by L. L. Akers
“Olivia, I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to talk,” Billy said, his tone very un-Billy-like. “If you promise to hear me out, I’ll let you up.”
Olivia didn’t answer—couldn’t answer. Her breath was coming faster and faster, in a panic. She didn’t know how to respond. He was probably going to kill her. Finally.
“Olivia? I’m going to let you sit up, then I’m going to climb through the seats to the passenger side. I promise I’m not here to hurt you. You gotta believe me. I just want to talk,” Billy said again, his voice pleading.
She’d never heard him sound this way. She felt his arm leave her, and she slowly sat up, looking all around for anyone that could help. Billy quickly climbed into the passenger seat, his big feet crushing her groceries, shoving them aside to place his feet on the floor. An image flashed across Olivia’s mind, those same boots roughly moving her across their kitchen floor, one kick at a time. She shuddered.
Olivia walked her eyes up from the old familiar boots that had carried him here, a thousand miles and a year later, to the face she was still married to but had divorced over and over in her mind. Billy looked the same but different in some way. The anger—that’s what was missing... There wasn’t so much as his familiar muscle twitching forewarning her of the storm.
“What d-d-do you want from m-m-me?” Olivia stammered, forcing the words out around her fright.
“I want to tell you I’ve changed, Olivia. I want to go somewhere and talk.”
“Billy... Uncle Jackson... he... he’s expecting me... right back. If I’m not h-h-home soon, he’ll start looking. All my uncles will—they’ll call the police. I c-c-can’t go anywhere with you,” Olivia forced the words out around the fear gripping her heart—stuttering in her hesitation—not wanting to invoke Billy’s temper in this confined space.
“Then we’ll go there. I’ll ride with you. All I want to do is talk... Will that prove I’m not here to hurt you if we’re at your uncle’s?” Billy practically begged.
Olivia hesitated. If I can get to Uncle Jackson, he’ll protect me. He can make him go away, Olivia thought. Then I’ll have to leave—find somewhere else safe—and start over again. Or maybe...
“I agree on one condition. You follow me,” Olivia answered, looking for any way to keep her distance. She realized if she could just get him out of the car, she could drive straight to the police station.
“Okay,” Billy said. “Agreed. But Olivia, I followed you here from your uncle’s house. I already know where it is. So if you’re trying to lose me, I’ll still end up there, with him.”
There was no way Olivia could pull this off without putting Uncle Jackson at risk. She was going to have to do this Billy’s way—at least to begin with.
“Uncle Jackson, I’m home,” Olivia called out, trying to keep her voice steady. “I have someone with me.”
“Just a minute, girl. I can’t hear you in here,” Uncle Jackson answered from the bathroom. Olivia heard the toilet flush and the water start. He’d be out any second. She chose to stand closer to the hallway, nearer the bathroom than the living room. When Uncle Jackson came out, it would be them on one side with Billy on the other.
As Billy made himself comfortable on their old couch covered in a patchwork-square afghan that had seen its better days, Uncle Jackson came out of the bathroom, immediately seeing his guest and looking to Olivia, sensing her fear.
“Who we got here, Olivia?” he asked.
“This is Billy,” Olivia answered.
“Her husband,” Billy added firmly but politely, following up with a respectful nod of his head.
A look of confusion passed over Uncle Jackson. He looked again at Olivia and back to Billy, seemingly unsure of what to say. He glanced to the right of him, to his open bedroom door, where he kept his gun rack. Billy seemed to sense his thoughts.
“Sir, I’m not here to make any trouble. I just want to talk to Olivia, that’s all,” Billy said evenly. “You can even sit right here with us if you like, sir. Or get your gun. It doesn’t matter to me... I still have to say what I came here to say.”
“Well, young feller, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take you up on that,” Uncle Jackson said, already midstride toward his room, taking advantage of the offer and trying to get a head start in case there was a changing of minds.
Billy just waited patiently, looking at Olivia. There was not the slightest bit of fear showing on his face. He looked determined, resolved.
