Are You Sitting Down?, Page 6

  “Yes.”

  “Did you wish me Merry Christmas?”

  He smiled. His eyes sparkled with a hint of the love I knew he still had for me somewhere inside him.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said with an exhale.

  “Mark?” I said before he closed the door and left.

  “Yeah?”

  I wanted to tell him I loved him, but I was too afraid of his reply.

  “Merry Christmas,” I said instead, and went back to fumbling with a garden salad I was making to carry to Mom’s.

  He nodded and closed the door.

  Mark was spending Christmas Eve with his parents this year. He’d return to the house early in the morning to put out the kid’s gifts from Santa for when we come home tomorrow. The kids and I were spending the night at Mom’s tonight. For the most part, this would probably be mine and Mark’s last Christmas with each other, but we weren’t really spending it together. I should say it will be the last Christmas Mark and I are married. The divorce would be settled in late January. I wanted it to be earlier, just to start the New Year off with a clean slate. Mark is the one who wanted to prolong it. He still loves me.

  I love him too, but I don’t know how much longer it’s going to take for me to heal from all the pain of these past few years. It all started when Mark was laid off from his job at the plant four years ago. He drew unemployment or worked various construction jobs until he found steady work with a funeral home as a maintenance man. Until he got the funeral home job, the paychecks were barely enough to cover the mortgage.

  With the kids in school, I decided to go back to work again to help Mark with the bills. I’d been a corporate secretary before Mark and I got married. My skills might have been a bit rusty now, but I landed a job as a court secretary for Judge Railen. At first, he didn’t want to hire me since I’d been unemployed for seven years to raise a family. I turned on the waterworks for a bit of sympathy. I told Judge Railen about the hardships with Mark losing his job, and how I stayed awake at night worrying they’d foreclose on the house because I refused to beg Mother for money. I really needed this job to keep the lights on so my kids could see to do their homework, so my kids could have food to eat.

  I dramatized things a bit, but everything I said was true. I feared the worst even though Mark had cashed in his 401K from the eleven years he’d worked in the factory. It was plenty of money to keep us and the kids clothed and fed for at least a year or so, but the crying worked. Judge Railen hired me that very day. Little did I know, my tearful plea opened the door for Judge Railen to be able to take advantage of my situation.

  It all started in his office when he’d dictate notes to me. He had a habit of taking forever or making lots of changes. I later figured out he was just prolonging this time we spent together alone. He liked to lean over my shoulder to review my steno pad. Sometimes, he’d rest a hand on my shoulder or my back while reading my notes. I thought nothing of it in the beginning. When he lingered there for too long pretending to read, I realized it was because he liked to look down my blouse. Weeks passed and this routine continued. When he made me stay a few minutes late once so he could dictate a grocery list to me, things got worse.

  With a hand on my shoulder while studying the list, he fingered my bra strap. I politely pushed his hands away, calling him a dirty old pervert but only in my head. Judge Railen was a bit offended, almost as if he’d heard my thoughts. He sat down behind his desk and asked if my paycheck was helping my family. It definitely was, although Mark had not been happy about me taking a job. Judge Railen reminded me of how I’d begged for the job that first day and how he didn’t want to hire me.

  “Things could be a lot worse for you right now,” he said looking at me with lust in his eyes.

  I ripped the list from my notebook and sat it down on his desk, then walked out. I was going to be late picking up the kids. I didn’t want to go back to the courthouse the next day. At home, after fixing dinner, I took a long hot shower to try to wash away his touch. The water and my tears were not enough, but I went back to work the next day anyway. After court, Judge Railen had more notes to dictate. With his hand down the collar of my shirt to cup my breasts, he dictated a chocolate chip cookie recipe to me.

  Judge Railen was a powerful man in the community, and he constantly reminded me of that when his hands were touching me. His brother was the District Attorney of the county, so his family had a stronghold on the legal aspects of Ruby Dregs. If I ever said anything to anybody, he threatened that neither Mark nor I would ever find work around here again. If we ever divorced, he’d make sure my kids were taken away from me.

