by A. O. Peart
I stomped my foot in frustration, not realizing I was standing in a puddle. “Really?” I looked up at the sky, as if awaiting an answer. Actually, I was expecting an answer, since I had none of my own.
The light finally changed, and I crossed the street. I spotted a cab and yelled, “Hey!” waving frantically and running in its direction.
An older couple came out of nowhere, and the taxi stopped right in front of them.
“Fuck me senseless,” I mused, crossing my arms over my chest while watching the man open the door for his female companion and then get inside after her. I ignored the rain mercilessly running down my face. I was getting cold and started to shiver. My windbreaker wasn’t waterproof, which was a stupid choice for the Pacific Northwest climate. I made a mental note to get a good rain jacket after my next shift. There was one REI store down the street from Firehouse 8 where I worked.
I pulled out my phone and, shielding it from the rain as much as I could, scrolled through my address book, trying to locate the number for a taxi service. I found one and was about to dial it, when I looked up and saw an approaching cab. I ran to the curb and waved my arms up in the air, “Hey! Stop! Hey!”
He slowed down, looking at me as if assessing me for a possible threat. I made an effort to push aside my flaring temper and make my smile appear friendly. It apparently worked, because the car rolled down to a stop. I yanked the door open and slid in.
“Thanks, man.” I wiped my face with my hands and raked my fingers through my soaking wet hair.
“Where to?” the driver asked. He looked at me in the rearview mirror. His bushy graying eyebrows lifted toward his hair, deepening the creases in his forehead.
I gave him the address and patted my pants pockets to double check where my wallet was. I found it and leaned back in the seat. The rain pelted the windows, obscuring the view. The city seemed as if it was about to drown. I heard a shrieking siren in the distance and stiffened at the familiar sound, trying to locate the direction it was coming from. And then I saw it—Engine 12 turned the corner, lights blazing, siren screeching.
The taxi driver moved to the side of the street, allowing the fire truck to pass. I worked at the Firehouse 8, but I knew all the guys from Firehouse 12. I turned to watch them drive off in the opposite direction, wondering what was going on. A moment later, the cab was back on the road, taking me to Rita’s apartment.
I took out my cell phone and texted my cousin Ethan. He took an extra shift tonight to cover for someone at the Firehouse 8. A few minutes later he texted me back. He already knew about the call, as all the Houses in the area were notified, but he double checked the computer and said the Engine 12 went to some minor job close to their location.
I relaxed, hearing that nothing serious went on. It was the firefighter and the former Marine so I felt obliged to be ready even though it was my day off.
The cab pulled to the curb in front of a three-story apartment building. Four similar buildings surrounded it on both sides. Each of them was painted ugly brown. The graying-white paint on the trim around the windows was chipped in places. Dark smudges ran from the corners of the windows, giving the buildings a sad, run-down appearance.
I paid the fare, opened the door, and swiftly got out of the cab. Pouring rain immediately assaulted me, but I didn’t care—I was already soaking wet. I jogged to the building door and glanced at the painted large white number on the wall. It was the right address. The door opened with a little, high-pitched squeak. I ducked inside and shook my head in several rapid movements. Water drops flew from my hair in a wide, wet arc. I stomped my boots, took my jacket off, and shook it too, then put it back on. It was cold, and I swore in frustration, shivering. I should’ve been in my house, having another beer in front of the blazing fireplace, with Cora, my dog, sprawled by my side. Why the hell did I agree to come here?
But there was no use arguing with myself now. I had already promised Rita to check on her friend. I would pop in, make sure the woman was safe, and then call a cab to take me home. A hot shower and dry clothes never sounded so good.
The fluorescent lights mounted above the stairs bathed the place in a sickening, ghostly light. The walls were smudged with all kinds of dirt and decorated with graffiti. I climbed the stairs two at the time, not bothering to check if there was an elevator. I never had. Besides, Rita’s apartment was on the second floor—hardly worth worrying about an elevator.
Her door was right across from the staircase. It had a small peephole and an old mat in front of it. I hesitated with my fist poised to knock. I didn’t even know the woman’s name. My exchange with Rita was short, and so I only got the address. I frowned, imagining how the conversation with Rita’s friend would go: Hi, I’m Jack. Rita asked me to check on you. Are you okay? By the way, what’s your name?
This was going to be awkward. Oh, hell—I had to go ahead with it and then get back home. I was about to knock, when I heard the building’s main door slam and someone run up the stairs, stomping heavily. I turned to see and came face-to-face with an angry-looking dude in his early thirties. He was much shorter than me, but stocky. His wet blond hair was plastered to his head, and his clothes were dripping wet from the rain, just like mine were a moment earlier.
He gave me an irritated look, but I only nodded to him and said, “Hey, you alright?”
“Did you see anyone here?” he asked without preamble, his eyes dancing over my face.
I shrugged. “No. Who are you looking for?”
“My fucking girlfriend! The bitch took off from my apartment. I have to find her!” he yelled, gritting his teeth. The guy definitely had anger issues.
I held my hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Take it easy, man.” He was most likely Rita’s friend’s boyfriend—the one she’d run from. I couldn’t blame her. He seemed like a complete fuckup.
