Shoved

by Alice Benson

A sudden gust of wind caught a door and slammed it shut with a loud bang. Wincing at the noise, Anne Martin glanced up to see a middle-aged man in sunglasses and overcoat hurrying down the steps of an apartment building. Although the day was warm and sunny, he turned up the collar of his coat as if he had experienced a sudden chill. Anne smiled as they met on the sidewalk, but the man brushed past her with a grim look.

Ann shrugged off his rudeness and headed for the post office. On the next block, she passed a crowd of teenagers who were acting on assumption that smoking helped them appear sophisticated. Actually, they looked silly, but as the familiar odor of tobacco drifted by, Anne was struck by an almost overwhelming urge to join them. She hurried on and took deep breaths to still the temptation churning within her.

Two months, she reminded herself sternly. You haven't had a cigarette in two months. Don't give in now.

After three blocks of deep breathing and reprimands, the desire to smoke finally eased, as she knew it would. Over ten years of smoking and on-going attempts to quit had taught her many things, including just how hard it was to give up cigarettes forever. Anne grinned with satisfaction as she started home, one more urge to smoke defeated. Maybe this time she really could do it.

Rush hour was in full swing; drivers eager to get out of the congested downtown area were weaving in and out of traffic, changing lanes to gain a few feet's advantage. Pedestrians crowded the sidewalk, creating waves of tired people who surged forward in a series of erratic jerks and stops.

Anne felt a whisker prickle on her ankle as she waited for a light to change. She smiled down at the coal black puppy playing tag with her shoelaces.

“How old is he?” she asked.

The dog's owner, a friendly young man, returned her smile. “Three months. I just got him last week.”

Anne found the floppy ears irresistible. She was bending down to scratch them when a hard, sharp movement from behind sent her stumbling head first off the curb. It happened so fast, she didn't even have time to cry out. She saw cars coming straight at her and heard their mechanical squeals of protest as drivers jumped to slam on their brakes. Anne's arms flailed the air, desperately searching for a lifeline, and her shoulder connected with the puppy's owner. In one smooth motion, he grabbed the sleeve of Anne's tee shirt, yanked her upright with a tremendous wrench, and rather ungracefully threw her back to the safety of the curb.

Anne landed flat on her back, breathless, with little green spots dancing in front of her eyes. A crowd quickly gathered, taking in the excitement. She lifted her head and tried to focus on the young man kneeling beside her. His face, completely drained of color, looked thrilled and horrified at the same time.

“Lady.” He shook her arm gently. “Lady, are you okay?”

Anne continued to stare at him in silence, waiting for her confusion to recede.

“Lady!” The young man shook her arm harder this time. “Answer me. Are you all right?”

Gradually, Anne's breathing returned to almost normal and the whirling spots disappeared. She flexed her arms and legs. Finding that everything still worked, she slowly sat up and nodded. “I'm fine...I guess.”

People stared for another minute, then drifted away, apparently disappointed that the drama was over.

“What happened anyway?” he asked. “I thought you were gonna get hit for sure.”

“So did I.” Anne tried to concentrate. “I don't know what happened,” she said. “I was bending down to pet your dog and then I fell into the street.” She shook her head. “I just don't know.”

The puppy, happy with Anne's close proximity, leaped into her lap and licked her face. His wet tongue startled her into action. She pushed him away and stood up.

“Everything seems so … surreal,” Anne said. “I'm sorry. You saved my life and I didn't even thank you.”

“It's okay.” Her young rescuer looked embarrassed. “I hate to go, but if you're really all right, I was supposed to meet my girlfriend twenty minutes ago.”

Anne waved him on. “I'm fine. Really,” she said as he hesitated. “Go ahead. And thanks again for everything.”

The man and his puppy jogged off and Anne slowly started home, still feeling dazed. She stopped at the first convenience store she came to and bought a pack of cigarettes. Asking for matches, she lit one as soon as she got outside.

Never had her house looked so good to her, warm and comforting. She locked the door behind her and checked all the windows and closets; she even looked under the beds. Then, lighting another cigarette, she sat down to make a call.

“But why would anyone push you?” Janice, her long-time friend, sounded confused after she heard Anne's story.

“How should I know?” Anne said. “Maybe it was some crazy person who likes to see people fall in front of moving cars.” There was a long pause. “You don't believe me, do you?”

