option.
Irene is knocking on the door. I want to take a shower, but I never take a shower at night; she’ll make a big deal out of it. When I come out of the bathroom, she wants me to come to her room, lie down and talk. But I don’t want to. I want to be with Willie. Willie who is innocent of all of this, of everything.
She puts her hand on my arm. “Listen, kiddo, maybe we should call somebody.” Her voice is a whisper. “You know, one of those hotlines.”
I jerk my arm away. “Are you still on that? I told you, he didn’t rape me!”
“Patty, please—”
“No! Don’t say another word!” Harry is standing in the hall now. Jonathan is right behind him. I’m sure they heard me yelling, but I don’t care what they think. I’m past that too.
I turn away from them all and go into my room.
Willie is snoring softly. I remember how tired he was: he’d missed his nap because we were at the pool. He’s lying on his side, clutching his beagle; both pillows are still against his back. I stare at him for a minute before I push some toys off the other bed and flop down on it. I wish I could sleep with him but I can’t. I’m too dirty.
Tomorrow I will call Fred. As soon as he can find a replacement, I’ll take Willie and leave. I’m not sure where we’ll go, but I’ll think about that later. Right now, all I know is I have to get away from here.
The next morning, Willie wakes up at eight. It’s late for him but much too early for me. I go through the motions of the morning: fix him a bowl of cereal, force myself to choke down some toast, drag him into the bathroom with a pile of toys to play with on the floor while I finally take a long shower, set him in front of Sesame Street . I have to keep the TV volume low; Jonathan’s asleep on the couch.
I go into the kitchen, figuring now is as good a time as any to make the call. Marge, Fred’s secretary, says he won’t be in the office until this afternoon. “It’s important,” I tell her. “Make sure he calls me back.”
“You’re really serious about this?” Irene asks, as she comes into the kitchen to start her coffee.
I say yes and escape into the living room. Willie wants to make Play-Doh people; when I get that cleaned up, he wants to go to our room and pretend the bed is a bus for the hundredth time. I don’t mind; I’m glad to get away from Irene. She keeps coming into the living room, presumably to say something to Willie but really to give me another penetrating, worried look.
The guys start waking up around two thirty; they’re all up and slumped at the small kitchen table, munching donuts and drinking coffee, when the phone rings. Willie and I are behind the rocking chair, building a blanket fort, and I hear Jonathan answer. He talks to Fred for a minute, tells him Saturday went fine, mentions a problem we had with the PA that appears to be fixed. And then he says, “She isn’t here right now, but I’ll tell her you called.” I run in there, but it’s too late. He’s already hung up.
“Why the hell did you do that?”
He shrugs. “I thought you might want to think about it more before you talk to Fred.”
“It’s none of your business what I want.”
I pick up the receiver and dial Fred’s office. Marge says she’s sorry; he just tried to call me, but unfortunately he got called to a meeting as soon as he put down the phone.
“Dammit.” I turn around and frown at Jonathan, at them all. Dennis is tapping out a beat on the donut box, Carl is reading the liner notes on a Pat Metheny CD, and Harry is getting a shoulder rub from Irene. They look like they always do: calm and of course, cool.
It’s infuriating.
When Dennis says, “You want a donut?” I say, “Screw you.” Nobody laughs. Even when I go back in the living room, nobody laughs.
This is progress, I think. Before they thought I was an air-head, now they think I’m a bitch. Big improvement.
I try Fred again at five but Marge says he never
Irene is knocking on the door. I want to take a shower, but I never take a shower at night; she’ll make a big deal out of it. When I come out of the bathroom, she wants me to come to her room, lie down and talk. But I don’t want to. I want to be with Willie. Willie who is innocent of all of this, of everything.
She puts her hand on my arm. “Listen, kiddo, maybe we should call somebody.” Her voice is a whisper. “You know, one of those hotlines.”
I jerk my arm away. “Are you still on that? I told you, he didn’t rape me!”
“Patty, please—”
“No! Don’t say another word!” Harry is standing in the hall now. Jonathan is right behind him. I’m sure they heard me yelling, but I don’t care what they think. I’m past that too.
I turn away from them all and go into my room.
Willie is snoring softly. I remember how tired he was: he’d missed his nap because we were at the pool. He’s lying on his side, clutching his beagle; both pillows are still against his back. I stare at him for a minute before I push some toys off the other bed and flop down on it. I wish I could sleep with him but I can’t. I’m too dirty.
Tomorrow I will call Fred. As soon as he can find a replacement, I’ll take Willie and leave. I’m not sure where we’ll go, but I’ll think about that later. Right now, all I know is I have to get away from here.
The next morning, Willie wakes up at eight. It’s late for him but much too early for me. I go through the motions of the morning: fix him a bowl of cereal, force myself to choke down some toast, drag him into the bathroom with a pile of toys to play with on the floor while I finally take a long shower, set him in front of Sesame Street . I have to keep the TV volume low; Jonathan’s asleep on the couch.
I go into the kitchen, figuring now is as good a time as any to make the call. Marge, Fred’s secretary, says he won’t be in the office until this afternoon. “It’s important,” I tell her. “Make sure he calls me back.”
“You’re really serious about this?” Irene asks, as she comes into the kitchen to start her coffee.
I say yes and escape into the living room. Willie wants to make Play-Doh people; when I get that cleaned up, he wants to go to our room and pretend the bed is a bus for the hundredth time. I don’t mind; I’m glad to get away from Irene. She keeps coming into the living room, presumably to say something to Willie but really to give me another penetrating, worried look.
The guys start waking up around two thirty; they’re all up and slumped at the small kitchen table, munching donuts and drinking coffee, when the phone rings. Willie and I are behind the rocking chair, building a blanket fort, and I hear Jonathan answer. He talks to Fred for a minute, tells him Saturday went fine, mentions a problem we had with the PA that appears to be fixed. And then he says, “She isn’t here right now, but I’ll tell her you called.” I run in there, but it’s too late. He’s already hung up.
“Why the hell did you do that?”
He shrugs. “I thought you might want to think about it more before you talk to Fred.”
“It’s none of your business what I want.”
I pick up the receiver and dial Fred’s office. Marge says she’s sorry; he just tried to call me, but unfortunately he got called to a meeting as soon as he put down the phone.
“Dammit.” I turn around and frown at Jonathan, at them all. Dennis is tapping out a beat on the donut box, Carl is reading the liner notes on a Pat Metheny CD, and Harry is getting a shoulder rub from Irene. They look like they always do: calm and of course, cool.
It’s infuriating.
When Dennis says, “You want a donut?” I say, “Screw you.” Nobody laughs. Even when I go back in the living room, nobody laughs.
This is progress, I think. Before they thought I was an air-head, now they think I’m a bitch. Big improvement.
I try Fred again at five but Marge says he never
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