Sisters on the Case

Ninjettes by Kate Flora

I was threading my way between cars in the dark garage when a man coming toward me said, ‘‘Hey, looks like you dropped something.’’ I stopped to see what I’d dropped before I recognized this as a classic attacker approach.

He was beefy and unshaven, out of place in this upscale mall lot, and his expression was an ugly mix of smirk and lust. I checked out escape routes, transferred my packages to one hand, and got my keys ready. He was close enough for me to smell tobacco and Old Spice as I clicked the lock and tossed in my packages, keeping the car between us.

‘‘Don’t come any closer. You’re making me uncomfortable,’’ I said.

He grinned and flexed his fingers like a strangler warming up. I jumped in my car, stabbing the door lock as I jammed it into reverse. He was right behind me, fist raised, his face demonic in the red and yellow glare of the lights. I hit the gas, and he became a dark blur as he dove out of my way.

As I braked and shifted, I glanced back. He crouched there like some malevolent animal, shaking his shaggy head. I reminded myself to breathe, my self-defense instructor’s words in my head: Don’t worry about whether he’s hurt. What’s important is your own safety. Keep moving. Get yourself out of there. If you’re breathing you can react.

I shook all the way home, a post-adrenaline chill that went right to my bones. Inside, I dumped my packages on the table and undid my coat with shaking hands, then snapped on the oven and pulled out a rotisserie chicken and salad stuff for dinner. From behind his science magazine, Karl made an incomprehensible sound.

I thought I was fine until I stopped in Cassie’s room. She lasered my face with her sharp adolescent eyes. ‘‘Mom, what happened?’’

‘‘Nothing, honey. There was just this creepy guy in the parking garage who…’’

‘‘Are you okay?’’ I nodded. ‘‘Did you tell Dad?’’ I shook my head.

Cassie pulled the iPod buds from her ears. ‘‘You need tea.’’

Blessed are those who have daughters.

Later, as I hurried past Karl, snug as a bear in his new recliner, he glanced over his copy of Nature. ‘‘Off to your ninjettes class?’’

‘‘Sure am, sweetie,’’ I said. ‘‘Tonight we’re practicing plucking people’s heads off.’’

Karl would have to help Bobby, our fifteen-year-old who often got stuck on geometry, and Cassie, who was struggling with college essays. As both required hands-on assistance, he’d have to leave his chair and go act like a parent.

Communication is my specialty. Five days a week, I visit schools and community groups around the state, helping parents and teenagers learn to communicate more effectively. I’m good at helping people talk to each other. You’d think I could make it happen at home, but Karl’s developed an invisible shield that deflects my words like armor. His conversation these days is mostly demands or complaints, as though as his body gets wider, his mind gets narrower.

They say women tend to marry their fathers. My mother used to roll her eyes at my father’s constant demands and mutter, ‘‘Maybe it would be different if he were Winston Churchill.’’ Sometimes, studying the back of Karl’s magazine, I wondered if Mrs. Churchill was lonely, too.

I probably sound bitter. I’m not. It’s just frustrating to have good communication skills and be such a failure at home. Lately I’ve been feeling desperately fragile. Between Karl, the house, two teenagers, and a job, I’m stretched so far I feel like I’m teetering on a window ledge.

It was good to get out for something besides errands and work. I punched the ON button and got Seeger and Springsteen. The last song I played was a Cher song about Jesse James. The idea of a woman like me sending some arrogant studlet down in flames always left me smiling.

My ‘‘ninjettes class,’’ as Karl called it, was actually a RAD, or Rape Aggression Defense, class offered by our local police department. It was as much common sense and safety precaution as martial arts and self-defense. My friend Katie talked me into it, saying she didn’t want to make an ass of herself alone. But Katie’s a tough lawyer who’s good on her feet and looks like you wouldn’t want to mess with her, so I wondered if she’d done it for me. She always says I should get out more.

It was a sensible step for me. Increasingly, I found myself in far-flung parts of the state crossing scary parking lots at night. When I was standing in a gym with a bunch of nervous suburban ladies, our training had seemed distant and theoretical, but today at the mall, it had been just what I’d needed. Tonight we were practicing everything we’d learned. Police officers in their Aggressor suits were going to mug us and we were going to fight them off.

