Seasons of the Fool (11 page)

Her meeting with Elaine’s lawyer friend had gone well. Andy Kessler was kind to her, but professional. Elaine had sent him the transcripts of her testimony before the Securities and Exchange Commission’s lawyers, and he told her that he did not believe she was in any danger of being charged with a crime herself. “If they were going to press charges against you,” he’d said, “they would have done it by now.”

“Do I have to testify?” she asked, even though she knew the answer. “I’m so tired of being wrapped up in Lance’s crap. We’re divorced, for God’s sake.”

“I can understand why you would feel that way,” he said. “But ignoring these subpoenas would be a very big mistake. You would end up in jail yourself for contempt of court.”

She nodded. “All right, then. ‘Once more unto the breach,’” she said, summoning as much of a smile as she could muster. “And I hope they don’t ask for a continuance. I want this to be over and done with.”

She had gone back to the Evanston house, then, and poked in all the corners, looking for anything she could salvage that she hadn’t already taken with her. She scooped her jewelry into a handbag –
I’ll be damned if I’ll let him give it to his girlfriend, and anyway I can sell it if times get really tight
– and packed up the rest of her clothes. She expected she would eventually donate them to Goodwill, but she didn’t have the energy to sort through them now.

She also bagged up all the groceries in the pantry. And boxed up all the liquor. She might need that, too.

She’d heard nothing from Dave. Not that she expected to. This was, after all, real life.

She had gone to dinner Saturday night with Elaine and her other old friends. It was nice to see them, and she enjoyed herself, but she was struck by how little she had in common with these women any more. Their chatter centered around their husbands and their careers, their kids’ achievements and their volunteer work. She had had all those things, too, in her previous life – or nearly all. But none of it meant anything to her any more. None of it applied to her.

She wondered whether she would ever fit in anywhere ever again.

One more night in the house she was beginning to think of as a mausoleum for her past life, and she was ready to go home.

She hit a squall on I-94 near Chesterton, the snow falling so thick and fast that she nearly pulled over to the side of the road to wait it out. But primal fear clutched at her – an irrational belief that the storm would never end – so she crept on, following the tail lights of a semi in front of her and hoping the driver didn’t run them both into a ditch.

The snow stopped before she reached the first exit for Michigan City, but the adrenaline rush was slow to abate. Exhausted, she rounded the corner onto Nokomis Trail, thinking only of getting inside and collapsing into bed.

Ron’s truck was parked in her driveway.

She groaned aloud.
Oh God. Do I have to do this right now?
She drove to the dead-end in front of Ms. Elsie and Ms. Thea’s, and backed her SUV around. Then she parked on the street in front of her house.

She left everything in the car – even her purse – and headed up the sidewalk to the front door. Ron intercepted her before she could get to the porch. “Where have you been?” he demanded, grabbing her upper arm.

“You’re hurting me,” she said, as coolly as she could, and tried to pull away, but he gripped her more tightly. “Ow,” she said for emphasis, and yanked harder, breaking his grip at last.

“Where have you been?” he said again, raising his voice.

“It’s none of your business,” she said. “I don’t owe you an explanation. I don’t owe you anything.” She took two steps toward the house.

He lunged in front of her. “You owe me everything,” he said, and grabbed her again. Then he slammed his mouth against hers.

She bit down on his lip, hard, and tasted blood. When he pulled back, a murderous glint in his eye, she broke his hold and stepped away from him. “Get off my property,” she ground out.

A police cruiser, its lights flashing, rounded the corner at the end of the block. The cop who got out of it looked a little scared to be there, but Julia was never so glad to see an officer in her life.

“Any trouble here, ma’am?” the cop called out.

“Yes, Officer,” she said gratefully. “This is my house and I’ve told him to leave me alone, but he won’t leave.”

“You’d better do what the lady says, sir,” the cop said. “Or I’ll have to arrest you for trespassing.”

Ron glared at them both. “This isn’t over, Julia,” he muttered as he backed away from her. “Not by a long shot.” But he got in his truck and backed out of her drive, then gunned the motor and skidded slightly on a patch of ice as he tore up the street. She heard him rev the truck again as he turned the corner and was gone.

The cop approached her. “Do you want to file a report, ma’am?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I do. Just let me get my purse.”

~

It was Mr. Starek who had called the police. He came over after the cop left. She held the storm door open for him, but he didn’t want to come in.

“He’d been sitting there for a couple of hours,” he told her, his breaths turning to fog in the cold. “I’d seen his truck here before, of course, so I thought maybe you’d called him to fix something and were just late getting here. But when he grabbed you, I knew something wasn’t right.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ve gone out with him a couple of times. I guess, in his mind, that means he owns me.” She shook her head. “Maybe I should get a restraining order against him.”

“Won’t help,” Mr. Starek said. “I’ve seen his type before. A piece of paper won’t mean anything to him.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m sure you’re right. I just don’t know what else to do.”

He eyed her keenly. “If I were you, I’d find another handyman, for starters.”

She chuckled. “Sound advice. I will.”

“Well. You let me know if you need anything.” He turned and made his way back across the road.

She closed and locked the door behind him, too exhausted to begin unloading her car, or even to move it into the driveway. Instead, she sank down on the couch and pulled out her phone.
Need a new handyman,
she texted to Dave.
Just sent Ron packing. Any suggestions?

A few minutes went by before she received a response.
Sorry, got my hands full here. Let me think about it. I’ll call you.

She fell asleep on the couch, waiting for his call.

~

The next morning, she unloaded her car. Then she called on the old ladies.

