Maybe he’d had enough, because he grabbed my kicking leg and dropped me hard. I scrambled back, planted my hands behind me, and kicked out at him, snapping good hard kicks at his grabbing hands. Then a second guy grabbed my shoulders, pressing me down. I gave a sudden sideways roll and got my feet under me, but as they moved in together, I cast the rules of the exercise aside. ‘‘Natalie. Help me.’’
Instantly, she was beside me, her feet braced and her hands up in protective, assertive fists. I curled my hands into fists of my own, and shoulder to shoulder, we faced them. ‘‘Back off. Keep away from me,’’ I growled. The new man lunged.
‘‘No way!’’ I screamed, jerking his arm so that he flew past. As he regained his balance, I should have run. That was the point of the exercise. But I’d called on Natalie for help. While my guy was still turning, I rushed her attacker and hauled him off. I grabbed her hand and we raced for the door, giggling like tweens, crossing the black safety line just before they reached us.
‘‘Thanks,’’ I said, hugging her. ‘‘You can be on my team anytime.’’
‘‘Ditto. I always forget that part about running. I want to stay and fight.’’
For a moment, she looked sad. Was she thinking about her marriage? How you can’t stay and fight if the other person’s walked out and won’t even give you a chance. Sometimes they don’t give you a chance when they stay around.
I settled onto the hard wooden bleachers. The exercise had left me feeling positive that I’d been able to assert myself. But although it was only an exercise and I’d always been ‘‘safe,’’ I’d felt genuine fear, real vulnerability, powerful anger toward my attackers. Something about that had stirred up memories of other scary times.
I’d had a blind date once where the guy had gotten drunk and violent. Instead of driving me home, he’d parked on a dark side street and tried to rape me. I’d ended up running shoeless down an icy January sidewalk, my blouse torn, rescued by a kindly police officer about my dad’s age. He’d wrapped me in his creaky leather jacket, given me tissues, and told me that it wasn’t my fault, repeating it in his certain, gravelly voice until I almost believed him.
That wasn’t the only thing, but it was the worst. I wanted to live in a world where women didn’t have to worry about things like this. Where I wouldn’t be thinking that I should send my soon-to-be-college-bound daughter to this class. Where people resolved their differences with language. But who was I kidding? I couldn’t make language work in my own home. And I was not naïve. This class had helped with the man in the parking garage. As long as there were men who got their kicks making women uncomfortable, who didn’t respect boundaries, we needed to be responsible for our own safety.
When the two female officers who’d run the class asked how we felt, they got a chorus of ‘‘great’’ and ‘‘incredible’’ until they got to me. I told them about my mixed feelings, how I felt all jumbled up. Katie agreed, and Natalie, and another woman named Sandy, who’d had an even harder time yelling and being assertive. The officers offered sympathy but seemed annoyed, which annoyed me right back. I get impatient with people who want approved answers instead of truth.
As we filed into the parking lot, I said, ‘‘Hey, Katie, got time for a glass of wine?’’
Katie looked surprised. She’d asked before and I always said no. I’d fallen into a pattern of rushing home. There was always so much to do and I could never be certain Karl had paid attention to Bobby’s homework. Tonight, though, I wanted company.
‘‘Sounds good,’’ she said.
I turned to Natalie. ‘‘Got time for a drink?’’
She checked her watch, then tossed her head. ‘‘Sure. Why not?’’
From somewhere to my left, Sandy said, ‘‘Mind if I join you? I could use a drink.’’
It felt odd going into the pub alone. I’d never been there without Karl and the kids. When you were riding herd on coats, hats, mittens, absentminded spouses, or moody teens and outbreaks of sibling war, you didn’t notice ambiance; you noticed how fast the service was.
Tonight, I saw beyond the menu and the popcorn. I noticed how homey and inviting the hanging tin lamps were. I saw all the laughing guys with their pregnant bellies pressed against the bar, not one of whom probably worried about homework or whether he looked fat. The smell of food made me hungry enough to order a burger instead of salad and to eat the fries instead of leaving them. Even Natalie was tucking into a great big burger.
‘‘I used to think it was just guys,’’ she said, ‘‘but sometimes a woman needs a big hunk of meat.’’
Sandy choked on her wine.
‘‘I meant the burger.’’
We discussed our reactions to the course, Sandy and Katie telling stories of clients who’d been unbalanced and menacing. Yet, as I drank wine and ate forbidden food, I realized I was having fun. I liked Sandy’s insightful comments, Katie’s punchy iconoclasm; even Natalie, despite her brittleness and desperate sadness, was a nice person to spend time with. I admired her concern with protecting her kids from their father’s neglect and bad behavior.
‘‘If you don’t mind my asking,’’ Katie said, ‘‘did you have any idea your husband was seeing someone?’’ Katie does a lot of domestic work.
Natalie shrugged. ‘‘I was trying not to see it, but it was there. There was this company dinner a few months ago. The bimbo-her name’s Tiffany-was wearing a skimpy dress, very inappropriate for a business dinner. She kept coming up and sticking her chest in his face. At the time, I thought it was pitiful and wished someone would set her straight so she didn’t embarrass herself.’’
She pushed a lonely, ketchup-daubed fry around her plate. ‘‘On the way home, I suggested Sterling get one of the older women to give her some tips. He said it was just that she was so young. Laughing, you know, like we were the grown-ups and needed to be understanding. Dammit!’’ She dropped her fork onto the plate. ‘‘Now he’s sleeping with her and I’m still supposed to be understanding.’’
Katie, whose nose was slightly pink, signaled the waitress and ordered another glass of wine. Natalie checked her watch again-kids at home and no spouse for backup-and got one, too. Sandy said, ‘‘What the heck.’’ I didn’t want to be the only sober one, so I caved. The extra wine led to a brownie sundae and four spoons.
We were deep into chocolate when Natalie’s phone rang. ‘‘Excuse me, it’s my son.’’ She flipped it open and turned away. She listened, then said, ‘‘He what? Tonight? Why didn’t you call me?’’ There were more staccato questions, her head tipped to catch the answers over the bar noise, until she said, ‘‘Oh, honey. I know that was hard but you did just right. I’ll be home soon.’’ She snapped the phone shut.
‘‘Goddamn that man. Goddamn him. Goddamn her. He’s lucky I don’t have a gun.’’ She burst into tears.
Sandy pushed a small packet of pink tissues with Valentine hearts into Natalie’s hand. ‘‘What did he do, dear?’’ she asked. Her soft, faintly southern voice invited confidence.
‘‘He showed up at the house tonight, knowing I’d be at class. I changed the locks, see, after he left. I guess he thought he could talk his way in if it was just the kids.’’
Her eyes traveled around the table to see if we understood. ‘‘He didn’t come to see them. He hasn’t spoken to them since he moved out. Not even a call on Sammy’s birthday. He came to get our financial records. For his lawyer.’’ She hissed the word ‘‘lawyer’’ like the guy was a real snake. Probably was. When my sister divorced, she had a snake. She said it made all the difference. ‘‘My lawyer said don’t give him anything until we’ve made copies.’’