The Daydream  by  BettieWailes Carter

Chapter 1:  I thought I was safe    

March 1969

            Knock-knock.

            Damn. Who could that be?

I never liked to be interrupted, especially when I was playing well, as on that day. I banged the last chord as I rose and pushed back the piano bench.

I didn’t need to see his face to know the long, lean silhouette at the back door belonged to Richard.

            What’s he doing back here so soon? I hope nothing’s wrong.

Pulling back the sheer, gingham curtain covering the glass in the door, I studied his steady, upright stance. His blue eyes were clear, and he wore the smile that had reminded me of country music singer Jimmy Dean. Even after all that had happened, I remembered how that smile had captured my attention, eventually causing me to give him my heart.

            “Hi Bet. Can I come in?” No slurring of words, fresh clothes, wavy brown hair neatly combed.

            He’s definitely sober.

            It wouldn’t have been unusual for him to be drinking at four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, but I had seen him no more than two hours ago when he had come to get our daughters for a visit. He was sober then; he couldn’t have gotten drunk in such a short time.

For no obvious reason, I approached the door with caution, opening the door only a crack. “What are you doing here?”

            “I jus’ wanna to talk to you. It’s important.”

            What could be so urgent? I hope nothing’s happened to the girls. Maybe he just wants to get more of his things.

              I eased the door open. Six week before, when I had filed for divorce, I had asked him to move out. He had taken only a few things to his mother's, saying he would stay there temporarily.  We’ll see how temporary, I had thought. He agreed when I insisted we be civil—no anger, fighting, or using the children as pawns.

            Surely he’s not here to talk about the divorce.

            Standing in the center of the square kitchen, Richard fidgeted, shifting his weight first to one foot then the other, his thumbs hanging from his belt loops. I remained standing, too, as an indication that I expected his visit to be brief.

        “How’s your car?” he asked, as he tilted his head toward the two-year old 1967 VW Beetle sitting in the carport. I had bought it just two weeks earlier with a loan from my mother.

            “Fine,” I answered, still curious and cautious.

            He didn’t come here to talk about my car. And why is he so nervous?

            In a flash, his expression changed. A frown formed as he drew himself up tall, as if steeling for a purpose. “I came to take you for a drive.”

            “A drive?”

            “Yeah. We’re gonna take a ride. Let’s go.”

            “Whatever you have to say, you can say it right here.” A knot formed in my stomach—not quite fear, but close.

            “You don’t understand, do ya?” The frown deepened, his face grew taut, and the muscles in his jaws tightened. “I’m not askin’, I’m tellin’. Now come on.”

            Before I had time to fully process his mood shift, he, in one swift motion, grabbed my left arm, twisted it behind my back, and pinned me next to him. The needle on my fear meter now jumped into the red zone.

            Why is he so angry? What does he want? Where is he taking me?

            If he had been drinking, I would have expected one of his predictable patterns. Sometimes he simply disappeared for a day or more, returning after he was sober, offering profuse apologies and sincere promises to reform. If he came home while still drunk, he usually started a fight over something trivial, ending with his standard accusation, “You think you’re Little Miss Perfect, don’t you? You must think you’re Jesus H. Christ hisself. What makes you think you’re so perfect?”

            Soon enough, I had learned that there was no satisfactory answer. I tried, “Why do you say I think I’m perfect?” or “No, I don’t think I’m perfect,” or saying nothing at all. No matter how I responded, though, it never satisfied him.

            Sometimes he demanded sex, though he often passed out first. Other times he fought physically, but not so violently as to cause serious injury. A couple of times he had threatened me with a gun and, even though he had never carried out those threats, I feared the escalation of his violence. Thus the divorce.

            But I simply had no experience with him both sober and hostile.

            He steered me out the door with my arm firmly twisted behind my back. Once outside, I screamed as I tried to pull my arm free, desperately hoping someone would hear me. The neighbors around us knew all too well about Richard, but would they be willing to get involved?

            In response, he jerked my arm higher up my back, and put his other hand over my mouth as he forced me toward his truck. He warned, “Don’t scream again or I’ll break your arm. Understand?”

