“Shut up!”
Jenny’s recriminations flow on without a break. “You can’t control yourself at all, can you? If we’re going to stay together you’re going to have to see a shrink or something about this violence.”
“Shut up!” I yell.
“You think you’re being good, just because you’re not screaming the place down every day. Your sense of entitlement makes me sick. You’re so selfish!”
What have I done? “I just got back. I’m in terrible shape....”
“Oh yawn,” she interrupts. “That’s you all over. You behave badly, and then you justify it. Whine, whine.”
A slow, red heat beats at my temples. “I haven’t behaved badly. I’ll show you bad behaviour, so you’ll know the difference next time,” I hiss, moving towards her in a menacing fashion.
“Look at you, you stupid ape. I’m calling the shrink myself.”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”
She shoves her face towards mine as the steady stream of her contempt ripples relentlessly. “You’re a selfish bully just like your father.”
Then it happens. Before I can think. Before I can stop it. Not hard. A sudden thwack across the face to shut her the fuck up.
THIRTY-TWO
I wander around for hours, rehashing the conversation over and over again. ‘I should have said this. Why didn’t I think to say that?’ My eloquence grows like a fetus with each rehearsal, until my mass of logic runs on interrupted while Jenny listens entranced. At first I’m unaware of passersby, but a sudden giggle alerts me to the fact that I am muttering to myself, and I head towards Point Pleasant Park to wander people-less trails.
After getting what I should have said down pat, I begin to justify my loss of temper. Her calm is so provocative. Is there anything more galling than unmerited contempt just because I have a passionate character? And her allusions to my violence. How stupid is she? I’d told her in no uncertain terms never to compare me with my father, how offensive I found it. And here she is, barely a month after my return, insisting I have a problem with violence. She should meet somebody who is really violent, to know the difference. Somebody who would bash her face in, blacken her eyes, just like my father did.
She’s a controlled, unfeeling, unimaginative human being who cannot begin to understand the emotional complexity of somebody like me. How easy it must be to go through life as a Jenny, just like everybody else. I curse Jenny for not revelling in the fact that I am different.
I did hit her. I know this is wrong. Still, I didn’t hurt her, and she was being so provocative. Am I automatically in the wrong, just because I’m a man and therefore stronger? I can’t see why society should dictate such illogicalities anymore than it decides whether I smoke or not. If my hit is a light tap, no more than she is capable of giving me, then where is the wrong? I am not using my superior strength to advantage.
Of course, my rationalizations are bringing the argument onto another level of unpleasantness. Okay, it’s wrong. I have to concede this.
Hunger pangs have been cavorting around my stomach for some time now. I glance at my watch and am amazed to discover it’s five in the evening. I have been wandering for over four hours. A quick pat on my rear reminds me that I stalked out of the house without any money. I am torn between hunger (tripled once noticed) and the desire to drive Jenny frantic by staying out all night. I succumb after another hour of threatened famine and skulk back to the house.
Nobody is at home. At first I feel relief. Instead of spending the evening sulking and angry, I am free. I lock the door and leave the key in the lock, so that nobody can enter unless I let them in. Then I don a pair of holey underwear, which I could never wear in the presence of Susan (let alone April, who would no doubt evince unhealthy interest in my unexplored territory) and roll a joint. Jenny doesn’t exactly disapprove of marijuana — it’s more that she doesn’t enjoy it herself. Therefore, in true woman-like fashion, she sets out to diminish my enjoyment. For example, she knows I always love to talk when stoned, so she’ll turn on the TV. If I pursue my conversational desire, she’ll purse her lips and say, “I’m sorry Gabriel, but I’d rather watch the film. You aren’t talking very intelligently, you know.” Since I’m under the impression that I am being very intelligent indeed, this never fails to crush me. I subside and try to concentrate on the film, which is so clever it’s beyond me altogether.
So it is a ‘fuck you’ gesture to light up and fill the house with the reek of joint, especially as I expect Jenny and her sister to waltz in together.
After spending an eternity enjoying my stone and marvelling that time is passing so slowly, I make Kraft Dinner, adding masses of extra cheese and some hot sauce. Jenny likes healthy meals, and literally gags on Kraft Dinner. I know it’s rotten food, but I have a sneaking fondness for it and often slip a packet or two into the cart when it’s my turn to do the shopping. I also gather chips, yogurt, a large bottle of coke and my cigarettes within comfortable reach and turn on the television.
When I start to nod off, I totter towards bed, leaving yogurt cartons and cigarette butts rebelliously in my wake. If I am lucky, perhaps they will discover April exploring a cigarette butt.
I glance at my watch before I succumb to exhaustion — 11:00 p.m. Perhaps Jenny had the same idea about ‘punishing’ me by doing a disappearing act. If she knew how unworried I am.
The next day is different. Enough already. I try to enjoy my breakfast but find myself listening every time somebody goes by the house, to see if they are going to stop and come in. Then I start to imagine footsteps coming up to the door. Twice I go to the hall in case the door needs to be unlocked.
