cherished MX-5 with the top down all year, see green every month, and go to the beach on Christmas Day. A pleasant barefooted walk along the beach catching the ocean breeze finished her off. She decided to stay and finish law school at Florida Atlantic University. It wasn’t the University of Pennsylvania, but she would graduate at the top of her class. She was confident about that.
“Looks as if you’re far ahead of me, Abby. You’ve a house and I guess a family. I saw a girl’s bike in the driveway.”
“Was ahead, for awhile, before the divorces. Just two. The first a disaster. He was a hunk, but he was more interested in bars, beer, and buddies than sex. Go figure. A girl should stay active, you know. He expected me to clean up after him and his dog. He wasn’t even house broken. The dog that is. You don’t really know someone until you’ve smelled his socks. Next, I overcompensated and ended up trapped with a shy one. This second guy owned this nice house. That made all the difference. So we got married and I moved in. After he remodeled it, he liked it so much he didn’t want to leave. Why go anywhere? Like there’s so much excitement and adventure at home. It doesn't take much to light my fire, but it was like living with your brother. He loved the kid, so let him stay home with her. The only time he took me out was to the marriage counselor. I’d lost interest in sex according to him. He told me we could try something new in bed if that’s what I wanted. Christ, is that pitiful or what. I hadn’t lost interest. I told him he just didn’t measure up to what was out there waiting. Been there, done him.”
“So you got the house. He got the child.” Sandy wondered what that said about her.
“We began talking divorce and his answer to everything was, ‘whatever’, just so he got custody of our daughter. Well, Mr. Whatever ended up with neither. How about you? You got a guy?”
Sandy wanted out of there. She had better things to do. Although she didn’t owe this woman any politeness, she decided to stick with it for a few more minutes. “I broke off with a significant other in Philly when I left. We weren’t on the same page anyway. I’m seeing a nice man down here. However, he’s not yet significant.” She saw no point in mentioning he was a detective with the city police. “I guess I remember you, Abby,” she lied. “It’s been what, fifteen years?”
She thought the woman appeared pleasant enough, but somehow rumpled looking with gobs of too-long brassy hair. They both happened to be wearing sweatshirts and jeans, Sandy’s were a couple of sizes smaller. Abby appeared older, but must be about the same age if they were in rehab together. “So you were also a juvie victim? Geez, what a terrible place.”
“Yeah, no barbed-wire, no strait-jackets, no padded cells, just a horny counselor who couldn’t believe his luck in charge of a couple dozen nubiles in need of obedience training.”
Sandy said, “Some psych grad student got a grant to set up that pathetic operation. Someone should have investigated and closed the place. No therapy was going on there.”
They walked through to the kitchen and sat at the table. A wide chrome-edged retro affair with matching chairs featuring chrome legs and red-vinyl seats. The kitchen wasn’t large and lacked counter space. Perfect size, Sandy thought, given she didn’t cook. She could see herself standing at that sink. Not washing dishes, heaven forbid, maybe just rinsing out wine glasses. In fact, she liked the entire house. Thought it seemed cozy. Considering it featured both back and front porches, she guessed the house was early-fifties. She’d take it. Beat the hell out of the tiny studio apartment she was crammed into at present.
She should stop thinking about kitchens and houses though. She shouldn’t question her current life choices even though she had just passed thirty. It still made sense to her to spend what little money she had for student loans, textbooks, and car payments. She had to have that sporty car, for commuting to campus as well as for her psychological well-being. That little red convertible was her big love affair. If she died in a car crash, they’d need to pry her cold dead fingers from it. Better yet, just bury her in it. In an emergency, it would be her last possession to go.