“How was your trip?” Ms. Thea said as Julia took a seat across from Ms. Elsie at the tiny kitchen table.

“Not so good,” Julia said. “The divorce is final, but…. I thought that would fix everything. But it seems like everything’s worse now than it was before.”

“I noticed the police came by,” Ms. Elsie said carefully.

“Yeah. Thank goodness Mr. Starek called them. I don’t think Ron would have left otherwise.”

The older women exchanged a look. Then Ms. Elsie said, “We talked, before you left, about you walking the labyrinth again.”

“Yes,” Julia said instantly. “That’s actually what I came over to ask you about. Do you think today would be a good day for it?”

“Today would be an excellent day,” Ms. Thea said.

“A most excellent day,” Ms. Elsie said. “Let’s wait until it warms up a little more, though. How about right after lunch?”

~

Julia met them in the clearing at the appointed time. Once again, the ladies performed their little ceremony, although she thought maybe they added an extra line or two, asking for more protection than the last time.

Then she stepped into the labyrinth, and found herself in church.

No, not a church – a cathedral. Somber granite surrounded her as she stood at the end of a long aisle, rows of empty pews stretching to either side. The only splash of color was the crimson of the robes worn by the high priest standing in the apse.

“Come forward!” he thundered.

The long aisle stretched before her. She was sure the walk would take forever, but just two steps brought her to the altar. She looked up at the priest, who was looking down his nose at her.

“What have you done with your life?” he cried.

She blinked. “I….”

“What have you done with your life?” he repeated. “Speak, woman!”

“Nothing,” she admitted quietly. “I have done nothing with my life.”

“You have yoked yourself to one man after another,” he said. He pointed grandly to her right. “Behold!”

A pale rider approached them. As the horseman came nearer, she shuddered, for he wore a skeleton mask and carried a scythe.

“You have wasted your gifts,” the priest intoned. “And you are paying the price for your neglect.”

“Must I die, then?” she asked, certain that the answer would be yes.

“No,” the horseman said, and swung his scythe toward her. She screamed and cowered at the feet of his steed. But he only laughed at her. “Take it!” he commanded. “Do not be afraid.”

She risked a glance up. Then she straightened in wonder. The scythe was not a scythe at all; it was a pen. At first, she reached out with tentative fingers; then she grabbed onto it as if it were a lifeline.

“Tell your story,” the horseman said. He dismounted, and as she rose, he removed his mask, showing a kindly face. She glanced about her. The priest and his cathedral were gone; she and the horseman stood in a forest. Her cottage stood a little way off, and from somewhere beyond it, she heard the sound of waves crashing on the beach. “Tell your story,” he repeated, letting go of the pen. “Tell it. It alone will save you. All else is a distraction.”

The trial, and Ron, and the editing work, and Dave. Yes.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will.” She turned and took a step….

And as before, she stumbled out of the labyrinth. She dropped to her knees, spent, as the older women hurried to her side.

Later, after an early supper with Ms. Thea and Ms. Elsie, she walked the few blocks to the lake. She heard the waves long before she crossed Lake Shore Drive to the shelter. They crashed against the ice that rimmed the shore, sped by a stiff breeze that numbed her unprotected ears. She walked down the stairs to the beach, noting the storm clouds moving in. It must already have been raining, or perhaps sleeting, west of her; on clear days she could often see the tallest buildings in Chicago as shadows on the western horizon, but today the view was obscured.

Oddly, she felt her own vision was clearer than ever.

The priest was right. She had been letting everything distract her from her purpose. She had come here because she needed to write. Well, she would write. She would tell her stories as honestly as she knew how, and she would publish them. Maybe her work would help some other woman avoid her fate.

Clear-eyed and calm for the first time in days, she ascended the stairs.

~

She should have known something was wrong as soon as she got home. A brisk draft of cold air met her at the door. Frowning, she closed the door behind her and stared at the open window on the other side of the room.

She had taken just two steps toward it before she was grabbed from behind. A hand covered her mouth, stifling her surprised exclamation, and an arm like a steel band pinned her own arms at her sides.

“You wouldn’t listen to me, would you?” Ron growled in her ear. “I told you to get a gun. I told you it wasn’t safe for a defenseless woman to be out here alone. Didn’t I?” He shook her, as if expecting her to respond around the hand he had clamped over her mouth. “Didn’t I?”

Terrified, she risked a nod.

“Well, now you’re going to find out what happens to women who don’t listen to me.” His free hand slid up and over her right breast, squeezing it viciously. She could feel his erection swelling against her buttocks.

She grunted in pain and cast her eyes around the room for a way out. Her wild gaze landed on the fireplace tools. If she could just get to them….

He began ripping at the neckline of her puffy jacket, trying to pull the zipper apart by main force. His hand over her mouth loosened. “Stop it! You’re going to rip my coat!” she said, as clearly as she could manage.

“Take it off!” he commanded, his breath rasping in her ear.

“Let go of me and I will,” she said, trying to sound calm.

“Oh no,” he said. “Not a chance.” But he slid his arm down, pinioning her pelvis and one arm, so she could manage the zipper herself.

She grasped the zipper pull and slowly began to draw it down, her mind racing.

“Hurry up!” he yelled.

She stomped on his instep with her heel. At his yelp of surprise, she twisted away from him and made for the fireplace.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, huffing a laugh as if it were a game, and chased after her.

But fear gave her speed, and she knew the room better than he did. In a fluid motion she would not have believed herself capable of, she pulled the coffee table between them – its legs screeching on the pine floor – and snatched up the poker. “Now,” she said, breathless, as her weapon wavered in the air, “get out.”