His eyes narrowed and his jaw squared. He looked like a pissed off bull. I’d dealt with assholes like this one countless times in the past, so I was far from being intimidated. But I also had no intention of getting in another fight tonight. I took a step back and leaned against the wall. I shrugged and put my hands in my jeans pockets, assuming non-threatening stance.
“Fuck this,” he murmured and ran up the stairs.
“You got that right,” I said under my breath, turning back to the door.
A door upstairs slammed with such a force that it felt as if the whole building shook. It must’ve been that stocky SOB. A moment later I heard something crashing to the floor upstairs. It sounded like a whole bunch of plates. I shook my head, telling myself this wasn’t really any of my business. Years ago I would’ve gone up there just for kicks—to see what was going on and possibly kick some ass. That was always fun back then. Not anymore.
I knocked and waited, but nobody answered. Something else crashed to the floor upstairs. I slowly shook my head at that and whispered to myself, “Crazy son of a gun.”
I waited then knocked again and said, “Hey, I’m Jack—Rita’s friend. She asked me to come and check on you. Are you in there, ma’am?”
I heard something like shuffling or sniffling. I put my ear close to the door and said, “I’m here to help. You can call Rita and ask her. My name is Jack McCoy.”
The lock on the door made a clicking sound and then the door slid open a notch. A large blue eye blinked at me. “Jack?”
“Yeah, that’s my name,” I assured her.
Chapter Two
The door opened wide. My heart stopped, lodging itself somewhere inside my throat. I stared at her bruised face and her swollen lip. She motioned me inside, and then grabbed my arm and pulled me in, quickly slamming the door behind me. She slid the lock in place and turned to look at me.
We stood in silence for what it seemed like eternity, until I lifted my hand and gently touched her cheek with the back of my fingers. Her chin trembled, and a lonely tear ran down her face.
“Willow?” I asked, my voice sounding shocked, confused, and disbelieving
. It was shaky, just like my whole body. My head spun, I couldn’t quite fit into reality what I was seeing. “Willow, is that you?” I asked again. “Who did this … wait, it was that piece of shit I just talked to, right? You heard the conversation through that door, didn’t you? I’m gonna kill him!” I unlocked the door and yanked on the handle, ready to run up the stairs.
She grabbed my arm with both hands and cried out, “No! Please Jack, no more. No more violence. Don’t do that, please.”
I froze in place, remembering our past. For a long moment I couldn’t move. My whole body felt as if it turned to stone and only my eyes were still under my control. Finally, very slowly, I managed to turn my head to look at her. She was pressing her hands to her mouth, trying to contain the sobs. Her shoulders shook, her eyes brimming with tears and silently pleading.
She hung her head, turned away, and walked into the tiny kitchen. A small lamp by the window was on, bathing the kitchen in a dim light. I followed her in there and stood, lost in uncertainty, anger, and sorrow. How was this even possible? This couldn’t be happening. This was Willow. My Willow. No, not mine anymore, but even now, my heart still belonged to her.
We just stood there—her badly beaten on the outside and for sure broken inside; me—furious, ready to pound the guy who did that to her into a pulp. But at the same time, I couldn’t do that. One word from her kept me from doing what I thought was absolutely necessary—what I would’ve done in the past, regardless of her stopping me.
I took my wet jacket off and draped it to dry on the back of a chair. The apartment was very warm, so the rest of my clothes would dry quickly. I opened the freezer compartment over the fridge to look for some ice. A large, blue icepack peeked from under bags of various frozen foods. I took it out and said, “Willow … come here. Please.” My throat felt dry, like a piece of old parchment.
She stood by the window with her back to me, hugging herself. She didn’t move and I wanted to go to her, but I wouldn’t dare because of the circumstances. Because of our past. Because of her present. There was a vehement battle going on inside my mind: guilt gnawed at me, swiftly replaced by sorrow and then despair, followed by a flash of boiling anger then quieted by yearning.
Six years had passed, but she still had my heart. Hell, she always would. And now I faced the burden of my past that I carried buried deep inside me.
I took a few steps until I stood right behind her and offered her the icepack. She took it, thanked me, and gingerly pressed it onto her face. I wanted to comfort her, to hold her, and tell her that I would protect her from now on, if she only let me do so. But I couldn’t say a word. It was as if I had lost the ability to speak.
I was becoming frustrated by my own indecisiveness… no, that wasn’t it. I wasn’t exactly indecisive. I was apprehensive. That’s what made me stand there frozen in place, unsure, and afraid of how she would react to any attempt to soothe her. Maybe the only thing she wanted was for me to get the hell out of here, or run herself; just like all those years ago, after she finally couldn’t put up with my wild ways any longer.
A pang of indignity slammed through me, making me squirm inside. I wasn’t a seventeen-year-old kid anymore, the one who itched to use his fists for the smallest reason, just to release the anger and reassure himself of his own worth. Those were my stupid years, and I paid dearly for all the mistakes I’d made back then.
Following Ethan to the Marine Corps and then becoming a firefighter were the best two things I’d ever done to put my life back on track. I’d gotten my ass kicked harder than I could ever imagine possible while serving in the Corps, which was exactly what I needed. I got my dignity and purpose back when I became a firefighter. Saving innocent lives was what finally saved me from destroying myself.
