RUNNING SCARED # 12


I woke up the next morning and wondered what was wrong. Things felt different somehow. It took me until noon to figure out that the difference was I no longer had that constant feeling of dread in my stomach. I felt positively energized for the first time in months. Anxiety and dread fueled by adrenaline had kept me on the move or hiding out or catatonic ever since I left the hospital in Seattle almost two years earlier. And, for the moment, that had changed.

I’d been through several major transitions in those two years. First the months of shock while my face was healing where I got through each day minute by minute, no ability to plan for more than a day at a time, drifting south, finally settling in the tent in the redwoods near Murietta where I slept a lot and prayed primitive “Please God…” prayers. I was unable to figure anything out past taking care of elemental food and shelter needs -- functionally a homeless person with post-traumatic stress issues. Not that I was aware of it at the time.

All I knew was that for the first time in my life reading was more of a chore than a pleasure. I’d find myself having to reread sentences three or four times to squeeze out some meaning; my attention span was almost non-existent.

Then came involvement in the Saturday night poker game, and encountering Aaron, and moving to town where I sort of settled into small town life. Returning to Seattle to appear before the grand jury necessitated more of a thinking-and-planning stage. I still was running scared, but could cope better. Now I felt almost whole again.

However, I reminded myself that my momentary euphoria needed to be tempered by caution from the real threat of casual violence embodied in Ryder or the kids who had attacked me at The Tav, or, less likely at that moment it seemed to me, from Vern.

By the time I set out to visit Abigail the following week, and to check my e-mail, nothing more had happened to spook me. At the library the e-mail message from Katherine just said, “Big news. Call me.” I didn’t know whether to be alarmed or relieved, but my heart rate zoomed up. I called Katherine’s office, but she wasn’t in.

I decided I needed a phone again, so bought one, and put in another call to her leaving my new number with her office for a call back. I thought I might as well wait to phone Aaron until I knew what was going on. I had an appointment to meet Abigail at a nearby McDonald’s for lunch.

She greeted me with a shy smile as I walked in the door. She looked rested and happy. Over burgers she told me about the shelter she was living in and that she was studying to get her GED. She was planning to attend the community college in the fall. In the meantime she had been working part-time at an espresso cafe and saving her money to get a place of her own.

“What are you planning to study in college?” I asked.

“I.T.” she said. “Information Technology – computer skills. I’m already pretty good, but I need more practice.” She sounded excited. “Maybe I’ll become a private detective someday – specializing in computer forensics.”

“Sounds good,” I said. I asked her if she missed going to regular high school.

“Not really,” she said. “Most of the kids there were pretty lame most of the time.” I thought how she had been forced to grow up earlier than her peers. I found myself impressed with her goals and her maturity. I told her so, and promised to keep in touch.

Katherine called me an hour later. “Vern was indicted on Wednesday on charges of corruption,” she blurted. And before I could say anything she added,” And on Thursday, according to a statement to the press from the district attorney’s office, he had a small stroke. He’s supposedly been under a doctor’s care ever since.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him to fake being ill,” I said. She admitted she didn’t know the real truth of the matter, just the reports in the news. “If it’s true,” I said, “I should be in less danger, but I can’t afford complacency.” She agreed and said she’d phone me if she learned anything more. I asked about the kids. She said that they seemed to be doing fine in college, and that neither of them said anything about Vern having been in contact with them.

“Oh yeah,” she said, “I got a phone call from a Fern Albright wanting to know how to get a hold of you. She hadn’t heard you were missing. I just played dumb and didn’t tell her much.”

“She’s my reclusive aunt. Lives in Oregon. I’ll call her.”

“She didn’t leave a phone number,” Katherine said.

“I’ll manage,” I said before hanging up. As it turned out I couldn’t find any trace of a phone number for her. On my way back to Madrona I thought about paying my aunt a visit.

RUNNING SCARED # 11


I was brushing myself off, trying to screw up my courage for the walk home, when Steve came out of the door and almost ran into me. “Hey,” she said. “I thought you left a while ago.”

“I tripped and fell,” I said.

She insisted on taking me back inside to check for injuries. I didn’t protest too much. Steve was a force of nature and I was out of resistance for the moment. She cleaned my split lip and closed the gash with a tiny butterfly bandage. “I hope this holds,” she said. “Now, tell me what really happened.”

“Just clumsy, I guess,” I began.

“Try again. I really hate it when people lie to me,” she said. So I told her exactly what happened and that I didn’t want the police involved. “I can understand that,” she said. “I’ll drive you home tonight. Next time you get someone else to take you home. Otherwise you will not be allowed to work here after dark.”

She locked up, and handed me her spare helmet before we got on her motorcycle. I felt awash in shame as she drove me the four blocks. “Thanks,” I said, my voice thick with unshed tears.” I unbuckled the helmet and stowed it on the back.

