Straight Enough

The Bangles belt out Manic Monday through my CD Walkman headphones while I hum and bob along, absorbed in a dreamy daze of words and music. I move

gradually down the aisle, shelving returned books, entirely oblivious of my coworker, Jason, slinking up behind me. Unable to hear warning sounds of his frenetic

panting and the slap of his flip-flops against bare feet, I unknowingly bend over and shove a book into place, leaving my unprotected butt as an open target. He grabs

a handful of my jeans and flesh, squeezes hard. I shoot straight up, but before I can pivot to face him, he pulls me into his chest. I suck in my breath. My stomach

tightens. Through the thin, slick fabric of his shorts I feel his dick hardening against the small of my back. His sweaty hands fondle my breasts. The stubble of his chin

scratches the exposed skin between my neck and shoulder, transporting me instantly to another time and place—to my uncle’s bristly chin hair rubbing against a

smaller version of me. And just as I did then, I remained paralyzed, immobile, unable to cry for help.

“Shhh . . .” Jason whispers into my ear, and I hear my uncle say, “Don’t tell anyone, George.”

I hated the name, George. It was a boy’s name. But my uncle thought he was being funny, and I didn’t want to upset him. Grandma and Grandpa’s house, or rather,

their single-wide mobile home, was our family hub. My uncles, aunts, and cousins all gathered in the confined quarters routinely to visit. We were so crowded that the

physical closeness only created a cramped anonymity that allowed me to be in unseen contact with the probing of my uncle’s fingers, the rubbing of his knee in my

crotch as he swung me up to play “horsey.” The sensations tingled in a good way, and it wasn’t until I caught a glance of my perpetrator’s leering expression or heard

him whisper, “Don’t tell anyone, George, or bad things will happen,” that a darkness fell, and I knew that what we were involved in was shady. And even though no one

said as much, by six years old, I knew this was a wedge between Jesus and me. This was the cross I took up, and at twenty, I carried it still. I’d fallen out of favor with

God, and he had turned on me. I shrug the memory away even as the voice inside me warns, “be very quiet.”

Minutes or maybe only seconds later, Jason releases me, saunters away. When he’s entirely out of sight, I exhale. A tremor quakes in my gut, moving slowly,

methodically, through my limbs until I no longer feel wholly connected to my body. As a child, I held my breath until the edges of my brain grew fuzzy and the sparkly

dust that fell just before unconsciousness danced and floated before my eyes. Sometimes, if I tried hard enough, I fell weightlessly into nothing, enveloped in

darkness. But most times, my breath came back in a painful gust of air, sharp enough to make me grab my chest. My ears echo with Jason’s threatening, “shhh,” like

air escaping a tire. When I’m able to feel my feet be neath me, I force myself to run to the bathroom at the back of the library. I close the door, lock myself inside. I stare

at my reflection in the mirror. How can this be happening again? My brownish blonde hair is pulled away from my face in a loose ponytail. My jeans are shapeless, my

shirt long-sleeved, nothing figure-hugging, nothing to invite Jason’s behavior. Why can’t I blend in like other women seem able to?

“You’re so pretty,” I hear my uncle’s voice swelling inside. I feel him pull me in, swallow me in his grip. I hadn’t tried to be pretty. I hadn’t tried to be anything. I had

simply been a child. But somehow my sinful spirit caused me to fall then as it has now. Why else would Jason think I wanted his attention? I won’t dare cry, I must pull

myself together, get back to work.

There’s a light rap at the door, and I hear my mother-in-law’s worried voice. She works as interlibrary loan manager in my department. Library jobs are coveted union

county jobs, so someone must die or retire for positions to open. But my mother-in-law, Jo, pulled some strings and got me hired. That was six months ago.

“Lorinda, you, okay?”

“Yes.” I splash cool water on my face, open the door. I bumped directly into Jo’s embrace. She’s unquestionably a second mother to me, but completely different from

mine.

Jo is petite, with skinny legs and a backside so pancake-flat she has trouble keeping her stirrup pants from sliding off. Her hair is thinning, and, as a result, she

carefully curls and combs what’s remaining to minimize her scalp showing through. She has a full smile of dentures she’s had since she was quite young. They’re a bit

too large to allow her lips to fully close, giving her a permanent pout. She’s sweet as sugar but also passionately loyal to her family. I married her only son, Chet, upon

graduation from high school two years ago.

Jo pulls away, does a quick study of my face, then grasps my hand and leads me to her desk. She sinks into her chair; I lean against one of the bookshelves, facing

her.

“Hun, what happened?” She rolls her chair tighter to me. Nothing! I know better than to speak, silence is my savior. Jo reaches up, brushes stray hair from my eye.

