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Only Her Naked Courage

by

Susan Rau Stocker

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Only Her Naked Courage© 2013 Susan Stocker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information

or storage retrieval system without permission from the publisher.

Every effort has been made to make this book as complete and

accurate as possible, but no warranty or fitness is implied. The

information is provided on an “as is” basis. The authors and

the publisher shall have neither liability nor responsibility to

any person or entity with respect to any loss or damages arising

from the information contained in this book.

Written by: Susan Rau Stocker

Editor: Malvina T. Rau

Layout: Tyler Nash

Cover Design: Barry Barnes, TrainedEyeGraphics.com

Published by: Holy Macro! Books, Box 82, Uniontown OH 44685, USA

Distributed by: Independent Publishers Group, Chicago, IL

First Printing: February 2013. Printed in USA

ISBN: 978-1-61547-017-4 (Print); 978-1-61547-208-6 (PDF);

978-1-61547-108-9 (Kindle); 978-1-61547-327-4 (ePub)

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This book is dedicatedwith admiration and encouragement

to all who are survivors of trauma and abuse.

1

PART I: MAy 2001

3

Chapter 1 She sat at an angle to the doorway, her feet propped up on the desk. Her chair was tilted pre-

cariously like a ship on the high seas. A sandwich hung suspended from her right hand. Her left hand clutched a paperback. Her whole body was absorbed totally in whatever she was reading.

Standing in the doorway, watching her, Greg felt like a voyeur. He hadn’t tried to sneak up on her. He simply walked in the unlocked door and saw her feet. Her office was behind the large reception area and, to be perfectly honest, he may have walked quietly once he saw she was at her desk. He always looked for her. Some of the other women in the office were friendlier; that tall brunette was much more of a knockout; the boss was the one he really had to deal with; but this woman, sitting so unselfconsciously….

What was that thing she was holding in her hand? It looked like two bread crusts with some-thing orange in the middle. And then his eyes skimmed her body, from her disarranged blonde curls to the jutting chin, over her rosy sweater, down her long tan khakis. His survey came to rest on the hole in her hose that exposed her right big toe, the bright pink polish so unexpected and sassy.

The feeling of being a Peeping Tom intensified. He had to say something.

4 Only Her Naked Courage

“Good book?” he croaked, not sounding his usual suave self. Thank God, he didn’t take his eyes off her, because at least he was able to react quickly when the chair, from her startled re-sponse, went backwards instead of upright, and the sandwich and book went flying, too, as her hands grabbed for the desk. He somehow got behind her, and his right knee, which would be black and blue for weeks, wedged itself between the chair and the floor. But, the quick movement on his part threw him off balance. When she jumped out of the chair, nearly catapulted out from his efforts to get it upright, the change in weight landed him on his butt. There he sat in his immac-ulate gray suit and starched white shirt on the ancient, stained floor of the Northampton County Human Services Office, and, towering over him, stocking feet spread wide for balance, hands groping the desk behind her for support, was a woman wearing the most astonished expression he had ever seen.

It had all happened so fast. He didn’t know whether to laugh or swear. His knee was throb-bing, and he really would have liked to have stood up and rubbed his rear end, which had landed pretty soundly on the linoleum. She made up his mind for him with her words.

“Have we met?” “Have we met?” He allowed his voice to rise for the effect. “I’m sitting on my can on your

office floor having just kept you from bashing your head, and you want to know, “Have we met?” She giggled and blushed. And then another thought chased its way across her expressive face,

and she said, “Wait a minute. I was,” she pointed at her book, “getting my,” her face turned a darker red, and her arms came up to cover her chest.

Something with her breasts, he thought, and she liked it—or maybe loved it. What an aston-ishing piece of information.

Her chin came up, and he could see her shoulders straighten as if she were giving herself a shot of assertiveness. “…when you came barging into my office, interrupting my lunch, scaring….”

“you were getting what…?” he interrupted the tirade. She could see the teasing in his eyes—such friendly eyes. She laughed. “you’re shameless.” “Me?” he laughed back at her. She reached out her hand. “Would you like to get up?” He grasped her hand. “Would you like to get down?” There was a seriousness and a quietness in his voice that took her breath away. The floodgates

of awareness and attraction burst open, and he saw her lips part. He tugged on her hand, and she squatted on her haunches as a primitive woman might while giving birth.

