chapter 12 | house no. 5

December, 1987

“You look divine,” John says as he kisses the bare nape of my neck. He stops and looks into the mirror at the two of us, snuggling close. The dress makes me look fat, not pregnant, but it’s the only thing I could afford. Well, the only thing on sale that I didn’t feel guilty spending money on. John, on the other hand, looks dashing in his brand new suit and tie.

The invite lies in front of us, open in all its hatefulness on my dresser. Col. and Mrs. Frank Fielding request the honor of your presence at a Christmas gathering . . . blah, blah, blah. I get nervous just thinking about it, so I try not to. Why did John have to get posted here? Will I never be rid of that . . . that lecherous asshole?

“I look fat,” I say.

“You look like Aphrodite herself,” John says, “or a fairy princess just waiting to enthral me in her dancing ring.” I love how his mouth quirks up on one side. His hair is cropped short to fit under his flight helmet, and it makes him look like a movie star.

His hand slides around to my stomach and rubs the bump that’s forming there. “Pregnant suits you,” he says. “I’ll have to keep you this way.”

I laugh. “Um, no . . . Mr. Virile. I think you’ll be visiting the doctor after this one. Unless you want to quit your day job.”

I’m teasing, sort of. I love our kids. Hearing them giggle downstairs with our favorite babysitter makes me smile. David is particularly enthralled with Jessica; he’s told me more than once that he’s going to marry her. But I’m not even twenty-five yet. When do I get to start living?

John chuckles into my ear. “I’d do anything for you.”

I’ve managed to pull my hair up, with tendrils of softly curling hair trailing the side of my face. He nuzzles my ear, tickling me. It’s sexy watching him in the mirror with his suit on, and I feel the response deep in my stomach where the baby sleeps.

“Well, let’s go to this thing, so we can get back home . . .”

He looks into the mirror and sees my smile. The hand on my belly slides up to my breast. “And what would we do then?” he asks innocently.

“You’ll just have to find out.”

“Oh . . . well then, shall we?” He offers his arm to me and we walk down the stairs like an old-fashioned couple heading off to the theatre.

We’ve been here just a few months, and I’ve been home with the kids the whole time, so I don’t recognize a soul as we walk through the doors of the Officer’s Mess. John checks our coats and I stick close. I feel self-conscious in my spaghetti-strap dress with my large breasts and gently protruding belly. The hum of conversation and the big-band music in the background do nothing to soothe my nerves. I fiddle with the chain on my clutch purse as I search for someone—anyone—that I know.

As we walk through the main hall doors, we’re greeted by him, and my blood runs cold.

“Michaels . . . Ellen” he says as he nods to each of us. His eyes slide down and lock on my stomach for the briefest of seconds. The resulting smile is more rapist than social. It makes my skin crawl.

“Sir,” John says. He puts his hand out and Fielding shakes it. I recognize what’s coming and panic, but I can’t avoid it. He takes my hand and brings his to his lips. I feel the touch of his tongue, the graze of his teeth on my knuckles and my guts turn to lead. I jerk back an infinitesimal amount, and my instinct is to slap him like a stinging bug. It’s all I can do to stand still and not bolt from the room at top speed.

“Oh, Ellen!” exclaims his wife with her high pitched fake-voice, giving me the cue to snatch my hand away. Fielding holds my eyes and I glare back. I hope neither of them notices my brief look of disgust as I wipe my hand on my dress. “You look wonderful! Simply glowing,” she gushes like a syrupy stream in my peripheral vision.

I finally tear my eyes away from the evil in front of me and glance at her. Is she for real? “Thank you,” I manage to say. “You look lovely tonight too, Mrs. Fielding.” And she does—every bit the Base Commander’s wife. I’m sure her dress cost more than my dress and John’s suit combined. Her hair is perfectly coiffed, her manicure impeccable. Her hand is limp in mine as we shake, ladylike and annoying.