Steve touched my arm. “You’ve gotta be one tough lady to have made it this far.” She sighed deeply. “And the journey’s not over. It’s not a crime to accept help, nor to have a good cry. See you on Friday.” She roared off. Her reassurance and advice sounded like the kind of thing I’d often said to my children.

I stumbled to my room, thankful my keys had been in my pocket, and had that good cry. I woke up at dawn stiff and sore and still wearing my grubby jeans. A hot shower sorted me out, and I dressed for my shift at the café. I couldn’t afford not to show up for work, but I could tell this was going to be a licking-my-wounds kind of day.

As it turned out Sarge put me to work filling in for the waitress who had called in sick. I protested and pointed to my split lip; he wasn’t interested. So, I was waiting for breakfasts to come up to be served, and looking out the front window, when a pickup truck squealed to a stop in the tiny parking lot. A teenage girl bolted from the passenger seat followed by the man who had been driving. He grabbed her arm and swung her around, then backhanded her across the face. She crumpled.

Without thinking I was out the front door. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I yelled.

The man left her lying on the ground and turned to face me. “Butt out, lady,” he growled, and turned back to the girl who was struggling to her feet.

I grabbed the push broom from beside the front door, and whacked him on the shoulder. “You leave her alone,” I yelled, hitting him again and again and again. All of a sudden the broom was plucked from my hands.

“Enough,” Sarge said, “enough.” He put his arm around the girl protectively. “Get out of here, Ryder.” The man looked belligerent and raised his fists. “Git, or I’ll give the broom back to the little lady.’ The café customers, out on the porch by this time, all laughed. Ryder slammed himself back in the pickup and screeched away.

I was both proud of myself and horrified. Never had I raised a hand to anyone, much less a broom.

“Take care of her,” Sarge said handing the girl to me. “I’ve got food cooking,” and he sprinted back inside.

“Way to go, lady,” someone said as I guided the girl into the restroom.

The girl was still shaking and I sat her down on a straight chair. “I’m Morgan,” I said. “Please tell me your name, and tell me where it hurts.”

“Gail,” she said, “Abigail, and it don’t really hurt that bad anymore.” I dampened a paper towel and began to clean her tear-streaked face. She said that he was her aunt’s boyfriend and she had been living with him and her aunt for two weeks. “Then he got all weird, you know. So I ran away. He followed me and made me get in the truck.”

I found out her dad wasn’t in the picture and her mother would be in jail for two more months – drug possession. She had been placed with her aunt. “How old are you?” I asked, sickened by the bruise on her right cheekbone.

“Just turned eighteen,” she said, straightening her back. She looked to be all of fourteen. It remained to be seen how old she really was.

“Any other relatives you could stay with?” I asked. She shook her head “no,” and shrugged one shoulder. “Hungry?” I asked.

She shrugged again. “Don’t got no money, anyway.”

“Come on back to the kitchen,” I said, figuring Sarge knew what was going on. He seemed to know the boyfriend by name. I told Sarge I’d let her have one of my breakfasts. He said to forget it. Once she was busy with her requested milk and cereal, I found out that she was indeed eighteen, but still in high school, and that Ryder was a violent alcoholic who liked young girls. “She can’t go back there,” I said.

“I don’t know that she’s got much choice,” Sarge said. “We’d better call her aunt.”

“Of course, she’s got choice,” I said, glaring at him.

“Like what?” he asked. I told him I didn’t know, but, by god, I’d find out. “I sure as hell won’t argue with you,” he said. I’ve seen what you can do with a broom and a mad on.” He grinned.

“Can we keep her here until my shift is over?”

“If you can get her to stay,” he said, turning back to the stove.

Two hours later, Gail was asleep on a hard bench in the warmth of the kitchen, and I began calling the women Katherine had given me the names of. Lauren, who lived just north of Madrona, said she would drive over and talk with Gail. I was finally eating my breakfast when Lauren showed up. “What happened to your lip?” she asked.

I told her, then woke Gail and introduced Lauren. Gail looked stricken. “You from the county?” she asked in a hard-edged voice. “I’m eighteen now. You can’t tell me what to do anymore.”

Lauren slowly shook her head “no,” said she was “a friend of Morgan’s,” and asked me for some coffee. I poured two cups of coffee. Gail wanted a coke. We all sat at a back booth in the café. Gail was still wary. I was just weary.

It took almost an hour for Lauren to quietly get some information from Gail. Then Lauren began to lay out some options. Told Gail that legally she was considered an adult now, capable of making her own decisions, that there were shelters where she could stay in the Bay area until she had a job and a place of her own. Told Gail that she didn’t have to put up with any man raising a hand to her, nor telling her what to do ever again.