  For a whole year, I remained quiet and succumbed to his advances. He gave me a one dollar raise. I cried in the car on the way home each day. I tried my best not to let Mark or the kids see me cry, but in the end no tears could cure my helplessness. No tears could wash away the pain I felt inside. No tears could explain why even Mark’s touch at night in bed made me freeze with fear.

  Eventually, I spoke up.

  I wasn’t the one who went to authorities first. Apparently, Judge Railen had his hands on several other female litigants and employees. Many of them were single mothers who had appeared before him during their divorces or for child support issues. The others were secretaries, like me, or clerks in need of the well-paying courthouse jobs because this economically depressed town had nothing else to offer us. Facing the community gossip, local and national headlines, and personal embarrassment, nine women gave an account of their humiliating experiences before a grand jury. I was one of them.

  The judge was indicted on denying us of our constitutional right to be free of sexual assault in the workplace. Judge Railen was sentenced eight months later to twenty years in prison, but the emotional damage didn’t end there. During the trial, a relative slipped him a cell phone while visiting him in prison. He called each of us and verbally harassed us over the phone to try to intimidate us the way he did in his chambers.

  I’ll never forget the day our phone rang. Mark had just been hired full time at the funeral home. I was home alone finishing the breakfast dishes. I had not been able to stay by myself for very long. Sleepless nights made the days weaker, but I still couldn’t find rest when Mark and the kids were gone. I was too afraid to sleep in the house alone. During the day, I’d try to sleep at Mom’s house or she’d come over and do housework for me while I rested. But even the security of someone else in the house didn’t help much.

  Eventually, I called Mom one morning and told her not to come over. I had to fix this. For mine and Mark’s sanity, I had to get back to the closest thing I could to the life we had before I went to work in the courthouse. Our lives would definitely never be the same as they were, but I had to grasp for something new and familiar, a sliver of hope, anything we could at least mistaken for that old happiness. I was doing well for about two weeks, then the phone rang.

  “Ellen,” the rusty voice said.

  I froze like a statue. A dish fell in slow motion from my hand and shattered on the floor into a million tingly pieces. My chest tightened. My heart stopped. My breath held. I was like an industrial but fragile engine that had come to a shuttering halt. I tried to drop the phone, but it was as if he were reaching through the receiver and forcing me to hold it to my ear to listen to what he had to say. The voice in my ear—the harsh grip of his hand—was all too familiar. A tear rolled down my face, stinging like a mosquito bite, but I could not swat it away. I let out a wince of air, acknowledging that I was listening.

  “It’s not too late to recant what you told them,” Judge Railen whispered.

  “Never,” I managed to say after a hard swallow.

  “You better hope they put me away for a long long time.”

  “They will.”

  And they did.

  Five more years were added to his sentence once a private investigator heard about the harassing phone calls. Twenty-five years behind bars would never seem long enough. After the imme
nse settlements were passed out, based on the amount of time each of us suffered and the level of abuse, most of the women backed out of the way instead of pushing for a life sentence. Judge Railen had put his hand on one court clerk’s leg under the bench right in court, and also forced her to perform oral sex on him in his private chambers. She received close to a million dollars, and was the first to sell her story to a national news channel and to a true crime author who conveniently popped up in town.

  Having only worked under his authority for a year, I received the smallest settlement but was okay with that. I was more concerned with returning to being a housewife and taking care of my family now that Mark was working full time again. I was ready for the trial to be over so that I could start to forget about all of this.

  All of the women, including myself, did insist that Judge Railen serve his time as far away as possible, as he had practiced law in six of the eight states that bordered Tennessee. Judge Railen had immediately pursued his appeal rights upon the basis that the indictment should be dismissed because the due process clause did not give protection against sexual assaults.

