Connie

Can a person you know be a stalker? What if they do it in the wide open, right in front of you, by ringing your doorbell and invited themselves in? Is that still stalking? Or just aggressive friendship?

Vanessa has a "friend" from up the street who is the clingy (not the rapper) type. She moved in last fall and instantly became Vanessa's best friend. Not sure how it happened. She has a son who goes to Alyssa and Grace's high school, but he's apparently very quiet. I've never met him. She has a husband, whom I've also never met, who is literally a brain surgeon. His hours are wacky - why would anyone schedule a surgery for 9:00 at night? But he's apparently one of the top brain surgeons on the east coast. I take it Connie doesn't see him very much, nor does she have much to do with her 16 year old son. She doesn't have a full-time job. So, she latches onto Vanessa as often as possible.

I think Vanessa liked it at first. Who wouldn't? Here's a total stranger - allegedly the non-murdering kind - who thinks the world of you and wants to be around you because you're fun and intelligent and someone who commands respect. See, that's what's so great about Vanessa. She's a respectable woman. She has a certain self-confidence that I lack, and that's an attractive feature. I think Connie's attracted to that as well.

Once Connie's foot was in the door, she kept it there. She became Vanessa's BFF, which is difficult for Vanessa since she's so busy with the kids, charitable stuff, me and my career... She's always got something to do. We assume Connie has very little to do. So she's over at our house all the time. All the time. When Vanessa mentioned going on a quick vacation during the kids' winter break (we considered Italy since we're not Italian), Connie booked tickets for her family, first class, to Rome and found hotels, restaurants, hot spots. She put together the whole trip and booked it in hours. We didn't go to Italy because of some commitments I had. Connie never went either. Vanessa was upset. She had wanted the break.

When I proposed to the family that we all go to Florida for spring training, Vanessa, who I thought would fight me tooth and nail, said yes almost before I finished reading from my notes. She helped get the girls to see things my way (they're still pissed off they had to come down here for 6 weeks, but they'll survive). We've been down for almost a month and have had neighbor peace.

Until Sunday. We're renting a home in a gated community. If somebody is going to visit us, they need to clear it with a security guard. Believe me when I say we've turned down lots of visitors this year, mainly media members trying to get me to talk. The only way somebody is going to get to our house is if they live in the community or are police.

Then the doorbell rang.

It was about 8AM. On Sundays I don't get up until 8:30. The kids were asleep. Vanessa was in the shower. I peeked out the window. It wasn't the cops at our door. It was Connie, platter of breakfast danishes in her hands, looking up RIGHT AT ME. It was like she knew I was going to check her out before leaving my own bedroom. But she saw me. Eye contact. I was caught.

I stuck my head into the bathroom and told Vanessa. The water was shut off immediately, but then the movement stopped. After a few seconds, we heard the doorbell ring again. I asked Vanessa what we should do. She didn't say anything for a moment. Perhaps she was thinking of a quick getaway. But she'd be leaving her family behind. She's too good for that.

"Let her in," was all she said.

I left the bedroom, walked down the hallway and passed a sleepy-eyed Grace. "Mom's psycho friend is here." Grace closed her bedroom door fairly hard.

"Hi, Jimmy!"

Connie stood at the bottom of the steps, holding her danish platter.

"Don't tell me you went all the way to Denmark to get those," I said.

She laughed, told me I was "humorous in nature," and found our kitchen.

I don't own a bathrobe and never entertain guests dressed in the clothes I slept in. But it was Connie, and I was tired and had to leave at 9:30 for the ballpark. She got to see how a real semi-balding baseball player dresses when he sleeps. I met her in the kitchen and sat down. "Visiting?" I said.

Connie spoke of how she'd booked a room at a Marriott less than 500 yards away. She said she'd gotten into our community by sweet talking the guard with fresh pastries. But she had a scrape on her calf and a scuff mark on her shoe. She'd also been sweating recently. It wasn't that hot or humid yet. I would have bet a million bucks that she'd scaled the wall. I checked the danishes to make sure they weren't covered in dirt. If I hopped a ten foot wall carrying a platter of breakfast stuff, I'd spill more than my share of donuts (which I like much better than danishes).

She told me she was down alone for the weekend to "get a sense" of Florida living. Since it was Sunday, I asked if that meant she was flying home sometime that afternoon. "No, I'll be here until the week ends." Six days and counting.

After ten minutes of stimulating discussion (I have no recollection of the subject matter. The woman is to a brain what cigarette smoke is to a set of lungs.), Vanessa came into the kitchen, very well dressed.

"I'm late for church," she said to Connie, "but you're welcome to come."

Connie's eyes lit up. She was like a kid seeing the gifts under the tree on New Year's Day. "Of course!" she said.

Vanessa and I made quick eye contact. It was pained. You see, Vanessa hadn't been to church since we'd gotten down here. My bet is she'd just been upstairs trying to find one in the phone book before making her announcement. She was taking one for the team. A grenade was in the kitchen, and she was throwing her body on it. She was giving herself up for the safety of her family.

They were gone within minutes.

I sat there in the rented kitchen, took a bite out of a danish without looking, and gave a silent prayer for my wife, a good woman. A solid woman. Somebody who was about to have a fairly rotten day.

And then I spit something out of my mouth. Dirt. My danish was covered in dirt.