She smiled, sweetly. “It would probably be better if you got up.” “I don’t think I can right now.”

5CHAPTER 1

And once again he watched the thoughts dancing across her face as it dawned on her what he meant. Her eyes widened, as if she were amazed at her own powers, and then she sort of squinted at him. “Who are you, and what are you doing here, and have we met?”

“Sara,” he said, sounding so heartbroken. She giggled again. He was quite good-looking and seemingly very confident and clearly not

at all accustomed to being forgotten. “Oh,” she said on a sharp intake of breath, “you’re the com-puter person.”

“The computer person?” he asked. “What do I do? Do I teach computers, or do I repair them, or do I program them…?”

“I think you sold us the new computer system,” she felt very proud of herself for having remembered, and he squeezed her hand. She really needed to pull her hand away, but he was rubbing his thumb over her skin, and it felt good. Except for her daughters’ sticky fingers, she couldn’t remember the last time she had been touched.

The sound of footsteps and voices shattered their mood, and Sara scrambled to her feet, yank-ing her hand away, rushing to get her shoes on and straightening her hair as if the two of them had been tumbling around.

“Better brush the hay off,” he whispered conspiratorially. It took her a minute to get it. When she did, she snorted, trying to keep herself from laughing

out loud, and then she punched him in the chest. He’d gotten the look of guilt off her face and was standing once again himself, albeit with his

briefcase in front of his pants, when Jane, the boss, stuck her head in the door, obviously starting to say to Sara, “We’re back.” Spotting him, she said instead, “Greg. Hi. you brought the account-ing software yourself. you didn’t have to do that, but thanks.

Come on into my office.” “Jane. Good to see you.” His voice sounded different. This must be his salesman voice. “I’ll be right there. I’ll just give you a minute to catch your breath. I want to finish telling Sara

about the home computer we’re bringing out.” Jane gave him sort of a strange, put out look, shrugged and walked away. “She knows you made that up,” Sara whispered. “Everybody around here knows I don’t have

enough money to buy a home computer. I don’t even go out to lunch with them.” “Come with me,” he whispered back. “Where?” He just smiled. She couldn’t get any words out. “It’ll take me about ten minutes with her. Meet me at the McDonald’s on Third Street.”

6 Only Her Naked Courage

“I work here. They pay me to work. I have paperwork and appointments….” He spun her around and pointed to the two pieces of crust and something now recognizable as

a slice of cheese lying on the floor. “See what I did? How do you expect me to live with myself if you don’t let me make it right? you have children, don’t you? you know how important it is to pay your debts and make amends and make up for the wrongs you do….”

“Okay, okay,” she was laughing at his serious silliness. “Just something really quick. Go ahead and order me something. Wait. I don’t have any money.”

“Sara. This is a date.” “I don’t date.” He looked into her eyes, and then he whispered, “you still have some hay in your hair,” and

he walked away. Sara could hear his voice, his salesman voice, coming from Jane’s office as she picked up her

purse and walked to the bathroom. She was grateful the room was small; she could lock the door and be alone. She stopped at the sink and peered at herself in the mirror. If she didn’t know it was her, she wouldn’t have recognized herself, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes—she looked alive. She couldn’t help checking her hair for hay. Then she splashed cold water on her face until she felt her common sense returning.

What a man! She’d stand him up. She couldn’t afford him. She was a single mom. She didn’t run in his circles. His suit cost more than everything in her closet.

Mind made up, she went back to her desk to get to work. The minute she sat down, her stom-ach growled. She remembered the sandwich and reached down to pick it up and throw it in the trash and stash the novel back into her purse.

She was hungry. And he was fun. She didn’t know when she’d laughed like that. What could it hurt? McDonald’s, for heaven’s sake. How indebted could you be for a value meal? Which was what she intended to have. Something greasy with French fries and a regular pop. Maybe she’d get a kid’s meal. Nah. With two little girls, you couldn’t go home with one toy. Unless she could talk him into getting one, too.

She grabbed her purse and walked out before she could change her mind again. When she drove into the McDonald’s parking lot, he was leaning against the fender of his car

waiting for her. He pretended to look at his watch. He saw her lock her car, and he opened the passenger door of his car and motioned her in.

