Apartment 7C

by David Bernstein

  Beth stepped into the kitchen and glanced around. Like the rest of the apartment, it was clean. There were no dishes in the sink, nor any crumbs or stains on the table or floor. The place was drab, with yellowing curtains around the windows, walls the color of over-cooked eggshells and wooden cabinets that appeared like something from the early 1970s. There were no charming plaques that read “Marcy’s Kitchen” or “Café Brooklyn”. There were no pictures of fruit in fruit bowls, or ceramic tiles with vegetables painted on them above the counter. It was obvious the place belonged to a tyrant, the asshole never giving Marcy a penny toward decorating the home. But when Beth had passed by the living room, she saw a large flat-screen and a beautiful leather recliner. She was sure these belonged to Carl, and that he had other nice things as well.

  The entire apartment was cold, unwelcoming.

  Marcy walked to the table and turned around to face Beth. With the bright sunlight blasting the room, there was no more hiding what she looked like. Beth lost the ability to breathe at what she saw.

  During the walk down the hallway, Beth had tried to prepare herself for Marcy’s appearance, by thinking of Alice’s battered corpse—for nothing could be so horrible in appearance. But seeing Marcy now, the door no longer obstructing her face, the shadows pushed back by the light, it took everything Beth had in her to not cry out. She felt herself begin to shake, and grew angry. She couldn’t let on how upset she was feeling, or how much she pitied the woman.

  Marcy’s right eye looked like a boxer’s after a grueling ten-round fight, puffy and plum-purple. Her lips were swollen on the right side and split on the left. But it was the scabs and scarring along her face, neck and arms that told the story.

  Marcy’s abuse had been going on for some time, years most likely. Carl was taking his time, killing her as slowly as possible, avoiding the authorities. Anything serious, requiring a hospital visit, and not even he’d be able to cover it up.

  Beth didn’t want to dwell on what she was seeing, but it needed to be done—because her own daughter had been beaten, the beatings worsening over time until the one day the guy went too far and had lost control.

  Carl was like her daughter’s husband, Jim. Both men had cold, maniac’s eyes that made a person want to look away. But at any time, Jim, like Carl, could put on his mask, making those peepers appear friendly, welcoming, warm. These men were monsters, demons. Beth wondered how such abuse could go on with so many witnesses on the floor, in Alice’s life, but then she remembered Alice.

  Alice had friends and family too. Beth had let the abuse go on, hadn’t she? She’d known what was happening, but did nothing. To her defense, she had no idea how bad the abuse was, her daughter keeping it well hidden. Jim never left any marks where they could easily be seen. Too many public events for the couple.

  Marcy appeared to be a different story—like a damsel trapped in a monster’s den, never allowed out.

  Marcy finished up her third piece of cake, leaving only a few crumbs behind. Pecking at a fallen morsel resting at the center of the plate, she looked up, meeting Beth’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling her hand back and leaving the crumb be. Then she looked down at the almost empty plate. “My husband doesn’t allow me to eat such things. Says I’m fat.”

  “Ridiculous,” Beth said, gently, reaching out and patting the back of Marcy’s left hand. “You’re a bag of bones, child. Eat up. Enjoy. I bet he eats whatever he wants.”

  Marcy chortled. “Yeah, he does. He’s a health nut. Always wants fish and poultry and salads. Oh and his precious Gatorade. It’s all the asshole drinks when he gets home from work. Says it rejuvenates him.”

  Beth pushed the plate with cake on it closer to Marcy.

  The woman had another two pieces before sitting back and saying how full she was. They chatted about the weather, but not much else; they had very little in common, save the abuse, which after a moment of silence, Marcy brought up.

  “Did you really mean it when you said you’ve seen worse?”

  The question surprised Beth. She was beginning to think the topic wouldn’t be broached, at least not by Marcy. Maybe the girl did want help. Maybe she was stronger than Beth gave her credit for.

  “Yes,” she said. “I most certainly have.”

  In gruesome detail, wanting to portray the images in Marcy’s head so she would never forget them, Beth went on to explain what had happened to her daughter.

