The Watcher

THE WATCHER

I watch the woman walk unawares through the streets, not a care in the world. If she only knew that I was following her, she would be paralyzed with fear. I am the hunter, she is the quarry.  

*****

I like walking at this time of day. Early mornings are the best. With the sunrise comes the dawning of a new day. The air is crisp, but the sun has risen and has started to melt away the light frost from the previous night. And the birds! There is no other time during the day when they are so raucous—chirping, swooping, just welcoming the new day.  

I haven’t always been an early riser. It’s only been since spring. Nor do I expect to continue this early morning routine. I cannot imagine rising before sunrise to walk in the cold, dark winter mornings. But for now I am embracing my early morning sojourns to welcome the morn.

My route varies. Sometimes I walk through the streets of my city, watching the slow awakening of the neighbourhood—lights turning on, people in housecoats and pyjamas moving about their homes, getting ready to start the new day. I see early-bird commuters leaving for work, juggling coffees and bags, jumping into their cars to make the heinous drive into the city, hoping to beat traffic.

I pass coffee shops and drive-throughs crowded with folks either too busy or too tired to make their own morning beverage, each jockeying for position to buy their first caffeine fix. The need for a coffee to start the day strong in our culture.

Other times I walk through the trails that surround my town. Morning is an exciting time of day. Not only are the birds active, but the deer and foxes are searching for their next meal, as well. I regularly see coyotes, and once, I’m sure I saw a wolf. But ask any naturalist and they will tell you that there are no wolves in this part of the country.

It’s on these walks through nature that I sometimes wish I had a partner to walk with. I don’t feel uneasy, exactly, but at times, vulnerable. When, let’s say, I meet another person on the trail. I don’t know them, they don’t know me. We are just two strangers passing on our morning walks. Each walking alone on the deserted trails, engrossed in our own thoughts.  But, what if …  Or when I hear crashing through the brush. I don’t know if it’s an animal, or a person, and honestly, I don’t know which I fear more.  

Those are the times when my pulse ratchets up, and I consider my own safety. But then, the next perfect morning arrives, and I’m off again.  

I’m sure that I’m perfectly safe.

*****

I follow the woman on her early-morning walk. This is not the first time that I have followed her at sunrise. Today, she trods along the pathways that wind through the forest. I could make myself known to her at any time. She is clueless to my presence. But, the time is not yet right. I will continue to watch and wait, and only act when the perfect opportunity presents itself.  

*****

“Did you hear?”

I’ve met my friend Sandra for coffee after my walk. We’ve been friends for years, and we try to get together at least once a month for coffee or lunch. I enjoy Sandra’s company, but sometimes she’s a bit dramatic. Like today.

“Hear about what?” I ask, inwardly sighing.

She leans in and quietly says, “Rosalind was attacked, last night.”

My heart skips a beat. “No, I don’t hear. What happened?”

Rosalind is a woman around our age—sixties, retired. Sandra and I know her from the senior centre where we all take the same yoga classes.

“Well, Rosalind called me last night, and told me what happened. We were supposed to go to yoga this afternoon. Apparently, she and a couple of friends went to the theatre last night, and after the show, they were walking back to their cars. Rosalind’s car was the farthest away, so she was walking by herself. She was attacked when she got to her parking spot.”

I feel nauseated. “Is she okay?” I ask, worried. “Did they hurt her?”

Sandra shakes her head. “The robber grabbed her purse and pushed her to the ground. She wasn’t too badly hurt—more shook-up than wounded—but the hospital kept her overnight for observation.” She shakes her head. “The police think it was a druggie looking for some quick cash.”

“That’s horrible. I can’t imagine how terrifying it must have been for her.”

We sit in silence, sipping our coffees.

“You know,” says Sandra. “It could just as easily have been either of us.”

I nod my head. I do know. And that disturbs me. A lot. We’ve been to the theatre with Rosalind a number of times. And I have, on a occasion, had to walk to my car alone.

Sandra leans down and takes something from her purse. She slides a small brown paper bag towards me.  

“Randy got this for us.”  

I look inside the bag, and start to take the small canister out.