I could see that these ideas were new, but interesting to Gail. “I really could get my own place?” The rest was just logistics. We brought Sarge into the discussion. He agreed to go with Gail to say goodbye to her aunt, to pick up her few belongings, and to handle Ryder if necessary. Lauren and I waited at the café and took care of the customers.

Sarge brought Gail back. As Lauren got ready to take off, Gail said, “Morgan, will you come and visit me sometime?” I glanced at Lauren; she nodded. I assured Gail I would if I could.

After they were gone Sarge said, “Myra, her aunt, was relieved to have Gail out of there. She thinks she can handle Ryder.” Sarge shook his head and advised me to watch out for Ryder, said that he had warned him off, but when Ryder got drunk all bets were off. “You shamed him and he’ll be looking to get even.”

I sighed, and dragged my weary self home where I slept the rest of the day. I felt like I was the one who had been beat up. It didn’t seem fair, but I was aware that fair had nothing to do with my current reality. I wondered if the fact that I’d started beating up others instead of being the one victimized was some kind of perverse progress.

The following night I went back to The Tav. “Hey,” Steve said, “I heard you had a black belt in broom bashing!” I winced. “Good to know,” she smiled, “by the way someone found your backpack in the parking lot,” she said, handing it to me. I checked it out and was happy to see that my old windbreaker, paperback book, and lipstick were still there. The only things missing were a worn billfold that had had a few dollars in it, a granola bar, and my flashlight. The only thing I’d miss was that Maglite on a lanyard that I could hang around my neck

The first thing I did was to ask one of the regulars to walk me home after my shift. I briefly explained why to prevent any misunderstanding. As I worked it still galled me that I hadn’t been more alert the other night. I wondered if I’d ever get to the point where hyper-vigilance wouldn’t be necessary. However, I had turned down witness protection, and had no one to blame for the choices that had brought me to this point.

I was beginning to realize how profoundly my life had changed; I couldn’t see myself returning to a so-called normal life in Seattle. When I was in Murietta I’d kidded myself that once Vern had been indicted and convicted that I could just go back. But, go back to what? I wanted to be back in touch with my kids, but they were in college and on their own. I didn’t want to be a burden to them. Maybe I could go back to Murietta.

I’d become this fictional woman named Morgan, a cash-and-barter member of the underground economy, living by my wits – a woman with possible delusions of grandeur about becoming a poker shark. Despite this, and even though I was often scared, I liked the problem-solving aspects of the life I’d cobbled together.

Nevertheless, I wouldn’t mind having at least one area of my life that was safe and stable – a home base. Maybe that was the next problem I needed to solve.

RUNNING SCARED # 10


I stopped by a shabby-looking bed and breakfast and talked with the owner. I told her I was looking for a room for a couple of weeks – just a room, no breakfast. She showed me a spacious room with a double bed and quoted a price outside my budget. “Have you got something smaller?” I asked. Finally she showed me a tiny room with a single bed and a bath down the hall. It was barely adequate but I was able to negotiate a rent I thought I could afford. I paid her for a week, got a set of keys, and dropped my heavy backpack off.

Back at the tavern I didn’t see the woman I’d spoken to before. “I’m looking for Steve,” I told the woman behind the bar. She was a Sharon Gless look-a-like from the Cagney and Lacey days – short blonde hair, turtleneck sweater and jeans on a trim figure.

“I’m Steve,” she said, “what can I do for you?” I noticed her taking in my damaged face. I mentally revised my story for a female-friendly audience, briefly explained my circumstances, and asked to trade kitchen work for meals – nothing fancy.

She laughed. “Fancy sure don’t live here,” she said, and agreed to my working there Friday and Saturday nights. “I’m mostly busy those nights. We’ll see how things work out from there.”

I readily agreed, thanked her, and decided to wait to ask about poker games. I’d have a chance to observe for myself what sort of place it was, and if there was any action where I might fit in.

As I walked around the area the next few days I found myself thinking back to my life with Paul. We had been too young, and hadn’t had it easy, but we eventually had learned to fight fair – to respect both each other’s bodies and each other’s psyches. Nothing had prepared me for Vern’s violent nature. Having married so young I had ended up short on life experience, and, once thrust into the world by widowhood, both naïve and too trusting.

Ironically, I realized that it was that same naivety that enabled me to travel around living by my wits. In many circumstances I simply didn’t know better -- didn’t understand how many things could go wrong, and if I could keep my fear in check, I could handle almost everything. And, despite the fact that I had trusted Aaron from the beginning, I no longer was quite so trusting in general.

By the time Friday came I had established a routine at the café. Sarge was both cook and owner. I found out he was a Vietnam vet, homeless at one time, now just content to eke out a small living from the business he had inherited from an uncle. He lived in the tiny apartment upstairs.

