Whittaker 01 The Enemy We Know (8 page)

Sighing, I got up and rifled through my fridge. Not a lot going on here for a kitty. Or a woman. I didn’t bother sniffing the milk; the chunky thumps bumping around inside the container were clue enough. Would a cat eat leftover Chinese? I refused to sacrifice my chocolate-chocolate chip ice cream. I finally grabbed a red and white can of whip cream, shook the hell out of it and shot an experimental squirt in my mouth. That and the last slice of bologna would have to do.

Padding quietly downstairs in socks and sweats, it occurred to me too late that I should have worn shoes. And a coat. March in northern Wisconsin is just plain cold. Warm nights don’t happen for another four months. I made the added mistake of stepping off the concrete, thus soaking my socks. Ignoring the discomfort, I squirted a puffy cloud of whip cream onto a flat rock near the bushes where the kitty had disappeared. Then I sat on the stoop, watching the darkness under the foliage.

Fifteen shivery minutes later, the pale triangle of a head peeked out from the leaves before disappearing again. Another peek, and a tentative paw reached out, tapping the air as if testing it. Another retreat. A good five-minute wait this time, and then a shape flowed like milk, settling next to the now-dripping rock.

I watched in silence, while my backside froze, as he licked the rock clean. Every few seconds he’d raise his head, stare at me. A little strip of dark fur under his nose, on three paws, and the tip of his tail gave the impression of having been dipped in chocolate.

I held still under his gaze, despite my shivering, and channeled pleasant thoughts. When he was done eating, he lifted his head once more. I held the slice of bologna by my finger tips, wafting it gently through the air.

“
Still hungry?” I whispered.

His ears twitched, and he blinked. Was that kitty code? I rose stiffly, gently tossing the slice toward the rock. He bolted for the bushes.

Not the response I was hoping for. With a sigh, I sat back down and waited. After another ten minutes, I gave up. My feet ached and I’d achieved maximum butt-chill from the cold concrete. He’d be back out for the meat, but this was going to be a longer process than I’d bargained for. At least now I could sleep, knowing he was fed.

He didn’t show himself the next morning, and I couldn’t hang around without making myself late for the Sunday AA meeting that I’d promised to attend. I didn’t really know many of the people at the meeting—different crowd from mine—but it didn’t matter.

Admitting I almost drank was embarrassing, but it quickly turned into an atta-girl session when everyone heard that I’d phoned an AA member at the last minute. As far as the group was concerned, I was a poster child of success. I left the meeting feeling better than I did when I went in.

Robert showed up soon after, and we went for a late breakfast before he hit the road for home. He had four Band-Aids strapped across his wrist, so he’d apparently taken my advice seriously. I considered telling him about my attempts to tame his wild beast, but decided not to. He didn’t really seem like a cat person. Besides, I’ve never held fast to the open-and-honest philosophy of relationships. Why start now?

Life was quiet for several days. I met with Marshall for the good of my job and with Sue for the good of my soul. Every evening after work, I’d dutifully trudge to an AA meeting, then head home to sit on the stoop to watch Siggy eat.

After the second day of watching the delicate hunt-and-peck approach to eating, I’d noticed the dab of “chocolate” beneath his nose extended under his mouth in a mini-goatee. I named him Sigmund, in honor of the Father of Psychology. After all, the nightly vigils were as therapeutic as anything I had to offer my clients. Maybe I should prescribe cats.

The third night, after finishing the morsels in his dish, Siggy strolled a few inches away from the bowl and sat down to stare at me. I waited. His ears twitched back and forth like radar, testing the air for safety vibes. I concentrated on exuding an aura of trustfulness. Apparently I sucked at aura emissions, because Siggy bolted for the bushes. Maybe next time.

I decided to stock up on cat supplies.

Thursday was my late day at the clinic, but my last client canceled, so I ended up leaving at 6:30. Marshall had just finished up whatever administrative types like him do and walked me to the parking lot. I felt bad that I hadn’t told him about Wayne’s reappearance the other day. I didn’t want to have to explain why I hadn’t reported it to the police. He’d logically ask why not, and, since he didn’t know I was in recovery, I couldn’t explain that I’d had a near relapse. Again, honesty ditched in favor of what—
you-
don’t-know-won’t-hurt—
me
. I’d been worried that Mary Kate might tell, but so far she hadn’t. At least as far as I knew.