“Don't be silly,” Janice said. “Of course I believe you. It just seems so bizarre.”

“It is bizarre,” Anne agreed. “But the more I think about it, the more I believe it happened that way. I know I didn't just stumble. Someone had to have pushed me.” There was another long pause. “What do you think I should do?” Anne asked.

“Do?” Janice said. “What do you mean?”

“Well, should I just forget it? Or go to the police? Or what?” Anne said.

“The police? What can the police do?”

“I don't know,” Anne said. “Maybe it's happened to someone else. Maybe there's some maniac out there who's pushing people into traffic for fun.”

“That could be, I suppose.” Janice said.

“On the other hand, I'm going to feel pretty stupid if there's nothing like that going on,” Anne said. “I hate to bother the police and cause a fuss when it might all be my imagination.”

“Think about it,” Janice advised. “Don't rush into anything.”

Anne said good-bye and slowly hung up the phone. Walking to the kitchen, she made a cup of instant coffee and lit a cigarette, her fifth since arriving home an hour ago. Then, unable to sit still, she put it out and began moving around the house, straightening picture frames and fluffing couch pillows.

Anne hated to cause trouble. She avoided messy situations whenever possible. Her life was generally peaceful; this problem was unlike anything she'd ever experienced, and she found herself unable to make a decision. Nervously, she lit another cigarette. The simplest answer would be to do nothing and hope for the best, but something nagged at her. A feeling she couldn't identify or ignore convinced her that she had been pushed.

Grabbing her car keys, she chose a solid course of action and hurried out into the deepening twilight.

Anne had never been to a police station before, and she was struck by how little it actually resembled those she'd seen on television. The room was brightly lit and clean, the walls freshly painted an institutional green. A middle-aged man in a blue uniform sat behind a high wooden counter, sorting through a large pile of papers. He looked up as Anne approached and gazed at her with indifference.

“I'd like to speak to someone about something that happened to me today,” she said.

The office sighed. “And?”

Anne's face grew warm; she knew how red it must be. “Well, it's probably nothing, but I think, that is, I know, I mean….” She stopped and started over. “Someone tried to push me in front of a car this afternoon.”

“Someone tried to kill you?” The officer's voice was carefully neutral, but his raised eyebrows implied possible nutcase.

“I, yes, I guess that's right.” Anne's certainty was quickly slipping away; she was starting to feel silly.

“Have a seat over there.” The officer waved at a row of folding chairs lined up neatly against the far wall. “Someone will be with you in a few minutes.”

Anne was strongly tempted to turn and run, but she walked to the end of the row and sat down. A teenage boy and his parents were the only other people in the room. The mother was crying steadily into a sodden tissue while the father patted at her arm ineffectually. The boy appeared to be trying for defiant, but couldn't keep fear from showing through.

They all looked up anxiously as a phone rang. The officer answered, listened for a minute, then pointed at Anne and jerked his head toward a door. “In there. Third desk. Detective Cass.”

Anne entered a large room filled with desks separated into individual cubicles by clear plastic partitions. It smelled like thirty years of stale smoke overlaid with lemon-scented deodorizer. She walked three desks down and stopped in front of a large man with sandy hair and freckles. “Detective Cass?”

“That's right. Have a seat.” His brown eyes looked kind, and his smile revealed straight, slightly stained teeth. Years of coffee and cigarettes, she guessed.

Confronted by another folding chair, Anne sat down carefully. The detective pulled a keyboard closer. “Let's get some basic information first, then you can fill me in on all the details.”

He typed in Anne's name, address, date of birth, and marital status, pausing for just an instant when she replied single.

“Live alone?” he asked, looking up briefly.

“No, I live with my two kids, but they're out of town right now. Visiting their father for three weeks,” Anne explained.

An odd expression crossed his features, but it was so fleeting, Anne couldn't tell what it meant.

“Occupation?” He turned back to the computer.

“I teach history at Memorial High School ,” Anne said.

“Okay.” He leaned back in his chair, picked up a green coffee mug, and peered carefully inside before taking a sip. “Now tell me exactly what happened.”

As Anne repeated her story, accurately and clearly, she realized how ridiculous it must sound. To his credit, the detective was polite; Anne could see that he was trying to be tactful.

“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt you?” he asked.