Sandra grabs my hand, stopping me. “Not here.” She leans in closer to me. “It’s pepper spray. For protection.”

I look at Sandra. Randy is Sandra’s husband, a retired cop wth connections all over the city.

I lean in, careful to keep my voice low. “Isn’t pepper spray illegal?”

Sandra nods her head yes.  

We quickly finish our coffee and walk out to the parking lot. Sandra digs into her purse. She huddles beside me, facing her car, so that her back can block the view of any person who happens by.

She pulls out her canister of pepper spray. Demonstrating how to use it, she flicks the safety off, and shows me how to hold it.

“Use your thumb to deploy the spray."  She places her hand on the canister. “Always aim for the eyes. Don’t spray it downwind, or you’re going to get a face full. Randy says it ain’t pleasant.” She looks at me, checking that I am listening. “Make sure that your attacker is close enough before you spray them. You want to make sure you get them good!”

I nod my head, and consider what kind of world we live in where our grannies have to learn how to use black-market pepper spray for personal protection.

*****

The woman has been away from home for longer than expected. I have been watching her home, waiting. I have left her a gift.  

I hope she appreciates it, I think to myself, smiling.  

*****

I am still a bit shaken after the news about Rosalind. It makes me consider my own vulnerability now that I’m alone.

This last year has not been good to me. I’ve lost a breast to cancer and a partner to a younger woman. My entire world has been turned upside-down. But, I did beat cancer, and honestly, I wish I could beat my ex. With a stick. A really big stick. With lots of splinters. Maybe a few nails. That would certainly help my mental health. A lot.

When I was gong through treatment last year, Roger, my husband of over forty years, informed me that he personally found my illness too stressful. He said he couldn’t cope with the constant reminder of my imminent death. He even had the termidity to tell me that he found my scar repulsive. He said that he needed time to process the changes in his life. And promptly moved in with Corinne, a barista at a coffee shop near his office. 

Fortunately, I had really good doctors, so my death was not as imminent as Roger predicted. I’m in remission. And, I also had a really good divorce lawyer—Sandra—who made sure that I was able to keep the house, and Roger would have to pay me handsomely for the privilege.

But, even with my victories, my world was still shaken and cracked. It didn’t shatter, but it was close. I’m so fortunate to have had the support of my children and friends. Without them, I’m not sure I would have made it through to the other side. 

As I pull up to my house, I think about how, for the first time in my life I need to consider my own personal safety.  The fact that I am now in possession of pepper spray brings the fact home. But, I’m fairly sure that I would use it if push came to shove. I am sure, right?  

I’m considering these seismic changes in my life as I walk up the steps to my front door. Something catches my eye, and I look down. There’s something on the mat. It’s a decapitated mouse, laying at the foot of my door, a small blood pool surrounding the place where its head should have been.

The poor creature. My initial sense of horror is replaced with empathy. I unlock the door, and go directly to the kitchen where I tear off a wad of paper towels to wrap the poor creature in.  I carry my bundle to the back yard, where I grab a shovel and dig a small hole in the back corner of my lot—the place where all the unfortunate creatures are buried.  

Not once do I consider where it came from or why. My mistake.

*****

I watch as the woman scoops up my “gift.” It is not the reaction I was expecting. There are no hystrionics, no screaming, no fleeing the scene. This is unexpected.

*****

As the sun peaks over the horizon, I consider my early morning walk. I’m plagued wth questions and doubts.  

Should I go, ignoring what has happened to Rosalind? I can almost guarantee my personal safety behind the locked doors of my home.  But if I give in to fear, I become a prisoner in my own home, unable to do the things that give me joy.

Or, do I spit in the face of danger, and continue to live my life on my terms.  

I stand rooted to the floor, looking out my kitchen window.

What to do? What to do?

I slap my hands down on the countertop, making my decision.  

I am not going to let some crackhead control my life, any more than I let Roger’s infidelity control my life or my cancer control my life! I am in charge of where I go, and when I go there!

Carpe diem! Seize the day! Go forth and walk!

I march resolutely to the front door, put on my walking shoes, and open the door, ready to greet the day, regardless of what the future may hold.

*****

The woman opens the door, and exits her house. Finally! I have decided that I will reveal myself today. I keep to the edges as I follow her into the forest.

