That Grand Illusion

By Erin Donoho

A coming-of-age story of friendship and fear . . .

In 1979, crime and drug dealing continue to infiltrate North Sacramento. Meanwhile, the East Area Rapist continues terrorizing residents of Sacramento, and the police still don't know who he is.

Shari Davis and her best friend Janet have long

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erin Donoho
• Release date: Nov 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088250587

Erin Donoho

Erin Donoho has an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Arcadia University, and has had a short story and a collection of poems published in Metonym, as well as short stories published in Marathon, the Blue Lake Review, and AZE. She resides in California, and besides writing enjoys studying history and psychology and getting lost in music. Her website is www.erindonoho.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

The sky is already darkening as I make my way down the steps and eye the parking lot. Plenty of cars remain, but shadows wave everywhere, and even now that I don’t have to catch a bus, I glance over my shoulder. The streetlights are spaced too far apart, and the parking lots, one after another, stretch on forever in darkness, full of trees, employees’ cars and silence. He could be anywhere.

Janet pulls up quickly from where she’s been waiting in a parking spot. I open the passenger-side door. Hey.

Hi, she says, hands on the wheel, white shirt cuffs sticking out of her coat sleeves. It’s still strange to see her in business attire—dark skirt, collared shirt and coat—even though it’s been nine months since our high school graduation. She’s the one who insisted on picking me up when the sun was setting earlier in the fall, so I wouldn’t have to walk to and from the bus stop. But this is the last day she has to do it.

Good last day? she asks as she accelerates, shifting into first, then second once we’re on the street.

Oh yeah, fine. I won’t miss being a teller, what with all the customers, even if counting money can be satisfying. I should have gotten an office job like Janet. But I don’t have to think about working here anymore. We’ll be gone by Monday.

You? I ask. They give you a party? The turn signal click-click-clicks and the Matador’s engine rumbles, its lights softly illuminating the asphalt. Cars ahead of us turn out of the mall in a long line.

Janet laughs. No. Got a few hugs. The light changes and her pale hand clutches the gear stick as we accelerate and turn onto Arden.

Cars whip past us in dark blue and bright yellow flashes as we cruise toward the freeway. It’s still strange driving around after all this time. When I was just learning to drive I was too preoccupied, but then it gradually dawned on me. And with that newspaper article a few weeks ago, it hit me again. Rancho Cordova Woman Attacked At Home By Intruder. He may have gone to the Bay Area, but he’s back now. The East Area Rapist, as the police call him—I still can’t believe they gave him a name, giving him more attention, and panicking people more. Doesn’t seem very smart to me, but maybe it is. He could be anywhere. For two years one thing hasn’t changed: looking out, thinking, where is he. He might be driving down that side street. He might be a few blocks away scouting out someone’s backyard, fence, windows. He’s even gotten into windows that are locked.

We cruise under the freeway, past Ben’s Big Burger and Wienerschnitzel, both lit up and surrounded by cars; the abandoned storefronts, dark and surrounded by men in jackets and hats who laugh and smoke, blending in with the shadows; the Methodist church, where a man walks quickly through the parking lot, eyes wide, hand in his pocket; and home. As Janet pulls to the curb I lean over to peer down the sidewalk in both directions. The streetlights aren’t that bright, even with the narrow streets. I can’t wait to get out of here.

Store tomorrow? Janet says.

Yeah. We have to get food for the trip. Just in case. Not like we have any place in particular to go, but we want to be prepared in case we can’t find a hotel or run out of money.

The street is empty, so I pop open the door.

Have a good night. Janet reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, smiling that sweet smile at me.

I grin back and rest my hand on her arm. Okay. Two more days.

She nods, smile fading. And I can do nothing.

The house smells of sloppy Joes. That’s the one good thing about working at the bank instead of A&W: my brother Neil can’t call me ‘Meathead’ anymore, and Mom can’t make sideways remarks about me not changing clothes before coming home. You don’t know how glad I am to not get home smelling like hamburger.

I slip my key into my clutch and drop it beside the newspaper on the coffee table. It took me long enough to remember not to put my key in my pants pockets like usual. I hate carrying a purse but as Mom says, You can’t carry things in your pockets like a man when you work in a place like a bank. Well, maybe this is the last time I’ll have to carry it. It’s a whole lot easier to keep things like keys and money in your pocket than in a bag, especially if someone comes up to rip you off.

I reach for the paper. You can tell when Dad’s read it because it’s always a bit rumpled and not stacked squarely. With all her griping about cleanliness it’s strange Mom’s never got on his case about that. I skim through the front page section. There’s no mention of any suspicious crimes, though, so I set it down and go to my room.

Shari? Mom yells.

I stop in my doorway. Yeah?

Where are you? Can’t you give me some respect by coming in here— I walk back, see her in the kitchen doorway, and stop. She has her apron on over her blue housedress she put on this morning. She’s always up early to make Dad breakfast.

Yeah?

Has your collar been like that all day?

I glance down. It looks fine to me.

Mom shakes her head. Crooked. Dinner will be ready in a half hour.

