Page 1 of Double Dirty

1

Lexi

Itook deep breaths to calm myself as I turned off the main road and onto the gravel. No matter how many times I’d been out there, I always dreaded it. I had just reunified a boy with his mother who worked two jobs and completed parenting classes and outpatient rehab before the deadline so that she could get him home. She was never late for a single visit and never failed to renew my faith in humanity. This guy though. He was the opposite.

When I got the case, a five-year-old girl had been removed from the home for neglect, and her dad had been charged. A neighbor had called the authorities in after she saw the child playing with what looked like a real firearm. It had actually been a stolen .357 magnum. Her dad had somehow gotten away with probation, but Elisa was in foster care until he completed some parenting classes and proved he was consistent and responsible in his visitation. In three months he hadn’t even proven himself stableenough to get unsupervised visits much less an overnight. I hated going out to see the dwelling and talk to him. But he was on my caseload, and I had scheduled a visit to touch base and try to motivate him. I had a list of additional supports that might help him meet goals—transportation, a mentor, that kind of thing. Judging by the fact that his late model Harley was parked outside the trailer, I didn’t think transport would be a problem.

Something about the guy made me uncomfortable. I had been a social worker for three years with the Child Protection Agency, and he made my alarm sirens go off. It wasn’t just his arrest record from drug charges and domestic disturbances. It was his attitude, like I was his enemy. As hard as it was, I reminded myself to be completely professional and respectful, to show compassion for the fact that he was separated from his child. I climbed the rickety wooden steps to the door of the trailer to knock. Before I got there, he flung the door open.

“You better get the hell off of my porch,” he said, leaning close to me.

I stepped back reflexively, smelling the alcohol on his breath, seeing the aggression in his every move. I backed down the steps.

“Mr. Watts, I’m sorry if this is an inconvenient time,” I began, my voice higher than I would have liked. I was nervous. I couldn’t help it.

“Unless you got my kid in that crap-ass Toyota you’re driving, get the hell off my property.”

“Sir, I see that you’re upset. I’m sure it’s frustrating having to go through this process to reunite with your daughter. I’m here to offer you support services so you can meet the court’s recommendations and speed up theprocess. Since you didn’t come to the scheduled visit on Tuesday—”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I didn’t have no visit on Tuesday, or I would’ve been there.”

“You were notified by mail, email, and text message. If you look here, you texted me back.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” he said, coming down the steps at me.

He flicked his cigarette to the ground and came toward me, snarling. He was dressed in ratty jeans and a tank top that I remembered referring to as a wife-beater when I was in college. At the time I’d thought it was funny. It didn’t seem so funny with Mr. Watts looming over me.

He was wiry; his long black hair pulled back tight. I felt my breath stutter in fear. I’d dealt with plenty of angry parents, and I’d been able to help them all through building a rapport, a respectful relationship. Not one of them had those cold, dead eyes like he did. When he looked at me, I shivered because he was looking at me the way you look at a thing, an object, not a person. I was nothing, a piece of trash in his way. I backed up some more.

“I’d be happy to set up a visit for you. When do you have time in your schedule?” I said, forcing myself to sound bright and professional.

“I got no time for your bullshit. Get out of here, and don’t come back until you bring my daughter home unless you want your ass beat,” his voice was icy as he backed me toward my car.

It occurred to me that getting out of there was the thing I wanted most. I turned and hurried around my car, got in, and locked the doors. As I looked behind me to back up, I saw him standing at the passenger side, peering in at me. I jumped a little, startled at his closeness, his scrutiny. Iwondered for a split second if he was going to bust out my window, drag me out of the car.

I backed out much too fast, my car pinwheeling crookedly onto the road as I sped away. He had told me to go. I had left. That was the smart thing to do. I called in at the office and reported that my visit had been unsuccessful, that I was not admitted to the home, and the client refused support services. We’d find out in a few weeks if he were in compliance with court order or not. Judging by his hostility and the alcohol on his breath, it didn’t seem likely.

I was still shaking when I drove through a fast food place and got a cup of coffee. I dumped lots of sugar in it. I wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, but I remembered giving hot chocolate to some kids who were brought in after a house fire, remembered being told they needed the sugar after the shock. I parked and drank the coffee with shaking hands.

