Julie Ann Candoli

            “We’re going to need your clothes.”

          I pulled the torn edges of my shirt together, attempting to hide the camisole beneath. My teeth chattered. The light was too bright.  

          “Are you cold?” she asked. “Let me find you a blanket.”

          I bent over double into my lap, rocking, trying to warm myself. But this feeling of cold was coming from inside. Moments later, a thin blanket was placed on my shoulders. I looked up as a gentle hand patted my back.

          “Ms. Morandi?” Her nametag read Detective Bannen. “Is there someone we could call for you? Someone who’ll come be with you?”

          He had me pinned against the car, his full weight against me. I was tall, but he was bigger. Stronger. He forced my skirt up. Mashed his face into mine.

          I clutched the blanket closer, willing myself to dissolve into its warmth.

          The detective spoke gently. “Gianna? Who can I call for you?” She waited for me to collect my thoughts, then added, “The nurse will be here in a few minutes.”

          All the air left my body, as if I’d been deflated. I took in a deep gulp to refill my lungs. “I don’t need a nurse,” I finally said, my voice scratchy and strangely muffled. “I . . . I wasn’t raped. I got away.”

          I sank my teeth into his sandpapery cheek, tasted skin and blood. He howled, threw a backhanded fist across my face. The pain gave me strength. His grip loosened…just enough…and I managed to slam his face with my briefcase. His nose spouted a fountain of crimson. He screamed, “You CUNT!,” his words hitting me as hard as his fist.

          The detective broke a white plastic bag across her knee and handed it to me. Ready-Ice Pak, it read. She motioned for me to put it on my eye.“You’re going to have quite the shiner. Gianna,” she repeated my name. Then the question again. “Is there someone we could call?”

          Someone we could call?

          Buck.

          My brother would come loaded for bear.

          “Ma’am?” the detective said.

          “I’ll do it,” I said. “Where’s my purse?”

          “Excuse me?” she asked.

          “My purse, my purse,” I muttered. I’d bought the lawn green Prada bag, the perfect size and color, with my first bonus. It had set me back two months’ rent. I’d have preferred a trip to Milan but didn’t have the vacation time—only the money. Shit. Money. My job. You can’t exactly go back to work after your boss tries to rape you. What would I do for money? Rent, food, clothes, plus thousands in student loans, despite my scholarships, that weren’t going to pay themselves.

           My phone was in my purse. Where was my purse? I must have dropped it when I ran. No, my purse was tucked inside my briefcase. I had my briefcase in the parking ramp. I hit him with my briefcase. I broke his fucking nose. I broke open my boss’s face, his blood vivid as an inkblot on his crisply pressed shirt, even in the dim light.

          I stood up, suddenly claustrophobic. The small room had only a table, two chairs, and a telephone. I took a ragged breath. “I said no. He kept coming at me. I bit him. In the face. I think…”

          The images hit me like buckshot.

          The taste of blood, his howling echoing through the cold cement parking structure and bouncing around my head. I must have dropped the briefcase after smacking him.

           My mouth tasted of rust. “Water?”

           The detective produced a water bottle. “Take your time.”

           I couldn’t twist open the top. She took it from me and, with practiced ease, screwed off the lid. “Here you go.”

           I sipped, then gulped. “There was a lot of blood. His nose. I must have busted it.” That was when I noticed the blood in stark relief on my shredded cream-colored blouse. The one I had just gotten back from the dry cleaner. And on my hands, scratched and shaking.

           “This is not your blood?” the detective asked.

           I shook my head no. At least I didn’t think so. Was this my blood? Was I bleeding? I checked myself as best I could, my hands, my legs. The small, somewhat reflective glass window confirmed my suspicions. I wasn’t hurt; not bleeding, anyway. But my head thumped like a monster, a metal soundtrack fueled by the fury of defending myself. “Can we catch him?” I was now strangely pumped, in a scrambled sort of way, ready to ride shotgun and finish him off with this well-mannered detective.

           “We’ll get him, but right now we need to take care of you. Please let me call someone for you,” Detective Bannen said. “Who would be a comfort?”

           “My brother, Buck.”

           “Good. Where is he?”

           “Hill Country.”

            Detective Bannen looked at her watch. “Excellent. He could be here in an hour at this time of night. What’s the number?”

           “I’ll call him.” I reached for the phone on the battered table.

           “Do you have the number?”

           “Yes, of course.” Buck’s number had been my number growing up. He still lived in the same place.

           I picked up the phone and my hand hovered over the buttons. I wanted to punch in Buck’s number, but it wouldn’t come to me. I couldn’t remember the number. Now I wanted to punch the phone. Maybe the window, too. I started to cry. Really cry. At first short sobs, then I dissolved into a long, one-note wail. Detective Bannen pulled a packet of Kleenex from the pocket of her navy-blue blazer and let me go for a while. About a dozen tissues worth, judging by the crumpled white pile on the table before me. The only thing she asked was for my brother’s name.

 

                                                                                                                 From The Best Offense