            To underline the threat, he jerked my arm hard enough to cause severe pain in my shoulder. Past experience had taught me the futility of trying to overpower his size and strength.

            Ouch, my shoulder hurts, but I can’t think about that. I need to find a way to get away from him.

 Detachment overrode panic—something I had learned during past episodes with Richard.

           I nodded my agreement as I fought back tears of pain. I couldn’t stop wondering what he wanted.

            Removing one hand from my mouth to open the truck door, he forced me in on the driver’s side, and pushed me across the bench seat as he slid in after me. He started the truck with his left hand, maintaining his grip on my arm with his right hand.

            The frown remained set and the muscles in his jaws twitched as he drove out of the neighborhood and headed north. After a few miles, he pulled into a service station with a couple of pay telephones to one side. He turned and sneered. “You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna take you out somewhere and degrade you like you’ve degraded me. I’m gonna make you strip, and then take naked pictures of you. What do you think about that? We’ll see how perfect you are then. But first I need to make a phone call.” Spittle accompanied the last of his words.

            For an instant, I wondered how he thought I had degraded him, but quickly decided that question could wait. I needed to escape his irrational anger. The last thing I wanted was to end up in a deserted place with him in this frame of mind. More than likely, he had at least one gun with him.

            I looked around. Several men stood talking about sixty feet away, their backs to us. Still holding my arm behind my back, Richard forced me to a pay phone. He fumbled in his pocket for coins, then dialed. In a controlled voice he said, “Mom, I’m out here at the Billups station on 61 North. I need you to bring me the Polaroid camera.”

            I leaned toward the phone and screamed, “Help, Robbie,” hoping to alert my mother-in-law that Richard was once again “on a tear,” as she called it.

Richard slammed the receiver onto its hook. Through clenched teeth, he said, “See what you made me do? Now I’ll have to change the plan.”

           Desperate, I yelled toward the men. “Help! Call the police. Please!”

           A couple of the men glanced our way, but simply turned back to their conversation.

So much for that try. Now what?

 

 

 

  They hesitated, and looked over at Richard while trying to decide whether or not to get involved. They barely knew me and didn’t know Richard at all. Afraid to look back at Richard, I kept pleading, “Please help me. I’m afraid he might kill me.” They agreed to take me only a short distance, afraid of retribution from Richard. After all, I had just told them he was crazy.

Looking for a safe place for them to drop me, I spotted the truck weigh station just ahead. I hoped Richard wouldn’t think to look there, but if he did, there was a good chance a Highway Patrolman would be there.

          The couple stopped barely long enough for me to get out of the car, and then sped away. I ran inside. The attendant, an older gentleman, was alone. Darn! While I explained why I wanted to use the phone, I realized I had no money, not even a dime for a phone call. The desperation on my face must have been convincing, because he handed me to phone.           

The only person I could think to call was my neighbor Clarice. My mother lived too far away; besides, I had been reluctant to tell her about these episodes, much less ask her to get involved. My mother-in-law, Robbie, was already occupied with the girls. Clarice was my best bet.

           The attendant’s face held a combination of pity and curiosity. I had never wished so hard to become invisible, not only to the attendant, but also to Richard if he should figure out where I was. My eyes searched every vehicle that passed, finally locking onto Clarice’s blue Oldsmobile.

           During the drive back to the neighborhood, I shivered as I explained what had happened. She wasn’t stunned; she knew about some of Richard’s past stunts. We decided it was unsafe for me to return to my house. Clarice said she planned to join Jim at the next-door neighbors’ to play cards. She suggested I stay in her house so Richard wouldn’t find me.

           Darkness had fallen by the time we arrived, so I slipped into the unlighted house as Clarice joined Jim next door. In the stillness, I considered Richard’s hostility.

           What set him off? What does he hope to accomplish? What will he try next?

           I tried to be calm, but my heart raced.

           Should I call the police? But what would I report? He hasn’t actually done anything illegal.

           During past episodes, the police had been reluctant to get involved, usually making excuses for Richard and downplaying his behavior. The good ol’ boy attitude was alive and well in 1969 in Natchez, Mississippi.

           Waiting and watching, I flinched at every sound and mostly heard my own heart throbbing in my ears. Eventually, I relaxed a little, hoping he had given up on his mission, whatever it had been.