In the female officers’ locker room, my classmates clustered around Natalie Burke. Natalie was a big-eyed, slender brunette, the kind of woman you think you won’t like because she’s too damned attractive. She had perky implants while we were scooping up our saggy middle-aged breasts and repackaging them with underwire and padding, a sculpted body with visible muscles, and a frightening amount of energy. While we dragged our sorry asses into the gym each week, mumbling our responses like a gaggle of middle schoolers, Natalie hit the floor with singeing intensity.

She wiped away tears and streaks of mascara while two women stroked her back and murmured comfort. As I joined them, Katie whispered, ‘‘Her husband just left her for a twenty-five-year-old.’’

I felt the instinctive anger I always felt at these stories. Karl, still attractive despite the spread, was unlikely ever to leave me. It’s hard to get entangled with young honeys if you spend your life in your lab, your car, and your chair. There were young lab assistants, but anyone expecting half-decent treatment soon left unless they were as obsessed with lipids as Karl was. He looked to be the exception, though. Lately a lot of husbands were trading in their wives for younger models.

I could imagine someone youth-obsessed leaving me. My mind’s nice and tight, but from shoulder to knee I’m soft as the Pillsbury Doughgirl. Natalie, though, was fit and gorgeous. Nor did the timing make sense. They’d just moved into a new house, I knew, because every week she related another construction disaster.

‘‘He just…’’ Natalie’s husky voice quivered. ‘‘… came home one day and said he was moving on. Standing in the kitchen, right in front of the children, he says he’s finally found someone who truly understands him. Who makes him feel young again.’’

She drew a shuddering breath. ‘‘Who wouldn’t feel younger if they didn’t have to worry about homework, sports schedules, teacher conferences, plumbers, investments, and finding a retirement community for his cranky mother?’’

Her workout shoes slapped the dingy tile. ‘‘I’ve been understanding him for twenty-five years. Twenty-five years of bullying the cleaner about his shirts. Of running in from T-ball games and showering off baby spit after moving heaven and earth to get a sitter so I could meet him for dinner in Boston looking glamorous. A quarter century of dancing to his damned piper and he dumps me. It’s just not fair.’’

She jerked off her wedding band and threw it across the room. ‘‘Twenty years as a gym fanatic because he noticed every ounce I gained. Well, fuck him.’’

The shiny gold spun like a dancer on the tile, then disappeared between two lockers. The room was so quiet I could hear the small clang of metal on stone as it fell.

Natalie snatched a headband from her bag, tied back her hair, and pushed up her sleeves. ‘‘Those cops better watch out because I am mad as hell and I have got to take it out on somebody.’’

‘‘What’s his name?’’ Katie asked.

‘‘Sterling,’’ she said. ‘‘Can you believe it? His name is Sterling.’’

Infected by her anger, we followed her into the gym, lively for once. And it made a difference. When I shouted ‘‘No!’’ I meant it. When I punched and kicked, it was in earnest. I was thinking about the guy in the garage. How I’d hated it that some creep could get his kicks terrifying me. I got a real rush channeling my fear and anger into positive action, using my breath to keep from getting rattled, focusing my energy into a self-protective response.

I wasn’t alone. The whole class was responding to the idea of men acting badly. When the massive cop in the Aggressor suit approached Natalie, I saw surprise and respect through the bars of his mask as she stomped, kicked, and punched him to the floor.

Then it was my turn. When we started the course, I couldn’t bring myself to shout. I said ‘‘No’’ in such a quiet voice I wouldn’t have deterred a three-year-old. Over the weeks my ‘‘No’’ had stopped sounding like an invitation to try again. Tonight I roared. When Natalie knocked that guy down and stomped the hell out of him, I was on my feet with the rest of the class yelling, ‘‘Yes!’’

It was one thing to cheer the others on, another to face this guy myself. Even if he was limping a little and not showing his earlier gusto, he was nearly twice my size and probably half my age. When I began my nonchalant stroll across the gym, I felt the same clenching fear I’d felt in the parking garage. But nothing happened.

I was almost across the room when a fat, gloved hand snaked around from behind and grabbed me. I jabbed my elbow back, hard, as I seized his hand and spun around, jerking him toward me. I slapped his ear with one hand while snapping a kick toward his crotch. ‘‘Breathe,’’ I whispered, ‘‘breathe.’’