Still, I was grateful for his company. Even though the last few days had been Wayne-less, I was jittery and on-edge all the time. As we walked, I kept an eye out for decrepit vans and smiling assholes.

Marshall continued past my Focus toward his own Saab parked farther down. “Whoa, you’ve got a flat.”

I walked around to the passenger side and gazed at the puddle of rubber my formerly round tire had turned into. “Huh.” I looked at Marshall, deadpan.

“
You don’t know how to change a tire, do you?”

“
I could figure it out,” I said. “If I had to.”

With a good-natured sigh, he set his briefcase down and waved his hand in an “open this” gesture at the trunk. My brief fling at feminism extinguished, I popped the trunk and commenced supervising the boss. Mary Kate joined me about five minutes later, and we had a fine time watching Marshall work. I could get used to this.

After wrestling the tire off, Marshall pointed out a nail embedded in the tread. I supposed it was possible that I’d picked it up on the road, but the image of Wayne pounding it into my tire fit better. I looked at Mary Kate, who waggled her eyebrows at me, making significant eye contact. This was Mary Kate being subtle.

Meanwhile, Marshall had rolled a teeny tire the size of a Cheerio from my trunk to the empty socket.

“
Is that thing big enough?”

“
Don’t drive far and don’t go too fast. This is only to get you to the service station. Do you have someplace that you usually go?”

“
Yeah. An old family friend runs an auto repair shop in town. It’s closed for the night, but I can get there first thing in the morning.”

“
I suppose you’re telling me you’ll be late.” Marshall frowned in mock severity.

“
I’ve got a real understanding boss,” I said, smiling.

I got another sigh in answer and, for a moment, just a flash, I thought I saw Marshall’s eyes travel the length of my body. Mistake. Had to be.

Since my imagination seemed stuck in overdrive, I decided it was better to not assume that Wayne was responsible for the flat until I had more evidence.

Keeping an open mind lasted twenty-four hours until the next flat tire. This one was on the driver’s side, and I was alone when I discovered it. I briefly debated asking Marshall for help, but I’d had enough of the damsel in distress crap. How hard could it be? Copying what I’d seen yesterday, I wrestled the tire off and stood panting, hands on hips. Yay, me!

The sound of clapping made me whip around. Thankfully, instead of Wayne, Marshall leaned against his car, shirt sleeves rolled up, briefcase on the ground, watching my progress.

“
You couldn’t lend a hand?” I said, heart still thumping with residual fear.

“
What? And interfere with such a fine example of feminine independence? Not on your life. Besides, I have faith in you.”

“
Thanks,” I grunted, rolling the lopsided tire toward my trunk. Dragging it across the blacktop uncovered the source of the flat. Another nail. No surprise there. Marshall let me bumble along as I hauled the Cheerio out and prepared to stick it back on. It was weird having an audience, and, karma-senses tingling, I got the distinct impression that Marshall was staring at my butt. I tried catching him at it, but every time I’d turn around his eyes would be innocently fixed on my face. The sneak.

I felt marginally more comfortable when Mary Kate joined us, although she about killed me trying to help. In her eagerness, she tripped over the jack while I was twisting the lug nuts tight, knocking me on my butt. The specter of my car falling off the jack and landing on top of me almost made me hope that Wayne got me first.

With a muffled chuckle, Marshall took possession of the iron, twisting the lug nuts an extra couple wrenches. In spite of my assertion of independence, I appreciated the added security. No sense winning the battle for feminism and losing the car in a roll-over. Priorities, after all.

And, anyway, I’d already done all the hard stuff.

When I left, the two of them stood in the parking lot as Mary Kate lay her plot to lure Marshall to his surprise birthday party.

I didn’t have time to get to Al’s Auto Body before closing and was already late for the Friday night meeting. Again. I decided to go straight to the club and deal with the tire in the morning.

After I parked, I spent several minutes hunting around the junk in the backseat, looking for my AA Big Book. I usually tucked it under the mini-landfill of paperwork and books in my backseat, hidden from anyone passing by. Finally found it wedged under the seat.