  “Oh my God,” Marcy said, wide eyed, holding a hand to her mouth. “He killed her.”

  Beth nodded. “And that’s why I’m here, dear.”

  “You think Carl will kill me. That one day I’ll end up like Alice?”

  “If you stay with your husband…yes.”

  “He’d never kill me,” Marcy said, glancing away and sounding disappointed. “He enjoys pounding on me too much. And besides, he’s a cop. He knows what to do and has an army of brothers to help.”

  “That might be true, but there’ll come a day when he goes too far. Trust me.”

  Marcy said nothing, seeming to have gone inward.

  “The only thing he can’t cover up is a dead body,” Marcy finally said. “At least I don’t think he can, and if he tried it would be much harder to explain.” She looked up at Beth. “That’s what I tell myself every day, you know?”

  Beth didn’t care for Marcy’s body language or the woman’s tone. Her shoulders were slumped, and she looked lost again.

  “More tea?” Marcy asked, as if in a daze.

  “Please.”

  Marcy rose to her feet slowly and meandered to the stove. Beth hadn’t noticed it earlier, but the woman was walking with a slight limp.

  “Leg bothering you?” she asked.

  “No, it’s my back.”

  “You know, Marcy, you’re a much stronger woman than I’d imagined. You’re not some delusional wreck making excuses for her husband. Why haven’t you left him?” Beth wanted to be blunt. Get the woman’s spirits up and find out what was really going on with her.

  Marcy stood in front of the stove, waiting for the water to boil. It was already hot and wouldn’t take long.

  “I’ve thought about it,” she said, staring ahead at the wall. “I can’t imagine a woman in my condition not thinking about it. I’ve got nowhere to go. What would I do? How would I survive? I never even finished high school.” She gave a chuckle. “I’m unemployable.”

  “There are plenty of women’s shelters. And they’ll even help you get your GED.”

  Marcy stared hard at Beth.

  “He’s a detective. A very well-respected and high-ranking officer. He’s really, really good at his job. He’d find me no matter where I went.”

  “I thought shelters were private. Protected women’s identities. Like AA.”

  “I’m sure they do their best, but if someone wants to find someone they can. And a person like Carl, a bloodhound, can’t be stopped. Won’t be stopped.”

  The teapot began to whistle. Marcy turned the burner off.

  “Do you know how he became a detective so fast?” she continued. “He’s got a nose for finding things out. For finding people, guns, drugs. It’s like he’s supernatural or something. Made for that shit.”

  “So he’s an intelligent abuser,” Beth said gently. She didn’t want Marcy going into defensive mode, like Alice had. Alice could talk badly about her husband all she wanted, but the minute someone else did she went into defensive mode. Made excuses for the asshole’s actions.

  “Yes, he is,” Marcy confirmed.

  “What if I hired an attorney for you? You could get a divorce, take half of Carl’s pay. That’ll keep you on your feet and really get that bastard.”

  Marcy shook her head rapidly. “No, no, no, no. No way. He’d kill me for sure.”

  “We’ll get you a protective order.”

 
; “And do you really think a piece of paper will keep him away?”

  “If he touches you, comes near you, he’ll be arrested.”

  “Then out the next day. He’ll find me and kill me.”

  Both women sat in silence. Beth needed to think. Needed to come up with something.

  “I’ll never be free,” Marcy said, almost to herself, and closed her eyes.

  “Don’t say that.” Beth scooted her chair closer to Marcy. “There are thousands of women across the country like yourself, in the same situation you are in. And every day more and more are getting out of the nightmare, turning their lives around.”

  “Yeah?” Marcy said heatedly as she opened her eyes. “And how many of them have people to help them? Family members?— ’cause I have no one.” She slammed a fist down on the table, startling Beth for a moment. “And how many of them have a detective for a husband? No—I’m stuck in this hellhole with the devil himself. Unless…”

  “Unless what?” Beth asked.

  “Unless one of us dies.”

  Beth didn’t like the tone in Marcy’s voice; she appeared hopeless.

