The Night I Escaped From The Zoo : 5 / 5

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

I woke to what seemed at first a clicking sound. It took me a few moments to remember where I was and to figure out the time of day. At first I thought it was early, about sunrise, but as I came back to myself I understood that it couldn’t be morning. The reddish golden glow was that of sunset. I was still at Charlotte’s apartment, and I’d slept through most of the day.

I groaned and stretched. I still needed to get myself home. To Mayda’s. That was “home” now.

Charlotte’s voice suddenly and softly asked, “Where is he?”

“Oh my God, Charlotte! You startled the hell out of me!” I jerked up to a sitting position. Charlotte had pulled a kitchen chair over, close to the couch. She’d obviously been watching me while I slept. And-- “Hey!” I exclaimed. “What are doing to my dress? Are you cutting it?”

I snatched it from her left hand. She held a pair of scissors in her right. She’d cut a series of three-inch vertical slits all the way round the waist. I could still wear it home; the slits would show a little skin, but nothing that would get me arrested. “Charlotte, you’ve ruined this dress! It was a beautiful dress, and now it’s--” words failed me “--it’s -- it’s ruined.”

“You ruined my life, I ruined your dress.”

I looked at the scissors in her hand. I looked at her face. A sudden horrible thought hit me, so I put my hands to my head to check my hair.

“I didn’t cut your hair, you dope,” she said, as if that should have been obvious. “I’ve been calling Ross all night -- I mean, all day -- and he hasn’t answered. I’ve left him one message after another, but he still hasn’t called me back. Now his phone goes straight to voicemail, and his voicemail is full.” She sighed heavily. Then she lifted her face, looked me straight in the eye, and asked, “Is he still alive?” She followed that with a whispered, ”Did you kill him?”

”WHAT!?”

“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. She set the scissors on her coffee table. “I don’t mean it. I know you didn’t. I know you wouldn’t. I’m just so sad. And hurt. And angry. And SUPER-ANXIOUS. I’m so anxious. I think I might be getting depression.” She paused. When I didn’t say anything or react in any way, she ventured, “I feel like I wasted all these years when you were with him.”

“Charlotte, Ross and I only dated for six months. That’s all.”

Big round tears began to flow down her cheeks. “I’m sorry about your dress. I didn’t mean it. I’ve been up all day when I should have been sleeping. I’m all wound up and I don’t know what to do. I’m so upset, I can’t go to work tonight. Once his voicemail filled up, I got so frustrated… I saw you sleeping… You were lying there as if nothing at all was wrong in the world. I was mad at you, but I couldn’t hurt you.” After a pause she added, “So I cut your dress.”

After another deep, heavy, ragged sigh, she told me, “You can borrow something of mine if you want.”

“Really?” I said. “That would be great,” and I visually compared her foot size to mine. She saw where my eyes went, and pulled her feet away from me. She quickly added, “No shoes, though.”

“Well, never mind then,” I conceded. “Barefoot’s not so bad.” I pulled the black-and-white dress over my head. It didn’t hug my curves as well any more, but it would get me home.

“I’m going,” I said. “Thanks for all your help. The breakfast, the couch, the listening... I wish you hadn’t cut my dress, but-- thanks. And don’t worry about Ross. I’m sure he’s fine.”

She started to say something else, but I closed the door on her and quickly got the hell out of her building.

My feet were still bare, so I keep a wary eye on the ground ahead of me. I couldn’t afford to hurt or cut my feet. I was a soccer player now. Still, it was true what I’d said to Charlotte: barefoot wasn’t so bad. It was kind of nice, actually. The temperature was fine, and I was pretty sure I knew the way. I followed Bridge Street, which (like its name) crossed the river. That damned river. I stopped and frowned at its roiling current. I wanted to throw something in, just to show my frustration; make it a matter of record. But there was nothing to throw, and I knew it was a stupid thought anyway. I scanned upstream and down, but there was no sign of the rowboat in the river. No trace of the bathtub in the sky, either. Honestly, I wouldn’t have been surprised if that clawfoot monstrosity came crashing down right next to me. Still, it wouldn’t have spoiled my mood: I was back in my town, back in the normal world. Everything was right again, except that I was someone else, and had a month to learn a new language and a new sport. Perfectly normal.