I usually worked from seven to eight-thirty, had my breakfast, and then killed time. I’d scouted out the paperback bookstore and was working on a barter approach to the guy who ran it. I was hard up for reading material. I could sometimes scrounge a newspaper or two from the café, but needed more. My spartan room didn’t even have a TV; there was one available in the parlor, but I didn’t want to answer any more questions from the gossipy proprietor.

On Thursday I took the bus to a nearby area with a library where I could e-mail Katherine. I needed to let her know I’d moved and why; I told her I’d continue to check in with her once a week. I also phoned Aaron. Lucky to catch him, he told me that someone new with a better photo of who I used to be had been asking around Murietta for me. Aaron said he was glad that I’d left when I did. Said he’d been thinking about me. I told him I’d keep in touch. I didn’t tell either of them where I was.

Back in Madrona I showed up at The Tav at five-thirty on Friday. Jenny, the main bartender, showed me where everything was and explained what was expected of me; I’d work from six to eight-thirty Friday and Saturday evenings mostly doing some prep work in the back room, then clean up as needed. I could have a sandwich and coffee four nights a week in exchange. No alcohol. Suited me fine.

I asked about the name of the place. Jenny said it was called The Tav because half of the neon sign had burned out years ago and, by the time there had been extra money the locals had adopted the shortened name and voted against fixing it.

Working that first Friday night I overheard enough to know that there was a small stakes poker game on Wednesday nights, and another larger stakes game on Saturday. I hoped I’d be able to check out the Saturday players the following night.

Steve came in around eight, and asked how I was doing. “Fine,” I said, and encouraged her to let me know any way I could improve my performance. She just smiled. “Any problem with my sitting in on the Wednesday night poker game?” I asked.

She shot me a quizzical look. “No problem if you don’t mind losing money.“

“I won’t know about that unless I try,” I said. “Right?”

“You can sit in if we have an extra place. Wednesdays are usually slow.”

When I showed up on Wednesday evening to have a sandwich and to check out the poker players, I was wondering if it was a totally different set of people; I recognized only two of those I’d seen on Saturday; four others were new to me. Only two were women.

I began by playing conservatively, but ended the evening doing as well as I usually did in Murietta – a little ahead money-wise. I stopped in the ladies room and returned my major stash of cash to my money belt before walking the four blocks back to the bed and breakfast. I zipped up my coat, pulled my hood over my head, and stepped outside.

I got only a few steps from the tavern before I was suddenly jerked off my feet. I fell to the ground hard, my face slamming into the dirt; as I lay there slightly dazed my mostly-empty daypack was grabbed off my shoulder.

“Let’s get out of here,” I heard someone say as I shakily struggled to my feet. I heard several people running away. Damn, I thought, probably kids. I couldn’t call the police, I couldn’t even tell anyone lest they call the police. I hadn’t seen enough to identify anyone anyway.

I didn’t seem to be badly injured, just a split lip. My poor face, I thought. Once again I felt how precarious my situation was. Reality triumphing over naivety. My feelings of well-being had fled. Just random violence, I told myself, but it didn’t reassure me at all. Violence of any kind still frightened me. And fear was still my most formidable enemy.

RUNNING SCARED # 9


I was feeling good Saturday night when I got home from the poker session. I’d said a proper goodbye to Rose, and I’d allowed myself to win a little more than usual. I needed a nest egg to finance my move.

When I opened my cabin door I found a note from Aaron on the floor.

“Call me anytime. I’ll come to wherever you are. And
when you come back in Spring I’ll take you flying through the redwood
canopy.” A

Sounded like he was courting me. Sounded tempting. How long had it been since I’d felt female, much less desirable? Part of me just wanted to go over to Aaron’s place, climb into his bed, and let him take care of me. From the day I met him he had had my back, but the smarter part of me knew it wasn’t the right time to get more seriously involved with anyone. I needed to get my life straightened out first. Although I longed for the comfort of loving arms, I needed to stick to my decision and get out of Dodge.

Milt picked me up the next morning after he had delivered the papers. All I could think about for the first twenty minutes was Aaron – going over what I knew about him – realizing there were too many things I didn’t know about him. Making a list of questions to ask him when I got the chance – keeping in mind his aversion to answering personal questions. Milt happily chattered away the whole time.

As the miles sped by a sense of relief began to flood my body and I found I could breathe again. I’d obviously been holding my breath ever since I was attacked. In Garberville I asked Milt to drop me off at the cyber café. I did a little research on the Bay area and decided to stay at the Berkeley YWCA a night or two to begin with. I had a couple of San Francisco area phone numbers Katherine had given me. I’d phone them when I got there.

I walked out to the nearest truck stop, and started searching for a ride to the Bay area. I figured that anyone trying to trace me from Murietta would find it more difficult if I hitched a ride with a truck driver. I glanced around the parking lot and through the windows of the café looking for a likely prospect -- someone friendly, but not too friendly. As individual drivers exited the café and headed for a driver-owned truck I’d approach, ask where they were headed, then ask if I could ride along.

