The Survivors Club

Chapter 11

DETECTIVE FITZPATRICK AND SERGEANT GRIFFIN STUCK around the restaurant for another five minutes. They thrust, Jillian parried. They punched, she counterpunched. The two cops grew frustrated. Jillian didn't much care. She'd been telling Meg and Carol the truth. They didn't have to say anything or go anywhere. As of this moment, they were still merely Eddie Como's victims. They might as well enjoy that advantage while it lasted.

One year ago, when Jillian had first thought up the Survivors Club, she'd had no illusions about the road ahead. She'd woken up that morning with the crushing realization that Trisha was still dead and she was still not. She'd lain there, terrified of each noise in her own home, painfully aware of just how physically weak and inadequate she was, and then she'd gotten mad again. No-she'd gotten furious. She didn't want more police questions. She didn't want DA's walking through her hospital room, cops grilling her about what she had done and said the night her little sister was viciously raped and murdered. She didn't want to get out of bed knowing that the man was still out there. He had killed Trish. He had attacked two other women. And the police hadn't done a damn thing about it.

Jillian had gotten out of bed then. And she had picked up the phone.

Perhaps Meg and Carol had joined the group looking for comfort. Maybe, these days, it even was a source of comfort. But Jillian wasn't ready for soft things yet. First and foremost, she had needed action for Trish, for herself, for all of them. She had formed this group, then honed this group to be their sword.

“We are not the Victims Club,” she had told them at their inaugural meeting. “We are the Survivors Club, and while we may have lost control once, we aren't ever going to lose control again. These attacks are our attacks. That rapist is our rapist. And we're going after him. The three of us are going to use the press, we're going to use the attorney general's office, we're going to use the police and we're going to find the man who did this to us. And then we're going to teach him what it means to have messed with us. I promise you that. From the bottom of my heart, I promise you we will get this man and we will make him pay.”

And in a matter of three short weeks, they watched the police lead Eddie Como away. What Providence detectives hadn't been able to do for nearly two months, the Survivors Club had accomplished in half that time.

Detective Fitzpatrick and Sergeant Griffin left. A waitress came by. Her look was both curious and sympathetic.

“More chai?”

They shook their heads.

“Stay as long as you'd like, girls. Oh, and don't fret the bill. After everything you've been through, this is on the house.”

The waitress bustled away. Jillian looked at Carol and Meg. No one seemed to know what to do next.

“Free breakfast,” Carol murmured at last. “Who said being raped didn't have its advantages?”

“We didn't get free breakfast for being raped,” Jillian countered. “We received free breakfast for killing Eddie Como. Quick, let's run to Federal Hill. There's no telling how much free food we can get there.”

Federal Hill was Providence 's Italian section, famous for its restaurants, pastry shops and Mafia connections. Maybe they could get toasted by various mob bosses or receive free cannolis from made men. It was a thought.

Meg spun her now empty mug between her hands. She looked up at Carol, then Jillian. Then she shocked them both, probably even herself, by speaking of serious matters first.

“Maybe you should've told them,” she said to Jillian. “You know, about the disk.”

“Why? Eddie has contacted us before without the police doing anything about it.”

“But this time was different.”

“‘Sticks and stones may break my bones,' ” Jillian quoted, “‘but words will never hurt me.' ”

“He sent the tape to your house.” Carol now, clearly agreeing with Meg. Carol hated the fact that Eddie Como could access their private residences. As she had told Detective Fitzpatrick six months ago, when the first phone call had come, it was like letting a murderer return to the scene of the crime. Eddie had been charged with three counts of first-degree sexual assault, one count of manslaughter and one count of assault with the intent to commit first-degree sexual assault. After all that, how was it that he still had the freedom to make phone calls and send mail? Eddie Como might have been the one behind bars, but most of the time, they agreed, they were the ones who felt as if they were in prison.

“He's contacted all of us at our homes,” Jillian said. “Face it-he likes to play games. He likes trying to mess with our minds. This was just his latest effort.”

“But he threatened to kill you,” Meg argued. “Detective Fitzpatrick told us he could do something if Eddie became threatening. And that video file”-Meg shuddered delicately-“that was definitely threatening.”

The computer disk had been sent to Jillian's house on Friday. The return address had been Jillian's business-yes, Eddie was very smart in his own way. So she'd opened the manila envelope, thoughtlessly popped in the disk, figuring it was from Roger or Claire, and then… Then Eddie Como's face had been staring back at her from her own computer screen. And as she fumbled for the eject button or the mouse, or the escape button, or for God's sake, some kind of button, he had begun to speak.