“I’m not going somewhere in your car. I don’t know you. you could have bad intentions.” “Fine.” He punched the lock button, closed the passenger door and grabbed her hand. “We’ll

walk.” “It’s raining,” Sara noticed. “This wasn’t my idea. I wanted to drive.” He sounded rather self-righteous. “Where are we going?” Sara wanted to know.

7CHAPTER 1

“Just across the street to the Sheraton.” She stopped dead in her tracks. He stopped and looked at her as though she might have some learning problems. He spoke

very slowly. “I would like to take you to the Sheraton for lunch. In the dining room. The one that overlooks the river. I think it’s attractive. And they usually have good food. Do you want to stand here on the corner in the rain and think about it?”

She had been watching his mouth. He had the most perfect white teeth. And she could smell his breath as he leaned toward her. He smelled like cinnamon.

When she didn’t do anything other than look at him, he yanked on her hand to get her walking again.

“So, what I want to know is, why bother locking that car?” “My car?” She was appalled and words returned to her. “Do you know what the insurance

company would give me for that car if it was stolen? I went on this call last year, a rape call, and the girl was hiding out, and I had to park a couple blocks away, and I thought I remembered where the car was, except I made a wrong turn, so I couldn’t find it, so I reported it stolen, except the police found it the next afternoon, right where I had left it, how embarrassing, and the insurance company said….”

He was chuckling that she could get so many words out in one breath. “It’s an ’83 Chevy Impala. How many miles?”

“137,000.” “Wow. I’ll bet they’ll give you $700.” “Three. Can you believe it? I started locking the car. I couldn’t get a good bicycle for $300.” They were ushered to a table, and when he let go of her hand to pull out the chair for her, she

realized that they had held hands for the last ten minutes. She smiled at him. He kicked her under the table. She looked puzzled. When the hostess left, he said under his voice, “you flash that smile at me, and you’re going

to get what you thought you were going to get at the Sheraton.” “Weren’t we talking about cars?” “Right.” The waitress approached and said hi, and Greg said, “We’ll take two glasses of Chardonnay,

two iced teas, a shrimp cocktail, an order of sauerkraut balls, some hot wings, two salads with Italian and whatever kind of bread you serve.” He handed her the unopened menus.

“What if I don’t like any of that stuff?” Sara thought his wings needed clipped. This guy was too big for his britches. But then he answered her.

8 Only Her Naked Courage

“you were sitting at your desk eating two bread crusts with a slice of processed cheese in the middle. I figure you like anything.”

“Shrimp? Sauerkraut?” “I know you like shrimp and sauerkraut.” “How?” She was quite suspicious. “Hand me one of your shoes,” he instructed, without missing a beat. “you’re kidding,” she dead-panned. He held out his hand. “Better make it the left one.” She kicked her left shoe over to her right hand and reached down to pick it up. “Oh, my gosh.” “What?” Tears came to her eyes. “I am going to be so upset when these shoes wear out. They’re real

leather—so soft—the last thing my mom bought me before they were killed.” “your mom was killed?” “And my dad. Remember that big plane crash in Scotland? My dad always wanted to see

Scotland. you know the only thing that makes me feel better?” He shook his head no. “The plane crashed when they were on their way home. At least he got to see Scotland first.”

She wiped at her eyes. “I think I can’t possibly have any more tears left for them—for me, real-ly—they’re fine—they’re together. I’ve cried so much.” She took another swipe at her eyes. “All that over a shoe. Sorry. I know how guys hate tears.”

“I’m not your typical guy, but,” he grinned a crooked Harrison Ford grin, “I do hate tears. Every time the woman you’re with starts crying, you imagine every eye in the place is on you deciding you’re the jerk who’s causing the tears.”

“Oh,” she answered, and then she tried to distract herself by getting back to where they were. “So, why are you holding my shoe?”

“That’s how I know you like shrimp and sauerkraut balls and are willing to taste anything.” She smiled sort of sheepishly. “That’s true. But how can you tell from the shoe?” “See this shoe?” he asked like a college professor. “yes,” she answered seriously. “This is the shoe of a woman who isn’t afraid to step out in life, to walk through some mud

puddles. And the woman of this shoe isn’t some prissy little thing who eats carrot sticks. If she were, she wouldn’t have a hole in the toe of her pantyhose.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he quickly handed back her shoe and moved his eyes to indicate the waitress was coming. After she set down their wine, Greg proposed a toast.

