The odd but unremarkable truth about women is we’ve had the aggression bred right out of us. Many of us are constitutionally unable to handle any kind of confrontation without bursting into tears. A public encounter with a thug? We’re ill-prepared and ill-equipped. There were eight of us in my group and we were warned that one in six of us would be the victim of violent assault at some point. We couldn’t help eyeing one another, not wishing others ill, but each of us fervently hoping we wouldn’t be the bad guy’s statistical choice.
What the class brought foremost to mind was my realization of what poor physical condition I was in. I had assumed that weight lifting and regular cardiovascular exercise was sufficient for self-protection. This was clearly not the case. Within five minutes of hand-to-hand combat, fabricated though it was, I was completely winded and bathed in sweat. I was improving, but the going was slow and I had to counsel myself to be patient and trust in the process. The two women in my group who’d been previously assaulted found the exercises particularly traumatic, as the physical mock battles activated their feelings of vulnerability. I was part of the same spectrum, sensitive to what I considered my own failing to protect myself from Ned Lowe. In every grappling with my well-padded professional opponent, I pictured Ned’s sad, puffy face; his pale skin, the bags under his eyes, and his air of weakness, which in truth was completely offset by his ruthlessness. He harbored no empathy for others and was, thus, pitiless in his pursuit of dominance.
At the end of the hour, as I showered and changed clothes, I could scarcely lift my arms. I was home by 5:35, flattened by physical exhaustion. I set my gym bag on the floor near my desk and collapsed on the couch, too wrung out to move. Did I dare brave Rosie’s for dinner that night? Occasionally she supplemented her offal cooking with comfort foods and I wondered if I could count on her sense of fair play. Those of us who endured her culinary aberrations deserved the intermittent relief of roast chicken and mashed potatoes.
I was flirting with the idea of a nap when I heard a knock at my door. With various body parts setting up a howl, I staggered to my feet, crossed the room, and checked the porthole. My cousin Anna was standing on my doorstep with the cat in her arms. She caught sight of me and held him up by way of entreaty. I might have waved her away, claiming physical impairment, but who could resist that sweet beast?
Having earlier alluded to the subject of my history with my cousin, it’s probably only fair that I pause to fill you in. I had discovered that the two of us were related during the same strange turn of events that resulted in a monetary windfall that put half a million dollars in my retirement fund. Being frugal by nature, I considered the funds inviolate and went on living as I had before, by which I mean cheaply.
When it came to Anna, I’d be hard-pressed to define the family connection, which stretched back a generation to our shared grandmother, Rebecca Dace, who had married my grandfather, Quillen Millhone. My father was Anna’s father’s favorite uncle, making us (perhaps) second cousins once removed, or something of the sort. It’s also possible I was her aunt. Whatever the tie, the relationship had gotten off to a shaky start.
I’d first met her during a two-day jaunt to Bakersfield, California, tracking the family of a homeless man who’d died on our local beach. The trip was only moderately productive, but when I returned to Santa Teresa, she’d followed, thinking a change in scenery might provide exciting new opportunities for her otherwise dead-end life. Next thing I knew, my landlord Henry had offered to let her stay in one of his guest rooms. Given his big heart and her tendency to freeload, she was there for the better part of three months, which annoyed me no end, especially as Henry never uttered a word of protest.
She found a job as a manicurist in a salon within walking distance and Henry made arrangements for her to rent a room from Moza Lowenstein, an elderly neighbor who lived four doors away. Since Anna needed a place to stay and Moza needed the company and the money, it worked out well for everyone. My feelings toward Anna might have been less than charitable, but I kept my mouth shut.
I opened the door and ushered her in, noting that her outfit—a long-sleeved blue T-shirt under denim overalls—rendered her shapeless, which is not easy for someone built as she was. She wore her dark hair pulled up in a bun on the top of her head and not a scrap of makeup. Even so, she looked better than I do on my best day. I know we’re not supposed to measure ourselves against others, especially in circumstances where we come up so far short, but faced with a natural beauty like Anna’s, it is hard not to despair.
She set Ed on the floor, watching him fondly as he sashayed across the room. “I found him outside and figured he was making a break for it. I thought he was strictly indoors.”
“Tell him that. He makes a break for it every chance he gets; not from a desire to escape, but to prove to us he can,” I said.
I closed the front door, returned to the couch, and lowered myself with caution, muscles protesting the imposition.
“Why are you limping?”
“I just came out of a self-defense class and I hurt everywhere. I take it Henry isn’t home.”
“Pearl answered the door. I couldn’t believe my eyes. What’s up with her?”
“She broke her hip. The rehab facility insisted on her finding a suitable place to recuperate before they’d let her out.”
“But why Henry? What did he do to deserve that?”
“She remembered how nice he was when Terrence and Felix died.”
“Oh, man. There’s a lesson in there someplace. Mind if I have a seat?”
“By all means,” I said.
She settled in one of the director’s chairs, the canvas making a rude noise as it stretched to accommodate her. Ed hopped onto her lap and she kissed him between the ears. Honestly, if she wasn’t so crazy about him, I wouldn’t be nearly so hospitable.
I said, “You want a glass of wine?”
“No, thanks. I ate dinner last night at Rosie’s and my stomach’s still upset. Are you having dinner there tonight?”
“I’d thought to. How about you?”
“I don’t know,” she said uneasily.
“In other words, yes.”
“Well, yeah. I don’t cook and you can’t subsist indefinitely on cheese and crackers because it’s bad for your health.”
“Not to get personal, but I noticed you and Cheney all cozied up,” I said. I was hoping I’d adjusted my tone so as not to sound as grudging as I felt.
“I hope I’m not treading on your turf. He’s a nice guy.”
“I have no claims on the man.”
She set Ed down again. He flopped over where he was and began cleaning himself. “Am I imagining this or did Camilla cut you dead the other night?”
“She’s never been fond of me,” I said.
“What do you expect? You boffed her husband, from what I hear.”
“She was off on a fling, so what was the poor man supposed to do?”
Anna made a face. “I don’t get that relationship.”
“You haven’t heard the story? They met in seventh grade. Thirteen years old and an immutable bond was formed. They call it codependency—a term I picked up from a therapist pal. In Jonah’s view, since she’s the mother of his children, he’s morally obliged to endure.”
“I have to admit their two girls turned out fine,” she said. “It’s that little boy, Banner, who’ll pay.”