by Joseph Souza
After consuming three beers, I go behind the bar and fill up my growler with an IPA. Then I go back to my cluttered office, put my tired feet up on the desk, and drown out the empty chatter filling my head.
LEAH
Thursday, October 22, 6:15 p.m.
I FALL TO THE FLOOR, CLUTCHING THE PHONE TO MY CHEST. MY BODY is on fire and painful to the touch, as if I’ve suffered third-degree burns. Angry screams echo inside my skull. What do I do now that Russell has seen me?
How did he know? It’s dark in my bedroom and almost impossible to make anything out. Or is it? I examine my phone and wonder what gave me away. A flash? I swipe my hand over my scalp and curse at myself for being so stupid. Mr. Shady sneaks in through the bedroom door and begins to bark madly. I gently push him aside, whispering for him to go back downstairs. He growls for a few seconds before leaving the room. I want to climb under the covers and stay there forever. But I can’t. Someone is ringing the doorbell.
I ball up in a fetal position. But then I hear footsteps and realize that either Zack or Zadie is going to answer it. I drop my phone, jump off the floor, and sprint downstairs, leaping past Zack until I’m in front of him. Thankfully, the front door is locked. Through the peephole I see Russell pounding on the door and jabbing his finger on the doorbell.
“You fucking pervert,” Russell shouts. “You better erase that video or there’s going to be trouble.”
“Is that man trying to break in to our house?” Zack asks, looking scared.
“No, he’s just upset about something.”
“Upset about what?”
“I don’t know.” I stand with my back against the door.
“Is he going to kill us?”
“No, Zack. Now, go up to your room.”
Instead, Zack walks toward the living room window.
“It’s our neighbor, Mr. Gaines,” he says. “Why is he banging on our door?”
“Go back up to your room.”
“Better erase that video,” Gaines shouts.
“What video?” Zack asks. “What is he talking about?”
“Goddamn peeping Tom,” Russell shouts.
“Is that true?” Zack asks.
“No.” I look out the window and see Russell stomping back down the pathway. When I look over, I notice that Zack is running upstairs.
I scamper after him, practically out of breath. I run into Zack’s room and notice that he’s not there. I check Zadie’s room and see that she’s buried under the covers. Poor girl. Where else could Zack be? My mind is racing, adrenaline fueling my righteous anger. Upon entering my bedroom, I notice that my phone is gone. The brat took it. I stomp around, looking for him, pissed at this invasion of my privacy. He’s not in the closet or behind the dresser. I fall to the floor, lift the covers, and see him. The light from the phone’s flashlight temporarily blinds me, and I realize that I must have switched the flashlight app on by accident. I reach out to grab him, but he slides away from me, his eyes trained on the screen.
“Give me that phone, young man, or you’re in big trouble.”
“They have no clothes on and his wiener’s huge,” Zack says, eyes glued to the video.
I crawl under the bed, but he slides out the other side.
“Give me that right now.”
“He’s choking Mrs. Gaines and hitting her. Is he trying to kill her?”
I slither out the other side as Zack leaps over the mattress. But he is too slow and I grab him by the elbow and push him onto the bed. His terrified eyes gaze up at me as I snatch the phone out of his hand. I’m so angry now that I feel like slapping his face.
“Why did you disobey me like that?”
“I’m sorry.” Tears fall down his freckled cheeks. “Why were you spying on them, Momma?”
“You should have listened to me.” I squeeze his elbow.
“Ow! You’re hurting me.”
“You’re lucky that’s all I do to you.”
“He’ll come over here and kill us. He knows you were spying on them.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Why’d you do it?”
“That’s none of your business.”
He sobs. “When his hands are around your neck, I won’t stop him. I’ll let him kill you.”
I push him hard against the mattress and then let him go. He sprints back to his room, bawling. What have I done? It’s the first time I’ve ever laid a finger on my children and now I’ve scarred him for life.