9CHAPTER 1

“Here’s to you, Sara. I think I’d like to make a habit of rescuing you— even if it does cause me some discomfort. Actually, my knee is killing me.” He sounded like a little boy.

“And even if you have been watching me when I’m unaware of it.” “I think I’d like to make a habit of that, too.” That reminded her: “How’d you get in?” “The door was open—unlocked.” “Jeez. We’re usually so careful about that. When you work in human services you can’t afford

to take your own safety for granted. you work with too many victims and too many perpetrators.” The waitress appeared with bread and salads and one shrimp cocktail, which she placed cere-

moniously in the middle of the table, obviously enjoying this unusual meal. “Where are you from?” Sara asked. “Barrington.” “New Jersey?” He nodded. “I have New Jersey, New york and Pennsylvania for IBM. I sell to, in your case,

the Pennsylvania Department of Human Services. I have no explanation for coming to Easton. I almost never call on sub-accounts. But Easton is on my way between a number of big accounts and on the way home.”

“you’re married.” “Never.” He sounded adamant. “I never have been.” He toned it down. “I would like to be

someday. Living in an over-priced apartment in New york City is not the sophisticated, bachelor, social life it’s portrayed to be. I’m on the road all week. I’ve met a few neighbors. But mostly on weekends I sleep, do laundry, walk the streets, take in a Nicks game or watch the Rangers.”

“Are your parents alive?” “My dad. My mom died of cancer last fall.” “Brothers? Sisters?” “Two brothers. I’m the middle child—that most sensitive and loving of all children.” “So you took a psychology course?” “Two,” he said proudly, “if you count the psychology of advertising.” She grinned. “Where’d you go to school?” “B.A. from Rutgers. Two classes left on an M.B.A. from N.y.U.” “Sorry,” the waitress said, putting down a fancy little plate of sauerkraut balls and a larger

plate of chicken wings and celery sticks. “Do you still want these? I think maybe I got them out of order.” She looked around the table. “If there is an order to this meal.”

“If they’re good we want them,” he replied, giving her a charming smile. The waitress laughed and walked away.

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“Is this what you do? Go through life getting people laughing?” Sara wanted to know. “Nah. you just put me in a good mood. That crazy sandwich and the hole in your pantyhose

and locking the car….” “That’s all poverty. I don’t think that’s particularly funny.” She was thinking about working

herself up into a real snit. “No, Sara,” Greg said, looking at her very sincerely. “you may not have much money. you

may not even have enough money. But you are definitely not someone who believes herself to be living in poverty.” He held her eyes. “I bet you consider yourself to be rich. And I bet you have everything you consider to be important.”

“Almost,” she admitted. “you have a great deal of insight.” “you can’t sell without humor and insight—without being able to read people.” He reached

over and took a half-eaten sauerkraut ball off her plate and slowly put it in his own mouth. He watched her lips part as she read the message in his actions. He reached out his glass of wine to her. She hesitated, so he smiled at her and said with his eyes, ‘It’s inevitable.’ He watched her swallow before she took a sip. She raised the glass to her lips and tasted the wine. She reached it out to him. He raised both hands to envelop hers and said, “If we were alone right now, you know what would happen at this moment, don’t you?”

Her eyes widened in acknowledgment before she smiled and said, “We need to back up. We are going too far too fast, and we’re going to have to call the fire department if we don’t change our…um…”

“Everything okay?” the waitress interrupted them. “Great,” they both answered simultaneously, too quickly, with more enthusiasm than the sau-

erkraut balls usually merited. She just shrugged and left, wondering if he was going to stiff her or leave her a $60 tip. Something extreme, of that she was sure.

“Okay,” Greg set down his wine glass. “I’ll play fair. We’ll get back to our conversation.” He really meant it. He was searching his mind for something to say, so he stalled by picking up the wine glass. Just as he took a sip, he felt her stocking foot gently make contact with his crotch. He choked on the wine. He started coughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. But his hand had caught her foot and was holding it firmly between his thighs.