Anne shook her head. “No, of course not. I'm a very ordinary person. I always get along with everyone.”

Detective Cass sat up straight and picked up a pile of papers. “I'll file the report. Let us know if anything else unusual happens.”

Anne stood up to go. “Thanks for your time. I'm not sure what I expected you to do, but it seemed important to tell someone. I guess I thought that this might have happened to someone else. A serial shover, maybe.” Anne laughed.

Detective Cass laughed too. “You never know,” he said.

Arriving home, Anne once more checked all the doors and windows carefully. Not that it would be that hard to break in, she thought, looking around.

As she ate a tuna sandwich and drank a glass of milk, Anne thought about spending the night with a friend, then decided against it.

Stop being such an idiot, she scolded herself as she headed upstairs.

Anne turned off the lights and got into bed, but she couldn't sleep. All the everyday noises of the old house suddenly stood out with clarity, as if they were being broadcast over speakers. Each creak and groan sounded ominous.

She told herself that she was hearing things, letting her overactive imagination create nonexistent terrors. But nothing helped. Her home, always safe and comforting in the past, felt alien and frightening tonight. Sleep was impossible.

Not normally much of a drinker, Anne felt the need tonight for something to calm her nerves. She remembered there was a bottle of brandy in the cupboard, leftover from the Tom and Jerrys on New Years Eve. She went downstairs and came back to bed with the full bottle and a small glass.

The first sip nearly gagged her, but after three more, she felt herself relaxing. She finished the entire glass and grew drowsy; she turned off the light and slipped into a restless sleep.

Anne jerked awake, with a man standing over her. Before she could react, he grabbed a pillow and shoved it over her face, pinning her to the bed. She thrashed wildly, but he increased the pressure, steadily cutting off her air supply.

Anne pushed him desperately, but couldn't move his arms. She tried to scratch his face, hurt him, anything to ease the pressure, but he was wearing some mask that she couldn't penetrate with her bare hands. She swept her arms back and forth in a frenzied windmill, frantically searching for freedom. Her right hand skimmed the brandy bottle, and she clutched it for salvation. Lifting it as high as she could, Anne slammed the heavy bottle against her attacker's head with all her strength. The glass shattered; she could feel a piece imbed itself in her palm. The intruder grunted in pain and staggered back a step, leaving Anne enough room to slide off the bed and jump to her feet. The man seemed stunned; he swayed slightly from side to side. Anne's fear turned to rage, and she could feel adrenaline surge through her body. She lowered her head and charged, catching him in the chest. He fell backwards, and his head hit the bookcase with a loud thump.

Anne didn't wait to see if he would get up; she ran down the stairs and didn't look back until she was safely inside her neighbor's house.

Three hours later, Anne again found herself in the folding chair across from Detective Cass. Despite the ubiquitous “Thank You For Not Smoking” signs, they were both drinking coffee and chain-smoking, as she finished another statement. Four stitches in her right hand throbbed, a tangible reminder of the attack. Anne tried to ignore her fear and confusion as she worked with Detective Cass to make sense of the events of the past few hours. The black phone on his desk rang, causing Anne to jump. Detective Cass reached over and patted her arm gently as he picked up the receiver. He listened for a few minutes before hanging up.

“You don't mess around, do you?” he asked.

Anne raised her eyebrows in a question.

“They're keeping the man who attacked you overnight in the hospital for observation, possible concussion,” he explained.

“Did he say anything yet?” Anne asked. “Any explanation or motive for the attack?”

“No, he refuses to talk. He gave us his name, occupation, and a few vital statistics, but he won't say anything else without a lawyer.” The detective handed Anne a picture. “Can you identify him? Ever seen him before?”

Anne squinted at the picture and shook her head in confusion. “The man at my house was wearing a mask, so I can't say for certain that this is the same person. But I'm pretty sure that I did see this man earlier today when I was downtown, running errands.”

Detective Cass sat up a little straighter. “That's a pretty strange coincidence,” he said. “Exactly where and what time did you see him?”

Anne closed her eyes in thought. “Let's see. I had just returned my overdue library books and was headed home, so it must have been about 4:30. I was walking down Montgomery , headed over to Travis, when I saw him coming out of a building. Those new apartments, I think, the ones between Fourth and Fifth on Montgomery . I smiled at him, but he just blew by me.”

