I'll Be Watching You. M. William Phelps

      “I’m not sure how to get on the highway,” Mary Ellen said as she opened her door and got in.

      He pointed down the road. “You have to take a U-turn down there to get back on the other side of the road and head east.”

      “OK,” Mary Ellen said thankfully. Then she got into her car without paying too much attention to where the man was standing. (“I thought he was leaving too,” she said later.)

      On the way to the dance, Mary Ellen’s Olds had stalled. It had been running rough for a while. She’d just had some repairs done because she knew she was starting a new job and needed a dependable vehicle. When she tried starting it that night as the man stood by and watched, it wouldn’t turn over.

      So she tried again.

      Nothing.

      “You’re going to wear the battery down,” he said. “Maybe it’s flooded. Leave it alone for a few minutes and try it again, it might turn over. Sometimes that happens.”

      Mary Ellen had the window down. She was still sitting in her car. He was standing by her window, leaning down. At some point (Mary Ellen couldn’t recall exactly when) the man left her, got into his car, and pulled up alongside. Their cars faced opposite directions, but they were parked side by side to each other. He, too, sat in his car with the window rolled down. Waiting for the carburetor to flush itself out and dry up, so she could try to restart her car, they talked some more about how she would get on the highway. The man wanted to be sure she knew where she was going.

      After waiting for what was about ten minutes, she tried to start her car again. Turning the key and allowing the ignition to crank and crank, the engine finally fired. But it was bumpy, sputtering and backfiring. She was nervous about driving it home.

      “It stalled on the way over here,” Mary Ellen yelled out her window as the engine groaned and hiccupped.

      “I can show you how to get on the highway if you follow me,” the man yelled back. “Maybe I ought to follow you after that, because your car doesn’t sound right.”

      “That would be nice,” Mary Ellen said to the man. “Thank you.”

      Mary Ellen followed the man onto the highway and then pulled ahead of him so she could show him the way to her apartment.

      II

      Inside about twenty minutes, Mary Ellen pulled up in front of her apartment and parked her car on the street in front of the lawn.

      The man parked directly behind her.

      Before Mary Ellen could even get out of her car, the man was, as she later put it, “right up by my car door.” He had startled her. As she opened the door, he said, “I didn’t realize it was so far. I have to use the bathroom.”

      She didn’t see the harm. He had helped her. He had demonstrated his thoughtfulness by following her home. The least she could do was allow him to use her bathroom.

      “Sure, let me open the door.”

      15

      I

      Mary Ellen Renard had lived in fear for so many years after she left her first husband that she had become blind to its most outward signs. In some ways, she was an absolute whiz when it pertained to certain things. Her job was to transcribe doctors’ notes. No one else could understand the Asian and other foreign language–speaking doctors who spoke with broken-English accents. But Mary Ellen picked it up with ease.

      Where it pertained to judging males and their intentions, however, Mary Ellen later admitted that she was a bit naïve. She was cautious, but maybe just a bit inexperienced and trustworthy. It was 1987. What woman didn’t watch the news? What woman didn’t know that it wasn’t such a smart move to invite a man you had just met into the privacy of your home? For all she knew, this man had taken her gratitude as a open sign for a nightcap and some good lovin’.

      Still, if there was one attribute that separated Mary Ellen from most, it was that she gave people the benefit of the doubt. She wanted to believe in people.

      II

      After Mary Ellen unlocked the dead bolt and let him into the hallway leading up to her apartment, she turned around and, with her key, locked the dead bolt to the entrance door behind her, per her meddlesome landlady’s orders. It was a safe bet, in fact, the nosey old woman was on the opposite side of her door as Mary Ellen and her friend were in the hallway, peering through the peephole, watching them.

      A moment later, Mary Ellen and her new friend walked up the stairs to her apartment; within a moment, they were inside. “The bathroom,” Mary Ellen said, putting her pocketbook down on the counter in the kitchen and pointing to the hallway just beyond where they were standing in the living room, “is right down there.”

      “Thanks,” he said, looking around, adding, “nice apartment.”

      Mary Ellen took off her shoes and placed them by the door. After that, she walked into the kitchen and placed her keys inside her pocketbook. Then she went into the refrigerator and looked for a block of cheese she always kept on hand. “I always eat cheese when I got home,” she explained, “because I have hypoglycemia and I need to eat frequently.”

      It was nearly 3:00 A.M. She hadn’t eaten all night. With her condition, doctors suggested a small meal of protein every two hours. With a block of cheese on a plate, Mary Ellen took a knife out of the drawer below and carved the cheese into several slices. When she finished, she got herself a diet Slice (“my favorite”), grabbed the plate of cheese, and headed for the living room.

      Just then, as she sat down on the couch, she heard the toilet flush. He must be on his way….

      Several minutes went by before he came out of the bathroom, however. It was odd that he was taking so long.

      What is he doing?

      When he finally returned, Mary Ellen asked, “Would you like a soda?”

      “No,” he said. Then, “Are those your kids on the wall over there?” He was standing by the door. Mary Ellen sat on the couch in front of him a few yards away.

      Mary Ellen smiled. Everyone asked about the kids. She explained to him that she had grandkids. She was a grandmother. Imagine that.

      “Your daughters are very pretty,” he said. He was standing in front of Mary Ellen now. Closer. He seemed different. He even sounded different. Something was wrong.

      “Thank you,” Mary Ellen said.

      As she went to speak again, he approached her and, bending down, tried kissing her on the lips. But she backed away immediately.

      “I don’t want you to do that. I really don’t know you. It makes me uncomfortable.”

      On the mantel by her television set was a photograph of her brother. After backing away, he turned his attention toward the picture. “Is your brother a priest?”

      Mary Ellen got up. She wanted him to leave. He was acting a bit squirrelly, as if he had taken some sort of drug (he hadn’t) when he was in the bathroom. Mary Ellen had to cross paths with him to get to the door. She’d heard enough. The kiss scared her. She wanted to see him out and lock the door. But as she walked past him, he grabbed her by the shoulders and tried kissing her again.

      She backed away instantly. (“I was alarmed,” she recalled, “I mean, it was not the same type of kiss.”)

      Not only the kiss, but his entire demeanor had changed. He was totally out of it. Completely inside his own head, as if he were drifting away somewhere. Earlier that night, Mary Ellen was in awe of his good looks. But now he didn’t even look the same.

      He didn’t speak. (“He just stared at me, stared into my eyes,” she later remembered.)

      Looking through her, the man grabbed Mary Ellen by the shoulders once again. Mary Ellen could feel his grasp this time. He was hurting her. “Stop