“Pregnancy agrees with you!”

Oh my God, how does she talk like that? The energy in her voice makes me tired just listening to it. She is clueless in so many ways. How can she not know? I want to shake her, knock some sense into her. And yet another part of me pities her. To be married to such a thug—what can her life be like? Does he tie her to their bed with his belt?

The mental image makes me feel sick.

“Good to see you both,” Fielding drawls, interrupting my thoughts. “Why don’t you grab a drink at the bar . . . tell them it’s on me.”

“Thank you, sir,” John says stiffly. Does he feel the tension shooting through me?

“Thank you,” I choke out, wrapping my arm around John’s elbow for support. We nod and walk away so that Fielding can greet the couple behind us. His wife gushes about the next wife’s dress, our presence forgotten. Not so with Fielding. I feel his eyes on my back, like a poisonous oil-slick as we walk away. I feel faint.

“Well, that was nice of him,” John says as we head to the bar. “Old Fielding’s getting soft in his old age.”

I don’t tell him that Frank Fielding is not soft. Frank Fielding is as hard as iron.

We take our drinks—John’s beer, my orange juice on the rocks—and I follow John to the gaggle of young men and women over near the tables. As we approach, I finally recognize a few of the guys, but only one of the girls—a pretty blonde with tiny everything. Jennifer, I think her name is. Beside her I see another wife staring toward the door at Fielding—her eyes wide and nervous.

“Michaels!” a beefy, redhead shouts, interrupting my thoughts. John breaks away from me to shake his hand, all tough and guy like. I’m left standing just off to the side, with my back still burning and my face exposed to strangers.

“It’s Ellen, isn’t it?” The girl I think I know says, putting out her hand. I shake, a proper, firm handshake, and she reciprocates. I almost sigh with relief.

“And you’re . . . Jennifer?” I ask. She nods, smiling. Beside her, several other young, well-dressed ladies step forward—even the one that was staring at Fielding. I feel awkward and lumpy next to their perfect figures. More than one of them glances at my obvious bump.

“Ellen this is Anna, Jane, Donna, and Sylvia,” Jennifer says. I shake hands with them all, and they smile.

“So, you’ve been here how long?” the girl I think is Jane asks.

“Almost five months. Just long enough to get most of the boxes put away.”

“Oh, tell me about it,” says a brunette—Sylvia? “We moved last year and I still have boxes. God, I hate boxes.” My brain registers that she’s wearing a huge diamond engagement ring. A ring that could probably feed our children for ten years. I rub my small, gold band, semi-conscious of its inexpensive simplicity.

“What squadron?” she asks.

“220 Squadron.” I think that’s what he told me. I have so little mental energy to spend on learning John’s military details. I don’t even know what building he works in.

“Oh cool, same as Jennifer,” says the brunette. It’s like I’ve passed some test, they all nod and smile approvingly.

“Don’t look now, but Fielding’s looking this way. God he gives me the creeps,” says Jane. She shudders and I whip around to face him. He’s far too close to where I’m standing, and I know he’s staring at me.

I wonder if any of these girls know how creepy he really is. I put on a mask of fake bravado and glance back to my new acquaintances, searching for anything that would suggest something more, but their faces mostly show disgust and curiosity, not terror. Except for Jane . . . she stares at him as though he were a viper. I turn again and watch as he greets the next couple to come through the door. His eyes suddenly look up to mine, and he smiles the same twisted smile I remember from five years ago. The nausea returns.

“Where’s the washroom?” I ask, sounding apologetic. I shrug at Jane and pat my belly, “Junior is lying right on my bladder.”

Now they can stop guessing if I’m pregnant or just fat. Besides, I’m not even lying. Junior and my bladder are close personal friends these days.

They titter, and Jennifer points to the door we came in. “Outside and take a left. Past the coat check and up a few stairs.”

“Thanks.”

Crap. I have to go by him to go out. And John is so busy talking with his friends that I can’t get his attention to shield me.

