I can’t explain why I was saved. Why another girl wasn’t. I’ve thought about it for fifty years. All I know is that evil tried to take me that night and how close I was to being a killer’s next victim.
It was early August 1965. Almost midnight. The Laundromat on the outskirts of town was deserted, my brown-and-white Buick the only car in the lot. Inside, rows of machines were dormant, their round, glass doors flipped open. No Herman’s Hermits or Four Tops on the radio. Not at this hour. Just the sloshing of the washer I’d started. I leaned against a table and thumbed through a magazine. Fifteen minutes to go . . .
I washed my baby’s cloth diapers at that Laundromat every few nights, stopping in after my shift as a long-distance operator for Ma Bell. It was several miles from the place my husband and I had moved into the year before. “Irma, you be careful there so late at night,” warned Toby, a cabdriver who had become a good friend of ours. “It’s the back of beyond. Even I never drive out that far.”
“I’ll be careful,” I promised. Actually, I liked that the Laundromat was so isolated. The quiet helped me unwind. A break from the bustle of work and a new baby. Plus, it saved me from scrubbing the baby’s diapers on the washboard at home.
I was almost finished with my magazine when car headlights in the parking lot caught my eye. I glanced back at the timer on the washer. Ten minutes . . .
That’s when he walked in. A man I’d never seen before. Tall, with dark, shaggy hair, wearing jeans and a black shirt. No laundry or laundry basket. Strange. He took a seat by the door and sat for a while. Maybe he was just waiting for someone. Yet something had come into that Laundromat with him. A feeling. A bad feeling.
I started to hum “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” my go-to song in times of stress. In between verses, I peeked behind me to get a better look at the man. Sunken eyes, pale skin. His expression chilled me.
Bzzzz!
I nearly jumped out of my shoes. But it was only my wash. I quickly transferred the diapers to a dryer far away from the strange man. I stared at the timer, willing it to tick down faster. In a soft, quivering voice, I sang, “When you walk through a storm hold your head up high and don’t be afraid of the dark.”
A shadow fell over me. Two ice-cold hands slid down my chest inside the front of my shirt. I screamed and wrenched away. The man lunged at me. I ran to the front door. He was right behind me.
I flew out into the cool midnight air and sprinted across the parking lot to my car. I grabbed the door handle, fumbled with my keys. My hands were shaking so badly.
“Got ya!” the man snarled and grabbed my left arm. He was a foot taller than me, at least. I was no match for him. I gripped the door handle tightly with my right hand. One by one he started prying my fingers loose. I tried to scream, “Let me go! I won’t tell anyone,” but the words didn’t come out. My hand cramped, just two fingers clinging to the handle.
Then a bright light appeared in the distance. Headlights!
The man let go of my fingers and thrust his body against mine, pinning me against the car door. From the road, no one would be able to see me. I squirmed to get free, but his weight was crushing me. The car zoomed past. “You’re mine now,” he said, breathing heavily.
The sound of tires crunching on the gravel road faded. It could be hours before another car came by.
The man stepped back. I gasped and clutched the door handle again just as he wrapped his arms around me. He tried to pick me up and drag me away, but I hung on. My palms were sweaty, my fingers were slipping. I couldn’t last any longer. Lord, watch over my baby boy and keep him in your hands.
Screeeech!
A car slammed on its brakes. There was the roar of tires kicking up gravel. A cloud of dust rose over the parking lot, clouding my vision. Blinding headlights spotlighted the stranger and me.
The driver jumped out, the silhouette of a baseball bat visible in his hands. He charged at my attacker, waving his weapon over his head like a samurai warrior. “Let her go! Get away from her!” he shouted.
I knew that voice. Toby?
The stranger cursed and shoved me against the car. Then he bolted, vanishing behind the Laundromat.
I collapsed in Toby’s arms. He took off his windbreaker and put it around my shoulders. “I’ve already radioed the police,” he said. “You’re safe now.”
“I thought you never came out here,” I said, trying to hold back my sobs.
“I don’t,” Toby said. “Business was slow, so I decided to drive around while I waited for a call to pick up a fare. I can’t explain how I ended up here, but when I saw that man standing by your Buick, I knew something wasn’t right. That’s when I turned around.”
The officers arrived shortly to take a statement. They didn’t seem to find much to go on. Over the next week, I had nightmares—I couldn’t get the man’s face out of my mind.
Then one morning I picked up the paper. And I saw him. On the front page. Definitely him. The sunken, empty eyes, the pallor of his skin.
My hands trembled. The paper shook as I read. He’d been charged with the murder of a woman months earlier and the kidnapping and attempted murder of a second woman . . . only a few days after he’d attacked me. She’d survived, the article said, thanks to the hem of her dress catching in the trunk latch of her car, preventing it from closing. Her escape had led to the man’s arrest.
The murdered woman had last been seen alive at a Laundromat on the outskirts of town.