I can only hope that the full weight of the law puts you somewhere you can’t hurt her again.
I put the letter in a new green office folder, labeled “Mike,” and file it away. I want to throw up.
As appointed, I go to bed at midnight. I can’t fall asleep, and I think I have to prepare myself for an unusual waking time in the morning, if I go to sleep at all. My data will be complete, but it will be erratic.
At 1:47 a.m.—I know because I am not asleep and I check the clock—I hear a rap on the front door. I crawl out of bed and go to the door, where I look through the peephole.
It’s Donna Middleton through the fish-eye lens. She has a purplish welt under her right eye. Her face is streaked and stained with makeup. She has been crying.
I open the door.
“Hello, Mr. Stanton.”
“Hello, Ms. Middleton. Are you OK?”
“Physically, I’ll be fine in a few days, they say. But I’m not OK.”
“I understand.”
She looks down. “I want to thank you for calling the cops.”
“Yes.”
“And I want to apologize to you for my reaction this morning—God, this morning. It seems like a long time ago.” She is weeping.
“Yes.”
“I’m having a hard time figuring you out, Mr. Stanton.”
“Edward.”
“Edward,” she repeats.
“I know.” I am not sure what to say to her.
“Are you a friend to us, Edward?”
“Yes.”
“OK, then. Thank you again. I was…” She is crying again. “I was sure I was going to die.”
“That was not going to happen.”
She tries to smile but just cries some more. She rubs her face and sniffles. “OK, then. It’s late. I probably woke you up. Good night, Edward.”
“Good night.”
I watch as she turns around and cuts diagonally across the street, from my front yard to hers. She walks up the steps of her porch, opens the front door, and disappears inside.
It’s 2:00 a.m. I always go to sleep at midnight sharp, but today has been extraordinary, and here I am, awake. I’ve never seen my neighborhood at this time. It’s quiet and beautiful. I can’t hear anything except the beating of my heart.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 19
I am not surprised to see the man in front of me. It is Mike. Though he is at least seven inches shorter than me, no more than five foot nine, he weighs at least as much as I do, and unlike me, Mike is all muscle. His angular face seethes. He is holding a baseball bat, and he waggles it menacingly. That bat, I am sure, is intended for me.
I am surprised that Mike is not in jail. The cops in this town are terrible.
I am not surprised that he is advancing on me.
I am surprised that I am not running—indeed, that I am standing still.
I am not surprised that Mike has pulled the bat back for a mighty swing and that it is aimed directly at my head…
I am surprised that I’m awake. I am even more surprised that it’s 4:12 a.m.
It seems that there is little I can rely on anymore.
I try closing my eyes, now that I know I am safe.
But it is useless. I grab my pen and notebook and scribble down the time, and my data is complete.
As I pad through the living room toward the earliest bowl of corn flakes of my life, I stop at the front window and pull back the curtain. Life outside on Clark Avenue looks much as it did just a few hours ago. Only the streetlights pierce the dark. No one appears to be out and about, not at this hour. I tilt my head to the right and find Donna Middleton’s house. I wonder if she’s having trouble sleeping. I wonder if she is scared. I wouldn’t say she was scared when I talked to her earlier—shaken, yes, but there was firmness in her voice and what I would call resolve in her eyes. There is no empirical way to prove these things, of course, but that was the sense I got. I prefer facts, but sometimes sense is all you have to go on.
I’ve occasionally heard people say something like “I know his heart,” and I wonder how someone could possibly know such a thing. A heart is a mysterious thing to know. Doctors know how they work, of course, and can sometimes fix them when they’re not working correctly. But the mechanics of the heart are not what people are talking about when they say such things. They are talking about a person’s intentions or nature or goodness—or perhaps, in the case of someone like Mike, the opposite of goodness.
I do not understand how one can know such things, the way people know that the Declaration of Independence was signed on July 4, 1776, or that the cheetah is the fastest land mammal. Those things can be measured and verified. Hearts cannot. Still, I cannot fight the notion that Donna has a strong heart, no matter how imprecise I know that feeling to be.
I feel bad for Donna Middleton. It must be difficult for her. Boys, even good boys like Kyle, must be difficult to raise. She is doing it alone, though she must be doing something right. I guess Kyle will be coming home today from his grandparents’ house in Laurel. I hope he is a good boy to his mother for a while.
I don’t think Donna Middleton wants to be alone like she is. How could she, having been with the Mikes and Troys and Donalds that she has been with? I think it must be very difficult and sad to want something and to not get it, no matter how hard you try. She lived with Mike, and he tried to choke her.
I feel bad for Donna Middleton. But I do not feel sorry for her. This is a fine distinction, I think, but it feels right to me. I do not think Donna Middleton would appreciate my feeling sorry for her. I don’t know her heart, but I feel confident about that. That confidence will have to do until the facts come in.
At 4:38 a.m. on the 293rd day of the year (because it’s a leap year), I’m munching on corn flakes and sitting in front of the computer, logging on to Montana Personal Connect.
Inbox (1).
I click the link.
Hi Edward!
Thanks SOOOOO much for answering my questions.
Yours’ are great. Here are my answers:
1. I’m not sure of the number. A bunch. Online dating is hard. But what are you going to do. Its not like Im going to meet someone in Broadview. Ha ha.
2. I like summer. Go to the lake, ride in a boat, get a tan. LOL. Do you like the lake?
3. What is Dragnet?
4. Any kind pretty much. I like classic rock and country. I LOVE Garth Brooks.
5. I don’t go on many vacations. The last one I took was to Colorado for mountain biking. What about you?
Edward do you think maybe you would like to meet? Let me know.
Bye!
There is so much wrong with this note I almost do not know where to begin. But then there is that question. Do I want to meet? I am shocked to realize that, until this very moment, 4:44 a.m. on October 19, the 293rd day of the year (because it’s a leap year), I never suspected that participating in an online dating website might actually result in an online date.
Also, I have an idea.
I’m in the basement, and I’m taking inventory.
The front wheel and the pedals on my eighteen-speed bicycle will work. It’s not like the bike is getting much use from me. My parents gave it to me for Christmas in 2002. I took it out once and nearly got run over by a car on Lewis Avenue. It has been down in the basement since.