Safe
The short story behind The Rules of Survival
by Nancy Werlin
Donna! Hi! Yeah, now’s good—well, good as any. You don’t mind me talking to Ginny while we catch up, right? It’s her weekend with Mitch and I’m trying to get her to pack her busy bag all by herself.
Listen, I’m ashamed of myself for leaving that first message on your voice mail. I didn’t mean to worry you. And in the big picture, you know, it wasn’t anything. Okay, I’m a liar, it was really scary; for a minute or two I thought someone might get hurt or even killed. Right in front of me. But now I see I overreacted and it was just another date from hell.
Right. That was the thing that made it so awful. I did like him. And I have to tell you, Donna, it was okay in bed and that just doesn’t happen every day, you know? Although—and the more I think about this, the weirder I think it is—we must’ve talked for three hours after, that one time, and whenever I was going to stop talking, he’d ask another question. Normal guys don’t do that. They just don’t.
Yes, Ginny, you can pack your Princess doll. Good idea, sweetheart.
Right. Right. But what I realize now is, I spilled my guts, everything about Mitch too, but he didn’t volunteer a single thing about himself. Not in three hours. Meanwhile he’s getting me to talk to him like he’s you. But at the time I didn’t see this so I thought it was great. And then the next day he calls and asks me to the movies.
Ginny, no, you can’t pack the kitty. What a silly cupcake you are! Okay, you’re right, sweetheart. Ginny is a girl, not a cupcake.
Sorry. But, God, she’s so cute. She makes everything worthwhile. Where was I? Movies, right. We did buy the tickets. But then we had forty-five minutes to kill and he says let’s go get coffee at the 7-11.
Okay, Donna, you ready? Here comes the blow by blow.
We’re in line to pay for the coffee, and in front of us this man grabs his kid by the upper arms and yanks him up and starts shaking him. And he’s yelling. I think the kid had been whining about candy. Or maybe he’d even pocketed some. I don’t know. I don’t have time to be sure of anything, because the next thing I know, my so-called date has grabbed the kid away from his father. And he puts the kid down behind him and he’s in the father’s face and he’s saying, “You want to hurt somebody, hit me. I won’t hit back. You can do it until you’re not angry anymore.” He says this really quiet.
And for a second—shh, Ginny, Mommy’s talking—I’m ashamed of this, Donna, because it’s juvenile, but for a second my heart goes thunk and I almost believe him.
But I’ve been around, Donna. And this guy is no, you know, Gandhi. Not even close. What he wants, what he really wants, is to kill this other guy with his bare hands. He wants to kill him. I’m telling you, I could smell it.
All this happens in maybe one minute. Less. And then those two have locked eyes, and there’s another endless, oh, five seconds.
Then it’s over. The father is mumbling something about having had a hard day, and he’s sorry, and my date—who I now know with my entire gut is some kind of crazy, on the edge of being totally out of control—is turning back to the little boy and kneeling and looking him in the face and saying, “It’s wrong for anybody ever to hurt you.”
I suppose that’s one good thing. Maybe that little boy will remember. He’s won’t know it was all a lie. He won’t know like I know. He was even younger than Ginny.
Anyway. We get outside the store and he says, “I’m sorry about that.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m thinking, where can I get a cab? I’m thinking, this man knows where I live. I’m thinking, I don’t want Ginny around men like this.
Then like he knows what’s in my head, he says, “I wouldn’t have hit him back. I meant what I said.”
I can feel him looking at me but I don’t look back. I say, “You wanted to kill him.”
He says, “Yes.” No hesitation. Not even surprise that I know.
So I take another deep breath and I say, “This isn’t going to work out.”
There’s a little silence, and I’m scared, Donna, I am. But then he says, “I’ll drive you back home.”
And he did. That’s it. That’s the whole story.
Ginny! What a good job you did!
Oh, Donna, I forgot, but there was one more thing. While he was driving me home, he said, “Listen. When I do that, it’s the mothers who usually hit me back. The fathers hardly ever do. I never hit back. I don’t need to, do you understand?”
I didn’t answer him—I was just trying to hold it together until I was safe home. But now I realize he was saying that he pulls that scene again and again. With men and women.
Psychopath. Whether it’s true or not. Think about it.
I’ll tell you, I was panicky for a few days, in case this turned into a situation like last summer when Mitch was pounding on the door at all hours and leaving those horrible messages. But nothing like that has happened, so I think it’s safe. I think I got lucky this time at least.
Right, I hear you. And I agree. It’s definitely abuse. But this was a store. What I’m saying is, in that situation, you have to think of your own safety. Especially if you’re a woman. And believe me, Donna. This man isn’t any hero. He was a few seconds away from murder. He said he wanted to, and I’m telling you, I knew. He’ll explode someday.
What do you mean, what if not? Who cares? You want me to take a risk like that? You want me to live like that? And listen, everything else aside, it was a date!
Oh, God, that’s Mitch honking! What’s he trying to do, wake the dead? I bet he’s pissed because he’s running late, like that’s my fault. I’ll call you later—I need to hear all about you, and we can talk forever, because Mitch isn’t due to bring Ginny back until tomorrow night. Not that I’m ever sure what he’ll do.
Bye, Donna.
"Safe." Copyright © 2006 by Nancy Werlin