Читать книгу I'll Be Watching You - M. William Phelps - Страница 25

I

Mary Ellen Renard had lived in fear for so many years after she left her first husband that she had become blind to its most outward signs. In some ways, she was an absolute whiz when it pertained to certain things. Her job was to transcribe doctors’ notes. No one else could understand the Asian and other foreign language–speaking doctors who spoke with broken-English accents. But Mary Ellen picked it up with ease.

Where it pertained to judging males and their intentions, however, Mary Ellen later admitted that she was a bit naïve. She was cautious, but maybe just a bit inexperienced and trustworthy. It was 1987. What woman didn’t watch the news? What woman didn’t know that it wasn’t such a smart move to invite a man you had just met into the privacy of your home? For all she knew, this man had taken her gratitude as a open sign for a nightcap and some good lovin’.

Still, if there was one attribute that separated Mary Ellen from most, it was that she gave people the benefit of the doubt. She wanted to believe in people.

II

After Mary Ellen unlocked the dead bolt and let him into the hallway leading up to her apartment, she turned around and, with her key, locked the dead bolt to the entrance door behind her, per her meddlesome landlady’s orders. It was a safe bet, in fact, the nosey old woman was on the opposite side of her door as Mary Ellen and her friend were in the hallway, peering through the peephole, watching them.

A moment later, Mary Ellen and her new friend walked up the stairs to her apartment; within a moment, they were inside. “The bathroom,” Mary Ellen said, putting her pocketbook down on the counter in the kitchen and pointing to the hallway just beyond where they were standing in the living room, “is right down there.”

“Thanks,” he said, looking around, adding, “nice apartment.”

Mary Ellen took off her shoes and placed them by the door. After that, she walked into the kitchen and placed her keys inside her pocketbook. Then she went into the refrigerator and looked for a block of cheese she always kept on hand. “I always eat cheese when I got home,” she explained, “because I have hypoglycemia and I need to eat frequently.”

It was nearly 3:00 A.M. She hadn’t eaten all night. With her condition, doctors suggested a small meal of protein every two hours. With a block of cheese on a plate, Mary Ellen took a knife out of the drawer below and carved the cheese into several slices. When she finished, she got herself a diet Slice (“my favorite”), grabbed the plate of cheese, and headed for the living room.

Just then, as she sat down on the couch, she heard the toilet flush. He must be on his way….

Several minutes went by before he came out of the bathroom, however. It was odd that he was taking so long.

What is he doing?

When he finally returned, Mary Ellen asked, “Would you like a soda?”

“No,” he said. Then, “Are those your kids on the wall over there?” He was standing by the door. Mary Ellen sat on the couch in front of him a few yards away.

Mary Ellen smiled. Everyone asked about the kids. She explained to him that she had grandkids. She was a grandmother. Imagine that.

“Your daughters are very pretty,” he said. He was standing in front of Mary Ellen now. Closer. He seemed different. He even sounded different. Something was wrong.

“Thank you,” Mary Ellen said.

As she went to speak again, he approached her and, bending down, tried kissing her on the lips. But she backed away immediately.

“I don’t want you to do that. I really don’t know you. It makes me uncomfortable.”

On the mantel by her television set was a photograph of her brother. After backing away, he turned his attention toward the picture. “Is your brother a priest?”

Mary Ellen got up. She wanted him to leave. He was acting a bit squirrelly, as if he had taken some sort of drug (he hadn’t) when he was in the bathroom. Mary Ellen had to cross paths with him to get to the door. She’d heard enough. The kiss scared her. She wanted to see him out and lock the door. But as she walked past him, he grabbed her by the shoulders and tried kissing her again.

She backed away instantly. (“I was alarmed,” she recalled, “I mean, it was not the same type of kiss.”)

Not only the kiss, but his entire demeanor had changed. He was totally out of it. Completely inside his own head, as if he were drifting away somewhere. Earlier that night, Mary Ellen was in awe of his good looks. But now he didn’t even look the same.

He didn’t speak. (“He just stared at me, stared into my eyes,” she later remembered.)

Looking through her, the man grabbed Mary Ellen by the shoulders once again. Mary Ellen could feel his grasp this time. He was hurting her. “Stop it,” she said loudly.

He began kissing her again, forcefully. She hated it. When she denied his advances repeatedly, he became enraged and threw her backward onto the couch. (“I was trying to break away,” she recalled, “but I lost my balance.”)

On top of her, down on the couch, he grabbed at her right breast. “Stop,” she pleaded, “you’re hurting me.”

Without saying a word, he continued clutching her by the breasts. He was fascinated and, at the same time, aroused by the violence he was perpetrating while touching her breasts. Just the sight of them as he opened her blouse, ripping her bra off and exposing them, did something to change him, Mary Ellen knew.

She was large. C cup. Her breasts had changed him. After he was finished fondling Mary Ellen’s breasts, he looked up. “He didn’t say anything. He stared—just stared into my eyes.”