The sun had set while I was at Charlotte’s, and the half hour of twilight was fading. My stomach growled with hunger, and my throat was dry as well. I wasn’t starving, though. I could easily hang on until I reached Mayda’s apartment. Compared to the rest of my experience, being hungry and thirsty was not so bad. At least I wasn’t naked any more.

I followed the riverway. In spite of what that idiot water had done to me, I had to admit it: the river was lovely. The street lamps were starting their slow progression from dim light to full glow. I knew the moon would soon peek over the horizon. I passed a few people walking the other way, and they all smiled and greeted me. A few looked with curiosity at my bare feet and the gashes in my dress, but nobody pointed or made any remark. It was fine: I was back in the real world. My crazy adventure was nearly over.

Then, a bit of luck: I spotted a twenty-dollar bill lying on the ground. It was stuck against a little rock. Otherwise, it would have blown away. I scooped it up happily. Now I’d be able to stop somewhere and eat! Someone was going to be unhappy about losing that money, but I didn’t see anyone scanning the ground. So I folded up the bill and held it in my hand. Yes, of course: like so many women’s clothes, the dress had no pockets! Another thing I’d have to get used to.

I made a detour away from the river. There was a diner a few blocks in that direction that I used to visit as Ross. Mayda never liked the place. She said it wasn’t clean, and that it smelled bad, but I didn’t agree. Besides, they served huge portions, and they were well-known for serving “Breakfast All Day.” That sounded pretty good right about now. So, buoyed with anticipation and my new-found wealth, I walked in. Immediately, the man behind the counter shook his head at me. “What?” I asked, not understanding. In answer, he tapped a sign on the wall that read:

NO SHIRT
NO SHOES
NO SERVICE

Then he pointed at my feet. I sighed and walked out.

I trudged back to the river. I wasn’t quite as happy now. There were other places to eat along the way, but all of them were much nicer and more high-toned than the diner. I didn’t think they’d allow a barefoot girl with a slashed dress to eat there.

As I walked, I thought about soccer. I’d half to start watching films. I’d have to learn all the basic moves. I’d have to work on dribbling and shooting. I thought about the way that Mayda played: one thing that struck me, over and over, was easy to say, but it meant a lot: Mayda was a team player. When I was Ross, I was a team player as well, but it means something entirely different in football. I’ve seen Mayda take shots at the goal, but far more often she set up the shot for somebody else. They did a lot of passing on her team. A LOT of passing. Seemed like every player tried to give every other player a chance. They trusted each other. I’d have to learn to do that, too. Mayda had some clever moves, some fancy footwork, but she didn’t rely on it. Her real secret weapon was that she paid attention. She seemed to know where everyone else was, even when she wasn’t looking at them, and she’d often pass the ball to an empty space — not to where a player was, but to where the player was going to be. And she never stopped. She had the stamina to tear up the entire field, even at the end of the game.

I guess I knew more than I thought. Still, I’d have work hard and train hard, the way that Mayda did.

While I was absorbed in my thoughts and plans, I covered a lot of ground, and now I was nearly home. I could see The Ultimate Steakhouse and Ebbidles. Mayda’s apartment was just a few blocks away. Twenty bucks wouldn’t go far at The Ultimate (and they probably wouldn’t let me in anyway), so I went into Ebbidles. I want to say that I went there grudgingly, but it wasn’t true. I was too hungry to be picky, so right now Ebbidles looked like heaven to me.

When I’d gone there with Mayda yesterday -- wow! Seriously, it was only yesterday? -- anyway, when we visited Ebbidles yesterday, I was a little angry and frustrated. I didn’t want to be there; I wanted to be at The Ultimate, eating a thick, juicy steak. Now, after everything I’d been through, I understood why Mayda was attracted to this place. It had a nice atmosphere. Everyone was smiling: the customers, the staff, the cooks. The kitchen was open: I could watch them working. Everything was clean and calm. And oh, it smelled so good.

The hostess greeted me. I asked her whether my bare feet were a problem. She laughed and said, “No, come on in.” At the waitress’s recommendation I ordered a meatless hash that came with meatless bacon and potatoes. It turned out to be pretty tasty and filling. The coffee was good, too.