A house would be nice, but she felt on track for her goal of a law degree. In that regard, eighty-plus Jerry Kagan and his law office was a lifesaver for her. Kagan was a genial and courtly man with old school manners. They had met back when he was struggling to defend her brother against the murder charge. She showed up, and with tough fieldwork, a skill well honed at her job in Philadelphia. She got enough cooperation from unlikely sources to hand Kagan a solid defense of reasonable doubt. With his case against her brother in shambles, State Attorney Lawrence Moran, the state’s prosecutor, capitulated and moved on to a more likely suspect. Blew Moran out of the water, was the way she once phrased it. He would never forget. As a result, Jerry Kagan came out looking quite contemporary and was able to rejuvenate his moribund law practice.
At his insistence, she now spent her days studying in his law office at the ancient front desk with an ancient dark oak chair. The one with a huge squeaky spring contraption underneath and a wooden seat that fit no one’s bottom, certainly not hers. She had haunted the thrift shops until she discovered the ideal cushion on an old wicker poolside chair. The blue and white striped canvas cushion had one good side; the other was stained from too many spilled Pina Coladas. The oversized cushion fit the seat of the squeaky chair perfectly thereby boosting her body and her sprits. She was sitting pretty.
In return for assisting Kagan in his law office, she received a modest wage and plenty of time to study. She had free access to Wi-Fi, his password to the
“Nice house,” Sandy stated honestly. She didn’t want to waste the day talking to Abby. She took the conversation back to their shared rehab experience, “Wasn’t it clever the way they called their prisoners, clients?”
“Everyone knew who you were,” Abby said. “You were famous around there. They’re no doubt still talking about you. You’re the one who kicked that counselor in the nuts when he tried to make you go down.”
“He never touched me after that. Of course, from then on they gave me every shit detail in the place. I kept telling myself that being on my knees cleaning up shit was more dignified than being on my knees in front of him. It was sexual assault the moment he unzipped.”
“Why didn’t you just go along to get along? That’s my philosophy. What’s the big deal? Do it and move on. If you’re such a goody two-shoes, why were you there in the first place?”
“Acting out at the mall, doing some stolen pills from Mom’s cabinet, nothing heavy, teen stuff. Mom freaked, called a teen hotline and the social services ball started rolling. Some sort of Save-The-Kids crusade was going on at the time, didn’t take much to end up in rehab. Mom put me there and then forgot to come get me out. Brother Raymond also knew I was there and never visited me either. He could have signed me out as well, but didn’t show up. Three extra miserable months he cost me.”
“Wow, really? Well, it’s all behind us now. Iced tea or something?”
Sandy nodded. “Not completely behind. I know where that former counselor now lives. The law firm I worked for in Philly had me out running around the Delaware Valley interviewing and researching legal stuff. When I was bored, waiting for some papers in some law office, I’d use my laptop to track the bastard’s whereabouts.”
“You talking about that tall sexy counselor from rehab? He was hot.”
“Geez Abby, he’s a sleazebag and a criminal. A sexual predator for God’s sake. He belongs behind bars for what he forced the girls to do. I’d love to nail him to the wall just for their sake.”
“I’d love to have him nail me to the mattress one more time. The guy was insatiable. I got more action in there than on the outside. Made the time fly by, plus I didn’t have to do any work.”
That settled the question of whether Abby felt the abuse had torn up her life. Her experience sounded like one of the high points. Sandy hadn’t been aware Abby had spent the duration there on her back. The other girls were required to perform therapy, which was what the counselors called never-ending cleanup duty and waiting on them. She and Abby may have been there at the same time, but clearly their memories differed. Another reason to question why she was even here talking to her. Yet, Sandy resisted judging her. Perhaps cooperating with the counselor had been Abby’s way of coping, her way of surviving. Sandy tried hard to find something to like about this woman.
“I’ve kept track of him, he moved to Delaware,” Sandy said. “I know exactly where he lives. When I pass the bar, I’m going after him—payback time. I’ve made that vow to myself for a girl named Gloria.”
“You’re one serious girl. Remind me never to cross you.”
“I’m not fanatical about it, but it’s there in the back of my mind. Sort of like on my permanent to-do list to get that bastard. So what can I do for you?”
