by Elle Casey
“Why’s that? Did you do something wrong?” Brian draws his eyebrows together, trying to fake a look of deep concern. All he really wants to do is stand up and tap dance around the room. Not that he knows how to tap dance, but he’d give it a hell of a shot anyway. My boy has integrity! Woo hooo!
“Kind of.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it. Maybe we can work it out together.”
“I don’t want to tell you.” Liam looks up, his face crumpling and tears lighting up his eyes.
Brian reaches over the table and holds his palm open. “Tell Daddy what happened, Li-Li. I promise, I won’t get mad.”
Liam jumps out of his seat and runs over to his father, throwing his arms around his waist. “I’m so sorry, Daddy. I’m so, so, so, so sorry!” His sobs cut off the rest of what he might have planned to say.
Brian lifts his son up and places him on his lap, putting his arms around his skinny body. “Don’t cry, little man. We’ll work it out. Tell me what happened.”
“I didn’t mean to! I promise, I didn’t! I just wanted to try and hit the ball like Wilson did and then I was really good at it and then the ball went just like a rocket!”
“Where did this happen?”
“On the other street,” Liam says, his voice calmer now, but still near the edge of hysteria. “I went over there so you wouldn’t see me.”
“What happened when you hit it?” asks Brian, rubbing his son’s back.
“It went … it went …” He pushes his face deep into his father’s chest, so deep that his next words are unintelligible.
“It went where?” Brian asks, forcing Liam away from him so he can detach the boy’s face from his shirt.
Liam is looking down, unable to face his father. “It went into the monster’s window,” he says very softly. He looks up at Brian, his face a mask of fear. “There’s a real, live monster living there and I never want to go back there as long as I live.” The tears start anew and his sobs take over any ability he might have had to communicate. Brian takes him back into an embrace and pats his back.
“Don’t worry about it, Li-Li. Daddy’s not afraid of any old monster, don’t you worry.”
Chapter Eleven
SHE’S STILL ON THE FLOOR in the kitchen as the sun begins to set. John told her to go upstairs hours ago, but she doesn’t have the strength to get up. It’s not a physical thing; right now if the house caught on fire, she could move. It’s mental paralysis that has her thinking the kitchen floor might be a good place to crash out on for the night. Maybe if she just stays here, he’ll leave her alone. A girl can dream.
Her mind wanders through the corridors of her memories, to the day she met him. She was nineteen, starting her first semester of college, working at a coffee shop and waiting for the day her first real job would happen along, hopefully in three years when she finally had her bachelor’s degree. Instead, John came along.
From the first time she saw him, she was star-struck. Oh, he was so handsome and his presence utterly commanding. He came into the shop every day for two weeks before he worked up the nerve to ask her out. She was flattered that such a good-looking, physically fit guy would want to be with her. Sure, she’d been pretty back then. Ever since she was fifteen, she’d gotten lots of attention from plenty of guys. But they always made her feel awkward and embarrassed with their compliments and stumbling efforts at love.
John was different. He brought her flowers, he wrote her poems, and he said all the right things, even though he was kind of shy himself. He wanted to protect her, to walk her home, to make sure she was taken care of. To a girl who’d been taking care of herself for the past couple years, that sounded all right to her. More than all right, it sounded like home.
Their love affair was passionate. They went from a date at the movies to moving in together within a month. Maybe if she’d taken more time and been more patient, she’d have recognized the signs and gotten out sooner. But by the time she was here in this house, it was too late. The first time he hit her was when she’d told him someone had flirted with her at work. He blamed it on the beers and bought her flowers after. For weeks he was the perfect gentleman. And then he hit her again. And again. And again…
The doorbell rings and startles her out of her reverie. The doorbell never rings at this house. John has a sign on the door that tells anyone approaching not to bother.
Nicole struggles to stand. Not that she’ll answer it, but she knows John will flip his lid if he finds her on the floor. She has no idea if he’s even still home. Looking at the clock she realizes she’s slept some of the day away again. More lost time. Why can’t I lose more of it? The bliss of unconsciousness is very alluring.
Whoever is standing outside on the porch, he’s persistent. The doorbell goes off again, jangling Nicole’s nerves. The pounding of John’s feet coming down the stairs does nothing to stop the anxiety from building.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, keep your pants on,” says John, unlocking the deadbolt with the key from his pocket.
Nicole moves closer to the kitchen entrance so she can hear what’s going on just ten feet away.
“Hey!” says a stranger’s voice as the door creaks open.
“Hey, what’s up?” says John. “Can’t you read the sign there, man?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. I know you don’t want to be disturbed, but this is really important.”
“My wife is sick, so we can’t really have people over. What can I do for you?”
Nicole wants to scream that she’s not his wife, that she’s not sick. But she doesn’t. She remains as still and silent as a person possibly can. Even though one step to her left would make her visible to the stranger, she doesn’t take it. She’s afraid of what they’ll do when they see her, what John will do once he knows they’ve seen her, and what she’ll want to do when she sees the horror on their faces. A tear slips out and rolls down her cheek.
“My son came over to apologize, actually. Go head, Liam.”
