Chapter 23 #2
“Well, it’s best you two aren’t alone with the door shut.”
“Why?” I was getting angry.
“Because you have enough shit to deal with and don’t need more.” His intimation was obvious, and I was offended.
I’m not certain I knew the word gay then beyond it describing someone happy.
But I was aware of same-sex relationships and as a kid had been suspicious about an unmarried female missionary or two.
Sheena did seem masculine, I supposed. And never mentioned dating men.
Also, she referenced people, especially family members, unfairly judging her.
But she didn’t say for what even when I asked.
I had no idea whether she was gay or not.
Looking back, she might have been. She seemed quite drawn to me.
But unlike Don Boone, she never made any comments or inappropriate gestures.
The worst part of each day was my sessions with him.
Inwardly I was seething. I loathed him and felt helpless.
We’d sit in the recreation room’s folding chairs, talking while old men played pool and Ping-Pong balls made a hard hollow sound as they bounced on the table and floor. Don always asked the same thing right off while handsy and too close.
“Did you have a good night?”
He’d want to know what I dreamed. One morning I told him I’d had a nightmare about sitting on a tree branch overhanging a canal full of snakes. Suddenly, a hand emerged from the murky water, thick fingers covered with scum reaching up, clamping around my ankle, pulling me into the canal…
My eyelids flew open as steam hissed from the radiator. I explained that I sat up in bed, breathing hard, worrying about my unlocked door again.
“You’re not afraid of snakes,” Don told me.
He squeezed my hand, nudging me with his shoulder, the fluorescent light shining on his bald head.
“Sex, Patsy. That’s what you’re afraid of.”
He always grinned when talking about sex. I could see his small teeth, his tongue, and he reminded me of something. What was it…? Then it occurred to me. Yes, I knew what it was. A lamprey.
“I could fix you up real good,” Don said salaciously with that same grin. “I could cure you of your problem in just a few minutes.”
Piped-in music floated over the scraping of chairs, the clicking of pool balls, the shuffling of cards.
A patient named Bob was waltzing around the room with his pool cue, his eyes blank, his mouth hanging open.
He released his skinny wooden partner long enough to clack the white ball into a pocket.
“You lose, ol’ boy,” his opponent grumbled.
Bob didn’t blink as he resumed dancing across the room, slowly twirling, pool cue held close. Probably what I’d be doing if I were still taking the Navane, I thought. I’d heard he’d been here twenty years. He was fifty-five years old and still called his mother every day.
I’d see him enter the tiny telephone room, walking slowly, his bottom teeth bared, his eyes sometimes twitching. He’d close the wooden door, and his head would disappear behind the glass window as he sat down next to the telephone on a table. I could hear the murmur of his monotone.
Usually, I could flip through three magazines by the time he reemerged, often looking despondent. I’d watch him mince across the carpet, vanishing behind the sliding elevator doors.
“I could fix you up real good,” Don repeated. “Yes, indeed. What you need is for me to take you in the corner. How would you like that, little girl? Would you be my friend then?”
His shoulder pressed against me again, only harder, his scratchy, flabby cheek rubbing against mine.
“STOP IT!” I pulled away from him, fear running through me.
“You ready to talk about it? You ready to talk about the patrolman?” Don covered my hand with his.
“How did you know?” I asked. “I never told you.”
He said he’d called my mother and found out from her.
“She’s always thought it messed me up more than it did,” I replied. “I’ll tell you what I remember, but I don’t think it matters very much.”
I didn’t believe my encounter with the patrolman was why I was starving myself to death. But Don wanted the details as he continued touching me while I watched Bob dancing. Why did he crush the pool cue in his embrace yet refuse to be anywhere near the ladies at the Thursday night dances?
Why did I let Don touch me and make his lewd intimations? I’d ask the same thing in 1997 when talk show host Larry King and I were booked on the same American Airlines flight to Los Angeles. I was doped up on decongestants, well on my way to having a terrible case of the flu that I hope he caught.
He’d interviewed me several times on his radio talk show, and now he was a superstar on CNN.
Recently, I’d been invited on his TV show with several other bestselling female mystery authors.
I knew that when he had my friend Tom Clancy on, it was just the two of them for an hour.
I said no to being on Larry King, and when we ran into each other, he asked why.
