the strong women, who were able to ward off their attackers with fast talk and quick knees. Instead, she said, “Take off my pants.”

  A slight smile spread across his lower face, not reaching his eyes or his forehead. “You want it, don’t you? Your man don’t satisfy you like I can. You want me, baby, like I want you.” As soon as he removed his hand from her throat, as soon as his massive body was in motion, shifting its focus, its weight, from her face to her chest, to the waistband of her tights, Alice slowly reached into her jacket for her whistle. She got it into her mouth just as the man was using both hands to pull her running tights down to her knees. Alice used her abdominal muscles, strengthened by daily core exercises in her family room, to lift her upper body into a sitting position. She leaned forward, her head close to his, and blew as hard as she could on the whistle, which was three inches from his ear. His hands flew from her bare thighs to his head. Alice scrambled to her feet. Breathing hard, she kicked him in the groin and then pulled up her pants and ran back toward the river. Ten yards down the trail, she looked behind her. Her right eye was swollen shut, but her left eye could see that he was still on the ground. She ran faster, blowing her whistle every time she exhaled. Another thirty yards from him, Alice stopped to vomit. She looked back to see him getting up from the ground, and she started moving again, running even faster, intensifying the pain in her throbbing face and sending more blood out of her nose. She was crying now, blowing the whistle, running as fast as she could, looking back over her shoulder every twenty yards. He was not following her.

  As soon as she got to her car, she grabbed the key from the top of the right rear tire and used it to open the driver’s door. She launched herself inside and used her left hand to push the automatic locking device and her right hand to direct the key to the ignition. She missed twice, the trembling in her fingers, wrist, and forearm preventing her from inserting the key, from getting farther away. She steadied her right wrist with her left hand and was able to insert the key and start the car. She yanked the shifter into reverse and stepped on the gas pedal. The car flew backward, stopped by a towering snow bank. Gasping for breath, she pulled the knob into the drive position and roared out of the lot. As she drove, she pulled her phone from the pocket of her pants and called Dave. When she got his voice mail, she shouted, “I’ve been attacked on the running trails! Dave, please help me! I’m going to the police station!” and hung up.

  * * *

  The female officer she spoke to at the Southwood police station apologized for the fact that she had to take photos of Alice’s face. Afterward she helped Alice, still shaking involuntarily, clean up in the newly constructed, handicapped-accessible bathroom. Alice remembered reading in the newspaper about the renovations to the police station, thinking them excessive at the time. Now, she was thankful for the large sink, the bright lighting, and the bench, where she could sit comfortably while Officer Walsh, who told Alice to call her Marilyn, gently washed her face with a soft cloth. “I’m sorry to say I think your nose is broken,” Marilyn said. “But it’s a good break, meaning I think it will heal nicely. You will not forget this day, but a month from now you will not look like your nose was broken.”

  Unable to act brave for another second, Alice started to cry, her teetering composure crumbling. “I’m sorry,” she said, tears spilling out of her eyes.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry,” said Marilyn. “I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry you’re sitting here right now. But as soon as you’re all cleaned up, we’ll start the process of catching the animal that did this to you.”

  Sitting in a chair next to Officer Walsh’s desk, Alice told the story of what had happened to her on the running trails. She described where she was attacked, the approximate time of the attack, the physical details of her attacker, as well as what he said to her. Marilyn asked her to describe his voice: Did he have an accent? And she asked Alice to focus on his face: Was there anything other than the paleness of his skin? Birthmarks? Scars? Tattoos? What would distinguish him from all the other bad guys out there? What would help the department catch him? Marilyn asked Alice to close her eyes, and when she did, Alice was startled when an image of the man popped into her head. “His lips,” said Alice. “His lips were red, almost as if he’d been wearing lipstick and had rubbed it off, leaving a residue. They were like blood on snow.”

  Marilyn nodded her head as she continued taking notes. “That’s helpful,” she said, handing Alice another tissue from the value-sized box on
her desk. As Alice dried the fresh tears from her cheeks, she again checked her phone, which was sitting on Officer Walsh’s desk, and had also sat on the bench in the bathroom. There was still no word from Dave. And while Alice knew that he wasn’t always accessible and that he was bad about checking his messages, she was angry that he had not called her, had not somehow known she was in trouble. “Anything?” asked Marilyn.

  “No,” said Alice.

  “That’s the funny thing about cell phones,” said Marilyn. “We have them so we can be in constant contact—but that hardly ever happens. The battery dies. We forget that we switched off the ringer. This kind of thing happens all the time.”

  Alice gave Marilyn a slight smile, even though it hurt to do so. She knew the officer was trying to make her feel better about the fact that she had nearly been raped and her husband was still unavailable, for whatever reason, to comfort her. Dave was short-staffed that day; Alice knew this because he had texted her that morning. The flu was running through his young employees, the twenty-somethings who didn’t get enough sleep and didn’t believe in getting the flu shot, who still thought themselves invincible even though they got sick twice as often as people twice their age. When Alice had asked Dave if he wanted her to come in, he had told her he actually welcomed the opportunity to get out of his office and onto the sales floor. Working directly with the customer was the best way, in his opinion, of getting feedback. Online surveys had their place, but there was nothing like a face to face encounter to know if a product was good, bad, or, even worse, average. The design and materials used to construct shoes that half the people liked and half the people didn’t were the hardest to tweak.