Olivia felt frozen in place. She couldn’t move. In all her nightmares of facing Billy again, none of them bore any resemblance to the strange scene unfolding this night. She began to shiver, the cold creeping up from her bones to consume her entire body.
Uncle Jackson came back quickly, carrying his shotgun, also holding a gritty look in his eye. His back looked straighter, his gait stronger. Olivia wasn’t sure if it was her imagination or hopeful thinking, but Uncle Jackson really looked resilient enough to take on her husband, with or without that shotgun.
“Now what, young feller?” he asked, then pursing his lips and chewing on the inside of his mouth while he measured Billy’s intentions.
“Sir, if you and Olivia would have a seat, I’ll try to say my piece and leave y’all alone to think about it,” Billy answered politely.
“Throw that there afghan behind you onto this here chair,” Uncle Jackson said, pointing to the chair with the butt of the gun, not willing to take the scary end off Billy. “And Olivia, you sit down and cover up. You’re shaking, girl.”
Billy reached slowly behind him and grabbed the afghan, tossing it to the chair, then looking at Olivia with a smile—a patient smile. Olivia just gawked at him for a moment, trying to figure him out, and then did as her uncle told her, picking up the blanket first and wrapping it around herself before sitting.
Uncle Jackson sat stiffly in the matching chair, the one directly facing Billy. Taking another quick peek at Olivia and seeing her shaken pale face, he looked back at Billy.
“You go ahead, then, young fella. Say what you came here for. Then you need to be gittin’ on out. It’s suppertime and me and Olivia were about to have some tator soup,” Uncle Jackson said, his voice tight with formality.
“Okay. Olivia, I’ve—”
“Shut up, Billy,” Olivia said, seeming to break out of her trance at the words she didn’t want to hear again. She knew from experience it could never happen—change—and she wanted to know the only important thing to her.
“How did you find me?”
“Here’s what was so funny, Olivia,” Billy said, following it with a small laugh, not even getting flustered at her rude interruption, acting as if they were friends and had been chatting for hours. “It was my dad that helped me figure it out. We talked a few weeks ago and he asked about you again. I told him I didn’t know where you took off to. Dad said something that really struck a bell with me. He said, ‘That’s so unlike Olivia... She always seemed so predictable.’
“I thought about him saying that all night, Olivia. And you know what? I figured it out. He was wrong; you were never predictable... You were responsible. And responsible people don’t just up and quit their jobs and take off to parts unknown and mooch off someone else. I knew you wouldn’t do that. You would have had to be responsible enough to get a job first. So after I worked that out in my head, it hit me that you probably didn’t quit your job after all. You probably asked for a transfer.
“I was mad at myself for not thinking of it sooner. I called my friend at your job—the one you never quite believed I had—and all he had to do was sneak into the office and look for an employee report and boom,”—Billy slapped his hands together so loud Olivia jumped in fear and began to tremble all over again—“there you were, still employed... same job, but different location.”
Billy stopped talking. He noticed Olivia was shaking and her Uncle Jackson had raised the gun again.
“Olivia! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you. Seriously, I�
��m really sorry,” he said, starting to get up.
“Sit down!” Uncle Jackson’s voice roared across the room. It startled Olivia even more than the unexpected clap of Billy’s hands. She’d never heard him raise his voice before.
“I’m sorry, sir. I was just going to—” Billy said, caught in that funny position between sitting and standing.
“Don’t make no matter to me what you thought you were just going to do. You’ll sit right back down on that couch or you’ll leave followed by the spittin’ end of my gun,” Uncle Jackson said through clenched teeth.
“Okay. Let me start again,” Billy began hesitantly. “Olivia, I know you’re afraid of me, and you have every right to be. I did you wrong, as I’m sure your uncle knows,” he said, trying to maintain eye contact with Olivia but sneaking a peek at the gun as well. “And I didn’t come here to try to deny it or blame you for it in any way. It was my fault. I take full responsibility. You didn’t do a thing wrong. I understand all that now,” he said, pausing to take a big breath.