This simple, loving gesture unlocks something inside, and I shock myself by doing something I never could do as a child—I blurt out what happened.

I let it tumble out of my mouth in one rushed sentence, “Jasongrabbedmeandfeltmeup.” Jo’s expression of shock morphs into rage. She leaps from her desk, knocking

her chair over, and storms away. I slide down the bookcase, watching as she marches to the director’s office. Oh God, what have I done? I wrap my arms tight around

me. I can’t imagine what she is saying to the director behind closed doors. I’m embarrassed, terrified. I want to disappear. What if he’s angry with me? My stomach

roils with regret. Will I lose my job?

“Oh God, forgive me,” I pray. Finally, the director opens his door, motions for me to come in. My legs tremble, but I stand, will my feet to move, one in front of the other.

I desperately hope Jason is nowhere around.

“Lorinda, please sit down.” The director points to a chair next to Jo.

“Can you tell me in your own words what happened?” He looks more “fatherly concern” than “stern reprimand,” but instinctively I fold in on myself like a flower closing

its petals at dusk.

Jo pats me on the knee, “Honey, tell him what you told me.”

“Um,” I fumble, “I don’t know . . .” The outburst I had with Jo was uncharacteristic for me and now I can’t find the words or the bravery to repeat what I told her.

“Well, understandably, she’s upset,” Jo cuts in, “but she told me and that should be enough!” The director sighs and pulls off his glasses.

“Let’s do this.” He rubs his forehead. “Lorinda, you write down your version of what happened, and I’ll have Jason do the same.” He replaces his glasses, hands me a

blank piece of paper and pen. “Will that work for you, Jo?” He peers over his lenses at her. She nods. But I don’t feel any better. What am I going to write? That a forty-

year-old man grabbed my butt and pressed his erection into my back while groping at my breasts? I imagine Jason running his fingers through his sparse wisps of hair,

smiling at me over the top of his mirrored sunglasses. I feel nauseous as I write down in as few words as I can what transpired. I shove the paper across the director’s

desk, and I flee, without a word to him or Jo.

The safest place to hide is in the bookmobile office—nearly always accessible, nearly always devoid of people, with many places to curl up. I choose a spot on the

floor between a desk and shelf of new books. I contemplate the books, stiff as soldiers, spines straight, uncracked, and unblemished. I’ve always loved books. Within

their pages I’m easily transported to places I assume I’ll never see and taken on adventures I figure I’ll never have. But I know that all too soon these new volumes will

be in the hands of the public. They’ll get torn, worn, and broken-down. I inhale their fresh, inky scent while it still floods the small space and close my eyes. I pray for

the books, for strength against the unavoidable abuse they’ll endure. And, finally, I cry.

Before the end of the week, an anti-sexual-harassment policy is drafted and delivered to each library employee in all twelve of our county’s library branches. After

reading and signing the policies, we’re informed we will also be required to attend a seminar on sexual harassment in the workplace. I may as well have leprosy for the

wide berth everyone gives me. The mostly female library staff sneers behind my back at how ludicrous this sexual harassment training is, and I now understand that

many of the women around me welcome Jason’s advances. Maybe they’re even flattered by him. Now I feel conflicted and wonder if maybe I made too big a deal. But

I buffer myself with the knowledge that Jo backs me. Even so, no matter how vehemently she argues with the director and library board, the consensus is that the

library is doing all its legally required to do. She’s found that the library is more concerned Jason may take legal action against them. Jo’s furious, and, as president of

the library employees’ local union, she appeals to the greater, overseeing state union for guidance. Within days, representatives from the union descend upon our

library. But as weeks and then months pass, I begin to feel that my involvement in the issue has taken a back seat to Jo’s driving objective to get Jason sacked. This

has become her sole mission, to prove that all the fuss has been worth it. In the interim, I’m required to work with Jason daily, even accompanying him alone on book

deliveries to Lummi Island Library, which involves taking a ferry.

I sit rigid in the front passenger seat, staring straight ahead, and Jason routinely whistles cockily to himself, but we never converse. The silence is a relief, and, at the

same time, a terrific source of discomfort. Instinctively, I default to silence, but I fear silence from others as dangerous. Shortly after the harassment incident, Jason

and I went out in the van for a delivery. Before starting up the engine, Jason leans over so closely his shoulder brushes mine. I vault from my seat, recoil, then flatten

cartoon-character-like against the door.

“Chill,” he hisses, holding out a piece of gum. I look from him to the gum but don’t dare move. “Whatever.” He lets the gum fall to the ground. I’m embarrassed. My face

flushes as I bend to pick it up.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“Meh.” Jason smirks. “Sometimes I push the envelope.” I’ve never heard the expression, but I wonder if he’s trying to apologize.

