The Good Kind of Bad

by Rita Brassington

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting the guy is goddamn dangerous? Not to mention the whole fire starter thing.’

  ‘Evan, he’s locked up. Ted said they took him to the station, that he’s still down there.’

  ‘Ted? Who’s Ted? And which station?’

  ‘I don’t know! He just said he’s down at one.’

  ‘Did he mention a case number? Say who the arresting officers were?’

  ‘I don’t know ‒ no. He didn’t. Look, Evan, this is my only chance. When else will I get another like it? I need my things and Joe’s not there.’ It wasn’t rocket science. No Joe meant I was free to go back. If five minutes after meeting was all it took for Joe to propose, then five minutes was all I’d need to erase him from my life.

  ‘I’m checking this out,’ Evan muttered, shaking his head and pulling his phone from his dressing gown pocket.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I’m not letting you go back home by yourself until I know where he is.’

  ‘He’s at the police station!’

  ‘Says who? Ted?’ Evan began tapping the screen but again looked at the clock. ‘I’m already on report, I can’t be late,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Look, here’s what we’ll do. You wait here until my shift finishes at one, then we’ll go together, and then once you get your stuff you’re welcome to stay here. I insist even.’

  ‘Evan, I appreciate the offer but . . .’

  ‘You need to start letting people help you. You can’t do this on your own, like you deserve to be punished. He’s done wrong by you, don’t forget that. I’ll charge you if it’ll make you feel better. Promise you’ll think about it?’

  As Evan left for the shower, I spent all of two seconds thinking about it. I crept into the hall ‒ his keys dangled from the lock in the front door. Sliding past the bathroom where he was murdering AC/DC’s ‘Back in Black’ (probably accompanied by air guitar), I quietly opened the front door.

  Outside, on the right side of town, the morning air was crisp. Trying not to look back at Evan’s building, hoping he wasn’t watching from the window, I realised there was a comforting loneliness in the stillness of the windy city, with only shadows behind the town house doors and drawn curtains in the bay windows. It was their exposed illusion of safety: one single pane of glass.

  I caught a cab at the corner of West Superior Avenue and North State by the church. Although I must’ve been thirty blocks from home, meaning the fare soon surpassed my pocket change, it fast became the most uncomfortable taxi journey of my life, mostly due to the driver staring me out.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ I asked, after the head shaking got out of hand.

  His fat arms bulged out of a red lumberjack shirt while his piggy eyes narrowed to slits. He didn’t look like he’d ever had hair. ‘You sure you can pay this, lady?’

  ‘Pay what? The fare?’

  ‘What else?’

  I frowned. ‘And why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘I don’t want no trouble.’ In the rear-view mirror, he arched an eyebrow at me.

  ‘And you won’t get any.’

  ‘Really? Because your face says trouble to me.’

  I laughed. He’d purposefully taken me the long way across town, and now he’d pulled up by the Won Kow restaurant on Wentworth, still five blocks from South Evergreen.

  ‘Come on, we’re nearly there. I might be a little short, but . . .’

  He chuckled to himself, half turning in his seat. ‘It’s always the same story with you girls.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I had a bad day, he took all my money, blah freakin’ blah. Like you don’t make enough from those mugs uptown. What happened to your face? Were you a bad girl for your daddy? Short-changed him like you were gonna me?’

  It felt like I was going to vomit in my mouth. ‘Who do you think I am?’

  ‘I think you’re riding from River North to the South Side at seven in the morning. Wealthy Friday night clients don’t pay peanuts, and you’re telling me you don’t have cash? You want to rethink that?’

  ‘You think I’m a hooker?’

  ‘If the face fits, and yours sure does, darlin’.’

  I ticker-taped what notes I had at him and climbed out, adding a few obscenities as I went.

  ‘You never heard of a tip?’ I heard him shout through the window before he screeched away.

  What do you know? There was nothing like a face full of fists to stop the scumbags trying to get into your pants.

  Still five blocks from home, I wandered over the wide avenues and vacant parking lots of Chinatown, crisscrossing the South Chicago street grid until my stumbling mess of a walk quickened and I was about ready to collapse. It was then I glimpsed the street sign. I was on South Evergreen, facing my apartment block. Now here, it was the last place I wanted to be, though I was starting to feel whatever I did and wherever I turned, I’d never escape my fate.

