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.