I am annoyed at myself and the ruination of my Sunday. I go out and visit a friend in the afternoon, for the pleasure of sitting and watching TV with somebody else. It happens to be a mutual friend, and I ask him if he’s heard from Jenny, like, in the past twenty-four hours. He hasn’t.
By nighttime I am seriously worried. Any punishment owed to me by my mild slap has surely been wiped out by now. Jenny is driving me mad with anxiety. I phone a few friends, planning how to bring up the main subject after forcing myself to blah blah blah for a few minutes about how they are and what my trip was like, if I haven’t talked to them since my return. And of course I haven’t, since Jenny maintains the contact with the majority of our friends.
Then, “I don’t suppose Jen has contacted you in the past couple of days, has she?”
“No, why do you ask?”
“She told me she was going off for the weekend, and I’ve forgotten where she said she was going.”
A short, disbelieving silence.
“Anyway, I need to contact her with a message from her parents so I’m reduced to phoning all our friends.”
“Surely she wouldn’t go to a friend’s house for an entire weekend, without you?”
“No, no, of course not.” Ditch original idea, obviously implausible. “I just thought she might have mentioned where she’s going to one of our friends. Anyway, nice talking to you. Better continue with the phoning.”
“Good luck finding her.” Blatantly incredulous tone.
Fuck you.
And so on it goes all evening. Nobody has heard from her.
In the end I give up and go to bed. I’m in an anxious turmoil, and imagine accusing Jenny with cruel mistreatment when she decides to show up. ‘Maybe she’s had an accident,’ I think, ‘and she’s lying half-dead by the side of the road.’
This is the type of thing Jenny would think, if the positions were reversed, so she could dump buckets of guilt over my head when I did return. But I’m unable to get worked up about this idea. There has been no accident. Jenny has disappeared because she’s angry with me. For God’s sake, what did I do?
I hit her.
I can’t sleep all night. At some point I switch on the light. There is a n
otebook by the side of the bed. I tear out a page.
I hit her. I hit her. I hit her. I hit her. I hit her. I hit her. I hit her. I hit her. I hit her.
I hit her. I hit her. I hit her. I hit her. I hit her. I hit her. I hit her. I hit her. I hit her.
How bad is that?
I need to think. Give me clarity. Stop justifying. Oh God.
She said horrible things. I wanted her to stop. I was more upset than she was, because I get more upset. My emotions are stronger, more violent. Life is harder for me. It wouldn’t have happened if she accepted that, and learned how to handle me. NO NO NONONONONONONONONONONO.
That’s just what my father said.
No, please no.
I can’t bear it.
I crumple up the page and throw it on the floor. The pain is like a physical presence in my heart. Think. Think. It isn’t just about the hitting. It’s a whole way of perceiving and relating to the world.
I have to change.
Somehow.
I cover my face with my hands and weep.
The next day I phone in sick to work and continue dialling numbers: neighbours, work colleagues, anybody who has ever met Jenny. Finally, after sitting for a long time over the phone gnawing my knuckles in dread, I phone her parents.
“Hi, this is Gabriel.” I try to iron out the belligerent undertones.
“Oh hello. How are you?”
Just do it, just ask right away so it’s not hanging over me anymore. No crap about her going away this weekend because if she’s there they know all and I’ll sound ridiculous. “Do you have any idea where Jenny is?”
“Jenny?” in surprised query.
“Yes.” Remember your daughter whom you called the uninspiring name of Jenny?
“Why would we know where she is? Isn’t she living with you?”
“Okay, thanks.” I hang up. It rings two minutes later.
“Has Jenny disappeared?” I can hear the hope in their voices — maybe she’s left me.
“Disappeared? How dramatic. No, there’s been a communication glitch, and I don’t remember where she was supposed to be this weekend. Never mind, sorry to bother you.”
I replace the phone, determined not to pick it up again if it should ring. It doesn’t.
Then I phone the police, in order to register her as a missing person. I think you can do that after twenty-four hours or something. In the middle of the phone call I hear the doorknob twisting back and forth. I drop the phone and run to the door, wrenching the key around and flinging it open. It’s Jenny. She doesn’t look at me, just pushes past with two big suitcases in her hands and disappears up the stairs. I bark an explanation down the mouthpiece and rush after her. She’s placing her jewellery box carefully into the corner of the suitcase. I feel fear, and bluster.
“I’ve been looking for you for two days! I just got off the phone to the police.”
“I’ve just come to get my things. You’re supposed to be at work.”
“Why are you leaving me? Why are you overreacting like this?”
“Nobody hits me. Nobody. It’s not decent human behaviour, and I won’t put up with it.”
“I didn’t hit you hard.”
“Not this time.”
There is a steely quality to her voice that dissuades me from pursuing a ‘you’re overreacting it was nothing’ tactic. Besides, that’s not the truth. I want to tell her that I understood the truth, for a fleeting second, last night. It’s a whole way of perceiving and relating to the world.
“Jenny, listen to me. I understand that I need to change my patterns. The way I relate to the world. To you. My reactions.”
“I’m not interested Gabriel. Shut up Gabriel.”
This isn’t how she is supposed to react to my revelations. Anger stirs in my belly. It’s okay if I allow one angry sentence. I can control it.