Maybe he’d had enough, because he grabbed my kicking leg and dropped me hard. I scrambled back, planted my hands behind me, and kicked out at him, snapping good hard kicks at his grabbing hands. Then a second guy grabbed my shoulders, pressing me down. I gave a sudden sideways roll and got my feet under me, but as they moved in together, I cast the rules of the exercise aside. ‘‘Natalie. Help me.’’

Instantly, she was beside me, her feet braced and her hands up in protective, assertive fists. I curled my hands into fists of my own, and shoulder to shoulder, we faced them. ‘‘Back off. Keep away from me,’’ I growled. The new man lunged.

‘‘No way!’’ I screamed, jerking his arm so that he flew past. As he regained his balance, I should have run. That was the point of the exercise. But I’d called on Natalie for help. While my guy was still turning, I rushed her attacker and hauled him off. I grabbed her hand and we raced for the door, giggling like tweens, crossing the black safety line just before they reached us.

‘‘Thanks,’’ I said, hugging her. ‘‘You can be on my team anytime.’’

‘‘Ditto. I always forget that part about running. I want to stay and fight.’’

For a moment, she looked sad. Was she thinking about her marriage? How you can’t stay and fight if the other person’s walked out and won’t even give you a chance. Sometimes they don’t give you a chance when they stay around.

I settled onto the hard wooden bleachers. The exercise had left me feeling positive that I’d been able to assert myself. But although it was only an exercise and I’d always been ‘‘safe,’’ I’d felt genuine fear, real vulnerability, powerful anger toward my attackers. Something about that had stirred up memories of other scary times.

I’d had a blind date once where the guy had gotten drunk and violent. Instead of driving me home, he’d parked on a dark side street and tried to rape me. I’d ended up running shoeless down an icy January sidewalk, my blouse torn, rescued by a kindly police officer about my dad’s age. He’d wrapped me in his creaky leather jacket, given me tissues, and told me that it wasn’t my fault, repeating it in his certain, gravelly voice until I almost believed him.

That wasn’t the only thing, but it was the worst. I wanted to live in a world where women didn’t have to worry about things like this. Where I wouldn’t be thinking that I should send my soon-to-be-college-bound daughter to this class. Where people resolved their differences with language. But who was I kidding? I couldn’t make language work in my own home. And I was not naïve. This class had helped with the man in the parking garage. As long as there were men who got their kicks making women uncomfortable, who didn’t respect boundaries, we needed to be responsible for our own safety.

When the two female officers who’d run the class asked how we felt, they got a chorus of ‘‘great’’ and ‘‘incredible’’ until they got to me. I told them about my mixed feelings, how I felt all jumbled up. Katie agreed, and Natalie, and another woman named Sandy, who’d had an even harder time yelling and being assertive. The officers offered sympathy but seemed annoyed, which annoyed me right back. I get impatient with people who want approved answers instead of truth.

As we filed into the parking lot, I said, ‘‘Hey, Katie, got time for a glass of wine?’’

Katie looked surprised. She’d asked before and I always said no. I’d fallen into a pattern of rushing home. There was always so much to do and I could never be certain Karl had paid attention to Bobby’s homework. Tonight, though, I wanted company.

‘‘Sounds good,’’ she said.

I turned to Natalie. ‘‘Got time for a drink?’’

She checked her watch, then tossed her head. ‘‘Sure. Why not?’’

From somewhere to my left, Sandy said, ‘‘Mind if I join you? I could use a drink.’’

It felt odd going into the pub alone. I’d never been there without Karl and the kids. When you were riding herd on coats, hats, mittens, absentminded spouses, or moody teens and outbreaks of sibling war, you didn’t notice ambiance; you noticed how fast the service was.

Tonight, I saw beyond the menu and the popcorn. I noticed how homey and inviting the hanging tin lamps were. I saw all the laughing guys with their pregnant bellies pressed against the bar, not one of whom probably worried about homework or whether he looked fat. The smell of food made me hungry enough to order a burger instead of salad and to eat the fries instead of leaving them. Even Natalie was tucking into a great big burger.