As I made my way across the dark parking lot, my stomach knotted with anxiety. I hated being late, I hated dealing with smug Sandra as she draped herself over my boyfriend, and I hated the stares I knew I’d get from the old-timers for being late. Again. The feeble lighting added to my nerves.

As I neared the corner of the building to the front entrance, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I stopped. For a moment, I stood frozen in an eerie sensation.
Someone was watching me.

Instinctively, I moved closer to the brick wall, putting it at my back. I scanned the parking lot, searching the shadows between each of the cars and trucks. After several seconds, I felt stupid. Then a car door slammed, and a man emerged from a dark-colored sedan. A Buick, I thought, like Dad always drove. My heart pumped wildly, sweat erupting like liquid popcorn from my forehead. He moved through the lot, keeping to the shadows.

My brain screamed
run,
but my body added a new “F” for Frozen to Fight or Flight. If it were up to my genes, the human race would be extinct.

Unexpectedly, he moved into a weak pool of light grudgingly provided by one of the few working overheads. It was Paul.

Well, shit.

With a burst of hysteria that I tried to pawn off as laughter, I waved at him. A smile cranked over his homely face, and he waved furiously. And kept waving. He seemed to be experiencing a waving spasm. Waved all the way up to me.

“
Hey, Letty! Hi! You running behind, too? I got stuck at work. Don’t you hate that?”

Paul’s chatter covered my embarrassment at overreacting. We turned to head into the club. My eyes, though, still hopped up on adrenalin, continued scanning. Then found something. Giddy with relief and slower to catch up, my brain hiccupped at processing the new information. A leftover giggle morphed into a gasp of fear.

Across the street, Wayne stood leaning against the wall of my favorite bakery. Staring. Smiling. He waved, too.

No question now about talking to the police. Or Marshall, for that matter. I couldn’t keep denying that Wayne was a problem. Enough already.

Al from the garage wasn’t very encouraging about the situation, either. When I pulled into the station early Saturday morning with the second flat tire in as many days, he came out of the bay wiping his hands on a greasy rag. My dad’s best friend, Al had always been good about taking care of me. Better than my dad, actually.

“
Looks like you got another flat.”

“
Yep.”

“
Gonna make a habit of this?”

“
I hope not. But … maybe.”

A man of few words, he nodded, letting his eyes ask the questions.

“
Some jerk is harassing me. I’m going to the cops on Monday.”

Over his shoulder, he called to one of his workers. “Rick! Come take care of my girl here.” Crooking a finger, he motioned me to follow him into his office.

As we passed through the five-by-seven foot “lobby” lined with metal chairs, he pulled a key out of his pocket, opened the pop machine and grabbed two cans of generic cola before continuing on to the small office behind.

Like Al, the office was geared for hard work and efficiency and smelled like grease. The only bright spot came from a calendar featuring a red Corvette and a buxom blonde, both high maintenance and artificially engineered. Seeing me glance at the babe made Al clear his throat uncomfortably, casting his eyes in the opposite direction. Al didn’t like to think about boobs with his best friend’s baby girl in the same room.

He handed me one of the pops, taking a long slug of his own. I took a sip and waited. For as long as I’d known Al, I couldn’t remember a single time where we’d had a conversation that involved anything more personal than the weather, but I could tell he was gearing up for something big.

“
You know who this guy is?” he asked.

“
Yeah, but I can’t prove it. Not yet, anyway. He’s making it pretty obvious, though.”

“
You scared?”

I almost couldn’t answer. My throat closed up, and I was afraid the sip of pop I’d just taken wouldn’t go down. A memory from when I was twelve flashed into my mind.

Al brings Dad home after the VFW picnic, hauling him up the back steps into the kitchen. Mom takes over, guiding Dad into the bathroom and dumping him on the floor. Dad misses the toilet, of course, puke splattering noisily on our tile floor. I hate him then, knowing I’d have to clean up the mess, scrubbing the vomit from the grout lines with an old toothbrush. We stand there—my brother, sister, and I—in the kitchen with my father’s silent, steady friend, listening to the retching. I wish Al was my father.