Somebody’s watching you

Mon, 06 Oct 2003 21:50:00 +0000

Taxie Sierra didn't consider herself a victim of stalking. She assumed stalking was something that happened to movie stars and politicians, people whose celebrity drew crazed pursuers they didn't even know. She knew her own pursuer well: high school sweetheart, then husband, then estranged husband, Andy. Even when, six years after they'd separated, he called her relentlessly at home and at work to alternately beg her to get back together and threaten to kill her. Even when he seemed to know wherever she was going in their hometown of Pensacola, Fla., and would often turn up to make a scene with his gun. Even when he broke into her house to check the recent numbers on her Caller ID. Even after all that, she didn't consider Andy a stalker. She knew there was danger, but she thought she could handle it.

Then three years ago, the night after her first date with another man, she heard the sputtering motor of Andy's car in her driveway. He came into the house waving his gun and she suddenly knew he would kill her. But what happened to Taxie was even worse: He pushed her out of the way, ran down the hall, and shot their 12-year old daughter, Desirea, five times as she lay sleeping. Until the smoke cleared, Taxie thought he had been shooting holes in the ceiling. She still thought he was just trying to scare her.

Faith in the baby

Thu, 05 Apr 2001 19:16:00 +0000

I imagine my son swaying at the counter, shifting from one foot to the other. He says "Huh?" when the cashier tells him how much the boombox comes to with tax and when she tells him again, he stares at her. Then he pulls a credit card from his wallet, rattles it on the counter, spins it between his thumb and forefinger, and puts it away again. He asks the cashier if this boombox is the most popular model. He asks her if she thinks he should use his credit card or his checkbook and she frowns slightly, not just at the questions but at the timbre of his voice, which sounds as if it comes from some node of tissue not typically used for sound.

Maybe she figures it out. Maybe she realizes that this young man is special in a way not implied by the sign over the cash register proclaiming: "All our customers are special." Maybe she relaxes a bit; maybe she even enjoys suspending her routine to watch my son as he prints the store's name on the check in letters like sticks thrown on the sidewalk, as he pauses to ask her how to spell "forty." Or not; she might exchange annoyed looks with the other not-as-special customers who are piling up behind him with their boxes of computer peripherals and televisions. She might even grin when one of them brays his impatience.

Salon.com > Kristin Ohlson

Somebody’s watching you

Faith in the baby