Page 62 of A Matter of Pedigree
It must be out of order. She was going to have to use the stairs and in these heels, too. It was only a flight or two down to the pedestrian bridge, and she clattered along, hanging on to the metal handrail, going as fast as she dared. She was almost there when a stocky guy in a black hooded sweatshirt passed her, going up. She didn’t think anything of it; he was probably one of the college kids living in the building, and she was focused on her need to pee when she was suddenly yanked from behind by her hair and thrown down onto her back as her bags of groceries and her Prada bag went flying.
Adrenalin surged through her body, but before she could scream, the guy was on top of her and pressing a gloved hand over her mouth. “Shut up!” he hissed at her.
She was rigid and wide-eyed with fear, and noise was coming from her mouth; she couldn’t seem to help it. His face was inches from hers, but he was wearing a black Covid mask and all she could see were his eyes, dark and glittering as he pressed his arm against her neck. “I said shut up,” he said, looming over her.
She managed to stop the noise, struggling to breathe and squirming uncomfortably against the metal-edged concrete steps pressing against her back. She watched him warily. What was she supposed to do? Talk to him and try to make a connection? A human bond, that’s what you were supposed to try to create. But what did you say?
“You’ll never get away with this,” she whispered. “Somebody’s sure to come along.”
“Shut up and don’t move,” he said. His voice was muffled by the mask, and she knew she ought to study what she could see of him in order to identify him later. She obediently froze, then gasped in terror, catching a glimpse of something shiny. Metal. A knife? Was he going to cut her? A closer look revealed it wasn’t a knife, but scissors. A huge pair of shiny scissors. What was he going to do with them?
Then suddenly, his body weight shifted slightly as he pressed his arm across her chest, pinning her down as he rose slightly, and she felt cold metal against her belly under the waistband of her jeans. “This’ll teach you to mind your own business,” he growled, starting to work the scissors inside the jeans.
She understood in a flash. He was going to cut her jeans because it took too long to pull tight jeans off a resisting woman. She’d read about this: rapists with scissors. He was going to cut through her nine-hundred-dollar jeans that were identical to Meghan Markle’s and rape her!
The hell with that! It wasn’t a decision; it was an automatic response, like a reflex. Before she knew what had happened, she had driven her stiletto heel into the back of his leg, causing him to yelp with pain and reach for his wound. She took advantage of this change in position to slip her hand down to his groin, where she grabbed as much as she could and gave it a squeeze, using every bit of strength she had. He rolled off her, curling into a fetal position, moaning and clutching himself. Still on her back, she used the railing to haul herself onto her feet and clattered down the stairs as fast as she could go, screaming all the way. She didn’t have time to mess with the fob at the pedestrian bridge; she kept going all the way down and through the door to the safety of the street, with its steady steam of passersby. Then she stopped, leaning against the door, panting and sobbing, gulping the fresh air as warm pee streamed down her legs.
Chapter Nineteen
The first person to approach her was a large Black woman who worked in one of the nearby office buildings. Carole knew her by sight; they always exchanged smiles, but didn’t know her name.
“What happened to you?” the woman asked, removing the large pashmina she always wore over her coat and wrapping it around Carole’s shaking shoulders.
“He tried to rape me,” stammered Carole, through her chattering teeth.
The woman looked up at the stairwell, then gave Carole a reassuring hug. “Are you okay, honey?”
Carole took inventory and discovered she was more frightened than anything, and, of course, she’d wet herself. “I peed my pants,” she confessed, horrified. “My new jeans.”
The woman gave her another hug. “Never you mind. That’ll wash right out,” she said, as a couple of other women approached. “Some guy tried to rape her,” she told them.
“In the garage?” asked one. “My friend’s purse got snatched last week,” said another. “Down on Promenade Street.”
Soon a group of clucking, cooing women had surrounded her, mostly office workers and a few neighbors. One man she recognized, a young, super-fit guy she often saw jogging when she walked Poopsie, also joined the group and offered to run back upstairs to retrieve her purse and groceries. He was gone before she could warn him to watch out for the guy who assaulted her, and she waited anxiously for his return. He was back in minutes, reporting that the rapist had gone, leaving her things where they’d fallen. When he handed over her Prada bag, she discovered nothing was missing, not even her wallet, which was stuffed with close to a thousand dollars. “Thanks,” she told the guy, as he handed her the bag of groceries. “That was really brave of you.”
“No big deal. I was hoping he’d still be there. I was gonna give him a—well, never mind.” He gave her a wave and jogged off.
Carole discovered that while she was still shaken by the experience—her hands were shaking and she was trembling, struggling to catch her breath—she was also growing increasingly furious. Who did her attacker think she was, to treat her like that? To knock her off her feet, grabbing at her and pawing her. It was outrageous.
“I’m okay,” she said, in a quavery voice and pulling out her keys with the entry fob. Then, remembering the pashmina, she shrugged it off and returned it to its owner. “Thank you so much for helping me. I’m Carole, by the way. Carole Capobianco.”
“Beverly Robinson,” said the woman, introducing herself.
“Well, thank you so much for helping me, Beverly. But now I can take it from here.”
One of her neighbors, a gentleman she often met in the elevator but didn’t know by name, insisted on taking her elbow and escorting her into the building. “You should report this to the concierge,” he said, as Carole headed straight for the elevator.
“Maybe later,” said Carole, who suddenly just wanted to get behind the locked door of her apartment and out of her clothes and into the shower.
“Really, it’s a security issue,” said the man. “It affects all of us.”
Carole wasn’t so sure. She remembered the way her assailant had warned her to mind her own business. This was no random attack; it was targeted at her, to scare her. But why? Reaching the elevator, she pressed the button. “I’m fine, honest. The less said, the better.”
“I understand this was a traumatic experience, but refusing to deal with it is a big mistake,” he told her. “I’m a psychologist, and …”
The elevator doors opened, and Carole got in. “Thanks again,” she said, giving her head a little shake. He got the message and didn’t attempt to join her, but stood back as the doors closed. Carole found herself breathing a huge sigh of relief as the elevator carried her upward.
Moments later, she was back in her apartment, her beautiful apartment, and Poopsie was sniffing at her jeans as her mother helped her undress.