I feel stupid, humiliated, and incredibly

lonely. I wish Chet would wrap his arms around me, promise to protect me. Instead, he blames me for the whole incident. He’s annoyed, and reprimands me for being

too friendly and talkative with men, for leading men on with my smile, which could be mistakenly interpreted as flirting. His jealousy makes him angry, but Jo warns him

not to get involved, noting how tense the library atmosphere is already. The stress from Chet’s impatience and my coworkers’ disdain is emotionally exhausting. I start

hating work. I want to quit. Jo assures me she’s making progress, that Jason is as good as fired, but I’m losing hope. I wish now I’d kept my mouth shut; this whole

thing totally sucks. Then, like a miracle dropped directly from heaven, Jason is gone.

I show up one morning to find a sign posted on the staff bulletin board. The delivery driver position needs to be filled as Jason has unexpectedly resigned. I’m elated.

Maybe I’ve reestablished favor in the eyes of God after all. God is all-knowing, and therefore, must know how sorry I am about the incident between Jason and me.

Maybe this is my sign he hasn’t turned his back on me at all. I’m so relieved, I feel like I could fly, but I fight the urge to run through the library screaming, “Yes! Yes!”

Because despite my overwhelming sense of liberation, I’m worried my coworkers will blame me. I’m spared from their reactions for the moment, as the responsibility of

delivering to the county branches falls temporarily on my shoulders. With twelve separate library branches, I’ll end up traversing a large stretch of the county.

At first, I’m afraid I’ll get lost. I’m not known for having a keen sense of direction. Though I’ve lived in Whatcom County all my life, I’m only certain of a handful of road

names. Maps remain a complete mystery. Chet drives when we are together, and I rarely pay attention to how we get from one place to another. Even so, I’m relieved

to be out alone on the road, so I clumsily navigate my way around. In the morning, after loading the van, I tune the radio to the local Christian station and head out. I’m

aware that Central Services borders between the city limits of Bellingham and the county and that I’m to go north to the Lynden library. The route winds for about

fifteen miles in and out of farmland. I never tire of viewing the extensive cornucopia of farm animals, berry crops and hay fields. At the library, I jump from the van and

am met by two women pushing book trucks. We pile the boxes onto the carts, wheel them in through the back doors of the library. I load the boxes intended for return

to Central Services and then head east to the Sumas Library. In Sumas, the farms are bigger and the distance between houses is greater. I find myself behind a tractor

plodding along at ten miles per hour. Eventually, the road widens, and I pull around. The driver waves and I nod in response. The library shares space with the local

seniors’ center, and I’m met with the pungent odor of cooked cabbage permeating from the adjoining room. I peek my head around the wall, wave to the gray-haired

men and women bent over bowls of soup. Some of them lift their eyes, smiling around their spoons, while others carry on as if they don’t see me. And maybe they

don’t. Sumas is a tiny town with a tiny library, and I’m in and out quickly.

Well ahead of schedule, I look for a place to buy a drink to sip on. I don’t like soda, but I pull up to a Dairy Queen; they sell iced tea. The van sits high enough that I’m

level with the young woman in the drive-up window. She’s alternately chomping and snapping a wad of gum as she nods into her headset. She holds up her finger to

me, turns to retrieve my tea, hands it to me just as a big pink bubble bursts flat against her mouth. She moves her mouthpiece to the side.

“Two dollars, fifty cents,” she says through sticky lips. I hand over the exact change, thank her. The tea is far too sweet, but I take small swallows anyway as I turn

around and meander south to the Deming Library. Though inland, east, and still a distance from the glacier-covered peaks of Mount Baker, Deming has the feel of a

mountain town. Ski shops, and pie and coffee houses dot the highway, along with signs warning of last stops for fuel. In between thick forests of trees, I occasionally

spot the chimneys of log houses or cabins, smoke swirling and dissipating into the air. Out here, I pretend I’ve traveled a long way from home. I’m a brave, bold

woman. My own woman. Not a wife or daughter, not a victim or a troublemaker, just me. I swing into the Deming Library parking lot and back up to the door. A younger

woman, around my age, is waiting to help unload the van. We smile, greet each other as we move boxes. I don’t know her, and she doesn’t know me. I consider

playing out my daydream and introducing myself to her as someone I am not, but instead I remain quiet. It’s better I revel privately in my thoughts. I climb into the van

and head back to Central Services. All too soon for me, a permanent driver is found. I’ll return to my regular duties and the new “Jason,” who is female and rumored to

be gay, will take over.