Detective Cass sat up even straighter. “The Chilton Arms?” he asked.

Anne nodded. “I think so. Why? Is this important?”

“Could be,” he said. “A woman was murdered there this afternoon, probably between 2:00 and 5:30. You place this man at the scene of the murder at the approximate time of the murder. Later, he breaks into your house and tries to kill you. It seems that it could be very important.”

“But the whole thing doesn't make sense,” Anne said. “I don't know this man. Why would he worry about me as a witness? I wouldn't be that much of a threat to him. And even if he did see me as a threat, there's another problem. How did he find me? Unless he followed me home. But I don't think he did.”

“You were very shook up this afternoon,” said the detective. “It's possible you wouldn't have noticed him.”

Anne started as she had a sudden revelation. “But he must have been the person who pushed me into the street. It wouldn't have been smart for him to hang around and follow me after that.”

Detective Cass shrugged, looking frustrated, and stood up to pour them both more coffee. “Are you sure you've never seen him before? Take another look.”

Anne studied her attacker's face in silence. “He does look vaguely familiar, but that's probably from seeing him this afternoon. What's his name?”

“ Arnold Morris.”

“Arnold Morris,” Anne repeated. “Morris, Morris. Wait a minute!” She stubbed out her cigarette and leaned forward in excitement. “I think I do know this man – or at least I've met him. His daughter, Sondra, was in my world history class last year, and I think he came to parent/teacher conferences in April. But I meet so many parents. I never remember them later.”

“But he didn't know that.” Detective Cass leaned back and shut his eyes. “Let's try this – you see him coming out of the building immediately after he kills someone. He knows you, so he assumes that you know him. He's in a panic. He can't afford to have you read about the murder and remember that Arnold Morris was coming out of that particular building on that day at that time. So he decides right then and there to get rid of the only witness who can link him to the crime. He doesn't need to follow you home. He knows who you are; all he needs to find you is a computer.”

Anne shook her head. “If that's true, he gave me a lot more credit than I deserve. I never would have made the connection.”

“That's his bad luck.” Detective Cass laughed. “Now, of course, all I have to do is prove this little theory of mine. Hopefully, we can find a relationship between Morris and the victim; that should lead us to a motive, and we can start building a case.”

Anne drained her coffee and rolled the cup nervously between her hands. “This whole situation is so incredible. I still think I'm going to wake up and find that it's all one big nightmare. I mean, I could have died today. Twice.” She took a deep breath as another thought occurred to her. “My God, I am so lucky that my kids weren't home for all this. They could have gotten hurt.” She sat quietly for a moment. “I might have been killed or I could have killed someone else. My life is so ordinary, boring even. Things like this just don't happen to me.”

Anne's voice broke and unexpected tears welled in her eyes. Without a word, Detective Cass handed her a box of tissues. His eyes were kind as she cried. Gradually, Anne regained control and lit a cigarette with trembling fingers.

“Thank you,” she said. “I don't usually lose control like that. I'm not sure what happened.”

“Delayed reaction,” he responded. “Normal after all you've been through tonight. It would be better if you weren't alone for awhile. Do you have someone to stay with?”

Anne nodded. “I called my friend, Janice. She should be here by now.” Anne pushed her chair back, started to stand, then stopped and sat down heavily.

The detective stood up. “You look exhausted. Why don't you go home with your friend? I'll be in touch in a few days to keep you informed of the investigation's progress.”

Anne rose too. She held out her hand, grimaced at the bandage, and pulled it back. “Thank you for everything, Detective. Even when I sounded crazy, you treated me with respect. I appreciate that.”

Detective Cass looked embarrassed as he responded. “No problem. Take care of yourself; you've had quite a shock.” “Wait,” he called as Anne reached the door. “You forgot your cigarettes.”

“Keep them,” Anne said, “or better yet, throw them away. Today, I finally understood that I'm not going to live forever. I don't have any more time to waste. I think I might finally, actually quit this time.”

Detective Cass nodded. “I've been thinking about quitting myself. Maybe we could find one of those support groups, help each other through the rough times.”

Anne smiled. “That's the best offer I've had in years. Call me tomorrow; we'll see if we can find one that meets at a convenient place.”

Anne waved as she walked out the door. For the first time in ten years of trying and failing, she was actually looking forward to giving up cigarettes.