  Highly educated and trained in law, he vigorously represented himself so we did not want him to find loop holes in the state courts that could eventually overturn his conviction. He ended up in a California penitentiary thanks to a motion that the grand jury made to the Supreme Court on behalf of the families of his victims. But even while in jail he continuously pursued a reversal by seeking a new trial, arguing that new evidence had surfaced.

  The public embarrassment of having my family’s name printed in the Ruby Dregs County Gazette every day soon faded. Being yesterday’s news with a chunk of Judge Railen’s dirty money in the bank was supposed to somehow make things better. Eventually, the women behind me in church or in the beauty shop stopped whispering. I still laid awake at night just knowing that evil man was still out there, still breathing. The pressure of all the small town scrutiny didn’t help my marriage.

  I demanded myself to bury all of this and move forward, but just when I’d made it through a day without once hearing the Judge’s name, someone in line at the bank felt the need to give me their condolences over everything that had happened. This town wouldn’t let me forget. Mark was growing tired of me jumping every time he casually put an arm around my waist or touched my shoulder. Sex was unbearable because I only saw the Judge’s face hovering over me. Mark’s kisses became distant and intermittent. I made them that way.

  Two years passed. Answered prayers came one day when Mom called and asked if I’d seen the morning paper. Now, I’d never wished or prayed for anyone to die, and if I’d ever spoken it out loud it was out of sheer anger for what Judge Railen had done to me. And although no one would ever say it, reading the headlines that the Judge had died in prison was a lot like being baptized. The heavy burden of depression and victimization washed away, at least, for a little while.

  He’d been dead for months but the black robed potentate still haunted my dreams.

  “Stop going to his grave,” Mark told me.

  I don’t know why I went. Standing there, I’d break into tears over his gravestone like a mourning relative who cared about him. Instead, I grieved for the happier days when my marriage and family were stable and had meaning, all lost at the wandering hands of a perverted boss—king of the small town legal system, the very one that I felt turned its back on me.

  A therapist told me standing over his grave was a huge step to facing my fears. There were no flowers there. There wasn’t even grass growing back over the patch where they planted him. I expected to find graffiti sprayed across his marble-etched name some day, but it’s as if this town just forgot about him forever. I wished I could be so lucky. I kept a safe distance, half expecting his menacing corpse hand to pop up out of the ground and chase me. I dreamt that once. The man haunted my dreams, when I was fortunate enough to get sleep, but still I went to his grave at least once a month.

  I’d go after dropping the kids off at school in the morning. When there was a day with no bill to pay, no errand to run, and no groceries to buy, I’d find myself driving the winding narrow paths through Zion Cemetery to the Judge’s grave in the far back corner. I memorized the names on the markers I drove past like they were old friends I’d see now and then. Some of them were friends once.

  I don’t know how long I stood there each time. A passing car would grab my attention and bring me back to the reality of the day. With a jerk of my wrist, I’d look at my watch thinking I’d lost several hours of time in a daydream, but usually only a few minutes had ticked away. Sometimes, the cell phone in my purse would ring. It was always Mark, as if he knew where to find me and knew I needed to hear his voice.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “I’m in line to pay the utility bill,” I said.

  He knew I was lying.

  “Come have lunch with me today.”

  He never invited me to lunch until recently. Our time alone together was suddenly precious again. He’d hold my hand across the table and tell me whose body was at the funeral home that week. He told me how much their coffin costs, or about all the pretty flowers or lack thereof. How had death become such an important and inevitable part of our marriage, for both of us?

  I pretended to pay attention, usually lost in the ripples of a bowl of potato soup. I wondered who would be sitting here listening to him when he needed to tell someone about how this marriage had died. There would be no flowers at that funeral either, only a debate over what to do with the house or who got custody of Robbie and Rachel.

  It’s a lot easier to talk about someone else’s passing when you aren’t the one who needs to grieve. Grieving for when our marriage finally closes its eyes seemed almost impossible.