“You fucking bitch,” Eddie Como told her as she sat in her own home, ten feet away from her ailing mother, fifteen feet away from her mother's live-in assistant, two feet away from a photo of Trisha, smiling and happy and still so full of life. “You fucking bitch, you've ruined my life. You've ruined my kid's life, my mother's life and my girlfriend's life. Why? Because I'm a spic? Or just because I'm a man? It doesn't matter anymore. I'm gonna get you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. I'm gonna get you even if it's from beyond the grave.”

Jillian had gotten the disk out then. She had flung it back into the manila envelope and quickly resealed it, as if it were a poisonous spider that might try to escape. Then she'd sat there a long time, breathing too hard, shaking like a leaf, and in all honesty, very near tears.

Jillian hated being near tears. Crying never helped. Crying never changed the world. Crying certainly didn't fend off the likes of Eddie Como.

“If I was going to contact Detective Fitzpatrick, I would have done it Friday night,” she told the group now. “I didn't. So there you go.”

“You should've told him,” Carol said, voice still disapproving. Carol was very good at disapproving. “Maybe he could've done something.”

Jillian rolled her eyes. “It was after eight by the time I opened the envelope. Detective Fitzpatrick was already gone for the day. And… and it seemed juvenile at the time. A last-minute scare tactic by Eddie with the trial about to start on Monday. Besides, he's sent this thing out, he's probably already waiting for the police to come or the prison guards to come, or someone to come and give him a bad time. Then he could sit back and amuse himself with how much he rattled my cage. But if I say nothing… Then he spends all weekend waiting. Wondering. Not knowing. I liked that.”

“Punishing him with silence,” Meg said softly. “It's not half bad.”

Jillian shrugged modestly. “But it doesn't matter anymore, does it? Whatever Eddie has done, whatever he's threatened to do… It doesn't matter anymore. He's dead.”

A strange silence descended over the group. For the first time, alone with confirmation that Eddie Como had indeed been fatally shot, the words began to penetrate, grow real, become the new state of the universe. They looked at each other. No one knew what to say. No more Eddie Como. It defied the imagination. For the last year he had been the center of their world. Everything they hated, despised, feared. Weekly they met simply to talk about how mad he had made them, or how determined, how confused, how heartbroken, defenseless, shattered. Was there a thought that went through any of their heads that did not connect back to Eddie Como? A resolution that did not start with him? A good day, a bad day, a good episode, a bad episode that wasn't directly attributed to him? Meg could not remember her life. Carol couldn't turn off her TV. Jillian couldn't relax, and one way or another it all had to do with Eddie Como. Except now he was gone and the world kept turning and the other patrons kept eating and…

“I don't think we can talk about it,” Jillian said shortly.

“We need to talk about it,” Meg said quietly.

“We have to talk about it!” Carol seconded more vehemently. “We'd better talk about it! I for one-”

“We can't,” Jillian interrupted forcefully. “We're suspects. If we talk about the shooting, or the fact that he's dead, later someone-hell, maybe Ned D'Amato-could construe that as conspiracy.”

“Oh for the love of God!” Carol cried. “The College Hill Rapist is dead and you're still making up rules and setting agendas. Give it a rest, Jillian! We have spent the last twelve months gearing up for a trial that will suddenly never happen. Oh my God, I don't know where to begin.”

“We can't-”

“Let's vote.” Carol was emphatic. “All in favor of dancing around Eddie Como's grave, raise their hands.”

Carol raised her hand. After a second, Meg's hand also went into the air. She gazed at Jillian apologetically. “When the news report came on, I was so sure they were wrong,” she said quietly. “How could someone as evil as Eddie actually die? Did the shooter use a silver bullet? But then the cops came, so I guess this is all really happening, and well… I think I'm a little confused. He's dead, but in my mind, he can't be dead. Everything's different, but everything's the same. It's… surreal.”

Jillian frowned. She still smarted from Carol's agenda comment. But then…

Her skin felt funny, too tight for her bones. The air felt strange, too cool upon her cheeks. Meg was right. Everything was different, yet everything was the same, and had there been a night in the last twelve months when Jillian had not gone to bed wishing for Eddie Como's death, praying for Eddie Como's death, willing Eddie Como's death with every fiber of her being?

She had won. The Survivors Club had won. And then she finally understood what was wrong. Eddie Como was dead. But she didn't feel victorious.

“Perhaps… perhaps we can talk about how we feel,” Jillian said slowly. “But no getting into specifics of the shooting. Agreed?”

Meg nodded. More reluctantly, Carol followed suit.

