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Riday, June 8, 1979After our morning cuddle and rapport, Bonnie, Missy, Sharon and I headed in to work for a while. We hadn't much more than got into my office before Ann came in."The police came by to see me last night," she told Sharon and me. "They wanted to know if I knew anything about my ex-husband getting beaten pretty badly yesterday afternoon. I assured them I didn't, and gave them the names of several people who knew I was at work when it happened." Did they say how badly he had been beaten?" I asked."Yeah, they said he had a broken arm and two broken legs. They said they were clean breaks and would heal fairly quickly." What did he tell them that made them come to you?" Evidently, he said the people who beat him up kept saying something about keeping away from me. I told them about being raped by him, but that I couldn't prove it was him. I told them I had told several friends about it and that one of them may have taken the law into his own hands." I'll bet they loved. I needed something, but help wasn’t it. Pulling myself together—or, at least, the semblance of such—I made two calls from the cab, one brief and one much longer, the bulk of it spent on hold listening to orchestrated renditions of 80s hits. As soon as I’d taken care of the arrangements, I turned off my phone. I asked the driver to return for me in an hour and gave him a generous tip. Passing through the hotel lobby, I informed the front desk that I did not want to be disturbed. Keep moving, I repeated to myself. Keep moving. The tossled bed, echoes of passion mere hours distant, undid me and I collapsed in a heap on the floor of my room. I sobbed—great, racking sobs—until anger pushed its way to the surface. With the anger came the contents of my stomach, fortunately just a glass of wine and some nosh. Finger foods for polite, if strained, conversation. ‘You knew better,’ I scolded myself, lifting my bloodshot eyes to the mirror as I spat into the sink. Every fiber of my being had.
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