The third driver I talked to gave me a long appraising look and said, “Sure, why not?” I assured him that I had twenty dollars I could give him for gas, and that he could drop me at any Bay area truck stop. Maybe ten minutes down the road he said, “I suppose you noticed my gun,” and patted his right hip.

I almost panicked, but as coolly as I could I said, “Not really. Are you expecting trouble?”

“Gotta be prepared,” he said.

“Anything I should be worried about?” I asked.

“No, I just thought I’d mention it so you wouldn’t worry.”

“Thoughtful of you,” I said. “I’d hate to think you were afraid of me.”

He glanced over at me. I grinned. We both laughed, and the tension was broken. By two-thirty I was in Berkeley taking a taxi to the YWCA. He turned down my attempt to give him the gas money.

When I got settled in my room I called a woman named Laurie, I told her a little about my problem, and that I needed to find a safe neighborhood to look for a room – somewhere with many cafes or small businesses where I might find a job maybe trading work for meals. “Not too yuppie,” I said. “And not near a college.”

“Why not near a college?” she asked.

“Because all the college kids have the part-time jobs,” I explained.

She laughed and made several suggestions. I thought about asking her about taverns with regular poker games, but figured I’d best scout those for myself. I tried to call the other woman, but got no answer. Maybe I’d try her later if necessary.

The next morning I got some bus schedules and directions to both areas. The first one I checked out was transitional -- going from prosperous to marginal, plenty of taverns but not feeling safe to me -- too many walls that had been tagged with graffiti or newly painted in patches. It was a long bus ride with two transfers to the other area Laurie had mentioned. I was beginning to feel discouraged, but knew I had to persevere, to keep going through the motions. If I stopped moving I could be stalled for days. I’d been through enough of that in those early weeks after I first left Seattle – a flurry of activity followed by spasms of catatonia. I was stronger now.

Madrona seemed to be a quiet place -- two streets with shops and cafes, a service station and garage, three taverns, one tiny Lutheran church. One of the shops was a paperback bookshop – bring in two books to trade for one. A blue-collar kind of neighborhood. I decided to ask around at the taverns to see if they needed a dishwasher.

If so, it would be easier to check out any poker games. I felt some trepidation about playing poker for money. I had no idea if I was really good enough, but the only way to find out was to play a couple of games. See how much game I really had. The idea of doing that really scared me – but scared me in a good way. The worst that could happen is I’d lose some money.

The first two taverns I went into didn’t seem that friendly, but the third had a female bartender who said to come back later to talk to Steve – that they had been looking for part-time help. I asked if she knew of a cheap room for rent in the area. She said to check a couple of bed-and-breakfasts nearby – that winter rates by the week were pretty reasonable.

I stopped at a nearby café for a late lunch. Business was slow and after I finished eating I told the waitress I wanted to speak to the manager or owner. “Something wrong with the food?” she asked. I reassured her and a few minutes later an older man with a stained white apron around his waist came over to my table.

“Is there a problem, Miss?”

“Sorry,” I said, “I was just wondering if you could use some help for an hour or two a day. I’m wanting to barter work for meals.”

“Off the books?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m running away from home,” I said and shrugged. I was aware of him noticing the scars on my face, and he looked like he understood. He offered me breakfast in exchange for a daily hour and a half of kitchen work, including washing dishes, for the next two weeks. “Thanks,” I said, “see you tomorrow morning at seven.” I felt happy. Things were looking up.

RUNNING SCARED # 8


I wasn’t sleeping well, had no one to talk to, and had heard nothing further about my attacker. I had to figure out what to do next. Psychologists talk about the “fear choice” versus “the growth choice.” What was true for me right then was that all my choices were fear choices. But I’d be damned if I’d continue to feel like a victim. I could stay in Murietta and live in constant fear that somehow Vern already knew where I was or that it now would be easier for him to figure it out, or I could take action. The only action I knew how to take was to leave town.

In retrospect it seemed clear that the man who died intended to frighten me only. He had every opportunity to kill me had that been his intent. But I was afraid even though he was dead. Flashbacks of being choked haunted my nightmares.

I was afraid to leave Murietta and the quiet life I’d built there, afraid to go somewhere new and have to figure everything out all over again – where to live, what kind of menial work to pursue, how to stay safe not only from Vern, but also from being a woman alone in a strange place. Maybe this was the time to check out the feasibility of making a living from playing poker. I didn’t really require that much to live on.

Once I’d determined to go, I felt a surge of energy. Then the questions settled down to where to go, when to go, and what did I need to do before I left. Packing would take me all of twenty minutes, so I began by studying the map. A big city might be best -- maybe San Francisco – not that far away. Then I began laying the foundation for my leaving by telling Rose that my brother in South Carolina was in trouble and might need my help. “ I may have to leave soon,” I said.