She’s always bugging me: put things away, clean up that clutter, do the laundry, iron those slacks, do you see that dust on the blinds, why do you read when I slave around here all day. I’m fifty times cleaner and neater than my brother Neil, and when I see clothes on the clothesline I take them in, but Mom’s always working around the house, never sitting still. I used to tell her to take a break, but I stopped that when I was around fifteen because it wasn’t too smart. It just got her mad. Can’t you spare a little gratitude? You don’t see what I do for you? You’re an adult now, start being more responsible. I try to be, I really do. It’s no use telling her though.

I wish I could call Janet, but Mom’s in the kitchen where the phone is, and the cord only stretches so far.

Neil? Mom yells. I rub my temples, but as usual it doesn’t help.

In two days I’ll be out.

#

I open my eyes, but no one’s there.

I heard footsteps. Someone was coming in. I sit up and listen, but the house is silent, the shadows still.

Just a dream. Just like all the others.

It was a cloudy Thursday in late fall, three years ago, when I first read about it. I picked up the newspaper after coming home from school, like I always did, and paging through it landed on the article, Man Hunted As Suspect In 8 Rapes. The crimes had taken place in the suburbs on the complete other side of the city from us, so as disturbing as it was we weren’t too concerned. At sixteen, Janet and I were cautious but not afraid. Plenty of crime happened in our neighborhood, mostly petty theft and drug dealing, but we knew the streets and nothing like that would ever happen to us if we kept our wits. Plenty of kids our age, both black and white, hung out at Ben’s Big Burger on Arden late into the night, and nothing ever happened to them.

Still, this guy had been raping women for a whole year, and we had never known. The police hadn’t wanted it public. That made sense, but what about the rest of us? What if he broke into our homes and we weren’t prepared?

That night my dad told us to lock the doors and windows. Neil complained, Even the windows? He liked leaving his window open at night. But Dad insisted, Even the windows, in a hard tone we rarely heard, and that was that.

And Janet and I made sure to walk to school together, and take the bus or, when we could, her car to work.

Women kept getting attacked—even girls. A few in North Highlands, closer to us, near Janet’s cousin Ann. Police thought it was the same man. It made sense. He’s fond of stacking plates on the boyfriend’s or husband’s back to keep him from moving, then tying the woman up and raping her.

Once the attacks went on for months after that first newspaper article, Janet and I went everywhere together after dark. After six months we almost never got out of the car at all.

Later her cousin Ann got a call, when Janet was visiting her, of someone breathing over the phone line. Janet heard it too. Police thought it was the same man who had been calling and raping others. But there was nothing we could do, except sit and wait and watch the news and listen to the police sirens down the street.

I blink at the dimly-lit blinds, trying to stay awake, to not fall back into the sirens and helicopters and news reports, to not see the sketch from the newspaper and the TV screen of what they think he looks like. Blond hair, long face, possible mustache. He was coming in here. I dreamed it.

The past few months we’ve been cruising like we used to because he hasn’t been around, or so we thought. That newspaper article from a couple weeks ago says otherwise. Maybe he just wanted to vary his work locations. He went to the Bay Area to watch girls drive back and forth on poorly-lit city streets, and now he’s back and doing the same here.

So we’re going to drive south. Sure, there are weird people everywhere, and southern California might be expensive and full of snobs, but it has a lot of places that are safer than here.

#

I eat corn flakes for breakfast and say goodbye to Dad. Be aware of your surroundings, Dad says, wrapping me briefly in a hug and the smell of grease and laundry soap, before leaving for work. He’s always saying that. He’ll be glad to have me out of the house.

Forget anything? Neil asks me, leaning against the sofa, school books in his arm.

Don’t think so. He always teases me about forgetting things, because I don’t tend to. Like I tease him about recording an album—ever since his seventh grade music teacher made him sing in the choir, and because he hates singing.

You sure you remember how to shoot? He grins at me.

I sure hope so. The last time I went to the range with Janet was in January. We can only afford to go a few times a year.

That sounds dangerous.

It’s only been three months.

So. That’s a lot of time for someone like you.

What the heck is that supposed to mean? You who try to dunk, and fall. He grins and blushes, looking down. I got him there. His friend Barry told me about it, one time when he came over for about ten seconds. Neil and his friends like to be out, and Barry has a basketball hoop in his driveway.

Nah, that was only one time, Neil says, but I’ve rattled him.

You still can’t reach.

He reddens, looking away. I grin. You just better not do anything stupid, I say.

Oh, you’re worried about me? Worry about yourself.

Ha! I put a hand over my heart. You’re so kind, coming in here just to insult me.

He nods, glancing at the suitcase. But I get your records.

You don’t even like some of them. Joni Mitchell, for one.

Some of them. He shrugs. I’ll sell them.

You will not. I might come back.

He smirks, but I know he won’t sell them. Deep down he’s kind of sentimental. I’ve caught him sweet-talking Sable, our cat, countless times.

Well, I’ll be following you in a few years anyway, Neil says. For all his issues—being out all the time, iffy grades—he’s not all that dumb. He wants to get out of this place too. I hope someday he does, if he really wants to. He has at least four more years here. If he can stay straight and not get sucked into anything, he’ll make it.