‘‘I used to think it was just guys,’’ she said, ‘‘but sometimes a woman needs a big hunk of meat.’’

Sandy choked on her wine.

‘‘I meant the burger.’’

We discussed our reactions to the course, Sandy and Katie telling stories of clients who’d been unbalanced and menacing. Yet, as I drank wine and ate forbidden food, I realized I was having fun. I liked Sandy’s insightful comments, Katie’s punchy iconoclasm; even Natalie, despite her brittleness and desperate sadness, was a nice person to spend time with. I admired her concern with protecting her kids from their father’s neglect and bad behavior.

‘‘If you don’t mind my asking,’’ Katie said, ‘‘did you have any idea your husband was seeing someone?’’ Katie does a lot of domestic work.

Natalie shrugged. ‘‘I was trying not to see it, but it was there. There was this company dinner a few months ago. The bimbo-her name’s Tiffany-was wearing a skimpy dress, very inappropriate for a business dinner. She kept coming up and sticking her chest in his face. At the time, I thought it was pitiful and wished someone would set her straight so she didn’t embarrass herself.’’

She pushed a lonely, ketchup-daubed fry around her plate. ‘‘On the way home, I suggested Sterling get one of the older women to give her some tips. He said it was just that she was so young. Laughing, you know, like we were the grown-ups and needed to be understanding. Dammit!’’ She dropped her fork onto the plate. ‘‘Now he’s sleeping with her and I’m still supposed to be understanding.’’

Katie, whose nose was slightly pink, signaled the waitress and ordered another glass of wine. Natalie checked her watch again-kids at home and no spouse for backup-and got one, too. Sandy said, ‘‘What the heck.’’ I didn’t want to be the only sober one, so I caved. The extra wine led to a brownie sundae and four spoons.

We were deep into chocolate when Natalie’s phone rang. ‘‘Excuse me, it’s my son.’’ She flipped it open and turned away. She listened, then said, ‘‘He what? Tonight? Why didn’t you call me?’’ There were more staccato questions, her head tipped to catch the answers over the bar noise, until she said, ‘‘Oh, honey. I know that was hard but you did just right. I’ll be home soon.’’ She snapped the phone shut.

‘‘Goddamn that man. Goddamn him. Goddamn her. He’s lucky I don’t have a gun.’’ She burst into tears.

Sandy pushed a small packet of pink tissues with Valentine hearts into Natalie’s hand. ‘‘What did he do, dear?’’ she asked. Her soft, faintly southern voice invited confidence.

‘‘He showed up at the house tonight, knowing I’d be at class. I changed the locks, see, after he left. I guess he thought he could talk his way in if it was just the kids.’’

Her eyes traveled around the table to see if we understood. ‘‘He didn’t come to see them. He hasn’t spoken to them since he moved out. Not even a call on Sammy’s birthday. He came to get our financial records. For his lawyer.’’ She hissed the word ‘‘lawyer’’ like the guy was a real snake. Probably was. When my sister divorced, she had a snake. She said it made all the difference. ‘‘My lawyer said don’t give him anything until we’ve made copies.’’

She drained her glass. ‘‘That isn’t the worst of it, either. He brought her with him.’’

‘‘To your house? When the kids were home and you were out?’’ Katie said. ‘‘That’s really low.’’

‘‘The kids were good, though. They wouldn’t let him in, so he banged around in the garage and the mud-room, then left.’’ She drummed on the table with her fists. ‘‘I’d like to beat his head in.’’

Katie grinned in that manic way she does after a little wine. ‘‘What about her head? Why is she off the hook? She’s not some innocent seduced by the wicked wolf. She went after a man she knew was married. I mean, she’d met you, for heaven’s sake. Anyone with any values knows that’s wrong. Now she’s showing up at the house to rub all of your noses in it. Whatever happened to discretion? For that matter, whatever happened to shame?’’

‘‘It does take two to tango,’’ Sandy said.

‘‘Yeah,’’ I agreed. ‘‘All these weeks we’ve been going to class, learning how not to be a victim, how to assert ourselves in threatening situations. What’s more threatening than someone out to destroy your marriage? And who’s doing the threatening? She is.’’

Natalie brightened. ‘‘I know where she lives. What kind of car she drives. And she never stays all night at his hotel.’’