I collect myself, wondering what to do next. Something seems not right. I don’t enjoy spying on people. I was only trying to help Clarissa in the event he tried to kill her. I hold up the phone and watch the video. As much as I want to turn away, I keep my eyes glued to the screen. Russell walks in and sees his wife lying on the bed. He flips her over and places his large hands on her waist. His back is to me as he chokes her with one hand and slaps her with the other. His hips start to grind back and forth. But then he stops for no apparent reason and turns one hundred and eighty degrees, looking in my direction. He approaches the window and starts to lean forward when the video shakes and goes black.
How did he know I was filming them? Did a feeling of being watched suddenly come over Russell? The only other explanation is that Clarissa told him. But why would she do that? She’s scared of her husband. It makes no sense for her to tell him this. I watch it again and am just as confused the second and third time.
The remainder of the evening passes in a blur. The mood in the house feels dark and scary. I go in the bedroom and comfort Zadie. She smiles at me from her bed as she repeatedly combs her doll’s long blond hair. The doll squeaks some bland comment whenever she pulls its hair hard enough. Zadie makes the doll speak while I’m sitting next to her. “You’re an evil person, Leah,” I imagine the doll saying. Zadie laughs at the doll’s droll comments, but it freaks me out all the same. Am I losing my mind? I reassure Zadie that I care about her and that everything is all right. It doesn’t concern me that my eleven-year-old daughter still plays with dolls at her age. I suppose she’ll move on to other things when she’s ready.
I go into Zack’s room, bearing milk and cookies. He’s sitting in his rocking chair and reading a book with a red cover and with the words The Turner Diaries in the title. He’s wearing earbuds attached to his tablet. The cover portrays a man and woman shooting rifles, and I assume it’s one of the many action novels he enjoys reading. I try to talk to him, but he wants nothing to do with me. He doesn’t even look up from the pages of his book to acknowledge me. I apologize profusely for hurting him. Tears stream down my face, but they have no effect. I hesitate for a moment before confessing to him that I was fearful for Mrs. Gaines’s safety. Something clicks and he looks up. A flicker of hope ignites inside me.
“You should have said that before you pushed me,” he says, coolly removing one earbud.
“I’m so sorry for doing that.”
“It doesn’t surprise me about the Gaineses.”
“Excuse me?”
“I read on the Internet that one out of every three black men have served time in prison.”
“I don’t want to talk about this right now, Zack.”
“It’s the facts, and the facts don’t lie.”
“There are historical reasons for these problems. Black people’s ancestors were enslaved and oppressed.”
“But the Gaineses were never slaves. And their house is way bigger than ours.”
“History casts a long shadow on certain people in our society. Slavery’s destructive force still affects black lives to this day.”
“President Obama?”
“That’s different.”
“LeBron James?”
“Please, Zack.”
“Oprah Winfrey?”
“I came here to apologize to you, not argue.”
“A race war is coming and we must be prepared.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“You didn’t just put your hands on me, Momma
. You pushed me very hard. You humiliated me.” He replaces his earbud. “And that’s inexcusable.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not accepted.”
“Will you ever be able to forgive me?”
“I can forgive, but I’ll never be able to forget what you did to me.”
I force a smile and lean in to kiss him, but he stiffens up as my lips press up against his clenched cheek. I hear something coming out of his earbuds and it’s not music. A man is screaming about Second Amendment rights. Do I dare say anything? Punish my son for listening to right-wing radio? He’s too young for ideology. Can an eleven-year-old identify with a radical political movement designed to enslave us?
He returns to his book as I walk out of his room. For the remainder of the night, I allow the children their privacy, delivering treats to their rooms and apologizing for my disgraceful behavior. Then I sit on the couch and think about my next move. Clay will not be home until midnight, if tonight is like most nights. I feel vulnerable and scared. For the first time in my life—I can’t believe I’m even thinking this—I wish I had something to protect myself and my family.
