up?”
In a few minutes, his reply came: “I’m not a very good sleeper. I do a lot of work at night. I like the quiet. How about you?”
“A spastic baby monitor woke me. Think I’ll try to catch a few winks before the kids get up. Good night.”
A few days later when she checked her e-mail, his response was waiting passively for her: “Good night, Jane.”
J ANIE AWOKE BLEARY-EYED AND cantankerous to the sound of Carly yelling, “Da! Da! Da!” from her crib. A memory of saying “He wants you” skittered across her mind. He wants you? Who wants who? Then it came to her. As a baby, Dylan had learned the “da” sound before he’d learned “ma.” If he wanted someone, no matter who it was, he said, “Da!” On early mornings, when he woke them with his demands, she would nudge Robby and say “He wants you. Hear him? He’s calling you.”
“Okay, I’m coming,” she now heard four-year-old Dylan say, and then the sound of his straining to release his sister from captivity. Knowing they would be on her in moments, Janie ground her molars together to keep from crying.
Jesus, Robby, she begged silently, find the goddamned helmet.
W HEN A UNT J UDE ARRIVED with a blueberry loaf from Cormac’s and a new triple pack of Play-Doh, the children were dressed in clean, not-obviously-mismatched clothes, the beds were made, and Janie was pouring tar-black coffee into a carry mug. BeforeAunt Jude could grill her about the prior evening, Janie kissed them all, including her fluttery aunt, and ran for the door.
Arriving several minutes early, Janie sat in her car in the parking lot and sipped the coffee. The cinder block building that housed Experiential Safety on the second floor was painted stale blue, a color that attempted to be cheery but fell short. Like Play-Doh, she thought.
Another car pulled in several spots down. Out popped the two teenagers from Janie’s class, wearing sweatshirts and ponytails, one holding an iced coffee. Suddenly the other grabbed it and took a big swig. The drink’s owner faked a foot stomp and an eye poke, startling her friend so that the iced coffee flew from her hand. It fell several feet away, cracking open and pouring itself onto the asphalt as it rolled. The two girls laughed so hard they bumped into a Mini Cooper parked in front of them, which made them clutch each other and laugh even harder. Janie watched them struggle to compose themselves before they opened the door to the building. She waited until the stick-on digital clock on her dashboard turned to 9:03, then forced herself to exit the vehicle.
Most of the women were already in the classroom, waiting quietly, nervously in the chairs that lined one wall. Instructor Debbie entered from a door across the room, affixing her light brown hair into a bun from which strands stuck out at odd angles. “Okay,” she said to the group. “How’d everyone sleep?”
A few told of unsettling dreams that sounded random and mildly psychotic to everyone but the teller. One of the rape victims said she couldn’t sleep at all. The teenagers were silent. At the last minute, strictly from boredom, Janie told them about her brief stint as a giant. The women laughed a few seconds longer than they normally would have under other circumstances.
From there the training took off. They practiced elbows to the chest and thrusts to the nose. They rehearsed demanding attention and ordering help. They kicked and poked and punched. Arturo, who had been adjusting a stance here, reviewing a techniquethere, left for a bit. He came back covered from head to foot in a bizarre suit apparently made from football pads, well-placed pieces of Styrofoam, and a massive amount of duct tape. On his head was a cross between a football helmet and a beekeeper’s hat, the mesh stretched tight, obscuring his face. He was huge and shiny. Janie might have laughed, but she didn’t. They were preparing to be attacked.
Each woman got a turn. First was the
In a few minutes, his reply came: “I’m not a very good sleeper. I do a lot of work at night. I like the quiet. How about you?”
“A spastic baby monitor woke me. Think I’ll try to catch a few winks before the kids get up. Good night.”
A few days later when she checked her e-mail, his response was waiting passively for her: “Good night, Jane.”
J ANIE AWOKE BLEARY-EYED AND cantankerous to the sound of Carly yelling, “Da! Da! Da!” from her crib. A memory of saying “He wants you” skittered across her mind. He wants you? Who wants who? Then it came to her. As a baby, Dylan had learned the “da” sound before he’d learned “ma.” If he wanted someone, no matter who it was, he said, “Da!” On early mornings, when he woke them with his demands, she would nudge Robby and say “He wants you. Hear him? He’s calling you.”
“Okay, I’m coming,” she now heard four-year-old Dylan say, and then the sound of his straining to release his sister from captivity. Knowing they would be on her in moments, Janie ground her molars together to keep from crying.
Jesus, Robby, she begged silently, find the goddamned helmet.
W HEN A UNT J UDE ARRIVED with a blueberry loaf from Cormac’s and a new triple pack of Play-Doh, the children were dressed in clean, not-obviously-mismatched clothes, the beds were made, and Janie was pouring tar-black coffee into a carry mug. BeforeAunt Jude could grill her about the prior evening, Janie kissed them all, including her fluttery aunt, and ran for the door.
Arriving several minutes early, Janie sat in her car in the parking lot and sipped the coffee. The cinder block building that housed Experiential Safety on the second floor was painted stale blue, a color that attempted to be cheery but fell short. Like Play-Doh, she thought.
Another car pulled in several spots down. Out popped the two teenagers from Janie’s class, wearing sweatshirts and ponytails, one holding an iced coffee. Suddenly the other grabbed it and took a big swig. The drink’s owner faked a foot stomp and an eye poke, startling her friend so that the iced coffee flew from her hand. It fell several feet away, cracking open and pouring itself onto the asphalt as it rolled. The two girls laughed so hard they bumped into a Mini Cooper parked in front of them, which made them clutch each other and laugh even harder. Janie watched them struggle to compose themselves before they opened the door to the building. She waited until the stick-on digital clock on her dashboard turned to 9:03, then forced herself to exit the vehicle.
Most of the women were already in the classroom, waiting quietly, nervously in the chairs that lined one wall. Instructor Debbie entered from a door across the room, affixing her light brown hair into a bun from which strands stuck out at odd angles. “Okay,” she said to the group. “How’d everyone sleep?”
A few told of unsettling dreams that sounded random and mildly psychotic to everyone but the teller. One of the rape victims said she couldn’t sleep at all. The teenagers were silent. At the last minute, strictly from boredom, Janie told them about her brief stint as a giant. The women laughed a few seconds longer than they normally would have under other circumstances.
From there the training took off. They practiced elbows to the chest and thrusts to the nose. They rehearsed demanding attention and ordering help. They kicked and poked and punched. Arturo, who had been adjusting a stance here, reviewing a techniquethere, left for a bit. He came back covered from head to foot in a bizarre suit apparently made from football pads, well-placed pieces of Styrofoam, and a massive amount of duct tape. On his head was a cross between a football helmet and a beekeeper’s hat, the mesh stretched tight, obscuring his face. He was huge and shiny. Janie might have laughed, but she didn’t. They were preparing to be attacked.
Each woman got a turn. First was the
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