As soon as he had the coughing under control, Sara purred sweetly to him, “Don’t you love these table cloths?” They were white institutional table cloths, but they hung to the floor. “They’re a great length.”

“War. you have just declared war.” He took a big gulp of iced tea. “And that skirmish was definitely yours.” He saluted her with the tea, smiling broadly.

She giggled and said, “I’m not in your league. I have no idea why I did that. I have never in my life done anything like that. Please let go of my foot now,” she whispered. “I have really em-barrassed myself.”

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Greg was silent until she looked over at him, and then he gently released her foot and said softly, “you delight me.”

She blushed and said, “I should really get back to work.” “Let’s give ourselves a few more minutes. We’ll never have another first date.” She smiled at him, and he shook his head. “What?” she demanded. “That smile.” His meaning was clear. She put her hand over her mouth. “So….” Greg cleared his throat. It had come out a little high, making them both smile. “Why’d

you say ‘almost?’” She looked lost. “you said you had ‘almost’ everything you thought was important.” “Oh, that’s a good idea. Let’s talk about that. That’ll cool you off.” “Don’t bank on it.” “I want a husband.” He didn’t react except to incline his head and reach for a shrimp. He handed it to her. “Go on.” She shrugged her shoulders and took a big bite of shrimp. “I want someone to stand in the hall

with me at night and put his arm around my shoulders and talk to me about how cute the girls are lying in their beds, sound asleep, holding their bears and dolls, their little legs all tangled up in the covers. I want someone to have a good fight with, whether to buy a Maytag dryer or a John Deere lawn mower. I want someone to seduce. I want someone to tell me I can go to bed when I have a cold, and he’ll put the girls to bed. I want someone to leave a rose on my car. I want someone to think about. I want someone’s underwear to wash. I want some different smells in my bed. I want someone to play with. I want a partner. I’ve always done really well on the buddy system. I’m not a good loner. I want to need a babysitter. I want to need a new dress for something. I want a life.” She ground to a halt. “Now, are you cooled off?”

“Think you can get a babysitter for tonight? Tomorrow night? Sunday night?” “I think you better go back out in the rain and cool off.” “If you send me out in the rain now, I’ll sizzle.” She just smiled. “Want to share the last shrimp?” “I want you to have it,” Greg said softly. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me.” He flinched back. “The only thing I feel sorry about is that I didn’t let you knock me on my

fanny the first time I saw you. I’ve been coming around for almost a year.” “We’ll have to make up for it,” she suggested in a sultry voice. When he just stared at her, she became flustered again.

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“I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I never say things with innuendo and double enten-dre—and I never use that voice!”

“That sexy, turn-me-on voice? How about that tongue that keeps wiping off those lips? Or that foot? Or those seductive eyes that keep inviting me to leap over the table—or crawl under it.”

“No. None of it. I never do any of that stuff. I get up and take a nice regular shower and put on nice regular clothes and pack peanut better and jelly sandwiches and fix dishes of Cheerios and then take the girls to school and leave for work, and then I work all day, and then I go home and throw in a load of laundry and clean the breakfast dishes and make some macaroni and cheese and give baths and read innocent little books like “Corduroy” and “The Crooked Little Angel,” and then I grab a Pepsi and some pretzels and the latest social work journal, and I’m asleep by 9:28. See, I don’t belong on this train.”

Greg summoned the waitress, handed her a credit card and said, “Add on a 20% tip.” He got up and came around the table to pull out Sara’s chair. He walked her across the dining room and opened the door to the patio and pulled her around the corner so they stood in a concrete cocoon, sheltered from the rain and hidden from the few patrons in the dining room. They were afforded a beautiful view of the river rushing by, but all he saw was her lips, and all she felt was the rush of his tongue as he circled her lips and her teeth and her own tongue and the dark, sweet hollow of her mouth. He pulled her against him with a firmness that seemed to meld them like the peanut butter and jelly of her sandwiches, and then he broke the kiss, and put both arms up around her head and held her folded into his chest and simply moaned. They stood like that for long minutes, and then he leaned against the cement wall and turned her so that she leaned back against him. They tried to regain some balance.