  “No need to do anything that you’ll regret,” Beth told her. She reached out and cupped Marcy’s jaw. The two women’s eyes met. Beth knew then that Marcy had contemplated suicide at one time or another.

  “Kill him and he wins. Kill yourself and he wins.” Beth sat back.

  It was getting late. There were still a few hours left before Carl was due home, but Marcy looked all chatted out, tired. Beth didn’t want to push her any further. They’d talked, and hopefully Beth’s visit did some good—showed Marcy that she had someone in her corner. It might take a few visits, but Beth was pretty sure she would get through to her.

  Marcy thanked her for the cake and the visit. Said it was nice to be able to talk to someone, which lightened Beth’s heart a little. Marcy told her to take the cake with her, not wanting any evidence that she had had a guest. Beth told Marcy to hang in there and to never again think of hurting herself, or Carl—unless she absolutely had to. They would find a solution together.

  Chapter Four

  A few hours later, Beth made a small grilled chicken salad for dinner, making sure to get the food down before Carl came home. She was afraid his presence would upset her, churn the acids in her stomach to the point that she wouldn’t be able to eat.

  After dinner she sat on the couch and relaxed with a book. Amazingly with everything going on, she was able to concentrate on it, becoming completely absorbed in the story. By the time she looked at the clock, two hours had gone by. She’d purposely kept the TV off, wanting to hear when Carl arrived. But it was 8:00 p.m. and she didn’t remember hearing a thing. Shit, she had no idea if Carl had come home.

  After saving her place with a bookmark, Beth placed the novel on the coffee table. She stood, needing to use the bathroom, when a knock sounded at her door. As quietly as possible, she made her way over to it and peered through the peephole, making sure to stand far enough away so that the glass-eye wouldn’t darken, letting the person on the other side know she was there.

  It was Carl.

  Beth’s breath caught in her chest, her eyes went wide and her jaw dropped open. Crap. He must know. Did Marcy tell him about the conversation they had? Not wanting to find out, Beth attempted to back away, but a creaky floorboard made her presence known.

  “Mrs. Baker?” Carl asked. He knocked again softly, as if he were just checking up on her, making sure the little old lady was “all right”. “I know you’re in there.”

  She had to make up her mind quickly, be cautious, weary? Ask him what he wanted through the closed door, or open it and act natural, as if she hadn’t a care in the world?

  Beth decided on the latter, and unlocked both locks, then opened the door, greeting Carl with a smile.

  “Carl,” she said. “How are you? Is everything all right?” Damn it. She was over-doing it. The man’s a cop; he’ll know something’s amiss.

  “Mrs. Baker—” he began.

  “Call me, Beth,” she said.

  “Beth…could we talk inside?”

  Beth felt her stomach drop. She couldn’t let this guy inside her apartment. He must know something, know she talked to Marcy. If she let him in he could hurt her. No one would be the wiser, everyone thinking he was hurting his wife. He could snap her neck in a second, killing her quickly and quietly. The whole thing blamed on a home invasion. Maybe he already killed Marcy and was here to kill her. Leave no witnesses.

  “I’m just getting ready for bed, dear,” she told him, trying her best to sound natural, even though her heart was pounding against her chest. “And besides…my place is a mess. Could this wait until tomorrow?”

  “Please,” he said, almost begging. He seemed like the furthest thing from a monster that beat his wife. “It’s important. It’s about my Marcy.”

  Beth was about to tell him no, that he’d have to come back tomorrow, when a loud bang sounded from next door.

  Beth jumped.

  Carl had a confused look on his face. She could see he was thinking. Then his face went slack as if he’d shit his pants.

  “Fuck,” he yelled, looking furious. His face reddened as if he had been holding his breath for too long, and he bolted for his apartment, yelling his wife’s name over and over.

  Then the realization of what happened hit Beth like a hard slap to the face.

  “No,” she said, her voice cracking as she ran next door and into apartment 7C.