I walk slowly, biding my time until Fielding is greeting someone and then I slip by without even acknowledging his presence. I don’t care if it’s rude. John’s the military guy. “Yes sir, no sir” is his game, not mine. I walk briskly until I’m around a corner, and then practically run to the restroom, the need to pee accentuated by every bouncing step. I think I may need to vomit as well. When I get through the door, the cubicles are all empty—just one woman in front of the mirror who finishes applying her lipstick without looking my way. I slip into one of the stalls and push the lock across. Only then do I relax, slumping onto the toilet seat with my head in my hands.

Oh, God! How am I going to get through this night? I don’t know anyone, John knows everyone, and he’s here, watching me. The trapped, panicky feeling I haven’t known since the Academy flutters in my chest. I knew he was here, I knew he was dangerous, but with the move, the boxes, the babies, and everyday life, I had let the risks slip to the back of my mind. I guess I thought that if I ignored him, he’d just go away—like a virus or a bad smell. I’m nothing special, so was it that naïve to hope he would forget I existed? It’s been years, now . . . is he always going to haunt me? Will he always be lurking at the edge of my vision, waiting . . . biding his time until he can strike again? I hate what he’s done to me. Hate that he’s turned me into a weak, snivelling fool, hiding in bathroom stalls.

I sit there, fighting with nausea and panic for a long, long time. I don’t want to go by Fielding again. Maybe if I sit here all night, no one will notice. But I can’t do that. Maybe I’ll go out and stomp my heel deep into his foot. Maybe I’ll throw my drink into his face. Maybe.

My moment is interrupted by the slam of the door and drunken giggling.

“Did you see her? She looks like she hasn’t got a brain cell in her head,” says a high-pitched voice.

Do all women talk like that? Do I talk like that when I’m drunk?

Another girl giggles. “Oh my God, he gives me the creeps!”

They can only be talking about one couple. The cubicle door beside me slams and I hear the unmistakable sounds of someone peeing. “I know! It must be a nightmare being married to that letch!” More giggles. “The boys sure are looking hot tonight!”

“Oh yeah! Oh! Did you see Michaels? God, that bod!”

Michaels? My Michaels? They’re talking about John? Don’t they realize I’m still in here?

Giggle, giggle, giggle . . . they’re making me sick. My cubicle neighbor bounces out of her stall and washes her hands. I peek through the crack in the door to see if I recognize any of them, but all I see are short dresses and large hair.

“And his wife is pregnant . . . again! Gees, do they just bonk like rabbits all the time?”

“I’d like to bonk that bod.”

“Me, too. We could have a threesome!”

“Sylvia said he had lunch at the diner where she works yesterday. Michaels winked at her and tipped her . . . really well! I think he’s got the hots for her!”

My face heats and my pulse quickens. John, flirting?

I hit the flush lever. That silences them for a second, and then they burst into giggles and stagger through the door. It slams closed behind them and their giggles trail away.

I want to leave.

I’ve been here exactly twenty-eight minutes, my first night out with my husband in I don’t know how long, and I want to leave. Right now. I’m so angry, frustrated, panicked, scared, lost, depressed . . . I’m so many emotions all balled up in my stomach I can barely breathe. Between Fielding’s touch and those women talking about John, I’ve lost my footing. T here’s nothing for me to stand on here. My world has turned slippery and confused.

I lean my head on the cold, metal stall door, probably covered with a million germs, and take slow, deep breaths, trying to calm my heart and the headache that’s creeping up over my skull.

I want to leave. I can’t do this.

I open the door and look at myself in the long, wall-spanning mirror. My hair is nice, I’ve got a nice dress, and even though I look like a cow, I’m not hideous. What has been happening in social circles while I’m barefoot, pregnant, and possibly cowering at home to avoid Fielding?