           Around eight-thirty, I decided it was safe to go across the street to my house. My movement halted when I heard a vehicle drive slowly into the alley behind Clarice’s house; it stopped. Curious who would be in the alley on Sunday evening, I crept to the back of the house, carefully remaining in shadows.

           It was Richard!

           He rolled down the window, slowly picked up a rifle and pointed it at the house.

How did he find me? Is he going to kill me? Why is he doing this? What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with me?

Panicked, I prayed, Dear God, please help me! What do I do now? My body collapsed to the floor, but not as fast as the blood leaving my head. My brain was a kaleidoscope of scrambled images. Several seconds passed before thoughts began to form.

           Okay, now it’s time to call the police.

I crawled back to the living room and dialed the memorized number with shaking hands. My voice quaked as I described the situation. The dispatcher urged me to wait it out. I insisted, though, and threatened to keep calling until she agreed to send someone out. Finally she was persuaded.

           Five minutes passed. My stomach churned and sweat popped out all over. I was hot and cold at the same time. Another five minutes passed.

What’s taking so long?

Richard, a deer hunter accustomed to sitting quietly in a blind, waited. Fifteen minutes had passed since I called.

Please, please, Dear God, don’t let him fire that rifle.

I recognized the “thirty ought six.” Richard had often boasted about it and the scope attached to it. I didn’t know much about guns, but I knew it was powerful.

Can it penetrate a house? Can the bullet go through a wall and still wound me?

Twenty minutes. I strained to hear every sound and wished the thump-thump of my heart wasn’t so loud.

           A car rolled to a stop in front of the house. I peeked out the front window to see an officer approaching the front door. Half crouched, I neared the door and opened it just in time to glimpse a second officer walking cautiously around the side of the house. While I spoke to the first officer, I heard the truck drive away.

           The second officer returned to the front and the two men nodded to each other. “Now that he’s gone,” Officer One suggested, “why don’t you just go on home and relax? It’ll be all right now that he’s gone.” They were relieved; they didn’t really want to intervene. But I hated the condescending tone. The message I heard was, “Just be a good little girl, now, and go on home. Let us big strong men take care of everything.”

           I had done exactly that in the past. But going away quietly wasn’t good enough this time. I demanded to press charges. “But,” Officer One explained, “we’d have to wake Judge Freeze. You don’t really don’t want to do that, do you?”

           “You bet I do.”

           At the judge’s house nearby, my hand shook so badly I was barely able to sign the necessary papers, but I was triumphant that I had not backed down. Only then did I agree to go home.

           I didn’t really expect that Richard would be arrested, though. The look on both officers’ faces indicated they merely wanted to placate me, and had no intention of pursuing Richard. But I had done all I could.

           When the officers dropped me at my house, I sped into the dark interior and left all the lights off. If Richard had followed me to Clarice’s, he could have seen me return home. Moonlight provided barely enough illumination for me to secure all the doors and windows. Then I went into the hall in the center of the house and closed all the doors. Cocooned within total darkness, I felt safer somehow. I listened hard as I breathed slowly through my mouth. For more than fifteen minutes, I heard nothing unusual.

           Estimating the time to be about ten-thirty, I cautiously opened the door to the bedroom, snatched the phone that sat just inside the door, and shut the door again. In the pitch black, I felt the numbers to dial Robbie. I wanted to explain what had happened, but first I asked about the girls.

           “The girls are fine,” Robbie reported.

           “Have you heard from Richard?”

           “No.”

I explained briefly what had happened since his earlier phone call.

“I don’t know what’s in his mind, but you know the girls are safe here. They want to stay overnight.”

           “Good. I’ll be over to get them in the morning.”

           After almost eight years of marriage to Richard, I believed Robbie’s over-protectiveness had contributed to his problems in a major way. I let her know I had pressed charges so she would be prepared for his possible arrest. She didn’t like it, but couldn’t say much. Since the separation, she’d been cool to me, as if I was some sort of traitor. This latest news didn’t generate any warmth between us.

            After another hour of sitting in the dark, I dared ease into bed, wishing for a phone call reporting Richard’s arrest. All that came was fitful sleep and bad dreams.