Nicole’s head starts pounding painfully. Her heart feels like it’s going to explode in her chest and her face crumples with the effort of holding in the sobs. No, no, no, no noooo! Not the little boy! Not the window!
“I’m sorry, sir,” says a tiny voice.
Tears flow from Nicole’s eyes as if a floodgate in her skull has been opened. She can already sense John’s anger. There’s nothing that sets him off more than the idea of her having contact with the outside world.
“Sorry for what, little dude?” His voice is tight. Controlled.
“For breaking your window and scaring your wife.”
John says nothing for five full seconds. Nicole counts them out, wondering what his face looks like, if he’s showing these neighbors his insanity in his expression.
One … two … three … four … five …
“What are you talking about? What window?”
“That one over there. I hit my ball through it today. I’m really sorry.”
“Didn’t you know?” asks the stranger, the boy’s father apparently. “My son says he talked to your wife, or he saw her. She gave him back the ball.”
John stumbles through his response. “Yeah … uh … sure … she mentioned something, but I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Did you say you talked to her?”
The little boy doesn’t answer right away. The stranger speaks again, in a soft voice. “It’s okay, Liam. Just tell him what happened. Remember what I said about integrity.” Nicole’s heart breaks with how kind and loving the man sounds. John used to pretend to have that voice.
A loud sniff precedes the confession. “I didn’t really talk to her. I just asked her for my ball back and then took it and ran away.”
“Did she give it to you? Did you see her?”
“Umm … no, not really. She … she … she put it outside the door after I left, and I came back and got it.”
John sounds relieved when he responds. Of course he does. Now he knows he’s not going to
be arrested. And I’m not going to be free. “Oh, okay. Well, thanks for coming by to tell me. High five, dude.”
“We’ll pay for the replacement. Just give me the bill and I’ll take care of it,” says the boy’s father.
“Oh, you bet. Just give me your address and I’ll send it over.”
“Fifty-eight Lodi. Just one street over, the blue house.”
“Gotcha. I’ll put it in your box tomorrow, maybe, if I can get someone out here.”
“Maybe your wife already took care of it,” says the stranger. The tone of his voice is weird, like he’s testing John or something. Nicole shakes off the sensation, knowing she’s just imagining it. Strangers don’t care about what happens behind closed doors, and John is very careful to be quiet with what he does. He can be so damn friendly when he wants to be.
“Nah … her? She can barely tie her own shoelaces. Listen, thanks, man. Take care. I gotta go.”
“Yeah, sure. Take care. Come on, Liam.”
The door shuts and no sounds come to Nicole from the front of the house. She walks slowly backwards, trying to put as much distance between her and the front door as possible.
“Nicole.”
His voice comes out of the darkening hallway. It’s like a demon calling her to her grave, sending chills up her spine. In her mind flashes a vision of the tarp in the back yard.
She doesn’t answer. Lowering herself quietly to the ground, she feigns sleep.
“Nicole, I know you can hear me. Come out here. Now.”
She closes her eyes and tries to drift off into nothingness. Darkness, take me. Take me!
His voice is close to her face now. “Nicole, get off the fucking floor and come into the living room. I want to talk to you.”
She turns her head and opens her eyes. “What?”
He grabs her by the upper arm and jerks her to her feet.
She cries out with the pain. “Please, John, don’t.”
“Shut up.” Dragging her into the front room, he gestures to the window. The curtains are drawn closed so there’s nothing to see. “When were you going to tell me about that, huh? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
She’s angry at how he talks to her, angry at the pain he’s causing her, and angry at the pain she knows he’s going to cause her, no matter how she reacts. What’s the point in trying to get along? In trying to keep him happy when he’ll never be happy with me? Something snaps inside her and makes her ignore every survival instinct that has kept her alive until now.
“Well, you didn’t notice it now, did you, John? A great big hole right in the middle of the front window and you didn’t notice it. Guess you’re not as observant as you think you are.”
He slaps her hard enough to knock her to the floor.
“Get up,” he says, breathing like a bull, standing over her. “Get the fuck up, right now.”
“No,” she says, kicking out at him weakly. “Stay away from me.” She realizes her mistake, but it’s too late. She’s too weak to fight him off and now he’s more pissed than she’s ever seen him.
He grabs her by the hair and lifts her to her feet.
She dances on her toes to try and minimize the pain. She feels some of her hair separating from her scalp.
“I know you’re not talking to me like that,” he growls in her face. He’s keeping his voice down so no one will hear him out on the street.
“Shut up!” she screams, hoping someone will hear her. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
And that’s when the real beating begins. She falls unconscious when her face hits the corner of the coffee table.
Chapter Twelve
“I DON’T LIKE THAT MAN,” says Liam as they round the corner to their street.
“That’s not very nice,” says Brian in a low scolding tone, “why would you say something like that?” As a parent, he can’t admit out loud that he felt the exact same way as soon as the guy started talking.
“Because he said that mean thing. And his face was not nice.”
“What mean thing?”
“That his wife can’t tie her own shoelaces. I can tie my shoelaces and I’m only six. She’s a grown-up lady.”
“I think she’s really sick, honey. That’s why he doesn’t want people to ring the doorbell.”