As the emotions swirl through me, I land on one thought. John is mine. Those big-haired fakers can’t have him. He’s mine, mine, mine. And godammit! I’m not going to give him up to those giggling twits on a silver platter.

I brush back my hair and pinch my cheeks—which is not really necessary because pregnancy has put me in a permanent state of hot-flash—and as I take a last look at the mirror, the bathroom door opens quietly and Mrs. Fielding slides in. She smiles at me emptily—oblivious of who I am—and I stand there with a stupid look on my face. She slips into a stall and locks the door before I get a chance to react. And then suddenly I’m furious. My anger at the ditzy, drunk wives multiplies ten-fold, fuelled by pregnancy hormones and the fact that Fielding’s wife doesn’t know who the hell I am. Her husband raped me for God’s sake! While she was lying in her expensive bed, in her expensive home, her husband was making me bleed! Stealing my chance at happiness! I want to make her feel what I felt. I want to punch her in the stomach so she can feel the pain he put me through. I wait, standing there staring at the mirror with my fists clenched and my blood pressure skyrocketing, seeing red stars and fiery flashes in the fluorescent lighting.

Ten seconds pass . . . twenty . . . a minute . . . and I don’t know if she’s hiding, realizing a viper awaits her beyond the stall or just having a little personal moment, but she doesn’t come out. I hear more high-pitched voices in the hall and the anger at her slides away. I realize taking my frustrations out on this woman would do nothing. I can’t help her and she can’t help me. But I can help myself. I can hold tight to the things that matter—my husband, my family, my dignity.

I look in the mirror again, see my swollen, wonderful stomach, and then I stride out the door with a tenuous purpose, shoulders back and head held high. Fielding tries to catch my eye as I enter the ball-room, but I breeze by him, ignoring his pointed looks. In the dark, crowded room, I spot John’s blonde head in an instant, standing with other men and their dates. I think I recognize one of the women from the washroom. I walk straight to my husband, slowly slipping my arm around him, resting my hand on the cheek of his behind.

This boy is mine, ladies.

He leans down and nuzzles my ear. “Hey, baby,” he says low enough that only I can hear. When he leans back, his eyes are drinking me in like I’m sunshine on a cloudy day.

“Hey,” I say.

“How’s Junior?” He asks, and unabashedly rubs my bump.

“Good. Do you want to sit down with me?”

“Always,” he says. He grins that charming, lopsided smile, and the earth solidifies beneath my feet again.

He wraps his arm around my waist. As we walk toward the tables, I glance over and see the girl I’m sure is Sylvia staring at us from the bar. I give her a dazzling grin. She suddenly finds something extremely interesting about her glass.

Oh yes, he’s mine, bitch. And don’t you dare forget it!

We sit, we eat, and we chat with people I don’t know. Jennifer sits beside me, and I quickly find I like her. She’s funny and quirky, with a hint of sarcasm that makes me feel at ease, despite my pregnant state and all of the other nastiness surrounding this dinner. The other wives I’m not so sure of. Their smiles don’t reach their eyes, and I don’t speak their overly-enthusiastic, high-pitched language. And I can’t stand the fact that some of them were talking about my husband as if he were theirs for the taking.

John is mine.

His hand rests on my thigh, grounding me as the speeches roll over me. When some poor lieutenant—Jones, I think his name is—gets up to introduce Col. Fielding, I excuse myself to find the washroom again. I don’t want to look at him, and I certainly don’t want to hear him speak. I sit in there for at least twenty minutes, waiting for his speech to finish. When I’m positive he can’t be speaking anymore, I pat my hair, check my make-up and walk back into the hallway—straight into Fielding’s grabbing hands.

“Don’t make a sound, or you’ll regret it,” he hisses as he pulls me quickly down the hallway. At first, I’m too shocked to fight, too shocked to do anything but walk with him around a corner and through a door, into a room with a bed and a dresser and the smell of cigar smoke. He locks the door with a flick, grabbing my wrists again, and then the adrenaline kicks in. I pull and snap my arms, trying to break free.