“Well, I for one am happy!” Carol stated immediately. “I'm bursting! Hell, yes. This is a great day in America. The bastard finally got what he deserved! You know what we need? We need champagne. We need to celebrate this properly, that will put it in perspective. Where is that waitress? We're going to get ourselves some champagne, and why not, that piece of chocolate cake.”

The waitress magically materialized. Carol ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon, then the entire chocolate cake.

“Don't worry, we'll pay for it,” she told the waitress. “We're not trying to abuse anyone's generosity, we just need a good toast. Do you have any strawberries, honey? Put a strawberry in each glass. That'll be perfect. And then the cake. Don't forget the cake. My God, that looks luscious.”

Carol was waving her hands about enthusiastically. Her blue eyes were overbright again, her expression at once glowing and brittle. Meg and Jillian exchanged looks across the table.

“Now then,” Carol said in her overloud voice. “Bubbly is on the way. In the meantime, let's tick off all the ways our lives will be better. I'll start. One, we no longer have to worry about testifying at trial. No horrible recaps, no vicious cross-examination, no showing crime-scene photos of our own bodies to complete strangers. Survey says, no trial is a good trial. Thank you, Dead Eddie. Oh look, here's the champagne.”

The waitress was back. She had the Dom Pérignon and yes, glasses with fresh strawberries. She popped the cork, poured the three glasses and began dishing out the cake.

Jillian accepted her glass, already picturing the headline. Eddie Como Is Shot, The Women Eat Cake. But then, in the next instant, Carol's mood infected her as well. What the hell were they supposed to do? Cry in their coffee? Wring their hands? Maybe this wasn't sane and maybe it wasn't socially acceptable, but they'd had lots of moments less sane than this one. And they had endured plenty of things that should not be socially acceptable.

Trisha tied up, stripped naked, then viciously assaulted as her throat swelled shut, as her lungs gasped for air. Trisha struggling furiously. Trisha trying to scream. Trisha, dying, with her last conscious moments being a strange man looming over her body…

“Okay,” Jillian said. She held up her champagne flute. “My turn. Here's to no more phone calls in the middle of the day, no more notes in the mail, no more twisted video displays. Thank you, Dead Eddie.”

“Here's to no halting our lives every ten years for parole hearings,” Meg said. “No worrying that if we don't halt our lives and relive our rapes for some parole board, he will end up back on the streets. Thank you, Dead Eddie.”

“No more fear that somehow he'll get out and attack someone else,” Carol continued.

“No more fear that somehow he'll get out and attack one of us,” Jillian amended.

“No more fear!” Meg said.

They drank. The champagne tasted startlingly good. Brought color to their cheeks. What the hell. Jillian poured another round while Carol dug into her cake.

“Good thing the cops left,” Meg said somewhere around the third glass. She had barely eaten a bite for breakfast, and the champagne was going straight to her head.

“Oh they'll be back,” Carol said. She'd stopped drinking champagne after the first glass and instead gone after the cake. Her lips were chocolate stained. She had a smear of frosting on her cheek, two more smudges on her hands.

“The new one is cute,” Meg declared. “Those deep blue eyes. And that chest! Did you see his chest? Now there is a man who looks like he knows how to serve and protect.”

“You said that about Fitz, and Fitz is not cute. You just like uniforms.” Carol finished off her piece of cake, and immediately dished up another.

“I thought he looked familiar,” Jillian mused.

“In this state, everyone looks familiar,” Carol said.

“Not to me!” Meg cried gaily and held out her empty glass for more champagne.

“Maybe you should slow down a little,” Jillian cautioned her.

“Sensible Jillian. Always in control. You know what this group needs? We need a party. With a male stripper!”

“I don't think a rape survivors group should hire a stripper.”

“Why not? Man as an object. It might do us some good. Come on, Jillian, you've had us read all the traditional books and discuss the traditional methods. Why not go off the beaten path for a bit? It's been a year. Let's go wild!”

Meg looked at Carol for support. This was the problem with a three-member support group, Jillian had realized in the beginning. Two people could always gang up against one. In the beginning, it had been Jillian and Carol determining things for Meg. But lately…

Now, however, Carol merely shrugged. Apparently, she was more interested in chocolate cake than some male beefcake. Of course, Carol had little use for men these days. Not that any of them were doing great, but Carol, in particular, loathed any thought of sex.

“I'm serious about Sergeant Griffin,” Jillian said, trying to regain focus. “I know him from somewhere. I'd swear I could picture his face on TV. Maybe I'll look him up.”

“No wedding ring.” Meg waggled a brow.

“For heaven's sake, Meg. He's an investigating officer, not a contestant on The Dating Game.”

“Why not? You're very pretty, Jillian. And you can't punish yourself forever.”