After I’d eaten and was enjoying a second cup of coffee (with nondairy creamer, of course), the hostess chatted with me a bit. After some hesitation, she asked me, “What happened to your dress?”

“Revenge,” I answered.

She took my answer in, rolled it around in her head, and then she got it. “Did you steal somebody’s boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “That’s what happened.”

“But how could she cut your dress with you in it?”

“I was asleep.”

We both nodded sagely, as if to say We’ve all been there. I knew I was supposed to nod at that point, but seriously, I don’t know. Has every woman been there?

I left the whole twenty to cover the bill, which meant an almost eight dollar tip. I really enjoyed the meal and the experience, and after all, it wasn’t my money.

After I’d walked about two blocks, a police car pulled up next to me. The cop stayed in the car. From the very first moment, I didn’t like the guy. For one thing, his head was about even with my butt, and his eyes kept drifting there as we talked. Or rather, while he interrogated me.

He asked where I was going, I told him I was going home. I didn’t tell him the address. He asked why I was barefoot. I told him that walking barefoot is good for your feet and legs.

“You do have nice legs, I have to admit,” he commented, nodding. Then he asked, “What’s with all the slashes in your dress?”

“It’s the new fashion,” I told him. “It’s called slasher chic. You’ll see lots of dresses like this in the days ahead.”

“I think somebody was mad at you and they cut up your dress,” he observed, nodding some more. I really wanted to slap him to stop that nodding, but instead I just said, “Yeah, you guessed it. That’s what happened.”

“Ooh! Was it a cat fight?”

In case it isn’t clear, I was getting pretty irritated and offended by this moron. I knew that men could be this stupid. I’d seen a lot of it. However, it was not much fun being the object of the stupidity. I was sure he wouldn’t dare step out and grope me the way his colleague had done, but still, he was taking advantage of his badge. If he wasn’t a cop I would have walked away before he even opened his mouth.

“A cat fight?” I replied. “No, it was a lingerie pillow fight that got out of control.”

That stopped him. His head quit bobbing. His mouth even dropped open a little. He froze for about three beats, then said, “I wasn’t sure those things existed.”

“Can I go, officer?”

“Well, look,” he said, “I actually stopped you to warn you. We’ve had reports of break-ins and of women being assaulted in this area. It’s not a good night to be walking alone. If you hop in, I’ll give you a ride.”

“No, thanks,” I replied. I wasn’t going anywhere with this guy. “I just live two blocks that way. I’ll be careful.”

“Okay,” he said, clearly disappointed. “Keep your eyes open.” Then, after taking one last long look at my butt, he drove off.

When I got to Mayda’s apartment door, I examined the lamp where she’d hidden the key. I had to admit, it was a good hiding place. Even though I knew the key was there, I didn’t see it at first. And if I didn’t have fingernails, I wouldn’t have been able to fish it out.

When I got inside and shut the door, I felt an enormous sense of relief. I didn’t turn the lights on at first; Mayda had left the bathroom light on, and the dim light was kind of restful. I pulled the dress off over my head and dropped it on a chair. Then I noticed the window she’d left open. I remembered wanting to close it before we went out last night, but Mayda didn’t let me. So I walked over and closed it now. Being by the window made me conscious of my nakedness, so I drew the blind. I was about to turn on a lamp, when a rough male voice said, “Leave the light off, baby. I can see you well enough.”

I swore silently, inside my mind. Fuck this guy. He had to be the intruder the policeman warned me about. Well, whoever he was, whatever this asshole thought was going to happen here, was absolutely NOT going to happen. I’d had enough.

I turned to face him. I couldn’t make out his face because he was back-lit by light from the bathroom.

In a throaty whisper he said, “God! Look at you! What a beauty! We’re going to have some fun tonight, I can see that.”

“You want some fun?” I shouted. “Have some of this!” I quickly stepped forward with my left foot, at the same time swinging my right elbow in an arc. When it connected with the man’s forehead, the blow had all my weight behind it. He staggered back a few steps and collided with the wall, but he didn’t go down. He grunted in surprise, then he quickly dove at me, grabbing me around the waist. As he pushed me to the floor, I locked my left arm around his neck and began squeezing with all my might. The two of us fell to the floor with a loud thump.