‘‘How’d you learn all that?’’ Katie asked. ‘‘You hire a detective?’’ Natalie nodded.

‘‘So what are we waiting for?’’ My voice cut through their wows. ‘‘Maybe we should have a talk with the young lady. Point out the error of her ways.’’ I try to speak like an educated woman, but I love clunky old clichés like ‘‘the error of her ways.’’ And, as we know, alcohol lowers inhibitions.

They responded to my modest suggestion like I’d yelled, ‘‘Charge!’’

We paid the check. Natalie called her kids. By the time we were in the parking lot, I was having second thoughts. I’m a facilitator, not an instigator, and despite the meal, company, and restorative wine, I was still jumbled. I wasn’t even sure why I’d made my crazy suggestion.

‘‘Maybe we should rethink this,’’ I said. ‘‘What do we do when we get there?’’

‘‘No way. It’s brilliant,’’ Katie said. ‘‘It’s not like Natalie’s going to beat this girl’s head in. Why shouldn’t she have a chance to say how she feels? That’s all we’re going for.’’

Put that way, it sounded absolutely reasonable.

‘‘I’ll drive,’’ Sandy said. ‘‘I’ve got a good head for wine.’’

If this were a movie, we’d have jumped into something big, shiny, and black. Probably been wearing leather, too. Or navy blue FBI-style jackets with NINJETTES in goldenrod letters. And stilettos. But this was a quiet suburban town and we were a clump of slightly tipsy matrons. We all piled into her Subaru wagon.

Natalie took the front to navigate. Katie and I dumped L.L. Bean canvas totes, an umbrella, rain boots, South Beach snack bars, and assorted audio-books into the back and fastened our seat belts. This was either going to be fun or a monumental disaster.

Tiffany lived on the first floor of a three-decker on a quiet Cambridge street. We found a parking space just one house away, and waited. Trees just leafing out overhead were a soft yellow green under the streetlights and the air coming in the open windows had the earthy scent of spring.

‘‘I don’t see her car,’’ Natalie whispered. ‘‘She’s got one of those Mini Cooper things. A yellow convertible.’’

‘‘That would be hard to miss,’’ Katie said.

‘‘Last time she came back around eleven,’’ Natalie said. ‘‘She’d better come soon. My oldest won’t go to bed until I’m back.’’

‘‘Last time?’’ Sandy said. ‘‘Natalie, have you done this before?’’

‘‘I came once, thinking I’d talk to her, but I lost my nerve.’’

‘‘I hope she didn’t see you,’’ Katie said.

‘‘Nope. There could have been sixteen muggers in the bushes and she just went tripping past in wobbly little heels, paying no attention to anything. I’ll tell you, I could have-’’

‘‘Everybody duck,’’ Sandy said. ‘‘There’s a car coming.’’

Katie and I nearly knocked heads as we squinched down in the small backseat. If it was Tiffany, she must have been driving about one mile an hour. I had a crick in my neck by the time Sandy whispered, ‘‘It’s her. Now what do we do?’’

‘‘Natalie talks to her,’’ I said.

‘‘Natalie stays in the car. She knows Natalie,’’ Katie said. ‘‘The three of us will do the talking.’’

‘‘I thought I was going to talk to her,’’ Natalie said. ‘‘Isn’t that why we came?’’

‘‘Mmm. But I’ve been thinking,’’ Katie said. ‘‘You’re in a divorce, you want to keep right on your side. You don’t want her getting a restraining order, claiming you’ve been stalking her, do you?’’

‘‘I never thought of that.’’

‘‘She’s getting out of the car,’’ Sandy hissed.

‘‘Then what are we waiting for?’’ I popped upright and grabbed my door handle. We were here and the facts hadn’t changed-this young woman was causing Natalie and her kids so much pain. We might as well do it.

Tiffany wore a short skirt, pink cashmere bolero over a lacy, low-cut camisole, and cute little pink high-heeled mules with black polka dots. The purse slung over her shoulder, big enough to house a small rhino, held a matching pink tennis racket. Her multicolored hair hung in an expensively nonchalant shag and her lips gleamed like pavement on a rainy night. She didn’t look much older than Cassie. It was tragic how when girls were young and naturally lovely, they slathered themselves with makeup.