  I wasn’t half as strong as I’d believed back at Evan’s. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea. Looking up at the building, and even though I knew Joe wasn’t up there, I still couldn’t do it.

  I put my back to the apartment and walked away, but not for long. Forcing myself to stop, I scolded myself. I was stronger than running away. My purse, money, credit cards, passports . . . everything I owned was up there. I wouldn’t get another chance like this. Joe was out of reach. It’d take five minutes, tops. In, out, done. Next life please, and pronto. He could have his slut.

  I crossed the road, pulled on the door handle and climbed the stairs.

  The apartment was vacant apart from a frightened Sybil peering out from behind a cupboard. Judging by the crumbs around her chops, she’d found and raided the hallowed dog biscuit tin. A visual survey of the kitchen revealed scattered pizza boxes, dirty plates, empty cans, but no smoke damage. Rumours of a fire had been greatly exaggerated, though judging by the mess it looked like Joe had partied the night away, either with Bakery Bitch or some other fille de joie.

  I spent a good minute staring at myself in the kitchen mirror, pulling at the skin to analyse my wounds. No wonder Mr Sleaze Ball Lumberjack thought I was a prostitute. The borrowed skin-tight jeans weren’t helping matters either.

  And then I heard it, the hushed rattling from the lounge. I instinctively grabbed the broom from beside the cooker and held it at arm’s length, otherwise known as the lamest weapon in history. Why didn’t I own a gun? Why didn’t Joe? Or maybe he still did. This was America, land of the free. Firearms were a rite of passage. All I could hope to do with my weapon was threaten the intruder with housework. Though I knew there was no intruder. I knew who was in there.

  Unsuitably armed and after tightening my grip, I pushed open the door.

  Entering the lounge, I walked into a forgotten dream. There was Joe, bones shuddering as his hand reached for the vodka. His arms hugged to quell the shaking and his wounded animal whimpers were pathetic as the chin jutted out, failing to catch his cigarette before it fell to the floor. Arrest? There’d been no arrest. It didn’t look like he’d left the apartment. How could Ted have got it so wrong?

  The dark room was partially demolished. Broken porcelain littered the boards, surely smashed up in his rage. Sprawled over the floor, Joe’s bloodshot eyes held my gaze, the same grey T-shirt smeared with blood. The way serial killers kept a lock of hair or piece of jewellery, it was a memento to relive his heinous crime, a souvenir to forever cherish.

  The shards of glass glistened like a thousand diamonds, a minefield impervious to penetration. For one terrible moment I assumed the worst, though on second thought, maybe the worst wasn’t such a bad thing.

  As I edged closer he spoke, quiet and slow.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ Joe recounted, his voice thickened by the liquor. His stare remained constant, a blank gaze into nothing. ‘I passed out. I went to look for you, saw the blood on the sidewalk but you weren’t there, I couldn’t see you.’ He paused for a moment, still not daring to look at me, not
right in the eye. ‘I need to tell you some things. I need to tell you. I have to make things right between us, baby. I’m going to take an anger management class. I feel sick about what I did. You have to believe me. I know I need to change, I do. I hate the person I’ve become. It’s not me. I guess what I’m trying to say is ‒ I’m sorry.’

  Even though I’d heard it before, the empty apologies and insincere promises, this time I was surprised to hear them. This wasn’t what I’d expected. Now facing the man who’d caused so much hurt, I could hardly believe it. Weakened by his addiction and visibly in pain, he appeared so fragile, so alone. In his company I was no longer afraid, just brimming with pity. He was as dangerous as a two-year-old with a toy gun, a pathetic, wheezing, dribbling wreck, all heavy breathing and beads of sweat.

  That said, it didn’t mean I had to forgive him. ‘You beat me up, cheat on me, lie, and now you’re sorry? If only I’d walked past you in Galvin’s, if only I’d laughed at you on one knee. It wasn’t clever or cute; you weren’t my destiny or fate. You didn’t mean it. You don’t love me. You had too many Jägermeisters, that’s all.’

  ‘I do love you.’

  ‘You love yourself.’