  And so now, it’d come to this but there was always something delaying the divorce. In August the kids had to have school supplies and new clothes, and in September we celebrated their birthday. In October, there were pumpkins to carve and Halloween costumes to buy. Thanksgiving was mine and Mark’s favorite holiday. He’d help me in the kitchen in between quarters of football games on television. All four of us would put up the Christmas tree the next day.

  In between helping the kids write letters to Santa and building a gingerbread house, we managed to schedule meetings with lawyers. So, in the dead of winter with all our warm memories buried deep in the snow, I’d find myself in a courtroom again making a decision that would change the one part of my life I thought I’d managed to keep consistent till now.

  I finished making the salad to carry to Mom’s. I chopped tomatoes and put them in a separate bowl because I hated them. I don’t mind them cooked in a sauce or soup, but raw tomatoes on anything made me sick. I think Mom is the only one in the family who likes them. Dad didn’t even like them. I remember Mom grew them in the backyard and put them on our dinner plates out of spite sometimes, knowing that we’d pick them off and push them to the side. She said a salad wasn’t complete without them. So, before we eat tonight I’ll toss them over the top of the salad when she isn’t looking.

  “Kids, grab your coats and shoes. We’re leaving for Grandma’s in a few minutes,” I yelled into the living room where they were watching cartoons.

  “Yay!” they squealed.

  I washed my hands and then walked into the living room to survey the floor for toys to be picked up or snack wrappers to throw away. Rachel was already putting her dolls away.

  “Good girl, Rachel,” I said drying my hands on a dish towel. “Put your shoes on, Robbie.”

  The Christmas tree looked oddly bare, as I reached behind it to unplug the lights. Mark had already packed the gifts into boxes for me and put them in the trunk of the car. The gifts from Santa, all wrapped and stowed away in the attic for now, would briefly make it look cheery again tomorrow morning. I packed our overnight bags last night and he’d put those in the car for us too.

  “Mommy, I don’t think Granny’s tree is as pretty as ours this ye
ar,” Rachel said.

  “Don’t tell Granny that. Let’s at least let her think hers is,” I said while helping Rachel with her coat.

  “Okay.”

  I helped each of them to the car, fearful they’d either fall on a patch of ice on the driveway or they’d run into the snow to play. When I went back inside for the salad and the desserts, the phone was ringing.

  “I was hoping I’d catch you,” the voice on the other end said.

  “Hello Mom.”

  “Have you left yet?”

  “You called the home phone, Mom.”

  “Oh! So I did.”

  “The kids are already waiting in the car so we will be there shortly. Did you need something?”

  “I think I need one more can of cranberry sauce. I called Mr. Greer and he’s holding a can at the counter for you. Would you be a doll and stop by there on your way over?”

  “No problem. Is anyone there yet?” I asked.

  “Travis got here a few hours ago. Clare and Jake are here too.”

  “Great. I can’t wait to see them. See you in a few.”

  “Thanks, dear.”

  I hung up the phone. After putting the food in the car I went back inside for a quick run through the house to make sure I had not forgotten anything. Craving a treat, I peeled a gum drop from the roof of the kids’ gingerbread house which was sitting on the kitchen counter. The sweet replica of our family and home seemed oddly real with only a mother and two gingerbread children standing in the snow-like frosting. The Daddy gingerbread man was gone because Mark had eaten him a few days ago.

  My motherly instinct wandered through the house and checked for lights that might still be on in the kids’ rooms. The peaceful quiet of the house was comforting, even with Mark gone. I wanted to just leave the kids in the car and sit down and enjoy it for a bit. I’d spent so much of the past few years unable to be alone thanks to Judge Railen, so taking notice of the serene house now seemed strange to me. It was just the peace of no television playing and no kids screaming that I was savoring right now. Otherwise, I don’t think I liked the sound of being alone.