“She’s not sick. She’s really, really ugly, but she’s not sick. I saw her.”
Brian stops at their front door. “That’s not very nice either, Liam. Not everyone is as pretty as your mom.”
“No, Dad. You don’t get it. She’s not like a real person. She’s like a monster. Very, very ugly and scary.” Liam’s eyes are as big as saucers. “I fibbed, Dad. I feel really bad again.” His face crumples and tears track down his cheeks.
Brian crouches down and looks his son in the eye, resting his hands lightly on his upper arms. “Tell me.”
“You told me not to lie, but when he asked me if I saw her, I fibbed a little.”
“You told him you didn’t see her.”
Liam nods. “But I did. I did see her. I saw her and she was scary. I was going to tell him, but he was really mad and I didn’t want to make him madder.”
Brian nods slowly, drawing his son in for a hug. “I know what you mean. He was kind of intense.”
“What does that mean?” Liam asks over his father’s shoulder.
Brian kisses his son on the side of the head and then stands, guiding the boy inside. “It just means I think the guy has a lot on his mind taking care of his sick wife.”
“I told you, she’s not sick, Dad. She’s just really ugly.” Liam moves through the kitchen and down the hallway. “I’m going to get my board game out so we can play, okay?”
“Get your PJs on first!” Brian shouts at his son’s retreating form, his mind on the neighbors. Everything Liam told him before their visit and all the things he’s seen and heard since are really bugging him. Brian was fully prepared to accept the fact that a young guy was taking care of a terminally ill wife around the corner; it’s tragic, but that kind of thing happens. But something about the guy seemed … off. He sure didn’t act like a loving spouse taking care of a dying girl. There was a mean streak there, as if he’s one of those guys who gets in bar fights all the time, just for the fun of it.
“Are you ready to lose your shirt, Dad?” Liam asks, putting the board game down on the kitchen table. “Because I’m feeling lucky tonight.”
“Yeah, I’m ready,” Brian says, joining his son at the table. Try as he might, though, he cannot concentrate on the game and he does lose his shirt. Literally. Liam demands his father’s t-shirt as his forfeit prize and uses it as his pajamas that night, leaving the Spider Man ones he’d put on earlier on the kitchen floor.
An hour later, Brian puts his son to bed and two hours after that falls asleep wondering about the ugly lady who lives around the corner. The one his son calls The Monster.
Chapter Thirteen
LIAM’S MOTHER REVERSES OUT OF the driveway, their young son strapped into the back seat and waving like a maniac out his window. “Bye, Dad! See ya later!”
“Bye, Li-Li! See ya Wednesday!”
“I’ll bring him back before school on Wednesday,” his ex-wife says. “I have early meetings.”
“Sounds good,” says Brian, still waving to his son. He waits until he’s out of Liam’s sight before he puts his hand down. It’s nice to be alone for a few days, but he already feels the pangs of missing his child creeping in.
Standing in the driveway, Brian considers his next move. There’s an antique armoire in his workshop that needs a final coat of stain and then some clear-coat to protect it. It took a week to repair and refinish, but he scheduled two. He could do something else if he wanted to…
The armoire can wait. The issue of the monster lady is weighing too heavily on his mind to let it go. Ignoring the warning bells going off in his head, he walks down the driveway and turns left to go down the street.
“What am I doing?” he mumbles under his
breath. “The guy obviously doesn’t like visitors.” The fact that the guy also looks like a Bantam rooster spoiling for a fight is not making Brian’s misgivings any fewer.
“Hey there, Brian. Going for a walk on this fine morning?” Agnes, his next-door neighbor is out trimming her bushes again. They don’t need trimming; they’re just a prop to give her a reason to be standing outside, waiting for passersby.
Brian waves. “Yep. Just getting some fresh air, I guess. Seemed like a good idea.”
“Little Liam gone for the week?”
She must have seen him drive by. She sees everything that happens on this street. “Just for a few days. He’ll be back on Wednesday.” Brian keeps walking, although slower. If he stops, he’ll be stuck there for an hour and probably end up in her kitchen having an iced tea. She’s the nicest, most talkative neighbor he’s ever had. He doesn’t usually mind it; in fact, he’s happy to indulge in a neighborly chat now and again - it’s why he moved to this area - but today, he’s on a mission and he doesn’t have time for gossip or an hour-long discussion about the upcoming weather and whether Mrs. Grandston down the street will ever start recycling.
“Tell him to stop by and see me when he gets home,” she says, poking her clippers vaguely in Brian’s direction. “I bought some new cookies at the store, and I think he’s going to like them. He’s my official cookie taster.”
“I’ll tell him. He’ll be really happy to hear that.”
She waves with a gloved hand as he reaches the far side of her property line, and he waves back.
Maybe I should ask Agnes about the guy around the corner. Brian’s not sure that Agnes knows anything beyond the business of those living on Lodi Street. She stays pretty close to home, taking care of her husband who’s slowly going downhill with dementia. Brian’s not looking forward to the day she’ll have to put him in a nursing home. He has a feeling it will take the spark from her, and she’s fun just the way she is, even if she is a little nosy.