“You may already know this from your sister, but after you left and I couldn’t find you, I got all kinds of mad—crazy mad. I couldn’t control myself or stay out of trouble. I was taken out of your mama’s apartments in handcuffs by her neighbor first. That was just the start. I spent a good bit of time at the bars, drinking. By myself. I picked quite a few fights. I was struggling, Olivia. I was so alone and mad; I was looking for anyone to take the heat and get it off my back. So I ended up getting arrested. The first time I got off with just night in jail and a fine. The second time, the same thing... but the third time I spent thirty days in jail, had to pay a fine, and was ordered to go through some anger management classes while on probation.
“I didn’t want to go to those bullshit clas—”
“Watch your mouth, son!” Uncle Jackson interrupted. “I’ll have none of that in my home. Ya hear me?”
“Yes, sir, I apologize, to you and Olivia,” Billy said respectively. “May I go on?”
Olivia felt like she was in a dream. This polite young man in front of her looked like her Billy, but he wasn’t acting like him.
“Go on, then,” Uncle Jackson agreed cantankerously.
“I didn’t want to go to those classes. But I had to,” Billy continued. “After the first couple, I started to think they’re talking about me, describing me perfectly. It’s like when you go to church and feel like someone musta been talkin’ to the pastor about ya because he’s preaching something that you just know is directed right at ya? It was like that. It all started to make sense then and I learned... I really learned where my anger was coming from and how to handle it without my fists. I haven’t been in a fight since, Olivia. And I’ve been under some heavy pressure. Missing you, wanting you back... I’d started drinking, too much drinking. I lost my job. But I never lost my temper again, and I promise I’ll never raise a hand to another woman in this lifetime,” he finished.
Billy sat gazing at Olivia, who was looking back at him thinking she had no idea how to respond to that, her heart for him still frozen. Uncle Jackson sat still as a sniper, the pointy end of his gun not quite aimed at Billy now, but still within deadly blast range. His eyes were fixed on Billy too. Nobody spoke for a moment. The silence in here is thick enough to hear a cricket fart, Olivia thought, unwilling to be the one to break it but bored by Billy’s story of change.
“Olivia, that’s not all,” Billy said, finally breaking the stillness. “When my anger management classes let out, I had to walk past another class going on in the same building. Every day I overheard parts of their conversations as I was walking by. When I finished my required hours for the judge, I stopped by that class one day and asked the lady if I could sit in. She let me after I told her I was separated. It was a marriage counseling class, Olivia. I was the only one there without a wife, and it was embarrasin’, but I really wanted to know what I did wrong in our marriage. I already knew it was all me and had a lot to do with my temper, but I also wanted to know what were the right things to do. I went to every class they had, Olivia. Never knowing if I’d ever see you again and not knowing I’d figure out where to look... I still went.”
“Did you, now?” Olivia said sarcastically, finally interested in his story and feeling slightly braver having seen Billy bowing down to Uncle Jackson’s vigilance this long without snapping.
“Yep, I did. There’s too much to tell you sitting here tonight. But I’ll do my best to sum it up for ya. From the other couples in the class, I learned ya could love someone ya hate and hate someone ya love—and I know you hate me, Olivia—but there’s lots of people who have rebuilt their marriage starting from there. I also learned my biggest problem was probably my constant criticism of you. It started nearly every fight we had. I was killing your love for me with those words. I know that now, and I’m sorry. I learned that a strong marriage cannot continue with that kind of pattern without destroying it, and I realized that’s what happened to us—I mean me. I did it... not you. I know how to give constructive suggestions without being demanding now. I also know that a woman’s needs are different than us men, and I wasn’t taking care of those needs for you, mostly emotional, but also the type of physical touch a woman wants: holding hands, rubbing her back, touching her hair. I’d stopped doing that, Olivia. I don’t know when or why, but I know now you can’t ever stop.” Billy paused again, taking a deep breath and letting it out before beginning again.