  She hurried down the hallway, stopping abruptly just inside the kitchen, forgetting how to breathe again. A goopy mix of skull, blood and brain matter caked part of the wall behind one of the kitchen chairs, streaks of red, like tears, sliding down it. A large chunk of something, no longer able to stick, came away and splatted onto the floor. Carl was leaning over Marcy’s body, holding a pair of fingers to her neck, feeling for a pulse, but Beth already knew she was dead. A handgun rested on the floor near the body’s right hand. The back of Marcy’s head had a gaping hole in it, and her blonde hair was mangled with blood. Beth covered her mouth, feeling the contents of her dinner wanting to rise.

  “This is Detective Carl Bradley. I need an ambulance at—”

  Beth felt woozy and stumbled, catching herself on the wall. She lost all ability to hear as her ears rung loudly. She closed her eyes, steadied herself. As the sound of Carl’s voice came back, she opened her eyes again.

  The man was stuffing the cell phone back into a pocket of his jeans. Blood was pooling around Marcy’s corpse, almost at Carl’s feet. Beth thought he looked like a vampire hunched over its victim. He glanced up at Beth who had pushed herself away from the wall toward Marcy’s body.

  Carl had said ambulance. He needed an ambulance.

  “She’s alive?” Beth asked hopefully.

  “No, you cunt,” Carl barked.

  Beth’s body grew heavy at the news, her hope crushed. Carl’s eyes were locked onto hers. She wasn’t able to look away.

  “You did this,” he growled, then stood up fast. “You…”

  Beth took a step backward. Her legs were shaking. She was frightened, more so than ever before. A madman—a monster—was standing before her. He looked ready to pounce. To squeeze the life from her. But then she remembered that he had dialed 911. He wouldn’t risk hurting her now—unless he lost control, but Beth wouldn’t do anything to allow that to happen. Tomorrow, when the scene was quiet again, would be another story.

  Still locked onto his gaze, Beth wanted to look away—to run—but being the first to flinch, like with a wild animal, could prove dangerous.

  “I—” she began.

  “You,” he said again, pointing a finger at her. “I’ll get you for this.”

  Beth staggered backward as if she’d been struck. When Carl showed no signs of moving toward her, she felt a t
inge of heat in her belly. She was getting angry. No way was this guy going to blame her for Marcy’s suicide.

  “You’re responsible,” she told him. “You caused this, led that poor girl to kill herself. All the abuse she took. The badgering. She thought she had no way out. She’d rather kill herself than spend another moment with you. And when the paramedics and police get here not even you’ll be able to cover up the bruises. No hiding her away like an embarrassment.”

  Just as Marcy’s blood was about to reach Carl’s left foot, he took a menacing step toward Beth, then stopped. Grinning he said, “The dead don’t speak. It’s the word of a decorated detective against a drunk for a wife. A wife with years of mental problems, and all documented.”

  “That’s a damn lie. I won’t allow you to ruin her image any more than you already have. I’ll talk. I’ll tell everything I know.”

  “You see any abuse?” he asked wryly.

  “What?” Beth asked, confused.

  “Did you witness any of the abuse?”

  Beth thought for a moment. The asshole was right. She hadn’t actually seen anything. “I heard plenty.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry about that, Mrs. Baker. Marcy was hard of hearing and kept the volume way up.”

  Beth was feeling overwhelmed, flustered. “The marks, the scars.”

  “Self inflicted. Oh, and didn’t my wife mention, she was mugged earlier this week. Filed the report myself.”

  Shaking, Beth yelled, “You don’t even care that she’s dead, do you?”

  Carl rubbed a hand over his head. His eyes widened, his lower lip trembled. Tears filled his eyes. All this happened within seconds.

  “I loved my wife,” he said, his voice cracking as he spoke. “Yeah—we had problems, but what couple doesn’t?

  “She was my soulmate. My one and only. And now she’s gone.” Tears slid down his cheeks.

  Beth was taken aback. Startled. The man had to be the best actor in the world. He was certifiable, completely crazy. And even though she knew he had to be lying, she felt her heart grow heavy for the man. But then the sad, heartfelt scene changed. Carl’s eyes grew cold again, and had that predatory appearance. He grinned wickedly.