When I was Ross, I’d been in a handful of fights, and I won most of them. Well, some of them. Okay, honestly, I won a couple of them, but I at least I had more experience fighting than Mayda. But as Ross I was much stronger, and right now I missed that strength. My attacker easily freed his head by grabbing my arm and pulling it off him. I balled up my fists and pounded his head, over and over. He grabbed my wrists and pushed them to the floor. Now I was thoroughly frightened, but there was no way in hell that I was going to be beaten that easily. He was sitting on my stomach, so I started kicking him, whacking his head with my heels. Now I felt some power: Mayda had strong legs.

“Stop it, damn you! Stop it!” he growled softly. He didn’t want the neighbors to hear. Well, I did. I began shouting for help.

“Shut up!” he whispered, and let go of one my wrists. Before he could cover my mouth with his hand, I cocked my arm back and hit him hard in the throat. I hit him as hard I could, with all the force of desperation and fear. He reared back, choking and struggling to breathe. In that moment I found the leverage to push him off and stumble to my feet. I ran to Mayda’s dining table and threw one of the chairs at him. I knocked the other chairs over as well, making as much noise as I could. Then I threw over the table, putting it between him and me. It made one hell of a racket.

“I should fucking kill you,” he muttered.

“NOT IF I KILL YOU FIRST!” I shouted back. He took a step forward and grabbed the table. With one hand, he tossed it out of his way. I could see that given time, he’d overpower me. I wanted to run out the door, but given our positions, he’d grab me before my fingertips touched the doorknob.

Then I saw the item that became my salvation: Mayda’s glass turkey was sitting on the counter, right behind me. It was the same silly turkey we’d fought about last night. It was hard and heavy, and about the size of a football. I grabbed it, cocked my arm like a quarterback and threw that damn glass turkey as hard as I could, putting the force of my whole body into that throw. That ugly glass lump nailed him full in the face. He fell back heavily, landing on his ass. “ARE YOU HAVING FUN NOW, YOU ASSHOLE?” I shouted. He held one hand up as a mute plea for mercy, and put his other hand to his head. I could see he was bleeding badly, but this was no time for tenderness. I looked around for something else to hit him with, in case he stood up again or drew a weapon. I spotted exactly what I needed leaning in a corner near the kitchen counter. There it was, the perfect weapon: a half-size baseball bat, a Louisville Slugger. I snatched it up and tapped the floor with it. I was trying to find something menacing to say, as the intruder struggled to his feet. “You bitch,” he said thickly. He stumbled his way to the door, one hand to his head, the other hand warding me off.

I wasn’t sure whether to hit him again, or let him get away. He managed to fumble open the door and escape to the hallway. Forgetting my nakedness, I chased him.

I’ve been to that apartment building often enough to know that there are only a handful of doors in that hallway, but in my memory I can see a dozen, stretching off in the distance, and a neighbor leaning out of each and every partly-open door. Their heads were twitching back and forth between the fleeing, bleeding intruder and me, the naked girl with a baseball bat.

A woman two doors down across the hall was on the phone with 911. “You’ve got to hurry!” she said. “He’s running away! He’s bleeding from his face.” Then her head swiveled, and her jaw dropped. “And she’s naked,” she told the operator. “Naked with a baseball bat. A little one. No, the baseball bat is a little one. She’s tall.”

I nodded thanks to the woman on the phone, and coolly scanning the faces of the others I rested the bat on my shoulder (like Harley Quinn!) and called out, “Okay, folks, the show’s over.” That’s what you’re supposed to say in situations like that.

After I shut the door and threw the deadbolt, I leaned against the doorjam and slid to the floor. I don’t know how long I sat there, shaking. I don’t know why I wasn’t crying. I just sat there, my butt on the floor, my knees drawn up, watching my hands tremble.

What an outrageous night it had been! I should have had that guy from the Princess Bride with me, exclaiming “Inconceivable!” at every turn.