“I also went to church. I found peace there. I think the most important thing I’ve taken from church is when the pastor read about what Luke wrote, when Jesus was speaking. He said, ‘Love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you. Bless those who curse you. Pray for those who mistreat you... And do unto others as you would have them do to you.’
“It was like a lightning bolt to my heart, Olivia. You had done all that. You had done what Jesus said, but I didn’t.” Billy finished, tears sparkling in his eyes, overflowing to run rivers down his cheeks and drip off his strong jaw.
Olivia sat across the room, gazing back, mirroring his tears. Her heart had melted. She was going home.
CHAPTER 19
Two Years Later:
Emma puttered around in her pajamas, putting away her clean laundry she’d brought home from Mom’s, who was living in the trailer across the street and had taken the washer and dryer with her. At fourteen, she basically had her own place and was responsible for her own clothes and housekeeping. Life happened fast—that much she was sure of.
Even months after the fact, Emma still could hardly believe Mom had actually kicked Mark out. They’d fought and she let him return—after only a day or two—so many times it seemed like it would never be the end of their nightmare.
Mom had moved them out of the apartment and into the country almost two years ago, with Mark coming along, of course, shortly after Gabby left home. Things had gone from bad to worse here—for Mom and Emma—especially after Mark lost his bar. Mom put up with his moods and his laziness on top of his random outbursts of abuse and watched him lie around and not contribute anything for nearly a year. Then came the big one—a major brawl.
Emma was thirteen then and Dad had just brought her home from a weekend visit when he heard the battle going on inside the trailer. Although he and Mom still weren’t friends, had barely even spoken since the separation, Dad couldn’t stand to hear her screams or bear that someone else was hurting his children’s mother, especially after what she’d been through with him. He’d stormed in, with his old temper flared back to life, and attacked Mark, defending Mom. He didn’t stand much of a chance, being about half a foot shorter than Mark and having a much shorter reach, but he’d done his best and had at least distracted Mark from Mom before being shoved out and down the stairs, where he received his own share of bruises and scrapes.
It had happened, finally. Dad saw something with his own eyes—thank God—without me having to tell our secrets, Emma thought. Dad had a serious conversation with Mom, telling
her he didn’t want Emma around that mess and reminding her that was the reason for their own divorce, to keep the girls from seeing that same thing.
Mom hadn’t needed his reminders. She was finally done with Mark; she had taken enough of his abuse and threw him out. And miraculously, this time he stayed out—disappeared—not even in town anywhere. No calls begging Mom to come back. No threats to Emma when Mom wasn’t home to talk her mom into letting him coming back or else. Emma waited for months, holding her breath, waiting for that phone call or the knock on the door when Mom was at work. She barely ate or slept. But gradually she lowered her guard. This time he really did go—vanished. It was a blessing. It finally felt like the nightmare was over.
Emma knew it was really over for Mom when she started dating the guy across the street—another drinker—but this one was a happy-go-lucky drinker. He was all about good times and making Mom laugh; he could make anyone smile. After six months of inseparable dating, she said she was moving in with him.
Emma wasn’t risking it again—no matter how nice this one “seemed.” Even if this one never looked at Emma twice, she still didn’t want to stick around and take the risk of watching someone else drop his mask and start knocking her mom around.
When Mom announced the move—to just across the street—Emma told her she wasn’t going. It was time for her to spread her wings and fly, or actually dig in her feet and nest, in this case.
Daniel, her boyfriend, had a job working on a paint crew and had offered to keep up the rent and utilities on Mom’s trailer for Emma. Emma hadn’t let any moss grow under her feet. She told him yes! Pack his things! Then she defiantly told Mom that same day she was staying—expecting a brawl—but surprisingly Mom didn’t put up any fight; she just said, “Fine, you’ll be across the street where I can keep an eye on you.” She wasn’t even concerned about Daniel moving in. Mom had just let her go, even if it was only across the street. She didn’t even make her attend school anymore. I’m only fourteen years old, for God’s sake, Emma had thought, but didn’t want to say it aloud and cut off her nose to spite her face.
