The Trouble with Women

Mind the Gap

*content warning: non-graphic sexual predation*

I'VE SAID GOODNIGHT to Becks and watched as she climbed into Roger's waiting car.

"You're sure we can't give you a ride, Dolly?" calls Roger from the driver's side of his (ostentatious, in my opinion) black Lexus. "It's late."

I shake my head.

"No, you're all right. It's out of your way. I can take the subway."

"Get home safe, Doll," Becks says out her window. With meaningful eye-contact, she adds, "Think about what I said."

Roger's car pulls away, tail lights soon blending with the flow of traffic and the glittering street lights.

I nod to myself. I'll think about it, but what she's asking is a lot.

I see her serious face again, back at our table, before putting our coats on to leave—hear the urgency in her voice.

I want you to check some files for me. Names. I know you can access public health records.

It's true, I can. Based on my position, I have access to gather information on cases that come across my desk. Child protection complaints, for example. First step: check the family records. Scan for a history of mental illness, drug abuse, police records, etc. A pre-assessment of parental fitness. A little forewarning goes a long way when you're heading into a volatile situation.

Using my access for any other reason would be unethical. Wrong. Very bad.

The subway entrance is less than a block away from the pub, and I reach it without incident. Honestly, I would have preferred to walk and let Becks' request settle in step by step, but we don't do that anymore. There's no law about it. Nothing to say a woman isn't allowed to be out walking at night. But it's an unacknowledged truth that whatever happens to you if you do, is your own fault.

Now that I'm hurtling across town, 6 feet underground, trapped inside a filthy metal cylinder, I wonder if this was a good idea either. I'm the only woman in this half-full subway carriage, apologetically trying to avert my gaze from the boisterous group of soccer fans who are chanting at each other and chummily trying to strangle each other with Toronto FC scarves. My knees are tucked sideways, and I keep my eyes trained on the black window, which shows only a sick-making kaleidoscope of tunnel lights and signals.

When the young men start up a fresh round of "Whose House? OUR House," the middle-aged man on the seat beside me makes a disgusted sound.

"For god sake," he says under his breath.

I grimace in agreement at my reflection in the black window but say nothing.

"The obscenity of youth, right?" he says, I assume, to me.

My eyes flick toward him in acknowledgement, but I don't reply. I notice that there's an empty two-seater across the aisle and wish silently that this man would go sit there instead. He looks perfectly normal, but there's no reason to crowd together like this if another seat is open.

I clear my throat and press my body closer to the dirty, moulded-plastic wall.

"Where are you headed?" he tries again, using the casual tone of a fellow airline passenger. Only we don't have the connection of a shared destination, the spectre of a multi-hour flight or the social lubrication of a bar cart to give credence to this attempt at conversation. What's he after? I wonder before chastising myself for thinking the worst of everyone all the time. That's being a social worker for you. Suspicions so frequently get confirmed that you develop protective foresight.

I sneak another glance at his profile as though I might be able to divine his intention based on his haircut or the shape of his jaw.

There's nothing out of the ordinary about him. It's the wedding ring on his left hand that encourages me to let my guard down ever so slightly—just to a level that would allow for social politeness.

"Home," I say, finally.

"East end?" He replies, which is obvious enough, given that we're riding the eastbound train.

"Leslieville, yes."

At that, he launches into an almost funny story of the over-priced house he bought in the East End that was so riddled with termites, they'd had to tear it down and start all over.

I make a face. "That's awful," I offer.

"It was," he agrees. He's silent again as the subway glides into a station and the rubber-trimmed doors wheeze open to let passengers out. The soccer fans are still roughhousing a little further up the aisle, but this part of the carriage is nearly empty now. The doors thump together again, and we move into the next tunnel.

Our conversation seems to have exhausted itself, so I turn my face back to the reflective window and listen to the tracks' rumbling beneath us.

The man shifts a little in his seat. His knees spread out another inch until his leg is in firm contact with my own.

I blink and look down at the hand that is slipping onto my thigh. His wedding ring glints, and I am stock still—a rabbit faced with a pellet gun. I freeze while my internal mechanisms try to work out the best course of action.

***

THE BROAD SUNSHINE filters down through the shopping mall's glass roof. The air is heavy with warm smells. Popcorn from the Kernels Kiosk. Cinnabon. Chlorine from the fountain.

You sit on the marble bench beside the fountain where you've been told to wait. Your mother is shopping. It's cold on your brown legs.

The fountain surges up inside the atrium, splashing down again, over and over, using the weight of gravity—the sound of someone flinging a bucket of water into the air.

Then the man sits beside you. Not too close. You make the mistake of eye contact and maybe even a friendly smile because you're without guile—innocence from pigtailed hair to your shiny jelly shoes.

A newspaper rolled up in his lap. Suit pants with a sharp crease. You will never forget the particular weave of the fabric, not as long as you live. You can see it across the span of years. It never fades.

He lifts the newspaper to reveal an indecipherable thing. A keychain, you think. Something silly from the novelty shop. But it is also threatening. You're not sure how, but you just know it is.

What do you do then? What happens next? This is where your memory is unreliable.

Sometimes you remember your mother approaching with shopping bags and you, hopping away like a frightened bunny. Sometimes, she doesn't come. Instead, you remember the man's voice saying, "look, it's for you."

Do you look? You must have looked because you can remember the colour and shape of it.

Do you run? Or do you freeze?

***

MY BREATH HAS caught in my throat, but I stand so suddenly that his hand drops away. I say nothing because I am having the ugly feelings and no good would come of a confrontation.

Once I'm standing, I push past his knees and out into the aisle. I don't look. I march toward the soccer fans and stand at the doors closest to them. I don't look. I wait for the next station, for the subway to come to rest at the platform and for the doors to open. I don't look.

From the safety of the platform, I can see that he hasn't followed me, which allows me time to breathe through the emotions that have surged up inside me. I am not, as I've heard other survivors talk of, fearful. Not in the grip of panic.

There's only the ugly feeling. And it overwhelms.