That ground the conversation to a halt. Even Carol paused with her fork suspended in midair.

“I don't think we should talk about this now,” Jillian said quietly.

“I'm just saying-”

“And I don't want to talk about it now. It's been a big morning. Let's just drink our champagne and let it go at that.”

Carol resumed eating her chocolate cake. Meg, however, had gotten a faraway look in her eye. She was definitely drunk. Of course, even sober, she generally said more than Jillian or Carol dared. They were older, more wedded to their privacy and carefully erected walls. Not Meg. Never Meg.

Now she said suddenly, “I'm angry. Eddie Como's dead, but I'm still angry. Why is that?”

Jillian picked up her empty champagne flute, twirled it between her fingers. “It's too new,” she said softly. “You're going to need time to absorb, we're all going to need time to absorb, that he's truly gone.”

Meg shook her head. “No. I don't think that's it. I think that maybe it doesn't matter. No, I'm afraid that it doesn't matter. Eddie Como is dead. And so what? Are you going to magically move on with your life, Jillian? Will I magically remember my past? Will Carol finally turn off her TV? I don't think so.” Her voice picked up a notch. “Oh my God, it's the thing we've wanted most, and nothing's different!”

“Meg…”

Jillian tried reaching out a hand. Meg, however, pulled away, hitting the nearly empty champagne bottle, knocking it over. Jillian grabbed the bottle. Carol grabbed a napkin. Meg kept talking.

“Think about it. We hated him. All of us. Even me. And he gave our anger a focus. Why did you form this group, Jillian? To catch Eddie Como. And why did we stay together? To fight Eddie Como. Everything, for the last twelve months, has been about him. And it's easier that way. When we wake up mad or disoriented or afraid, we know why: Eddie Como. When the police are invading our privacy by asking more questions, or our friends or family are looking at us funny, we know why: Eddie Como. But… but now…”

Her voice trailed off. Jillian and Carol didn't say anything. Couldn't say anything.

“I'm so angry,” Meg whispered. “I don't know who I am. I still have to take AIDS tests and sometimes late at night… I just lie there wondering. This man knows more about my body than I do. He did things, he invaded places. He took me away from me. And even if he's dead, I'm still mad about that.”

“I doubt I'll sleep tonight,” Carol said abruptly. “Meg's right. It's not really him. I mean, yes, I'm afraid of Eddie. But I'm also afraid of… everything. I'm afraid of the dark, I'm afraid of the quiet, I'm afraid of my house, I'm afraid of my bedroom window. I'm afraid of my husband, you know. We never talk about it, but he knows sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, look at him and see only Eddie. I like the couch. Bedrooms aren't safe anymore. It's best to sleep on the sofa. Even, even now. It's better to be on the sofa.”

They both looked at Jillian. Her turn. That's the way the group worked. One shared, they all shared.

“At least we have some sense of closure now,” she tried.

Carol nodded immediately. “Closure. That's good.”

Meg, however, shook her head. “You're avoiding again.”

“I'm not avoiding,” Jillian protested, as she always protested. “I don't have an answer yet.”

Carol and Meg simply looked at her. Waited. Lately, they had grown tough.

“My loss is different,” Jillian said finally. “My sister is dead. No matter what happened to Eddie… nothing is going to bring Trisha back. I've always known that.”

“It's easier for you.” A trace of bitterness crept into Carol's voice. “You fended him off. You won.”

“I didn't win.”

“You did.”

“I got lucky, all right? You think I don't know that? I got lucky!”

“Well, I'm not picky, I would've taken luck!”

“And I would've preferred my sister's life!” Jillian's voice had risen sharply, catching other patrons' attention once more. She caught herself, pressing her lips into a thin line in an effort at control, although her breathing was harsh now, her face red, her nerves shockingly raw. She sat back. She picked up her flute of champagne. Set it down. Picked it up again.

“That was good,” Meg said, nodding. “Honest. I think you're making real progress.”

Jillian just barely repressed the urge to throttle the girl. Meg's intentions were good, of course. She should appreciate that. But Jillian was not an amnesic twenty-year-old. She was thirty-six, she had responsibilities and she remembered everything. Absolutely everything. Goddammit…

She picked up the flute, set it back down, picked it back up and fought the desire to send it smashing to the floor. One year later… Oh God, look at them.

Carol finally broke the silence. “It's still better, right? Life has been unbearable with Eddie Como alive. Surely it must be better with him dead.”

“Closure,” Jillian said crisply.

“Closure,” Meg repeated.

“Closure,” Carol echoed.

“Life will get better,” Jillian insisted.

Meg finally smiled. “Think of it this way. It can't get any worse.”