1. Friday evening I was out back on my little slab of concrete patio, lounging in my saggy lawn chair, drinking bourbon and chain-smoking. I was thinking about money, specifically that mine seemed to be running out again, and that something would have to be done about it soon. That was as far as I'd gotten in my musing. The evening, the liquor, and the tobacco had persuaded me that tomorrow would be soon enough to address the problem in depth.
I watched a rabbit over by the garage eating something green. It always surprised me to see wildlife in the yards around here. I wondered if the little bastard was undermining the garage.
My yard is narrow and the garage takes up three-quarters of the available width. The main door is on the opposite side, facing the alley where you drive in; the door out to the yard is in the side wall, so from the vantage of the patio all you see is a blank brick wall. I haven't parked there in over a year.
To the left, between the garage wall and the chain-link fence, is a footpath leading back to a gate and the alley beyond. It's narrow and overgrown, which I guess explains the rabbit.
The light was fading by this time, so I was startled when I first noticed the woman standing on the path at the corner of the garage. Just for a second, I had the wild idea the rabbit had transformed into a human. But that was absurd.
The woman wasn't moving, she just stood there looking at me. After the initial surprise, my first rational thought was to wonder how long she'd been back there before coming forward to show herself (my second thought being to wonder whether or not I'd absent-mindedly scratched my balls in the last quarter-hour or so).
I couldn't make out much about her but I didn't move or acknowledge her, hoping she'd mistakenly wandered up from the alley to the wrong house and was now doing the mental work to confirm this for herself prior to retreating. When she continued to stand there I realized she probably couldn't see me well enough to register that I'd noticed her and was now looking right at her.
"Hello," I called, trying to be curt but neighborly at the same time, if that was even possible.
She moved then, a sort of full-body spasm suggesting she was more startled than I'd just been. Her arms and legs all worked at once in a kid of involuntary protective gesture.
"I'm so sorry," she said.
"Wrong house?"
"Uh, well..."
I got up and walked towards her. "Is everything okay?" It's not a long yard so I was within a few feet of her after eight or nine paces. She was wearing a knee-length flowery summer dress and flip-flops. She was holding her right arm across her chest with her hand on her left shoulder.
"I'm so sorry," she said again, only this time her voice had dropped to a whisper.
So I said, again, "Is everything okay?"
"Not... not really," she said, and she took a step past the end of the garage, then side-stepped in front of the wall. I glanced along the path toward the alley then back at her.
"Are you... are you
hiding
?"
Her hand came away from her shoulder and she raised her finger to her lips to shush me. As she did so her dress peeled away from her left side and a torn section fell to her waist. She quickly gathered it up and returned it to her shoulder. It was a rapid movement, but I saw she wasn't wearing a bra and her left nipple was hard as a hazelnut.
"What happened?" I said, "what's going on? Are you hurt?"
Her hand went up to her face, the torn dress fell away again, and she half-stepped, half-staggered towards me as a sob lurched up from her chest.
I caught her by her upper arms in an attempt to prevent collapse but she sank into me, head against my chest, arms around me tight--painfully so, as if she'd discovered a buoy in a choppy sea and her life depended on not letting go.
"Whoa," I said, struggling under the sudden weight. It felt like her legs had given out. After a moment she recovered somewhat and took some of the load herself, but she continued to hold tight.
She said into my neck, "I just needed to get away. I'm so sorry to bother you. I didn't think there'd be anyone back here."
"Come and sit down."
I led her across the grass to the patio and brushed off the dirt from the other lawn chair I'd had my feet on.
"Here, sit."
I looked at her in the chair, knees together, her right hand holding up the dress.
"Wait a second," I said.
I went into the house and found a sweatshirt. On the way out again I picked up a glass from the rack by the kitchen sink.
"Put this on, it'll leave you both hands free."
She smiled tightly, meeting my gaze only for a second as she reached for the sweatshirt, then looking away as if embarrassed or ashamed.
"Drink?" I said, "you look like you need one."
"Thanks."
I sat down after handing her a couple of fingers in the tumbler, then refilled my own and lit a cigarette.
"Do you want me to call the police?"
"Uh, no, they're sick of hearing about us."
"This is to do with your husband, or...?"
She took her first sip then half-coughed, half-wheezed.
"Yes. Every couple months there's a fight and he gets physical. Sometimes I just need to get out until he runs out of steam."
"Did he hurt you tonight?"
"Almost. But I know when it's coming, when it's time to split. He caught my dress as I headed out the back."
"This happens a lot but you stay with him?"
She shrugged.
"Do you love him?"
"I... guess so."
"...Okay."
This was none of my business and not my problem, other than the temporary presence of this woman in my yard. I'd walk her back to her house when she was done with her drink.
"Could I bum a cigarette from you? Drinking makes me want to smoke again."
"Sure. Help yourself. I'm Freddie, by the way."
She looked at me as she was lighting up, the flame dancing in her eyes. Her mouth was pouting with the cig in there, but the eyes were smiling at me.
"Mona," she said, exhaling. "It's nice to meet you, Freddie. And thanks for rescuing me."
Even in the twilight I could see Mona had good legs. She crossed one across the other and let her flip-flop dangle from the raised foot. She was in her early forties maybe, sturdily built, trim but soft. The underside of her thigh was just the right side of slack. The glimpse I'd had of her left breast was enough to trigger the standard reaction in me, so all was well there, too. The scratch on her collar bone, where the dress had been torn away, was the only visible sign (so far) of physical violence.