‘‘Tiffany?’’ Sandy spoke in a ladylike, unthreatening voice.

The girl’s vaguely sullen ‘‘Yeah?’’ reminded me of my own teenagers. ‘‘Do I know you?’’

Sandy shook her head. ‘‘We wanted to speak with you about your affair, dear.’’

‘‘Affair?’’ Tiffany gave a little bark. ‘‘What affair?’’ She clutched the giant satchel closer to her side, dismissing us with a scornful look. ‘‘Not that it’s any of your business.’’

One of my mother’s clichés, ‘‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,’’ pressed to get out. We probably didn’t look like much, three middle-aged women in baggy workout clothes and clean white gym shoes. But Katie was president of the local bar association. Sandy had won awards for her work with traumatized children. And I spent my life teaching parents and teens to communicate about issues of trust and honesty and taking responsibility for your choices about risky things like drugs, sex, alcohol, and speed. What I did saved lives.

‘‘Your affair with Sterling Burke,’’ I said. ‘‘Family relationships matter, Tiffany. When you disrupt a marriage and come between a father and his children, that’s not only selfish, it’s immoral. Did you ever consider that?’’

She tilted her head in an I-can’t-believe-this-is-really-happening gesture. ‘‘You’re joking, right?’’ she said. ‘‘I mean, seriously, you didn’t tootle in from the suburbs to talk to me about morality.’’ She gave a disdainful sniff, a fanny about the size of two softballs twitching under her abbreviated skirt. ‘‘Look, if some pathetic woman can’t hold on to her husband, that’s not my problem.’’

This little lightweight had a lot of nerve calling Natalie pathetic. It was hard to raise kids, run a house, hold a job, and sustain a marriage. I held on to my temper and tried to explain.

‘‘But sleeping with a married man is a problem, Tiffany. It interferes with important, established relationships. Sterling’s relationship with his wife. His relationship with his four children,’’ I said. ‘‘In some states, you know, alienation of affection and adultery are still crimes.’’

I studied the peaceful city street, the uneven brick sidewalks and budding trees. Such an unlikely place for me to be climbing onto a soapbox. ‘‘Before you started this affair, did you consider the pain you were inflicting on his family or whether you have the capacity and willingness to be a competent stepmother?’’

‘‘Stepmother? Oh, please…’’ She rolled her eyes. Brown eyes a lot like Natalie’s. ‘‘I am so not interested in children. I’m what? Twenty-five? Natalie can take care of them.’’ Her self-satisfied smile revealed unnaturally white teeth. ‘‘I’m taking care of him. Now why don’t you three witches fly back to the suburbs and stir your cauldrons or something? I’ve had a busy evening and I’m tired.’’

‘‘If this is about Natalie’s husband,’’ Sandy whispered to me, ‘‘why are you so angry?’’

Before I could answer, Katie said, ‘‘You stop right there, Tiffany. There’s more at stake here than just what you want. There are four kids who love their dad, who miss him. A woman who loves her husband…’’

‘‘And I don’t care.’’ Tiffany tossed her glossy hair. ‘‘If she didn’t want him straying, she should have been a better wife. She should have paid attention to his needs, instead of spending his money on fancy houses and bringing all those brats he didn’t want into the world.’’

The Subaru door slammed. We sensibly got out of the way as Natalie marched up to Tiffany, landed an open-handed slap on her ear, ran a foot down her shin, stomped on her foot and then, sweeping her feet out, dumped her onto the pavement. Tiffany’s purse landed with such a thud it might have held bowling balls.

She wore the surprised look of a baby who has suddenly fallen onto a diapered bottom. ‘‘You hurt me,’’ she said. ‘‘You had no right.’’

‘‘Having my husband leave hurt, too,’’ Natalie said. ‘‘And you had no right.’’

The girl pulled her bag toward her protectively. ‘‘You leave me alone,’’ she said. ‘‘What goes on between me and Sterlie is not your business.’’

‘‘Sterlie? Sterlie? Oh man… I cannot believe you. Since when is my husband not my business?’’ Natalie stood, hands on her hips, breathing like a runner in recovery. Then she straightened. ‘‘All right, I’ll go. Before I do, though, let’s be clear…’’

Tiffany had wrapped her arms around her purse, waiting for us to leave. Little white iPod wires ran from her ears and she tilted her head to unheard music. Natalie jerked on the wire, unplugging her in a gesture we all understood.

