Day Two

It’s only day two, and I’m already resorting to a prompt generator. Okay, I have an excuse. i was out of town last night, and I am having dental surgery tomorrow. That can throw anyone off their game. It worked out better than I hoped, though I had to refresh the prompt generator a few times to get something I could do for Women’s History Month. But here it is…not AI generated, but AI inspired.

THE THINGS MEN DO

Paula stared at her hands; they didn’t look like hers. When did she develop old hands? She tried to force herself to listen to the judge; it was important. She checked to make sure her attorney was still there; he was. She tried to relax. It was difficult. She’d never been in a courtroom before. This one felt sterile and foreign; there was no warmth or character. It smelled new, probably part of the building the city had been doing.

She tried to remember how she got there. What happened? Oh, yes. It was a misunderstanding, that was all. She was sure it would be cleared up and the judge would see that she had not done what she was accused of doing. She had never been in trouble in her life.

The old man sat stiff at the plaintiff’s table. He had not looked at her all morning except to glare at her when she arrived. She smiled at him, but he turned away. He was not going to accept any overtures from her.

The witness droned on, talking about him, talking about her, telling what he thought he knew. That was silly, he wasn’t there. She shot up to a straight position as she heard him describe a conversation they never had, heard him declare that she had admitted to the theft, bragged in fact. What did he have against her? The only time she ever interacted with him was in the winter when he cleaned the snow off her driveway and she thanked him and gave him hot cocoa. Now he was sitting there like a tin soldier, reciting his testimony like lines of a script. What was that he said? Bitch? He called her bitch?

The judge frowned; good. It was plain she was not pleased by the epithet. She looked over at Paula, then at…Homer. That was his name. Homer. He stared straight ahead, watching his witness, not looking at the judge. The young man backed up, realizing he made a major blunder, and tried again. “Your honor, she was hysterical.”

Oops. The judge frowned again. It wasn’t going well for the witness. “Hysterical? Could you describe her actual actions, and leave the interpretations for the court?”

“She…chased him down the street, threatening him with her…broom. She screamed, her voice shrill like an old hen’s…” There, he did it again. He softened his tone. “She was swearing, and threatened to kill him if he didn’t give her what she wanted.”

“And you were there? Where?”

“I was…right there. In her yard. I heard the fight and came over to help. I thought he was hurting her, but she was…a real ball-buster. I never thought an old woman could be so strong, or run so fast.”

The plaintiff’s attorney dismissed him, disgusted. Paula was nervous when her attorney didn’t question him, but he was the expert. The other attorney had no more witnesses, so they would take a lunch break.

Paula was the first one back after lunch. She sat on the bench outside the court reading her book. Homer came through; he stopped to talk to her, but her attorney advised her not to say anything, so she kept her face turned away. He shrugged and went into the courtroom. One by one, everybody returned. Paula put her book away and joined the stream.

“Paula, would you take the stand please?” Her attorney was offering her a chance to tell her side of the story. “Tell us what happened that day. Be brief but thorough.” He knew she had a fondness for telling stories; he had warned her to avoid falling into that trap. Judges didn’t like to waste the time.

“I was in my dining room having a cup of tea and a biscuit when the door bell rang. It was Homer. He lives next door. He moved in about a year ago, and he’s been mostly friendly, so I invited him to come in. He had his hands behind his back, but as he came in, he thrust a rose bush at me. He seemed shy; he wanted to ask me to be his lady friend. I…I told him I couldn’t. We could be friends…and I am a lady…but my husband has only been dead six months, and I’m not ready for a relationship. Ian and Homer were good friends; I’m surprised he didn’t wait longer before trying to date his wife.”

“And then what happened?”

“Nothing. He went home, but told me to keep the rose bush. He knew I loved roses; there are a number of rose bushes around my house. So I put it aside to plant the next day, and went about my business. A couple of hours later, a policeman rang my bell and told me he had a complaint that I had stolen a rose bush. That’s all…there weren’t any chases or brooms, or anything.”

“How do you explain Mr. Chastain’s testimony?” The other attorney took over for cross-examination. “He describes it quite differently.”