“We’ll miss you, Hon,” she said. I knew she would spread the word when I did go.

That night I dragged myself back to my cabin and changed into my pajamas as usual. I’d half dozed off in the big chair in front of the TV when I heard a knock on my door. I slipped my coat on and asked who it was before opening the door. “Sheriff’s Department,” a deep voice announced.

I opened the door a few inches and flipped on the porch light. “What’s the trouble, officer?” I asked, although I well knew the answer to that question.

“May I come in for a minute?” he asked.

“I’m in my pajamas,” I said.

“Sorry to bother you, missus, but I really need to speak with you,” he said. “I’ll wait on the porch.”

I hurriedly got dressed, and let him in. Deputy Sheriff Martinez spent the next fifteen minutes asking me if I knew a Duane Donovan, or had heard anything of my neighbor in cabin #1. I denied all knowledge and tried to act properly shocked when told that Donovan was dead. “You are the only other guest staying here the last week. We thought you might have seen or heard him coming or going.” I just shook my head in denial.

After the Sheriff left I had the shakes for a good half hour. I felt glad I’d already decided to go. However, I thought I’d better stay just a few more days so my leaving wouldn’t get coupled with the “accidental” death. It wouldn’t hurt to sit in on one more Saturday night poker game anyway. In the meantime I’d just be extra cautious.

I hoped Aaron would be back before I needed to say goodbye, and I was glad I’d not become romantically entangled with him despite the fact that Rose kept assuring me he was “seduceable.” The relationship between Aaron and I had been friendly not romantic. I had known that I needed no entanglements. Even my friendships with Rose and Aaron made me more vulnerable than I was comfortable with.

I decided I needed to write down my account of life with Vern and everything I knew about his underhanded dealings as well as what I’d been doing since I ran away from Seattle. I included the recent assault in my room and how that played out. It didn’t take that long once I got started, and I thought I’d walk out to the tree house and leave the pages there in case something happened to me.

Heading that direction the next morning I felt as if I were saying goodbye to an important time of my life. Nearly three months in the tent in the nearby redwoods and just over a year in the cabin in town. I figured I’d ask old Milt Wagner who delivered the Sunday papers for a ride to Garberville on Sunday. From there I could find a ride South.

On my way to the tree house I wandered through the local cemetery looking for a woman who had been born around the time I had. Maybe I could request a duplicate birth certificate and arrange for proper identification and even find a social security number. I’d known how to do it before, but had resisted taking action. I’d hoped things with Vern would get resolved before I had to resort to illegal tactics. I found a couple of possibilities and wrote them down. I’d google the names later.

I’d not been back to the tree house since that first time, but it had left quite an impression on me. Climbing up the rope ladder was as much of a challenge as before and the place was as I’d remembered it. My pages were in a waterproof folder, and I needed to find a place to hide them. I decided to leave them on the bookshelf with the bird books.

I realized I needed to leave Aaron a note about my report, and to thank him for all his help this last year. I scribbled the note and left it in plain sight, but felt reluctant to leave. I crawled into the hammock to relax for a few minutes and ended up falling asleep. By the time I awoke dusk was settling in. I quickly locked up, climbed down the ladder, and hurried back to the cabin.

There was a light on in the cabin next to mine. A few minutes after I got back there was a quiet knock on my door. I knew it was Aaron. “You’re invited for dinner at my shop in an hour and a half, he said, “you can meet my sister then.”

An hour and a half later I knocked on the door of his shop. A woman with a careworn face and a warm smile welcomed me. “I’m Gwen,” she said, “and you must be Morgan.” There were three places set at the tiny dinette table that had always been covered with piles of invoices and sketches and timesheets for desks and tables on order. The smell of roasting chicken permeated the air. The shop felt almost warm, but I was glad I was wearing a heavy sweater. Aaron, busy in the galley, waved. Gwen and I exchanged small talk – not my favorite kind of conversation.

Dinner was delicious, but awkward. Finally, Gwen said, “I know nothing about you except that you and Aaron are friends. What more can you tell me?” She looked as determined as Rose ever had to get as much information out of me as possible.

All I knew about her was that, according to Aaron, she persisted in an abusive marriage. So, I told her that I was in hiding having run away from a husband who beat me so badly I was hospitalized. Talk about a conversation stopper! I added that I was still kicking myself for the bad judgment to have become involved with him in the first place, but that every day since I left him – no matter how difficult things were – I gave myself full credit for the good judgment not to have gone back.

Aaron began clearing the table, and said he would clean up, but Gwen and I overrode him and insisted on doing it. I knew that we badly needed to be doing something together -- something with our hands -- for her to open up to me at all. “Tell me about yourself,” I asked, running hot water into the sink. Gwen gave me the bare bones resume – married fifteen years, three children, part-time job as a grocery clerk. “Are you happy?” I asked as she began drying the dishes. She slowly shook her head and tears ran down her face.

