Trigger Warning–This story is about a stalking incident that, fortunately, did not end in anything criminal or prosecutorial. However, there are references to other incidents that did result in such things. And even a near miss has its psychological impact.
He first noticed her in early September when she walked past his house. He checked his wristwatch. It was 3:25. She must go to the high school, he thought. She was slender, and pretty. He imagined she must be smart. The books she carried looked thick and heavy like the kind of textbooks honors students owned. He watched her walk on past and his eyes followed her to observe that she turned into a driveway just a few houses away.
After his first sighting of her, he made it a point to look out his living room window starting at 3:15 each school day in the hopes of catching another glimpse. He kept track until he knew that she walked by at 3:25 or so on Monday, Tuesday, and Friday. On Wednesdays and Thursdays, it was a full hour later. She must do something after school on those days, he surmised.
By the first of October, he knew her schedule by heart. Regardless of the day of the week, within ten minutes of getting home, he would see her again as she left her house to walk the family dog. The proximity of his location allowed him to watch her until she made the turn at the end of the block. She was then out of sight for the next five minutes before reappearing around another corner across the street from him. The dog always stopped at that corner to lift its leg giving him an extended moment to observe her even further. Her hair was blond and straight. She wore it parted in the middle like most teenage girls did. He smiled at how the wind would blow her hair and she’d have to use her hand to brush it away from her face.
On a Tuesday, he decided his yard needed to be raked. At 3:00, he positioned himself on his front lawn and began to work facing the direction from which he knew she would be coming. He wanted to see which side street she used. He was pleased to see that it was the one closest to his house. As she approached, he affixed a friendly smile on his face and simply gave her a little wave as she passed. She waved back, giving him quite the thrill.
On Wednesday, he decided to purchase some Halloween decorations. He selected only the cutest ones–a witch that looked like she and her broom had flown directly into a tree, a blowup trio of ghosts, and some orange twinkle lights for his bushes. But his favorite was a light-emitting spider web that attached to one of the eaves of his house, and was then anchored to two spots on his lawn. The blackwidow spider that sat in the web had orange eyes with long black eyelashes. She was adorable.
On Thursday, he started putting up the decorations. When he saw her approaching, he hoped she would be the one to talk first. But he had already decided that if she got to the fourth section of sidewalk in front of his property without saying anything, he would speak to her.
“Wow, those are really funny,” she said referring to the witch and ghosts that he’d already put up.
Relief flooded through him as he looked up to meet her eyes for the very first time. They were blue. He knew they would be blue. “I couldn’t resist them,” he said.
She nodded and continued to walk. He decided to wait another day to finish the decorating.
On Friday, he installed the web and spider so that he was just completing the task as she stepped on the first sidewalk square in front of his lawn. When she smiled at him, he said, “I guess I just really love Halloween. I’m new here so have no idea whether we get many trick or treaters in this neighborhood or not.”
She stopped to look at what all he’d done. “There are tons of kids in this neighborhood, so yes, you can expect a lot. Plus with what you’ve done here, you’ll be really popular.”
“Do you still go out on Halloween?”
“No, but some friends of mine are having a party, so I’m still going to dress up and go to that.”
He nodded, not wanting to press. A conversation! They’d had an actual conversation. She had told him he was popular. “Okay, well, see you later!”
Over the next week, ostensibly while working in his yard, he started waving to her when she stopped ever so briefly while her dog sniffed around at the corner across the street. They started saying hello and he finally asked her what her name was and told her his. He asked her to call him by his first name, which would be more intimate.
Over the next few weeks, he became bolder in his questions. She was a sweet girl. He knew she would be sweet. He learned that she was a junior in high school. She was 16 years old and sang in the school choir and was in the drama club. He found out she did not have a boyfriend and she did not yet have her driver’s license. He imagined himself picking her up in his car and going out to dinner and a movie. By the end of one month, he thought of her as his girlfriend. He was sure that she was intentionally giving him every indication that she felt the same way about him.
“What are you wearing to the Halloween party?” he asked her the day before he knew she would be going to her friend’s home.
“Little Red Riding Hood,” she answered.
“Come over and show me your costume before you go,” he said and then wished he hadn’t because the look that appeared on her face was one he’d seen before on the faces of other girls. It was the look that told him he had pushed too quickly. “If you want to,” he added, hoping to salvage the moment.
“I don’t think I can,” she demurred.
“No, no, of course not, you’ll want to get to your friend’s house. Don’t worry about it, it was a thoughtless suggestion.” Self-deprecation was always a good strategy.
“That’s okay,” she said without looking at him. “Well, gotta go,” she rushed on as she tugged on her dog’s leash and headed home.
“Have a nice evening!” he called. As he watched her walk away, he appreciated the way her tight jeans hugged her backside, sure that she had changed into them after school for his benefit.
The day after Halloween, he asked whether she enjoyed the party. He talked with her amiably and easily. She really was a darling.
Bolstered by the attention she was paying him, he now knew he loved her. He bought her a gift.
“The gift of time,” he said as he placed the delicately made gold-colored watch into her hands. His hand grazed hers–their first touch. She looked up at him but he did not see gratitude or wonder. He saw suspicion and fear.
“I couldn’t,” she said.
“We’re friends, of course you can. Please.” He folded his hand over hers so that she now firmly held the watch in her palm. He did not give her a chance to give the gift back. He walked briskly back to his house focusing on the feel of her skin and the smell of her body. Just the thought of her holding his gift, taking it back to her house, to her bedroom, touching it, owning it, gave him the sense of connection to her he wanted and needed. But, suddenly, everything changed.
He occasionally would catch a glimpse of her getting into a car as she came and went from her house. But after the gift, she didn’t walk past his house nor did he see her walking the dog. Bitch, he thought.
Copyright DJ Anderson, 2022
Author’s Note: Though we continue to try and get better about recognizing trauma, and not blaming survivors for their trauma, we are not quite there yet. Most recently, was the murder of a young mother in the Memphis area. Her abduction, which took place in the wee hours of the morning before it was light, and while she was getting her daily run in, at first was met with criticism that choosing this time of day to be alone on a run was her fatal mistake. And though these criticisms didn’t explicitly blame her, the implicit message was that what happened to her was her own fault. You would be hard-pressed to convince me that the same criticisms would have been hurled at a man, but that’s another story altogether. Anytime we ask a woman what she did, what she said, or accuse her of “giving off pheromones,” we fail. We further traumatize the person by blaming them for the predatory actions of their aggressor.
A very timely story. We have progressed so very little. Victim shaming whether subtle or blatant continues to this day. Recently, an old predator from my teenage days, left his name and number at the post office for the lady to give to me. She had no idea what had happened when I was 13, so innocently passed it to me through PM. I told her the old story and she was horrified. Yet, I remember clearly the adults who blamed me for being a 13 year old “seductress”.
ReplyDelete