I looked at the clock. 7:45. Twenty-four hours ago, Mayda and I had walked out this door together. She was still her. I was still me. Now Mayda, dressed in my body, was gliding off to the stars. As far as I could tell, she was happy to go. Not that she was happy to leave me; that wasn’t it. She just wanted more. She wanted adventure, the unknown, the unexpected. It wasn’t that she didn’t want me, per se. It’s just that I wasn’t enough. If I thought she didn’t want me, or didn’t love me, or didn’t care — I don’t think I could bear it. But knowing that I wasn’t enough? It hurt. It was humiliating. But I knew eventually I’d come to live with it. I wanted her to be happy, even if happy meant living in a zoo on another planet.

I sat there for what seemed like an eternity, but only two minutes later someone started pounding on the door. I jumped to my feet.

“This is the police, miss. Are you alright in there? We had reports of an intruder.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” I replied through the door, but my voice was pretty shaky.

“Are you alone in there, miss? Are you safe?”

“Yes,” I said. “He’s gone. I chased him off. I told you, I’m fine.”

“Could you open the door, please, miss? I need to know that no one is in there with you, threatening you.”

“Yeah, sure, fine,” I said, “just give me a second to put some clothes on.”

“Miss! Miss! Please open this door. RIGHT NOW. I’m concerned for your safety.”

My temper was starting to rise. “I will open the door as soon as I put some clothes on! Did you not hear me? I’m going to put some clothes on!”

“Miss? Miss? If you don’t open this door by my count of three, I will have to break it down. I need to know that no one is in there threatening you.”

“Fine!” I shouted, grudgingly giving in. I undid the deadbolt and opened the door. The cop — the same cop I’d seen on the street, the one who wanted to give me a ride — burst in. He had his gun drawn. To his credit, he carefully searched the room before he gave me a good looking-over. He pulled the door out of my hands so he could see behind it. He jumped back to check the kitchen. He poked the curtains. He looked behind furniture, even where there was no room for a person to hide. He was pretty damn throrough..

While he did his thing, I shut the door and walked toward Mayda’s bedroom.

“Wait!” he cautioned. “I haven’t cleared that room yet!”

“I’m getting dressed,” I told him. “If you want to stop me, you’re going to have to shoot me.”

He followed me into the bedroom. Mayda had left a light blue shirtdress on the bed. It wasn’t as luxurious as the white-and-black dress I’d stolen, but it was the same kind of dress. I pulled it over my head in one movement. Then I told the policeman, “You’re standing too close to me.”

“Sorry,” he said, backing away. While he checked under the bed, in the closet, and in the bathroom, I went to the kitchen and got myself a glass of water.

He came out of the bedroom talking into his radio. Really it looked as though he was talking to his shoulder — where his microphone was clipped to his shirt. He stopped near the glass turkey, staring at it. “Whose blood is that?” he asked. “Were you hurt?”

“Only my dignity,” I told him.

“Did he steal anything?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I haven’t had a chance to look. It doesn’t seem like anything’s missing, but I’ll have to look around.”

He asked me to tell him what happened, sometimes asking me to act it out a little. Other police arrived. They took pictures. They bagged the glass turkey. “Good job,” one of the technicians said to me. “Primo DNA.” They wanted to take the baseball bat, but I didn’t let them.

Just before they left, one of the policewomen told me that the man was in custody. He’d run from here to the Emergency Room, and told the nurses that he’d fallen. It just so happened that one of the women he’d assaulted earlier was there as well. She saw him, identified him, and the man was arrested on the spot.

The police stayed in my apartment until eleven. When they finally left me alone, the woman across the hall, the one who called 911, knocked to ask me if I was okay. “Let me know if you need anything,” she said. “I’m always good for a cup of tea and a listening ear.” My eyes teared up at her kindness, and she gave me a hug. I thanked her and told her I was fine.

She left. I locked the door and all the windows. I looked in every corner and cabinet and under and behind every piece of furniture. I needed to be sure I was alone. I also needed a shower, but I decided to wait until morning, when it was light.

Although it wasn’t cold, I fell asleep wrapped in a blanket, clutching the baseball bat, sitting on the floor next to the couch. It was the only spot from which I could see the whole apartment.