“I can’t leave – because of the children,” she began.

“If you don’t leave, you’re teaching your children that it’s okay to be abused,” I said. “Abuse doesn’t go away by itself, it just escalates.” I told her about my experience with women’s shelters and the underground network before Aaron walked us back to our cabins.

After Gwen and I said goodbye and she was in her cabin I invited Aaron inside my place. I thanked him for dinner and we talked briefly about Gwen. “But, I’m leaving on Sunday,” I finally said, and explained why I was leaving.

He was silent for a long minute. “I can tell you’ve made up your mind,” he said. “I could drive you to Garberville…” he began.

“I’ve already made arrangements,” I said, “And you’ve got Gwen here.”

He turned, opened the door, and stepped out onto the porch. Then Aaron turned back to me. “Well, I guess this is goodbye for now,” he said, and moved to hug me. We embraced as we had many times before. Unexpectedly he stepped closer, put his hands up alongside my face and gave me a kiss. A kiss both tender and thorough, a kiss unambiguous in intent, and a kiss I responded to in spite of myself.

I backed up. “What the hell was that for?” I asked, my lips still tingling.

“Food for thought,” he said, and turned away, leaving me standing alone feeling both unsettled and cherished.



RUNNING SCARED # 7


It had been a busy day at Rose’s and I had stayed later than usual to help. Now that I had one of the motel cabins to come home to I didn’t have to worry about getting caught out in the dark. The cabin was a primitive one-room studio, but luxurious compared to the tent I’d been living in. The best part was the fireplace. I’d sit in bed at night reading and enjoying both the warmth and the flickering light from the fire.

As I approached my cabin, the last one in the line of six cabins, I noticed the porch light was out. I’d need to replace that before the next night. I unlocked the door and stepped inside reaching for the light switch. Suddenly I was grabbed from behind and lifted off my feet. Between the arm around my neck and the hand over my mouth I could hardly breathe much less cry out. It was dark and I could see nothing, but I could smell stale cigarette smoke.

“You need to learn to keep your mouth shut.” His voice echoed the menace in his grip. Before I could think about it I kicked my feet back as hard as I could. He cursed and dropped me. I fell to the floor and scrabbled away. He lunged for me. I stayed low and he tripped over me landing with a loud thwack near the fireplace.

I raced to the kitchenette and grabbed the only knife I had in one hand and the cast iron frying pan in the other. I stood there both terrified and furious. I was breathing hard. I waited for further attack. I waited and waited, but could hear nothing. I tiptoed over to the kitchenette light switch.

I waited some more, but finally flipped it on. There he was stretched out on his face in front of the stone fireplace. He was completely still and was making no noise. I couldn’t even hear him breathing. I approached the body and kicked at his ankle. No response. Was he just unconscious, or could he be dead? I didn’t want to risk him grabbing me again to find out. I dug my cell phone out of my backpack, keeping my eye on him all the while. I put the frying pan down so I could punch the numbers. “Aaron,” I said, my voice shaking, “please come. I need your help.”

“Be right there,” he said.

The man still did not move. A few minutes later I knew the tap on the door was Aaron. I opened the door.

“Did you know your porch light is out? If you have a spare bulb I can fix that.”

“Later,” I said pulling him inside.

“Who the hell is that,” he said pointing to the man on the floor. “And what are you doing with that knife?” I looked down at my left hand still clutching the knife, but found myself still unwilling to put it down. I quickly filled Aaron in on what had just happened.

Aaron approached the man cautiously. I watched as he felt for a pulse in his neck. He then reached across his face to check for breathing. “He’s certainly dead,” Aaron said. I sighed deeply in relief and crossed to the kitchenette on shaky legs to return the knife to its drawer.

“What should I do?” I asked. “I can’t call the police. I have no valid I.D., and if this gets back to Vern I’m in deeper trouble. I think I’ve got to get out of town as soon as possible.”

“Wait a minute,” Aaron said as he moved to close the drapes on the front windows. “Let’s find out as much as we can about this guy.” He pulled a pair of cotton work gloves out of his jacket pocket and put them on. He moved over to the body and began emptying out his pockets. I noticed that he placed each item on the floor just beside the pocket it came from. A wallet; a cell phone; several slips of paper; a half roll of Tums; a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a butane lighter; a book of matches; a ring of keys.

Aaron opened the wallet first. “This guy is from Seattle. Name of Duane Donovan – a licensed private detective.” My heart sank. One of Vern’s goons no doubt. I’d have to go back on the run for sure. Aaron checked the slips of paper. “Aha, he’s staying right here in cabin number one. Last night he stayed in Garberville. Looks like whoever planted the tracking device on you traced you to Garberville. This guy has evidently been checking the towns all around the area.”