“Willow,” I whispered. “Please talk to me. What can I do?”
Very slowly, she turned to face me. Tears gathered in her eyes until they spilled down her bruised face. She tried to blink them away, but they just kept coming. I felt my hand lift and, as if in a dream, my fingers brushed her cheek, until I caught one shiny tear on the pad of my thumb. I watched it roll down over my skin all the way to my wrist. I looked at Willow’s face. Renewed anger mixed with despair flooded through me, making me grit my teeth. I wanted to go and find that lowlife, rip his guts out, and stick them into his fucking mouth until he choked to death.
“I had no idea it would be you,” she said quietly.
“What?”
“When I called Rita, she said she would send a friend to check on me. She said he … you … are a firefighter, a good guy who I can trust.” Her voice caught, but she took a deep, ragged breath, composing herself. “I mean, I just …” She turned back to the window, looking small and lost.
“Willow, you can trust me. I get that you didn’t know it would be me. What are the odds? We haven’t spoken in years, not since…”
There was an uncomfortable silence between us. Finally, I exhaled loudly and said, “Look, I’ll do what you think necessary, but in my opinion that guy needs to pay. If you really have a problem with me kicking his ass, at least report this to the cops.”
Willow nodded. “I already called 911, right before you arrived. They should be here soon.”
“Good. You also need to see a doctor. These bruises don’t look good.” I gently turned her back to me.
She kept her head down, so I lifted her chin with my finger and tried to smile. But I couldn’t—not with her face battered. It was bad, really bad. Her left cheek was swollen and already turning purple, her lip was split and swollen too; and although it stopped bleeding, some of the blood was smeared on her chin. There were scratches on her face and neck too.
I brushed her hair to the side and saw another bruise peeking from under her torn shirt. It was right above her collar bone, spreading to her shoulder. I gently moved the ripped fabric to uncover the spot and immediately wanted to go find that guy and punch him really hard. More than once. My teeth clenched, and I felt a muscle tighten and jump in my jaw. I looked sharply at her. “Did he do that, too?”
She lowered her eyes.
“Willow? Answer me, please.” I tried to keep my voice soft, but it was a real challenge. What kind of an asshole would do such a thing to a woman? “Was it him?”
She nodded almost imperceptibly, the corners of her mouth turning down. God, I couldn’t stand her suffering like this. I had to do something. I may have been a big lug with not enough finesse to handle a woman’s distress, but I sure knew how to beat the shit out of assholes who hit women! Some of my siblings and cousins were much better equipped to console victims, but none of them were here. I didn’t want any of them here now anyway, no matter how close we were.
Willow and I had a past together, and even though we’d parted ways in not the best circumstances, this wasn’t about our past relationship. This was about a human being beaten and injured by some fucker who should pay for what he did.
I did the only thing I could think of—I pulled her into my arms and carefully held her to my chest.
At first she stiffened, but then slowly her body relaxed, and her head finally rested right above my heart. She kept her hands by her sides, but that was fine. We stood motionless for a long time. No words were needed, no assurances, and no explanations. The only thing I wanted her to feel now was that she was safe and protected. That’s what I could offer her.
A loud knock sounded on the door and a female voice called, “This is the police! We are looking for Willow Conrad.” It startled both of us.
“Shh, it’s okay.” I gently rubbed Willow’s back and disengaged her from my embrace. “Come with me.”
She followed me, and I opened the door. A female police officer stood at the threshold. She had dark hair tied at the nape of her neck and steely-gray eyes that latched on me as soon as I came into her vision. She was tall and kind of imposing. Her features reminded me of a much younger version of Raquel Welch.
“I’m Officer Caprissi. We received a rep
ort of a domestic violence from Willow Conrad. Is she here?”
“That’s me. I’m Willow Conrad and I was the one who called,” Willow’s small voice came from behind my back.
I glanced over my shoulder when I realized she seemed to hide and peek from behind me.
A male officer walked down the stairs from the floor above. He was short and sported a buzz-cut and a very round, pot belly. He appeared to be in his late thirties while the woman couldn’t be older than about twenty-eight.
Officer Caprissi turned to look at her partner when he said, “The apartment upstairs is empty, but totally trashed. Whoever did that was really disturbed. The door was left unlocked, but the perpetrator isn’t there.” The low baritone didn’t quite belong with his physique, but I pushed that thought aside.
The female officer nodded to him and then turned to look at me. “May we come in?” she asked.
I opened the door wider and stood aside with Willow still behind me. “Please.” I motioned them in.
They came in, and I closed the door. They followed us to the tiny room that, I guessed, served as family and living room in one.
“Ma’am.” Officer Caprissi indicated for Willow to approach and sit down. She took out a pad to make the police report and started asking Willow questions about the incident.
The male cop turned to me and said, “Sir, may I see some identification, please?”
“Certainly.” I took my wallet out. I opened it and showed him my driver’s license. “Do you want me to take it out of the wallet?” The license was easily visible through the plastic cover, but I asked anyway.