  ‘I’ll get help, I swear. You need to give me another chance, to give us another chance. I won’t mess up this time. I need one more kick at it, one more. We can be happy again.’

  Joe’s face filled with remorse, his eyes as innocent as a child’s, but I’d seen that look before.

  ‘I’ll see you in court, all right, Joe?’

  ‘Court? No, baby, you can’t. You can’t have gone to the cops. I will lose everything. They’ll lock me up forever. Please, baby. I’m your husband. You cannot do this to your husband. I’d die without you.’

  ‘And you can’t do this to your wife! You treat me worse than your damn dog and now you want to carry on like nothing’s happened? Don’t tell me you’ve changed, that you’re running for South Evergreen’s Man of the Year, that you’d never . . .’ I reached above my eye. ‘I can’t keep running back after every new drama. This life? You? It’s over. I’m going.’

  And then, it was like a switch flipped, the pitiful stare becoming something altogether more twisted. His eyelids dropped and a sneer grew.

  ‘Why’d you come back? Why come back if you’re going? Maybe you should ask yourself why you’re already by my side like a loyal little bitch? You proved me right. I wouldn’t have had to hit you if you weren’t such a pathetic whore.’

  It didn’t matter what he said. He couldn’t hurt me anymore. Now when I looked there was no mystery and charm, there wasn’t even a threat; only a pathetic oaf of a man lying limp like a jellyfish over the living room floor.

  He heaved, his angular face distorting.

  ‘Looks like I’m not the only pathetic whore. You need help, the kind that comes with medicine,’ I said.

  ‘I never needed any help from a woman before, and sure don’t need no help from you.’

  I slid to the floor, slowly, my back to the wall as I kept my distance. ‘Me? The loyal wife? Good thing I’m not offering.’

  Joe kept quiet, pulling himself up to rest against the sofa. After a time his eyes darted over my face, his terrible masterpiece ‒ the forehead gash, the eye swelling and my cut lip. Gulping hard, his gaze was back on the floor, stretching for the vodka bottle within reach.

  I’d thought this was nothing but my imagination, a dream where he’d swigged liquor like it was lemonade. Of course, it’d been easier to pretend he wasn’t in a state of pre-hab, but my eyes couldn’t deceive me twice. This wreck, this devastating, violent ignoramus wasn’t the man I married. Hell, if stating the obvious was an Olympic sport, I’d have the gold in the bag.

  ‘A dream, was it? Your drinking?’

  ‘Well, I guess you caught me,’ Joe croaked, kicking the now empty bottle across the floor.

  ‘And you’re a . . . I mean, how long have . . .?’

  ‘ . . . I been an alcoholic? Get the words out of that pretty mouth. After two years of meetings, I’m down.’ The ashen face and chattering teeth made him look like he’d lived his life twenty times over, the speech rehearsed too many times. ‘Why do you think I was never here in the morning, so you could see me like this? Crumbling and shit? Santos let me go, drinking on the job. I’ve been going to Buddy’s,’ he panted, chuckling. ‘You think you’re so smart, think you got it all figured out. Go on. Tell me it’s not working, tell me you’re leaving, make me feel better.’

  As Joe left the floor I again reached for the broom, but he wasn’t interested in adding to my wounds. While I remained against the wall he moved into the kitchen, climbing onto a dining chair with his lips curled by a lazy smile. Through the open lounge door I saw him by a dining table over spilling with food. I’d failed to notice it; the kitchen table dressed with breakfast meats, toast and cereals. He’d even dug a table runner out from somewhere.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked, pointing to the table.

  He puffed out his chest, like he’d won first prize at an AA meeting. ‘I made colazione.’

  ‘And what about your little fire starter incident? Did they even arrest you?’

  ‘It’s not only bacon and eggs, I got hash browns too. Thought I’d push the boat out.’

  It figured. The man I’d chosen to marry thought buying hash browns was ‘pushing the boat out’.

  He was now happy enough rocking on the back legs of the dining chair. The shakes soon dissipated, apparently fuelled by the drug they’d craved. I willed Joe to fall, to crack his back on the tiles and feel the pain, but instead his fingernails clung to the table as the precarious balancing act continued. I’d never forget those hands, the scars of his beating, and when my eyes did wander to his face, a hollow smirk had replaced the smile.