I sit on the couch, with my feet tucked under my haunches. On the coffee table in front of me sits a full bottle of Pinot. The first glass goes down easy and calms my nerves. The second glass takes a bit longer as I savor the fermented grape on my tongue. Tomorrow we’ll go see Mycah. Tomorrow we’ll get answers or else I will go to the police with my findings. It has to be this way.
CLAY
Friday, October 23, 6:21 a.m.
I DRAG MYSELF OUT OF BED AND SWALLOW THREE TYLENOL FOR MY hangover. The house possesses a weird vibe this morning. Forgoing a shower, I put on the same clothes I wore yesterday. They smell of yeast and fermented fruit.
I stagger downstairs and am ambushed by a messy house and Leah asleep on the couch. Laundry and dishes lie everywhere. An empty bottle of Pinot sits on the floor. What a disaster. What is she doing all day? Sitting around and reading her stupid chick novels while getting drunk?
I climb in my truck and drive away, picking up a coffee on my way to work. No way I want to sit around and hear her complain about this thing or that problem. I fear what I might have said if she woke up and saw me there. With each passing day, I find myself wanting to leave that depressing house as soon as possible.
LEAH
Friday, October 23, 7:44 a.m.
I WAKE UP TO THE SOUND OF A TOASTER POPPING. LIFTING MY MUDDLED head off the couch, I see the children sitting at the kitchen table and eating in an orderly fashion. An empty wine bottle lies on the floor beneath me. I pick it up and stuff it under the cushion so the children can’t see it. Then I stagger toward them, a pained smile over my face. Oh, how I wish I had eaten something last night to counter the effects of the alcohol.
A car door slams shut, and it’s like a gunshot going off in my head. I stagger over to the window and see Russell sitting in his BMW. He turns back and says something to his children, who sit buckled in their seats. Then he backs out of the driveway and leaves the neighborhood. Clarissa’s car is still parked in the driveway. Is she staying home today? Is she all right?
The kids eat quickly, gather their backpacks, and get ready to head out. I hand them their Lunchables, seeing how I’m too sick to make them a proper lunch. They seem quiet this morning, begrudgingly accepting my parting kiss. But I am glad to see them heading toward the bus stop, leaving me to my own devices. I blow them kisses and shout good-bye like a forlorn mom, but they don’t even turn to look at me.
Mr. Shady barks when I reach for his leash. I gulp down a couple of aspirin with a swallow of wine. Then I grab my coat, a paper bag, and head out. The sky is overcast this morning with flecks of rain. The starlings must have moved on to warmer climes, their flights of fancy finished for the year. The neighborhood looks more desolate than ever, maybe because of the scarcity of light. Or maybe because of my dark mood.
Mr. Shady lifts his hind leg and pees on one of the unfinished foundations. It leaves a dark stain that resembles Mount Fuji. A little further on he squats and poops on a scruffy thatch of grass. I scoop it up with the bag and follow Mr. Shady until we arrive at the Gaineses’.
Do I knock and check in on her? Or call her on my cell phone? I want to see her, to comfort her, and find out what happened last night. My head hurts, and not for a brief moment do I suspect her of betraying me.
I walk up the steps and ring her doorbell. After a minute the door opens and I see a wedge of her face. Her left eye looks slightly bruised and puffy. An overpowering sensation radiates from the center of my being as soon as she sees me.
“You’re taking quite a risk coming over here,” she whispers, cinching up her robe.
“I saw Russell drive away. He won’t return until evening.”
“How do you know that? Unless you’ve been keeping tabs on us?”
“It’s just something I’ve observed.”
“Would you like to come in?” She opens the door to let me inside.
“What should I do with Mr. Shady?”
“Tie him up along the back deck. He’ll be fine.”
I walk through the house and out onto her deck, and loop the leash over a post. Mr. Shady glares at me as I go back inside. I sit across from her in the living room. She pours me a mug of coffee, but it’s not coffee I want. A container of cream and a bowl of sugar cubes sit on the table.
“He’s really angry with me right now,” she says. “And with you too.”