His arms around her chest calmed her even as they excited her, and she felt more powerful than she had for years. She looked out at the water and said, “This must be the Seine.”

“Maybe we’ll go to Paris for our honeymoon.” And he rubbed his cheek against hers. “If we can ever get our legs to support us so we can walk off this patio.”

She felt the laughter rumble in his chest. He dropped his arms and reached for a hand and walked with her to the railing. They had walked out into a soft drizzle.

“Greg, it’s still raining.” He looked at her with mock disgust. “This wasn’t my idea.” She giggled. “Right. you wanted to drive.” They walked into the restaurant, and he signed the check, and they proceeded, hand-in-hand,

back to their cars at McDonalds. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say, and, apparently, neither could he. He took her car

keys from her hand and unlocked her door and handed her in. She looked up at him and was about to say “Thank you,” but he put his fingers on her lips.

Inexplicably, she licked them. He moved his hand and closed her door. She rolled down her window and started the car.

13CHAPTER 1

“War,” he said. She put her hand over her mouth and reached up with her elbow to re-lock the door and then,

while he leaned against his wet car, she backed up and drove out of the parking lot. When she turned the last corner and got her last glimpse of him, he was still leaning.

She went back to work and walked around in a daze until four o’clock when she walked down to her car and saw the white rose held in place by the windshield wiper. She picked it up and smelled it and touched the petals against her lips. And then, as she reached to unlock the door, her foot came into contact with a box. Inside the box she could see rose bushes—six rose bushes, a new trowel, some fertilizer pellets to plant with the bushes and some spray to keep the Japanese beetles at bay. He might be intending to be around for a while. Sara looked to the heavens and said with meaning, “Thank you, God.”

She didn’t notice the black car with the tinted windows parked across the street. She didn’t imagine that the man sitting behind the steering wheel was watching her.

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About Susan Rau StockerSusan has spent her life communicating: listening, reading, writing, talking. A former college

teacher, for the past twenty-five years she has been a marriage and family therapist in private practice. She has traveled extensively, read voraciously and written continuously–lesson plans, case notes, journals, grocery lists, stories, two published novels (formerly as Susan Ross, soon to be re-published under her own name), some journalism and a bit of scholarship. The Many Faces of Anxiety is her second “self-help book.” The Many Faces of PTSD was her first. (you’ll never guess the name of her third. Hint: Don’t depress yourself trying to come up with it.)

The Many Faces of AnxietyFollowing the format established in The Many Faces of PTSD, Susan Rau Stocker brings her

focus to anxiety. She again uses twelve case studies to highlight the many and varied forms of anxiety. She talks about the steps she and her clients have followed, both successfully and not so successfully, to reduce the unbearable panic and stress of full-blown anxiety to livable levels. Her own part in each of these stories reminds us why therapy is called a practice. Reading The Many Faces of Anxiety will help identify and target our own anxiety and lead us to useful coping mechanisms as well as new ways of thinking and behaving. Anxiety is crazy-making. The more we learn about it, the more we limit its crippling grip on our lives.

The Many Faces of PTSDThis book tells the stories of twelve survivors of trauma. Each case study describes the sur-

vivor’s trauma experience in gut-wrenching detail and then chronicles the interaction between the survivor and the therapist by tracing the stumbling, pitfall-ridden paths of both. The studies illuminate the signs and symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) displayed by the survivor and the steps to recovery, both forward and backward. The final and most sagacious segment of each case study is the story of the therapist/author. One of the missing pieces in most narratives about the treatment of and recovery from PTSD is the perspective of the therapist, a living, breathing person with life experiences and challenges of his or her own. The Many Faces of PTSD fills in this missing piece with humility and humor.

Heart(originally as Susan Ross)

It began one passionate evening and ended one bittersweet weekend. Ruth was leaving for the grandeur of Italy and the career of her dreams. Tom could never abandon his wife or the son who needed him so completely. So Ruth and Tom parted, perhaps never to touch again. But although they couldn’t be together, they shared a love as enduring as the ocean that separated them. Theirs was a love more desperate than the tragedies they each had to face. Despite their knowledge that they could not change the course of their lives, neither Tom nor Ruth could forget the burning fire they ignited together. Something undeniable glowed deep and sure in each yearning heart.