“Oh gee, I don’t know,” I replied while making myself a cup of hot tea in the first-class lounge. “My publicists handle that sort of thing and not me.”
We boarded the plane first, and he smiled and waved at every passenger walking by in the aisle.
Most recognized him. I was amazed that he wanted everyone to see him.
I’d noticed the same behavior when both of us were staying in the same hotel once.
He’d hover in conspicuous places, usually next to the elevators.
We were alone in first class, chatting across the aisle. Then the devil flew into me, as Montreaters might say. I got up to use the bathroom and paused by his seat.
“You know what?” I confided hoarsely, dabbing my nose with a tissue. “I lied. I told my publicists to turn you down. If you want to talk to me, then do it alone. Nobody else on the show but me, just like you do when it’s Tom Clancy.”
I headed to the bathroom, and as I returned to my seat Larry said, “I almost followed you back there.”
“There’s nobody in it now,” I puzzled.
It took me a second to realize he was alluding to the Mile High Club, and then he scuttled into the empty seat next to me.
For the next six hours he hit on me mercilessly.
It was so obvious, the flight attendants never returned to our cabin.
He was a little man in suspenders with stiffly sprayed hair, his aggression fueled by insecurity, anger, and misogyny.
Maybe he was a major celebrity, but he had nothing real to brag about. Trust me when I say that.
“Do you feel it?” He’d shove my hand between his legs while I was woozy from cough syrup.
No, I didn’t feel it. But I didn’t want to be the one to tell him.
“You feel it?” he tried again, and still no joy, as we say in aviation when we can’t find what we’re supposed to be looking for.
I should have punched him in the nose. Intimidated, I was too nice. He wanted my cell phone number, and like an idiot I gave it to him. He started calling, and said he’d heard I liked women. So did he, and maybe we could have a threesome.
“Cornwell, it’s King,” he left in a voicemail. “I’m feeling amorous.”
On occasion, I’d take his call, mindful of his influence. Most of all I didn’t want to anger him, keenly aware of his power in the entertainment industry.
“Do you find me attractive?” he asked during one of our phone calls, and I was noncommittal.
Not in any way would have been the honest answer. Not even as a human being. A few months later I was in Charleston, South Carolina, for a book signing. He decided to come see me. He wanted to have “lunch.”
“Okay,” I said as I thought, Oh God.
He insisted on showing up at my hotel room, and I refused, repeatedly insisting that we’d meet at the restaurant. We did without him knowing that I had two of my bodyguards eating lunch nearby in case I needed protection. If anybody was all about overpowering women, it was Larry King.
Ultimately, he didn’t appreciate my rebuffing his advances, and I never heard from him again.
Whenever my publicists approached CNN about his show, the answer was no, if they got one at all.
I didn’t want to be interviewed by him anyway, and asked myself why I didn’t fight back on that flight to Los Angeles.
I envisioned myself socking him in the face without getting arrested. Why was I intimidated? Why was I too nice? I asked the same questions when Don Boone talked lewdly and wouldn’t keep his hands to himself. Why did I let my social worker say these things to me?
It had gotten to the point that his first gesture every morning was to press me to the wall, his pudgy body pushing against me.
“You just gave me a beautiful hard-on, baby,” he’d announce.
During my next infrequent appointment with Dr. Bill, I told him all about it. His answer was to toss one of the severed hawk claws at me. I picked it up, returning it to his desk, having no idea why he’d done that or seemed amused. It was obvious nothing I said held any credence.
“Don’s using verbal shock treatment.” Dr. Bill got serious. “He’s trying to jolt you out of your phobias and self-destructiveness.”
“Oh,” was all I could say.
Why not just throw me into a snake pit and see if that will scare away my eating disorder? Why didn’t I scratch Don’s eyes out when he greeted me every day with his aggressive hands and vulgar comments? That would have been a more productive topic for Dr. Bill to explore with me.
As the days and weeks went by, Don began talking obscenely in front of others during group therapy, everybody decades older than me and sitting around in a circle.
He’d make disparaging comments about my physical appearance.
One morning he walked around holding up a full-length mirror to each of us.
“This is you, Patsy,” he said when it was my turn. “Do you like yourself?”
“Sure,” I said to my reflection, but I was liking myself less each day.