Saturday, April 9, 2011

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.

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