‘‘If you take my husband, you keep him,’’ she said. ‘‘There’s no sending him back when you realize what a big baby he is. And even if he says he didn’t want them, Sterling is the father of four because he insisted we have four. They need time with their dad, so you get the kids… all the kids… every other weekend, school vacations, and half the summer. No last-minute cancellations. No weaseling out. And the dog comes with the kids, so I hope you like dogs.’’

‘‘I hate dogs. I hate kids,’’ Tiffany said. ‘‘Sterlie and me are not into any of that.’’ She scrambled to her feet and was edging away.

‘‘Tough shit,’’ Natalie said. ‘‘Hey, wait a minute. Is that my tennis racket?’’ Natalie snatched at the bag, pulling out the racket. She pointed at the name engraved on the handle. ‘‘You steal my racket and it’s none of my business? My property isn’t my business?’’

She swung the racket, catching Tiffany neatly on her cute little ass, remembering to follow through, which I never did. Upending the bag, she dumped out a pink iPod, pink visor and wristbands, and a pair of pink and white tennis shoes.

‘‘Sterlie gave me those,’’ Tiffany said.

‘‘My iPod, my clothes, my shoes, my racket. All the stuff from my tennis bag.’’ Natalie drove her backward with vicious swings of the racket. ‘‘Goddammit, what were you thinking? It wasn’t enough to steal my husband and leave my kids without a father, you had to steal my things, too? You had to know they weren’t his.’’

Tiffany, looking stricken, pressed a knuckle against her trembling lip. This was what I talked to teenagers about all the time-had they considered the consequences of their choices and were they willing to accept those consequences?

Natalie swung the racket past the pert little nose with admirable control. ‘‘I said, ‘What were you thinking?’ ’’

‘‘He wanted me to have them.’’ Tiffany sounded like she was about to cry. ‘‘He was so embarrassed that his own children wouldn’t let him in when he just wanted to get some papers. It was really unpleasant. He knew I felt uncomfortable, so he gave me this stuff to make me feel better.’’

‘‘I’ll show you uncomfortable.’’ Natalie swung toward Tiffany’s head as I stepped between them.

‘‘You’re crazy, you know.’’ Tiffany scrabbled for a cell phone. ‘‘I’m calling the police. You belong in jail.’’

‘‘I’m not sure you want to do that,’’ I said.

Worried that we’d helped Natalie commit an assault, I looked to Katie, who shook her head. ‘‘We’re all witnesses that Natalie found Tiffany in possession of over a thousand dollars’ worth of her property,’’ she said. ‘‘Tiffany’s a thief and that’s a felony. Even if Mr. Burke gave it to her, he stole it and she was there. That makes her an accessory and a receiver of stolen property.’’

Katie turned toward me, as though I was the leader of this group. ‘‘Anything else?’’

My mind was a jumble of thoughts about relationships, the common decency we owed each other, and sorrow that someone so young could be so selfish and could wreak so much havoc without any thought. I also knew why I was so angry and who I was angry at. Guys who defaulted on their marriage contracts and the women who, actively or passively, aided and abetted them. Including myself. My words rolled out.

‘‘Tiffany, what you want is not all that matters. You and Sterling aren’t alone in this relationship. The choices you make have consequences for five other people. You’re not an innocent party, you’re an active player in your own life. You have to take responsibility for the choices you make. Don’t assume you can hurt people terribly and walk away untouched.’’

Natalie and Sandy and Katie flanked me like we were a real team, their approving glances saying I was making real sense. This wasn’t just about Tiffany and Sterling and Natalie. It was about making considered choices and taking action when things weren’t right. I might still be jumbled but some of the right things had been shaken loose.

Tiffany looked down at the open cell phone in her hand.

‘‘Felony,’’ Katie said.

Tiffany snapped the phone shut, shoved it in her purse, and went inside.

‘‘Wow. Thank you all,’’ Natalie said. ‘‘I never thought I’d get all this from a self-defense course.’’

Neither had I. ‘‘Ninjettes rock,’’ I said.

We high-fived and walked back to the Subaru.