“Yes, I heard.” Paula pursed her lips; she was not fond of liars. “But he wasn’t there. He usually goes to work in the morning, and all this happened before he came home that evening. No one besides Homer and me were there.”

“So you have no one to vouch for the fact that he gave you the rose bush?” The attorney looked mean.            

Paula considered her answer. She didn’t want to say the wrong thing. “No, sir. It was just him…and me…and he was very polite and pleasant. I don’t know why he reported the rose bush stolen. I offered to give it back to him, but he said I needed to pay for my act. I’m not sure what act, unless it’s not being his lady friend.”

“Why would a man accuse you of theft just because you wouldn’t go out with him?”

“I don’t know. Frankly, men never made much sense to me, and I was married to one for fifty years.” Paula appreciated the small laugh that rippled through the courtroom; she was sure the judge was trying to hide laughter. “Some of ‘em just don’t like being told no, I guess.”

“No more questions.” The attorney twirled on his heel and marched back to the plaintiff’s table.

“Court will recess until tomorrow morning at ten.” The judge left the court, and everyone relaxed.

Paula had trouble sleeping; she’d never had anyone talk about her like that neighbor…what did they call him? Oh, yes…Mr. Chastain. She’d had plenty of men attempt to get her into corners when she was younger, proposition her with things she wasn’t interested in, and just plain put their hands all over her. But to her knowledge, no one ever called her a bitch…or hysterical.

Since she couldn’t sleep, she decided to go through some more of Ian’s things. It was difficult ending a life you began fifty years ago, but she couldn’t put it off forever. She opened the door to his study, expecting like she always did to see him there, leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed, thinking about whatever it was he thought about. She shook off the feeling and sat in the large leather chair. She opened the next drawer in his desk to the one she already cleaned out. This drawer was full of letters. She pulled them out, planning to disposed of them in the recycle bin, but she was drawn to them. They were pen pal letters; he had maybe hundreds of pen pals over the years, and he kept all their letters. She opened the first one, smoothed out the wrinkles, and read.

Horrified, she read another…and another. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She sat back in the chair, tears running down her cheeks. “Ian, how could you? How could you?” She stared at the letters on the table in front of her, letters from pen pals laughing about his descriptions of her, the words he used to describe her. ‘My bitch’ he had written. ‘The old ball and chain’. He had used nearly every sexist epithet available, words she didn’t realize he knew. It was him, laughing with his pen pals, at her. She picked up the phone and dialed his sister. “Caroline, did you know about this?” She read her some of the letters, choking over words she’d never said before.

Once Caroline was awake enough to respond, she told Paula he didn’t mean it. “He adored you. It was…probably something to make him cool and hip with his friends. I found some letters Alex was writing once, letters as bad as you read. I confronted him; he told me he didn’t mean it, it was just a joke, something all men did.”

“All men? Surely not.” Paula was horrified. “Why? What do they gain?”

“Status, I guess. That’s what Alex said. If you tell other men you adore your wife, and she is a great treasure, they won’t respect you. I don’t understand it; I never did.” Caroline offered to come over, but Paula told her to go back to sleep. She put her head on her hands and cried.

The next morning seemed cloudy and gray, even though the sun was shining. Paula dragged into the courtroom, almost too tired to move. Everyone was looking at her. Men pointed and jeered, calling her names, some of the same names that were in the letters. She tried to ignore them like she always did. It was difficult.

The judge entered, and they all stood. She was ready with her decision. At some point, the attorney for the plaintiff had decided to treat the whole thing as a joke, a couple of men just having fun. She explained that it was not okay to have fun at the expense of a woman, and to drag in the apparatus of the state to your joke was obscene. She said she didn’t believe all men behaved that way, and the plaintiff had caused worry and suffering to the defendant. Paula couldn’t believe it when the judge turned the case around, awarding her a settlement of court costs plus pain and suffering. Homer glared at her again as he walked out. He yelled at her when she went out to her car.

“One of these days, you will learn that you aren’t supposed to tell men no!”