*****

The sun is still low on the horizon. There is a light mist hugging the ground, giving the forest an almost surreal, ephemeral ambience. It’s quite eerie in its stillness and silence. As I walk on it occurs to me—why are the birds not chirping?

*****

I stand still, listening to the silence, watching the woman. But it is not completely silent. I hear another close by. Who is it? Who is stalking the woman?

*****

As I walk along the misty trails, I clutch the canister of pepper spray in my hand. I’m certain that I am being followed. I can hear them big-footing it through the forest, not even trying to conceal their presence. I walk swiftly, pushing my legs to take me faster and farther.  

I am being followed. Someone is behind me, their footsteps getting closer with each of my steps. I start to run. My pursuer is upon me.  

My heart is pounding in my chest. I can hear my stalker’s breath over my own gasps. I can’t keep up the pace—I’m an old lady who has never jogged a day in her life. I make a decision. Flipping the safety off, I turn, press the nozzle, and hope for the best.

“Holy crap, Lizzie! What the hell!”

I look at the person writhing on the ground.

“Roger?”

“Who the hell else would it be?”

I’m stunned. I just pepper sprayed my ex-husband. For a moment it does bring me joy. But I snap back to reality. Roger has been following me in the woods. Why?

“You scared the crap out of me, Roger! Why are you following me?”

I watch as he pours water into his streaming eyes.

“I need to talk to you,” he says between moans.

“You could have called.”

“Like you take my calls.”

True enough. “Then you could text me. Or contact Sandra, like you are supposed to do.” I narrow my eyes at him. I’m suspicious. “You haven’t spoken to me since you left to be with Connie. Why now?”

He gets up, and looks at me through red swollen eyes. “It’s Corrine.”

I shrug. Like I care what his barista’s name is. Connie, Cora, Corrine. Close enough.

He takes a step towards me. “We don’t have enough money to live on. I can’t afford your alimony.”

I shrug again. “And this affects me how?”

“Corrine and I need more money.”

“And …” 

“We need you to understand why we can’t pay your alimony any more.”

I laugh. “I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen.”

Roger looks at me. “Then we’ve got a problem.”

I look at him. Something’s wrong. His eyes go dead.

“Why do we have a problem?” I ask, taking a step away from him.

“Because if you won’t voluntarily reduce the money, then I’m gong to have to make sure that the payments stop, permanently.”

I’m stunned. In all the years Roger and I were together, never once did I feel threatened.  

“What do you mean ‘permanently?’” I ask, continuing to back away, increasing the distance between us.

Roger strides quickly towards me, grabbing my throat with his big hands.

“Stop it! Roger, you’re hurting me!” I croak.

“I’m sorry, Lizzie, but you’re too expensive. Corrine needs more from me.”

His hands tighten. I’m beginning to see black spots, my field of vision is narrowing.

I raise my hand holding the pepper spray and dose him again. He screams and swats my hand away, sending the pepper spray flying, leaving only one hand on holding me. I twist to escape, but fail. He’s too strong. He grabs my neck harder again this time with both hands. I can’t breathe. I claw at Roger’s face with my nails. My last desperate act before I die, knowing I’ll have his DNA under my nails, and the police will be able to identify him.

Then, from behind me, a grey streak launches itself at Roger’s face, hissing and spitting. Roger lets go of my throat to try and tear the animal off of him. Instead, the beast redoubles its attack, clawing its way to the back of Roger’s head and shoulders, slashing and biting.

I stagger back, searching for a weapon. I grab a log and bash Roger over the head, making sure to avoid the cat—I see now that it is a cat. Roger crumples to the ground, unconscious.  

Grabbing my phone, I call nine-one-one, explaining what has happened in the woods today. While I wait for emergency services to arrive, I look from Roger to the cat, who is now purring, and weaving between my ankles.

“Thank you, kitty. You saved my life.” I bend down to pet the cat’s back. I notice it has no collar. “You can come live wth me, anytime,” I say, massaging my throat with my other hand.  “I can always use a good guard cat.”

*****

Lizzie is now my person. She loves me, and I have a home. I am content.