“I tap you on the face, and you chuck years of building a relationship away, like it doesn’t matter? Are you so superficial that you can’t understand what’s important?”
She doesn’t even look at me. “You’ve always been a dam waiting to burst. It’s not the one smack on the face, it’s the constant potential.”
“I know that. You’re not listening to me. I know I have to change the way I react.”
“Look at you,” her voice vibrates contempt. “Your voice is getting angry even while you say you need to change.”
“Because you’re not listening. I mean it. I will learn to react differently, but I need your help.”
“Oh, no Gabriel. Your ability to control yourself can’t depend on some script I should be following. And if I don’t, then what? ‘Oh sorry I hit you but it was your fault’?”
An angry retort pulses around my lips — I can’t do this alone, you have to help. But then suddenly, for a fleeting second, I get it.
“You’re right, Jenny. I need to travel this path alone. It doesn’t depend on anything you do. You are your own person, and I am mine.”
Jenny doesn’t reply. I look at her face, trying to absorb the fact that it doesn’t matter what I think at all. Jenny can destroy our relationship, single-handed. My opinion has nothing to do with it. I feel frightened, desperate. In any relationship, one owns the prerogative to leave. It is the strength of the weaker half.
“What can I do to make you stay?”
“Nothing.”
“It was wrong, I was in the wrong. I lost it. Please. There is so much that is good in our relationship.”
“That’s what all violent people say. And alcoholics. That they won’t do it again.”
“Please. It’s the first time I’ve lost it like that. You have to give me a second chance. If anything like that happens again, you can leave. Please. It won’t happen again.” The spectre of losing Jenny paralyzes me.
Jenny sits on the bed and looks at me for a long time. I pray that she will give me another chance. I pray passionately to God, for the first time since I was a child. The remembrance of this fear will stay my hand forever.
“I will be in touch,” she says, snapping the suitcase closed and going to the door.
“You’re leaving?” I whisper. I can’t believe it.
She turns to look at me. “I’ll be in touch.”
I hear her footfalls descending the stairs. I can hardly breathe, I am so shocked. It doesn’t make sense. What is the point of living with people, investing in people, growing to love people? What is the point, if, when they do something wrong — very wrong, in a fit of passion — then the entire relationship is over? My Jenny, who loves me so much. It doesn’t make sense. A dreadful thought occurs to me, and I rush to the window and yank it open, calling after Jenny’s retreating figure in the street. “What’s happened to Susan? Are you living with Susan?”
Jenny turns around. “We were in a hotel together, but I’ve just found a little bachelor apartment which I can afford. Susan hasn’t quite decided whether she’s going to rent an apartment here or ask Dave to find one near him. Don’t worry, her experience with you taught her that she needs to live independently, hard though that is.”
Thank God for small favours. “Where?” I shout at her receding back. “Won’t you tell me where you will be living? Please Jenny!”
I can just catch her reply, dwindling into the distance. “I’ll be in touch.”
THIRTY-THREE
Every day I get up, swallow coffee and cigarettes, lug myself to work. The days drag by.
“Come on Gab, get over it,” encourages a colleague, slapping my unresponsive back. “Plenty of other fishes in the sea.”
But I invested in this fishie. This is the fishie I love.
I have written her emails, but she hasn’t replied. My last email said that I understood I must wait quietly for her to get in touch as she promised.
I don’t care about anything
. The scene of my downfall replays in my head again and again. It all happened so quickly. Fundamentally, I am a good person. There’s a lot of compassion and love in me, and I gave Jenny so much joy. Then I lost it for one split second, and somehow that was more significant than years of joy. If I can’t get that, if I fail to grasp that basic understanding of how the world works and how others think, then what? Does it really mean I’m like my father, who created misery instead of happiness? Is it just that violence is completely impermissible in our society, and that’s just a rule that I need to memorize? Because I don’t get it, I don’t fucking get it. I was really angry, she was saying awful things, it wasn’t a hard hit. It’s not completely clear to me why that’s so bad that you have to destroy a relationship that took years to build.
It’s a whole way of perceiving and relating to the world.
I lie in my bed after my frozen dinner, night after night. All my energy seems to have gone. I have never been depressed before, and I can’t believe how awful it is. It’s a whole way of perceiving and relating to the world.
I twist and turn, trying to reach some type of clarity. Night after night. Sometimes I smoke a joint, in the hopes that it will lead me to greater insights. But usually I just lie there, thinking, striving. And gradually, slowly, I begin to see the way forward.
I need to step out of my own perspective. It’s so hard to do. I need to try and understand what Jenny is thinking. It would be so much easier if she would sit down and talk to me, explain. But as she pointed out, it can’t depend on that. I have to do this alone.
What is Jenny’s point of view? Does she really see me as a man teetering on the edge of abusive potential? There has never been the slightest vestige of fear, of that I am certain. Not like with my parents. So why did she leave me? Because it is an unacceptable thing to do. As my mother wrote about that first hit: Before, I felt I was giving him tit for tat. He yelled, and I ignored him. But After, you don’t have that choice; it has been taken from you…I am afraid… A woman and child alone.
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