Aaron unfolded a newspaper clipping with a picture of me when I’d been appointed to head up the Friends of the Library silent auction – the library board’s annual fundraiser. Back when I could afford to get a decent haircut; back when I thought I was happy with Vern; back when I lived a privileged life. “Doesn’t look much like you,” Aaron said glancing at me. “That’s a good thing.”

“He seems to have found me anyway,” I wailed. “I think I remember seeing him at Rose’s for dinner tonight.”

“Okay, okay, calm down. Let’s see what’s the best plan.” Aaron gestured towards the kitchen table and suggested I take the chair facing away from the body. He put the teakettle on to heat, and sat down. “I don’t want you to leave,” he said. By this time he was scrolling through the cell phone for more information. “The last call he made was two days ago before he got to Garberville even.” Aaron efficiently made two mugs of tea, putting three packets of sugar into one. He handed it to me. “Sip it,” he ordered.

“Ugh,” I said, “it’s way too sweet.”

“Drink it anyway,” he said. “First, I think we need to get him out of your cabin and return him to his own, but you’ll need to help. He’s too big for me to handle by myself.” I reluctantly agreed. “Or” Aaron added, “we could call 911.”

I shook my head. “No way. I like the idea of getting him out of here.”

Within just a few minutes Aaron had returned everything to the man’s pockets, except the news clipping and the cell phone. He walked over to cabin number one to open the door. Fortunately the other four cabins were vacant at the moment and the owners were gone for a few days.

The hardest part was lifting him up. I glimpsed blood on the man’s forehead and quickly looked away. We tried to support the body – each of us on one side half-dragging him along. We almost dropped him going down the steps. A car driving by on the main road froze us in place for a moment. Then we hauled him as fast as we could to the first cabin and up the steps there.

Aaron positioned the body face down by the fireplace just as he had been at my place. “Go home,” Aaron said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I dashed back to my cabin still shaky from the whole experience. Then I just sat like a lump in the dark until Aaron returned.

“It may be a few days before the body is discovered,” he said turning on the overhead light. Aaron grabbed a sponge from the kitchen sink and scrubbed at the area on the fireplace where the man had landed. Then he put the sponge in a plastic bag alongside the cell phone. “Will you consider not leaving?” he said.

“I suppose so, but…” I began.

“Wait here. I’ll be right back. Lock the door.” Aaron dashed outside taking the cell phone, the bagged sponge, and the newspaper clipping with him.

I locked the door thinking I should get my large backpack out and decide what I could leave behind. But I lacked the will to do anything, and where would I go anyway.. I’d ended up in Murietta by accident.

A tap on the door indicated Aaron had returned. He closed the door behind him and just stood there looking nervous. “I got you something and was waiting for the right time to give it to you. I guess there’s no better time than now.” He dug in his packet and handed me what looked like two cards. “Maybe this will make you feel more comfortable about staying here.”

I took them and looked carefully. One was a California driver’s license for Morgan Bishop. It looked perfect – even the vital statistics were accurate. The second card was for the Garberville public library. “How did you get these?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I know a guy who knows a guy,” he said. “At least you’ll be prepared with identification if anyone questions you about your neighbor’s unfortunate accident.”

“It’s wrong not to report this,” I said.

Aaron moved to the kitchenette and filled the teakettle. “You’re right about that, but it would be foolish and dangerous for you to do so. Some decisions are not always as simple as right or wrong. And we’ve already moved the body so it’s a moot point.” He busied himself with teabags and mugs. “You didn’t do anything wrong. He died accidentally as a result of his own folly. You’re lucky you didn’t get hurt more than you did.”

Over tea he told me that he had put a rumpled towel on the floor that the man could have tripped over. “By the way,” he said, “you’re going to need a scarf or something to cover the bruises on your neck.” I went to the bathroom mirror and was shocked by the darkening bruises from the man’s arm. “I’m confident you can handle talking to the authorities, and can keep your cool too.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“What’s the alternative? If you leave before the body is found, the fact that you’re gone will take on added significance and they may start looking for you.”

“I don’t know,” I repeated.

“Can you stay here alone tonight and be okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll stay here a while,” he said, and sat down on a kitchen chair. He turned the TV on as I curled up on the bed, exhausted – too exhausted to be scared for a change. Could I handle all this I wondered as I drifted into a restless sleep. When I woke up Aaron was gone.

The next day Rose commented on my turtleneck sweater, but all else seemed normal. I did not see nor hear from Aaron. The previous night could have been just a nightmare, but I knew it wasn’t. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop – for the “accident” to be discovered.

I could tell myself it wasn’t my fault that the man had attacked me, but I couldn’t forget the thwack of his head hitting the fireplace and the stillness of his body afterwards.