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Earl (Earl & Wilma) Saturday, 6:10 p.m.
An afternoon round of golf can get really long, especially on weekends, since the people ahead of you dictate how your play goes. We trailed several extra-slow groups that day, and only one of them let us play through. The others seemed unaware we were cooling our heels behind them. Daylight was gone by the time we left the course, and with packing up and driving back, I didn’t get home until after six. A note on the table from Wilma said, “At the chapel.”
When she wasn’t home by six-thirty, I was a little worried, but I told myself she went to Alice’s for tea or something. Still, she’s almost always home by then, since we eat supper around seven. I’ll admit right here and now that I don’t know one end of a kitchen from the other. Last night’s casserole sat in the fridge, covered with a sheet of foil Wilma had carefully washed and reused. I wondered two things: Should I get it out and start it warming, and if so, how would I do that? There’s the microwave and the toaster oven and the big oven. Which one was right for the job?
In the end I left the casserole and went for a walk. The chapel was closed and dark, and I didn’t meet Wilma on the street. Knowing she didn’t want me checking up on her, I didn’t do what I wanted to, which was start knocking on doors.
At seven-fifteen and still no Wilma, I started imagining bad things. Had she tripped in the dark and broken her leg? No, because she could call out and get help anywhere in the park. Had she been pulled into a car by some creep? Unlikely. Nobody kidnaps seventy-three-year-old women unless they’re wearing diamonds. Though I tried to find un-scary reasons for Wilma’s absence, it doesn’t do much good to tell your mind not to worry when it’s already doing it.
Still unwilling to make her mad at me, I did a visual check of her friends’ places. At night, you can tell who’s in a trailer—well, maybe not who exactly, but lights inside let you see outlines. At Ron and Julie’s I saw two heads in front of the TV. At Tommy’s across the street, Alice was doing something in the kitchen while Tommy either cleared or set the table. I went to the home of the friend who sits next to her in the choir. Bonnie and her husband sat outside with two guests, neither of them my wife, so I said hello and went on. Next was Karen and Al’s. One of the guys had reported that Al was in the hospital. If he was doing okay, Karen might be home, and Wilma might have stopped to offer whatever help and comfort she could.
The place was dark, and the driveway was empty. Disappointed, I stopped to think where to try next. As I hesitated, something moved at a side window, a flash of white across the inner blackness. Wilma had been wearing a white sweater. I thought maybe Karen had called and asked her to get something from the trailer.
But Wilma would have turned on the lights.
It shouldn’t be my wife in there, but I was convinced it was. When you’ve been married to the same person for decades, their movements become so familiar they’re instantly recognizable. Wilma had waved an arm in a gesture that indicated an emphatic, “No!”
Next thing I knew I was on the porch, peering through a glass panel in the door. It was murky inside, but I could make out two men bent over a figure in a recliner. Wilma. My brain struggled to comprehend what was happening. Had she had a fainting spell? The men hovered over her as if waiting to see if she’d be okay.
The whole thing made no sense. What were two strangers doing in Al’s trailer? After a second I realized the men weren’t trying to help Wilma. They were making sure she stayed in the chair.
Glancing around the dark porch, I saw Al’s cane propped against the handrail, its metal handle glowing softly in the pale light. I picked it up, hefted it until the balance felt right, and walked softly back to the door. The men were still hovering. Wilma’s head lolled to one side, and her eyelids fluttered. My pulse rose, and anger I haven’t felt in a long time took over my whole body. I rushed in with the cane raised.
“Get away from my wife!”
Both men turned toward me, their faces pale in the darkness. The smaller one reacted first. He was under my arm and out the door faster than I’d have believed anyone could move.
That left me facing the other guy, whose reaction was the complete opposite. He straightened, and I saw the flash of white teeth. “What you going to do, old man? Fight me?”
There was no sense telling him what I was going to do, so I did it. Swinging the cane in an upward arc, I caught him on the ribs. He let out a grunt of pain, but he didn’t go down. One arm lowered protectively over the injured spot, but as I attempted a second blow, he reached out and grabbed the cane with his other hand. He jerked on it, trying to pull it out of my grasp. I held on, arthritis and all. A guy that big would trounce me in no time if the only weapon in the fight was under his control. Putting my free hand on the cane, I pulled and twisted, sliding it out of his grasp.
The fact that he hadn’t won that round didn’t dull my opponent’s confidence. Raising his arms like a big old bird of prey, he grinned again. “Is that all you’ve got?”
Something my niece had once told me popped into my head. “They showed us how to do a throat punch in gym class today,” she’d said casually as I filled sacks with sugar beets and she tied them off. “If a guy comes at you, you’re supposed to hit him hard in the throat. Coach said you can disable an attacker pretty easy that way.” At the time, her words had made me sad that a sweet young woman has to be taught such defensive tactics. Now the information became practical.
Turning the handle of the cane toward the attacker, I jabbed it directly at his Adam’s apple as hard as I could. I had little faith that it would work, but the guy made a horrible choking sound and fell to his knees, snuffling for breath. Not willing to trust my victory to a single blow, I gave him a sharp jab to the gut that doubled him over and started him gagging.
Two things had to be done, but I wasn’t sure which to do first. I needed to secure the guy before he recovered and came at me again. But I also needed to call 9-1-1- for Wilma, who slumped in the chair, barely conscious. Since I had the cane and could bash the guy if he tried to get up, I decided to call for help first. Except when I tapped my pocket, I realized I’d left my phone at home.
At that moment, a light came on overhead. I turned to see Julie in the doorway. “Earl, what’s going on?”
“I don’t know. These two guys did something to Wilma. I hurt this one but the other got away—”
“No, he didn’t. He ran into Ron and me—literally. He’s down, and Ron’s keeping an eye on him.”
The guy on the floor managed to suck in some air, and we heard a muttered curse. Leaning over him for a second Julie said, “There should be rope in the shed. Get it while I call for help.” As I started past her she put out a hand. “Leave me the cane. If this jerk gives me trouble, I’ll whack him again.”