He grips harder, his perfectly trimmed nails digging into my wrists, and I try valiantly to lodge my spiked heel into the arch of his left foot. He groans and loosens his grip—just for a second—and I slide away. But he’s fast and he catches my hair, ripping out bobby pins as I strain to free myself. He yanks my head and his fist connects with my belly and then I almost black out . . . and I find myself face down on the bed.

“Your husband is at a precarious point in his career,” he whispers into my ringing ears.

I’m going to be sick.

“Review boards next week. I think you may want to consider your actions right now.” His voice is calm, but the anger underneath it is terrifying. It curls around my head like the smoke in the air, and I feel faint and I may throw up. He snaps me around so I’m facing him, arms held to my side. He bends over me, his weight pressing me down and I’m blurry-eyed and weak.

“Wouldn’t it be dreadful if something popped up in his flight bag this week? Something white and illegal. . . . There are so many things I could do to ruin your little husband . . .” he whispers into my ear, his hot breath smelling of whisky. I twist, but he’s too heavy, too strong, and I can’t breathe. Somehow he’s holding both of my hands in one and his fist is pressing in on my stomach . . . and sliding lower.

I arc away from his hand but it’s no use. I’m trapped. His breath is sickly on my neck. I know he’s not making an idle threat. This monster will do it. My mind whirls, trying to find a way out, trying to justify fighting—for myself, for my unborn baby, for my family. We couldn’t live without John’s job. I can’t work while I’m pregnant and nursing. John needs this promotion. I need this promotion. And if John were in jail . . .

I am such a coward.

I stop fighting.

“Better.”

And with a sick sense of déjà vu, he undoes his belt.

Ten minutes later, he watches me as I cower by the bed and pull myself together. I crawl cautiously on the floor, searching for bobby pins.

I hate this man.

I hate him, hate him, hate him!

“I’m going to go find your husband,” he says. “And I will tell him I found you and you were ill. He will come to this room to find you, and you will go home. And if I hear one word of this anywhere . . . the white powder will come out . . . and your husband will get to know the inside of military jail. It’s not nice there,” he says, combing his slicked greying hair in the mirror. He reaches down to brush at his foot where I caught him with my heel. His sock is black, but his hand comes away red with blood. If I wasn’t hurting everywhere I would laugh.

He looks at me with disgust, and for a moment I fear he will come at me again. But he turns and slowly, methodically rinses his hand in the sink before walking toward the door. He doesn’t limp.

The door shuts firmly behind him, and I manage to make it to the small sink before supper makes its reappearance.

An eternity later, John barges through the door, and finds me sitting on the floor beside the now-perfectly made bed with the smell of vomit overpowering the smoke.

He rushes to kneel before me.

“Baby, are you okay? What happened?” His eyes are so full of love, so full of concern, and there’s no denying he loves me—would still love me if I told him and Fielding sent him to jail, ended his career. But I can’t do that to him. I can’t do that to us. I want to tell him . . . but I can’t.

“I . . . I got sick.” I say, and a sob escapes from my lips.

“Oh, Baby, it’s okay! You’ll be fine, probably just the rich food.” Explaining away my horror, he pulls a napkin from his pocket and hands it to me. I wipe my eyes unceremoniously and try not to weep. I can’t tell him.

I have to tell him.

“John . . .” I start. The words are right there, ready to explode out of my mouth like the puke in the sink, ready to erupt and wreak what havoc they may. “John, I . . .”

“Let’s go home,” he interrupts. “It’s a stupid party anyway.” He draws his finger across my lips, silencing me—and squashing what courage I have.

“Can you drive?” he asks.

The pregnant lady is always the DD, even when she’s just vomited.

Even after she’s just been raped.

I nod and manage to stand up, blaming baby awkwardness for my difficulty as I walk with him to our car. We drive home in the winter darkness.

And I don’t tell him a thing.