“I saw what he did to you.”
She looks away in shame.
“Did he hurt you bad?”
“Bad enough. He slapped me around afterward. But it was the emotional abuse that hurt much worse. The name-calling and the way he put me down like I was a piece of garbage.”
“I’m so sorry, Clarissa. Why can’t husbands and wives treat each other with respect?”
“Like your husband?”
I hesitate before saying, “Yes.”
“You’ve at least opened my eyes to the possibility of a life without Russell.”
“Good. Now, you must find a way to get away from him if you want a normal life.”
“Yes, you’re right. I can see that more clearly now.”
“You’re a wonderful person, Clarissa. You deserve to be with someone who makes you happy.”
“It’s taken your friendship for me to see that.”
“Come with me and hear what Mycah has to say?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, the way Russell is acting right now.”
“Should I be worried?”
“You might want to protect yourself, Leah. Who knows how Russell will react when he sees you?”
“But how can I protect myself?”
“Have you ever thought about owning a gun?”
“A gun?” The word “gun” sounds foreign and frightening to my ears. “Is that really necessary?”
“If he suspects that you know about Cordell or Mycah, then your life could be in danger.”
“I don’t think he suspects me of anything except filming him.”
“I’m just saying, Leah, it wouldn’t hurt to have one. Considering what he’s capable of—what he’s possibly done.”
“But I don’t believe in gun ownership. I’ve never owned a gun in my life.”
“I’m just saying that you should consider it. Think about the safety of your family.”
“If you’re so concerned about it, why don’t you have one?”
She sipped her coffee and replaced it on the saucer. “What’s to say I don’t?”
I can’t believe my ears. “Clarissa, you’re the last person on earth I’d suspect of owning a gun.”
“That’s how frightened I am. I haven’t yet worked up the courage to use it. But if that bastard ever lays a hand on the kids . . .”
“Oh my God, I can’t believe this.”
“I can’t quite believe it either.” She smiles. “You must think I’m a ravin
g lunatic.”
“Hardly.”
“Do you think any less of me now?”
“How could I think less of you?” I say, trying to calm my emotions. “Do you know how to use it?”
“It’s a Ruger nine millimeter with a seven-round, single-stack magazine. You just aim and pull the trigger.” She lifts her coffee cup off the saucer. “I keep it hidden away so he doesn’t find it.”
“You’re so bad.”
“Would you like to see it?”
I don’t want to, but I nod anyway, feeling giddy about our dangerous little secret. She runs upstairs and returns a few minutes later with the gun. It looks big and scary as she places it in my palm.
“Oh wow, it’s really heavy.” I let its weight rest in my hand.
“You should take it,” she whispers. “Keep it in the house for protection, just in case.”
“I can’t even.” Just looking at it scares the daylights out of me.
“You have your family to think about.”
“But what about your family? You have children too.”
“I bought two just in case.”
“Two?” I pause to consider this. “Do you really think he’d come after me?”
“I don’t know my husband anymore or what he’s capable of doing. Clearly, he’s not the man I married. Moving here to Maine has made him crazier and more unpredictable.”
“I don’t think I could ever pull the trigger.”
“You could if it comes to protecting your family,” she says. “Go on. Take it. It will make you feel safe.”
“Okay. I’ll hold on to it for just a little bit,” I say, slipping the gun into my coat pocket. “But I hope I never have to use it.”
“I think I would like to go with you to see Mycah.”
“Will you tell me your secret during the drive?”
“I suppose it’s not fair that I know yours and you don’t know mine.”
“Not if we’re going to be friends, it isn’t.”
“Then again, life’s not fair.” Clarissa rises off the sofa and walks toward me instead of going upstairs.
She reaches into my pocket and takes out the gun. Pressing it into my slender hands, she lifts it as if to aim at something off in the distance. Her shimmering hair brushes against my cheek as she guides my forefinger over the metallic trigger. I close one eye and take aim at a carving of an African peasant woman.