“Not really.”
“What does that mean?”
“We were cross-country skiing out by Lake Kachess a couple of weeks ago,” she said slowly. “A storm was coming, and I had this terrible feeling that he was going to drive off and leave me out there all alone. That he was going to leave me to freeze lo death.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I told him that I’d hurt my ankle and wouldn’t get out of the car.”
An involuntary chill swept up my spine. I had no doubt that some subliminal sense of self-preservation was what had kept Mindy off her skis that day and kept her alive long enough to tell her hair-raising tale to me.
“But he’s never struck you?” I asked. “Bruised you or pushed you around?”
Mindy shook her head. “No,” she said. “Nothing like that.”
But she was wearing a turtlenecked sweater. With long sleeves. I know how domestic violence works. I know how cagey abusers can be in making sure none of the bruising shows. I also know how hard it is for women to admit they’ve been hit. They think that somehow they’ve caused this terrible calamity to befall them, and by admitting what’s happened they’re also confessing their own implicit culpability.
“You need to get out,” I said quietly. “You need to get out now, before it gets worse. Because it will get worse.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I mean, I just barely finished sending the thank you notes for the wedding presents.”
“Screw the wedding presents,” I said. “Don’t let them stand in the way…”
Mindy’s cell phone rang, and she fumbled it out of her pocket. “Hi, hon,” she said too brightly. “Yes. I stopped to grab some lunch. I’ll be home in a few.” She ended the call and then added, “Sorry. I’ve gotta go.” She pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of her wallet and dropped it on the table next to her mostly uneaten salad.
“He’s pulling your leash,” I said. “Bringing you to heel.”
“I know,” she said. “Still, I need to go.” And she left.
I sat there for a few minutes longer before paying the bill and heading home. Earlier that gloomy Saturday morning, when Mindy had called to invite me to a spur-of-the-moment lunch, I had been out in the garage sorting Jimmy’s stuff. It was a task that I had delayed time and again. At first I had put it off because it was too painful. And then I put it off because I was too tired. But now, three years later, it was time. I was planning on doing some traveling this coming summer. That meant I needed to reclaim enough room in the garage to park my shiny new Beetle inside.
But now, burdened with what I’d learned from Mindy, I went back to the task with a heavy heart. Jimmy had bought the small Capitol Hill fixer-upper five years before I met him and had set about transforming it. He had stripped and refurbished the fine old hardwood floors. He had repainted and installed crown moldings everywhere. He had ripped out the old plumbing and cabinets and replaced them with updated plumbing fixtures and cabinets of his own design and making.
When we married, I had sold my downtown condo and moved in with him. Disposing of all his woodworking tools was part of the job ahead of me. Sorting his clothing was another.
My folks had come back to Seattle months after the funeral. My mother had insisted on boxing up Jimmy’s clothing and having my father cart it out to the garage. “It’s part of moving on “ she said. She would have taken it to Goodwill right then, but I told her I wanted to sort through it myself. And I did, want to sort it, that is. The plastic bag containing the tux Jimmy wore at our wedding was the topmost item in the second box I opened. Seeing it was too much. I broke down and cried. Again. But then I steeled myself to the task. I put it in the goodwill pile and went on.
There was nothing James Drury did that he didn’t do right. As I went through his clothing, much of it still in bags fresh from the cleaners, I missed him anew. It wasn’t until after he was gone that I discovered how much he had cared. There were the insurance policies I hadn’t known existed. One meant that the mortgage was now paid in full. Another had left a sizeable enough nest egg that I’d be able to retire from teaching as soon as I was eligible rather than having to work any longer than I wanted to.
And that was exactly the kind of stability I had wanted for Mindy as well. I’d really believed that at last she’d found someone who would truly love her and give her a lasting sense of security. The contrast between my situation and hers was striking-and terribly sad.
So often, anticipating doing something proves to be far worse than simply digging in and doing it. By six o’clock that evening, the job I had put off for years because it was impossible was pretty well done. I had loaded my trash can with as much as it could hold and had a pile of a dozen bulging black plastic trash bags sorted and ready to go to Goodwill. A single call to Don Williams, a shop teacher and fellow faculty member at Franklin High School, had elicited the excited promise that he’d come by the next day with a pickup truck to collect any of the tools I wanted to dispose of. It was as I hung up the phone after talking to Don that I remembered the guns. Not Jimmy’s guns, because he didn’t own any. Larry Harshaw’s guns.
I’d seen them the evening of their engagement party. Larry had been showing me through his spacious house overlooking Elliott Bay in Magnolia, one of Seattle ’s fine old neighborhoods. He had led me into his wood-lined study where an extensive collection of weapons was visible in a locked display case. On his desk was a picture frame. Inside it was a letter of appreciation from the National Rifle Association lauding Larry for his many years of loyal membership. It was signed in unwavering penmanship by former NRA president Charlton Heston himself.
Back then I had only just met Larry Harshaw. He was engaged to one of my best friends. I had wanted to make a good impression, so I feigned far more interest in his gun collection than I had felt. Since that night, I’d had no occasion to return to Larry’s study. Now, though, I remembered the ominous presence of all those guns. The likelihood that there were others that I hadn’t seen left me with a terrible sense of dread. What if…?
I grabbed the phone and dialed Mindy’s cell phone. She didn’t answer, and I didn’t leave a message. For the next half-hour I paced around my house, trying to decide what to do. Should I call the cops? And tell them what? That I was afraid something had happened to a friend-that her husband might be trying to do her harm-when I had no proof at all that was the case?
Finally, unable to let it go, I got into my VW and drove there. Like waterfront homes the world over, the front of the house was primarily there for the view. Visitors actually entered the house through a backyard gate that opened on a small alley. As soon as I stepped out of the car, I heard voices coming from the open door of the garage. Leaving my car door ajar, I stood and listened.
“Come on, Wes,” Mindy was saying. “You’ve got to do better than that. Grab both my upper arms and squeeze as hard as you can. We need bruises-clearly visible bruises. And then backhand me-right on the lip. Fortunately, Larry’s left-handed and so are you.”
I cringed when I heard the dull thwack as flesh pounded flesh, but the blow evidently wasn’t enough to satisfy Mindy.
“Again,” she ordered. “You need to draw blood.”
I heard another blow followed by a man’s voice. “Aw, geez. Now I’ve got it all over my shirt.”
“My God, Wes. I never would have thought you’d be so damned squeamish. It’s a good thing you’re not the one who has to pull the trigger. I’ll be sure there’s plenty of my blood on Larry’s shirt, too. Now get the hell out of here. He’s due home in a few minutes. I don’t want you anywhere near here when he shows up.”
“You’re sure this is going to work?”
“Of course, it’s going to work,” Mindy replied. “As soon as the cops come looking for me, I’ll send them straight to Francine. After that load of shit I laid on her this afternoon, it’ll be self-defense for sure.”