  ‘I don’t care about breakfast. I want my things,’ I murmured.

  ‘Your things? That’s it? No more nagging that feels like a bullet through my brain? “Joe, get your feet off the table. Joe, feed Sybil. Joe, you’re not well, you need some help!”’ Then came the throat clearing and a cachinnation or two as he prepared his lines. ‘I have something to say, and it’s important.’

  ‘Joe Petrozzi has something to say. There’s a surprise.’

  He flitted his eyes at me, almost irked I wasn’t taking him seriously. ‘I’m giving you a choice here, but this is a one-time deal only. You don’t have to be a part of this. I’ll give you one chance to walk away. I won’t tell, it’ll be our little secret. It could all be that easy, but if you stay in the city, I can’t promise you’ll be safe.’

  ‘Safe from what?’

  ‘From me.’

  After climbing out of the chair and with a renewed vigour, he was now pottering about the kitchen, his shirt removed and Neurotriptyline taken, like he’d not tried to kill me, or himself, thirty-six hours earlier. The silver dog tags dangled over his chest and a pair of ripped jeans hung low. He still looked like Joe but there was something different, something I couldn’t place.

  He turned to the stove and cracked two eggs on the side of the frying pan. It was then I saw the cuts running his back, gashes that protruded deep. They were raised and sore and appeared painfully fresh.

  ‘What happened to your back?’

  ‘That would be telling. All right, you twisted my arm. It was the cops,’ he shouted over, not bothering to turn around.

  ‘Like they’d do that.’

  ‘They killed my brother, didn’t they? You don’t think they’d beat my ass too?’ Joe replied, this time grinning mischievously over his shoulder, his teeth like sharpened spears.

  Then he carried over the fried eggs, took a seat at the dining table, poured himself three fingers of Jack Daniels and downed the measure in one.

  ‘Do you know what time it is? You shouldn’t be mixing your drinks,’ I commented dryly.

  ‘This is a gangster’s breakfast, baby. And don’t worry about Jack and me, we’re buddies, though have you checked your watch? The wal
k of shame back to her husband, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. The neighbours will be so proud.’

  ‘Our neighbours are junkies.’

  ‘Don’t mean they don’t have standards.’

  Not that it mattered to Joe, but these weren’t even my clothes. ‘You know what? You are insane.’ I pulled myself up, painfully, and moved into the kitchen, trying not to look at him as I headed for the bedroom and past Joe.

  ‘Come here and say that again.’ Joe’s smile faded, his bottle of Jack slipping from his fingers. It smacked the floor, leaking a meandering trail of whisky.

  ‘Why, so you can hit me?’

  There was a smash. He’d thrown his tumbler against the front door, expelling a frustrated growl. ‘Go drop the charges, and before I get any ideas. Hell, you can’t report me. I’m respected around here.’

  ‘Respect? No one respects you, Joe. You opened up my head. You’re sick, Joe. You’re sick in the head.’

  Releasing another thunderous roar, Joe yanked the tablecloth; its contents sent sailing into the wall. As he stood panting, I could almost see the thoughts whirring around his head. I couldn’t take any chances. I jumped into the bedroom, pulled shut the doors and slid the lock across. Checking the phone was still safely in my jacket pocket, I reached to the top of the wardrobe and grabbed my case. Would I miss the lukewarm shower, seventies throwback décor, junkie neighbours and live-in alcoholic? Like a kick in the face I would.

  ‘What’re you doing in there?’ came a voice too close. Banging on the flimsy doors, he’d soon pinged off the lock and forced them open, now hogging the doorway. ‘Looks like you’re going some place.’

  My breath quickened and my hands shook, but I didn’t let him revel in my fear. ‘Hell of a guess,’ I snapped, flinging a handful of clothes from the wardrobe into the case. ‘Get that application in for spy school, Joe, you’re coming on in leaps and bounds.’

  ‘What’s this? A suitcase?’ he snarled, pointing to the bed. ‘When did I say you could leave, baby?’

  ‘Uh, how about during your little speech back there? Or, I don’t know, when you kicked me in the face?’