“I’m asking you these questions,” Officer Lorraine said carefully, patiently, “because a defense lawyer will ask them — if we can ever get the attacker to trial. And, Iris, I have to tell you the chances are pretty slim given the lapse in time, and the facts as they are. I believe you when you say nothing you did constitutes permission for the attacker to do what he did, but it will be a problem when it comes to prosecuting him. Honey, it just will. This is where we live. Now, I can put the name on file and watch for him in other attacks for a time, but I’ve gotta tell you that a lot of these cases even when we can bring the attacker in result in acquittal, especially lacking enough forensic evidence.”
“I’m sorry,” Natasha said.
“No,” said Officer Lorraine. “You did the right thing. We’re aware of it, and we have the name. And we will pursue it as far as we can if you want to press charges. But lacking witnesses there’s not much we can do short of interviewing him and explaining his rights to him. And if you decide to press charges, then you’ll have to come down here and confront him. So — I’m sorry, but I’ve got to tell you the chance of a conviction, even if you’d reported it that night, would anyway be in serious doubt. Drugs and alcohol. You see what I’m getting at, don’t you? And the defense lawyer will want to know about your past, too — the past year or two anyway. I’m so sorry about it, but that’s just how it is.”
“You’ll — you’ll watch for him?”
“The type tends to repeat the behavior, yes. And I’ve made a note of it. If you wait I can put it in right now and see if anything comes up for him.”
“Yes,” Natasha said, sniffling. “Please.” She waited, sitting on the bed and looking out into the living room and at the front door.
Officer Lorraine came back on the line, and sighed. “I’m sorry, Iris, but there’s no record of anything. Not even a traffic violation. So we either have to wait, or you can decide to press charges.”
“But — you’re saying — it wouldn’t do any good to press charges.”
“Well, maybe it’d shake up his world — who knows. But then you’ll have to shake up your own world pretty good, too. And as for getting any kind of justice, I’m afraid the chances of that now are between slim and none. I mean, he could have a change of heart and make a confession, but I’d bet you the farm and the land, too, that that won’t happen. Like I said, under the circumstances the case would’ve been pretty weak even the day it happened. I wish I didn’t have to tell you all this.”
“Thank you,” Natasha said. “You’ve been very kind.”
“I’m only giving you what the lawyers will think and do. You want to press charges?”
“I’ll decide and call you back.”
“I guess it’s not going to be helped or hurt by waiting a little longer. But let us know.”
She set the receiver in its cradle on the nightstand. She felt strangely vacant, exhausted, even apathetic. Nothing to be done. The idea of trying to paint anymore seemed dreary and negligible, an indulgence. Something from another life, far gone. She went into the little room and looked at what she had, then took it down and put it in the stack of other attempts. Then she went back into the bedroom and lay down again.
The doctor’s appointment was for eleven-thirty, but she had slept very little in the night, and so she put her arms around herself and looked at the room.
Once again she had to fight off the images: Nicholas Duego, untouchable by the authorities, arriving at the Memphis airport, renting a car, and driving into Midtown, taking a cheap motel room. Duego looking up the address she had written in the sand on the beach and finding his way there to watch her come and go, hunting her, planning something. Possessing the indemnity provided by her history and by the circumstances. But he would see that she was telling no one. Except that there was his craziness and his need to explain, his wanting her to say that what had happened was not what it was. I do not take what has not been given. His hands shoving the sand in her mouth, packing it there, trying to fill her throat.
Every passing car was peril.
She got up, went into the bathroom, brushed her hair, and said into the mirror, “I will not be a victim. I am not a victim. I am not. I’m not.”
Then she was sitting on the sofa in the small living room, crying softly and waiting for the time to pass. She did not even remember how she got there.
When the shadow appeared in the window of the front door she took in a breath and stiffened. The knock brought a little yelp out of the back of her throat. She rose and moved with stealth to the window in the small dining room and peered out.
Marsha Trunan.
She went to the front door and opened it.
“We were supposed to go for a walk,” Marsha said. “Remember?”
It was just past nine o’clock.
“I didn’t remember,” Natasha said to her. “Give me a minute.”
The other woman entered and sat at the table, refusing the offer of coffee but taking a clementine from the bowl there and peeling it and eating it. Natasha put her tennis shoes on, and a light sweatshirt.
“Ready?” Marsha said, chewing. Then: “You really don’t remember telling me to come by at nine today?”
“I remember now,” Natasha told her.
They walked up the leaf-strewn sidewalk. Neither of them spoke for a few paces. There was a cool breeze blowing intermittently, but the air was warm, still summery.
“I think I might be pregnant,” Natasha said.
The other looked at her and kept walking with arms folded. “And?”
She shrugged and repeated, without inflection, “I might be pregnant.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it.”
“I think I’m happy.”
“You think you’re happy.”
“Well, it’s — scary. A little scary.”
“You always said you wanted a baby. You’ve been saying that for a while.”
“I know. I do.”
“Well?”
“I don’t know for sure what he wants. I mean — he’s about to be fifty.”
“You don’t know how he’ll feel about it?”
“Not for sure — no.”
“You’re married. What do you talk about, anyway, that you can’t be sure what he’ll think about the fact that you’re pregnant?”
“He’s said he wants a family.”
“Well, then.”
“But that’s talk.”
“Well, hey — I mean — Jesus, if you can’t trust that kind of talk — I’m sorry — but what the hell.”
“Stop it, Marsha.”
They went on a little without saying anything.
When Marsha spoke now, it was in a quiet, almost chastened tone. “I just mean I bet he’ll be fine with it.”
A car went by with the radio loud, a voice speaking in Spanish. Natasha shrank back a little, watching it go by. A woman sat behind the wheel.
“You seem a bit jumpy,” Marsha said. “Part of being in your condition?”
“I guess.”
Presently, she said, “So how far along are you?”
“I don’t know exactly. They’ll tell me. Eight weeks?”
“Must’ve happened wedding night, huh?”
Natasha looked at her. “Whatever. Whenever.”
“If there was something really wrong between you guys, you’d tell me, right?”
She stopped, and Marsha stopped, too. They were standing on the corner where a light flashed red numbers, the seconds they had to cross. She thought of a countdown toward some disaster. She faced her friend. They were two women, paused at a crossing. Natasha had the thought that there had always been something absent in the other. “I don’t understand,” she said.