When it was finally light out, a knock came on my door. I didn’t want to open it. I just yelled, “Who’s there?” and a voice I knew called back, “It’s Mom, honey. Can I come in?” As she asked, I heard her key in the lock, and the door opened. It was Mayda’s mom. My mom. Mom.

If you have a human heart, you know what followed: Lots of crying. Lots of holding each other. Lots of saying it’s all right and you’ll be okay.

She asked whether the man had hurt me. I said no, then ended up telling her the whole story of how he’d gotten in and how I’d fended him off. Then it struck me (so I asked her): How did Mayda’s mother know I’d been attacked? She pulled a newspaper out of her bag and showed me.

It wasn’t the headline at the top of the page, or even the one after that. In the bottom right on the first page, the headline read: NAKED GIRL STOPS RIVERWAY RAPIST.

“Rapist?” I repeated. It really hadn’t struck me until I read the word. “He wanted to rape me,” I said, realizing it in that moment. When the policeman on the street said that women had been “assaulted,” that’s what he meant: they’d been raped. I was stunned.

“But you stopped him, honey,” Mayda’s mom said to me. “Now he’ll be in jail for a long time, hopefully.”

The story began on the first page and continued on page 29, inside. There was another story, about the other women, with this idiotic headline: VICTIMS GET EARLY THANKSGIVING, THANKS TO GLASS TURKEY.

“That’s really a stretch,” I commented, and my mother laughed.

Yes, I called her “my mother.” I told her how Ross and I broke up, and I cried again. Not just because it hurt to be left behind, but also because I was lying to this kind and loving woman. Her real daughter was gone, and I was left in her place.

She cooked me breakfast. I ate, then we drank coffee together. After we’d talked ourselves out, she asked me, “Are you going to be okay sleeping here tonight?”

I took a deep breath and said, “No.”

“I have an idea,” she said. “I was going to propose this today anyway, before any of this happened. In one month, you’ll be leaving to play for Barcelona. Tell me what you think of this idea: You go all out to get ready for Barcelona. (1) You drop school. You can check with your teachers, see if any of them can see their way clear to giving you a grade rather than marking you incomplete. (2) You break the lease on this apartment and move back home. It’s month-to-month, so there'll be a penalty, but we can help you. It won’t be too bad. (3) We spend this last month together, you and me. I’ll train you. I’ll take you back to basics, as if you never played soccer before. We’ll work on every part of your game, and seriously concentrate on your fitness, in a holistic, sustainable way.”

I stared at her open-mouthed. With a half-smile she prodded me, “I used to be a damn good player, you know. And a good coach. I’ve still got a lot I can teach you. What do you say?”

“It’d be a dream!” I said, and we hugged each other. “I’m going to need to watch a lot of games, too,” I told her.

“There’s some reading you can do as well,” she added.

I took a shower before we left the apartment, and as I stood under the stream of deliciously hot water, I wondered, Do I dare ask her to explain the offside rule to me? I’ve never understood it.

 

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POSTSCRIPT

After the story of the Riverway Rapist and the Glass Turkey went national, I got stuck with the nickname Naked Girl. The name followed me to Barcelona. Even though it should go without saying, I’ll say it: I made damn sure that no one saw me naked in public ever again.

The news media reached out to my future coach in Barcelona for a comment, and he said, “We welcome a player who has so much fight and determination. We expect her to bring her energy and fierce unstoppableness — can you say that? Unstoppableness? However, I suggest that she leave behind her glass turkey. Ha ha! A glass turkey! Can you imagine?”

 

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POST-POSTSCRIPT

I played four years for Barcelona. They were a great four years for me as a player and as a person. Of course, during that time, I met a man, fell in love, and had my heart broken. It hurt much more than I ever thought it could.

I was still licking my wounds when I came back to the States. Barcelona wanted me to stay, but a new team was forming in Boston, and they wanted me on it. I was ready. They wanted me, I wanted them. Plus, I felt it was time to give back to my country.

About six months after my return, the police in Utah contacted me: Ross’ truck had turned up, abandoned on a lonely road. They found my bag, my ID, my old phone — and the clothes Mayda was wearing that night. They didn’t find any trace of Ross, but I can’t help but think that he’s out there somewhere.

If he is, could he be looking for me?