I knew I had to file paperwork about the client telling me not to return without his child, or he would beat my ass. It wasn’t my first threat, but it was the first time I’d been truly afraid. It had run through my mind that when I didn’t turn up at the two o’clock staff meeting, my supervisor would try to reach my phone. She’d leave a voicemail. Eventually, I’d be reported missing, and someone would go out to the trailer and find me dead in the driveway, eyes staring blankly at the horizon, my head twisted at an unnatural angle. I felt clammy and horrified at the image, but it had been a possibility — a real one.

I wasn’t going to live in fear, and I wasn’t going to let some jerk keep me from doing my job. I helped people and reunited families. He needed anger management sessions or something like that. But in the meantime, I had to look after myself.

I wished, for a hot second, that I had a boyfriend. Someone I could tell about this who’d hold me protectively and talk about the damage he was going to do if anyone tried to hurt me ever again. Never once had I regretted being independent or pursuing my dream to be a social worker and help fractured families. I just needed a way to protect myself, so I could feel safe in a situation where a client was belligerent.

I made sure there was a note in Mr. Watts’s file about his behavior—it wasn’t the first complaint. There wasn’t much recourse. I talked to Janet, my supervisor, about it. She offered to get me into counseling if I felt traumatized, but the office was underfunded and short-staffed already. There wasn’t another worker available to reassign to the case. I accepted that I’d have to continue working with Mr. Watts, and I promised myself I’d call Caitlyn, my coworker who was out on maternity leave, and ask her how she found best to deal with this kind of issue. She had a reputation for doing well with difficult cases, and she might have some tips.

After going through the motions at work, never really shaking the sick feeling of fear I’d had that morning, I decided to take action. I ran down to the hardware store and bought a deadbolt. With the help of a screwdriver and some YouTube videos, I managed to install it. My apartment door was secure, and I felt accomplished, having put it in myself. Then I drove to the gym a few blocks from my apartment. Their web site said they offered a self-defense class on Wednesday nights, and I was about to join. I’d never felt comfortable with violence, but I wasn’t exactly comfortable waiting around to be a crime victim either.

I paid my seven bucks and slipped into the room where the class was being held. It was probably an aerobics studioby day because there was a mirror along one wall and the scuffed up old floor was wood. I looked first at the reflection, seeing his back and looking past his face. The instructor was male, broad shoulders, dark hair that curled up at the edges damply. He stood slightly crouched, a fighter’s stance, in a gray t-shirt and black athletic shorts. The sleeves had been cut off the shirt showcasing his big, muscular arms. Every visible inch of him was shredded, but he moved with grace and power. I stopped just inside the door and stayed in the back. He was just beginning the class, and he looked up and saw me. With a nod, he acknowledged my presence, but he didn’t stop an make me introduce myself or anything.

“For those of you just joining us, my name is Rafe Sullivan. I’m a licensed personal trainer here as well as a certified self-defense instructor. Tonight we’ll work on your stance, balance, and posture. A lot of self-defense is mental. You have to train to respond with practicality, not fear. If you find yourself in a situation where conflict is getting physical, you have to keep your head.”

I nodded silently. I had lost my head earlier. I had to learn to keep my wits about me, to handle myself in a confrontation without sounding squeaky and bolting for my car. He talked about our centers of gravity and a balanced stance, how to put our weight on the balls of our feet. He mentioned wearing shoes that stayed on—no flip-flops or backless sandals.

“It’s important to remember you don’t get points for sticking around for a fight. The goal of self-defense is safe escape, not to kick someone’s ass. You want to stun or disarm the assailant long enough to get away. So you need to make choices in your everyday life that increase the odds of success. No shoes that fall off when you try to run. No hoopearrings or ponytails. Those are convenient ways for someone to grab hold of you and control your movements.”

I reached back and fingered my ponytail self-consciously. I’d never thought of it as anything but convenient and sporty—certainly not as a handle for a predator. He kept talking us through a series of poses, some I recognized from yoga, that were all about establishing balance and a strong stance. Then he asked for volunteers. I looked around for something to hide behind. I did not want to go up in front of the class—fifteen or twenty people, most of which were athletic looking -- in my ratty sweats and t-shirt and my danger ponytail. When a girl in the front row bounced up and down and waved her hand, he chose her.