Neil! Mom appears from the kitchen. What are you doing, you’re going to be late.

Neil looks at me, and I try to grin. He waves and slinks out the door.

As usual Janet’s five minutes early, and I go out to greet her. The morning air is cool and makes me want to run and dance, grab Janet and spin in circles—something I haven’t done for years—saying We’re going, we’re going. On an adventure. To find a new home, a better home. And to see the beaches.

Hi. Janet smiles at me, wearing blue shorts and a striped tee shirt. We aren’t sure if we’ll be able to swim at the Boardwalk, so we packed our swimsuits. It’s strange to think that later today we’ll be in Santa Cruz, on the coast. And then looking for jobs. Monterey might not be too expensive. Got your traveler’s checks?

Yep. My bag’s in here.

Hi Janet, Mom greets her as we walk inside. You two all set?

Mom and I hug. Write if you need anything, she says as I pick up my suitcase. Writing costs less than long-distance calling.

Janet reaches out her hand. Give it.

Give what?

Your suitcase.

I look at her. It’s maybe thirty feet to the car.

My car, my rules. Gimme. She takes the suitcase, and I let her because she wants to and she likes to help people. I’d never met someone like that before I met her. She can be silly sometimes though. Really, my suitcase isn’t heavy.

Once in the passenger seat I check the glove compartment, see Janet’s Colt and add my Model 28, and check underneath the seat for the shotgun. It’s an old one her dad bought her, for home security. We’ll keep it in the car until we get settled. If we get settled. I refuse to think about what if we don’t—if we fail.

Everything else looks good, but just in case I ask, Get everything?

Yep. You?

Think so.

All right. She starts the engine and pops the gear shift into first.

I want to drive at some point, I say, because she’ll need a break.

At some point, maybe.

That’s better than the response I got Saturday. I spin the dial and stop. Earth Radio is playing Bob Seger, a song I haven’t heard before, rhythmic and calm, and it carries us past the stores and warehouses up to the freeway, where we get on going south.

Chapter Two

By the time we get to the cutoff to Santa Nella the only station that comes in is a country station, so I slip Dire Straits into the tape player. Twangy guitar brings us over the hills and down into Gilroy, then along windy roads and down where the air cools, the sky grays and the sharp smell of eucalyptus blows past the open windows. I snap a few pictures with Janet’s Kodak. Janet’s been to the beach at Point Reyes, but not south of San Francisco. Not quite as cold here, she says.

Then we get to Santa Cruz and drive past surf shops, hippies with long hair and sandals, and colorful houses. We park on a side street and walk toward the palm trees and Boardwalk.

Want to go? Janet asks, just because it’s a ridiculous question. Of course we’re going to the Boardwalk. We’ve never been and what are the odds we’ll be coming back up here? We pay and enter the park, where people scream high above us, men in booths pitch wares like auctioneers, and far off the waves crash.

The coast is gorgeous, bright blue shimmering water gleaming under remnants of fog. Even though it’s a weekday, plenty of people sit on the sand on towels and under umbrellas, and a few kids play in the waves.

A loud clacking draws my eyes up. A roller coaster. It’s huge.

Wanna ride some rides? I ask.

Sure. The ocean breeze blows Janet’s short curls in front of her face. What do you think?

We wander, and decide on the swings. I sit in a chair behind her and strap in. We fly out over the sand, fast, and my stomach drops and I struggle to breathe until I let myself go with the speed of the machine. We’re weightless, one with the sky, and I could drop pebbles on the people below we’re so far out. You can feel the salt spray. Ahead of me Janet spreads her arms out to the sky.

She agrees to ride the roller coaster, which is called the Giant Dipper. And it is giant: at the first peak you get a great view of the ocean and the town, and then my stomach’s in my throat and I’m screaming right along with Janet, terrified. But the other drops are smaller, and just like with the swings, once I relax it’s a lot more fun.

We buy hot dogs and sodas and eat while we wander down the Boardwalk. At a souvenir shop we buy postcards for Janet’s parents, Neil, Eddie, and Nathan. Last chance, Janet said, when we saw Eddie and Nathan at Bell’s Supermarket on Saturday, buying food to prepare for the trip. Come with us.

Nah. I have a steady job. Not giving that up, Nathan said.

Eddie grinned, but it didn’t entirely hide the sadness in his eyes. I don’t mind it here. It’s better than living with the snobby Californians down there.

I laughed, and Janet said, We want to see the beach, you fool. Which was true; snobby Californians or not, lots of places are better than north Sac, where a teenage boy was shot a couple years ago for chasing someone out of his yard. If the East Area Rapist wants to keep committing his crimes, he’s not going to care who’s in his way. But Eddie and Nathan know that. When you come from our neighborhood, a steady job means a lot.

At the end of the Boardwalk there’s a big carousel, and Janet insists on riding. Since there’s no line we hop right on. It’s clearly old, with the horses leaning and wobbling, but Janet gets a real kick out of it. Look at the colors. Look at how well-maintained it is, she says as we go around. Her horse is white with a black mane and tail, and a turquoise saddle. And the rings!