On the Other Side

by Michelle Janine Robinson

  Damita dabbed at the blood in the corners of her mouth and gazed in disbelief at the evidence of what had occurred, smeared and crimson, on her hands.

  He reached for her and she jumped, startled by his sudden movement.

  “What has happened to us? Now you’re afraid of me? I only want to help you. You have so much promise, Damita. We have so much promise. I want to help you see your full potential. You’re better than this; better than those people you spend so much time with.”

  Gazing into his eyes, sensing the shift in his demeanor and remembering the kind man she had fallen in love with and married, she was even more confused. Damita ran, crying, into the walk-in closet in the master bedroom, and she locked the door.

  She sat there trying to figure out what was going on. It was all so much like a puzzle. The pieces, somehow, didn’t seem to fit. She looked around at the large closet that was almost as big as the bedroom in her first apartment. Only weeks ago, she felt like she was sitting on top of the world; now she wasn’t so sure. She remembered her excitement when she gave the decorator her specifications for the extravagant closet; the white bench with the gold embroidered seat, the expensive vanity table and row upon row of glass shelving, along with the plush carpeted floor. She never knew she would spend her wedding night curled up on the floor in that very same closet.

  While she sat there trying to organize her jumbled thoughts, she could feel his presence on the opposite side. She almost thought she could hear him breathing and wondered if he would simply get sick and tired of pleading with her to open the door and eventually knock it down altogether. Every now and then he would turn the knob. She assumed he was hoping to find it unlocked. Just when she thought things were returning to some semblance of normalcy, he began pounding on the door and kicking it.

  Damita winced when he started pounding at the door once again.

  “Damita, I’m trying my very best to be patient! Open this fucking door!”

  She was afraid to answer him and instead clasped her ears with her hands, hoping to block out all sound.

  He finally calmed down and once again spoke to her in measured deliberate tones. “Damita, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me. I’ve been down this road before. I so wanted things to be different with us. You’re mine. I can’t stand the thought of sharing you with someone else. I won’t.

  “I watched him all night; your friend, Brandon. It was like he was taunting me. He was laughing and smiling all night. At one point he even approached me and told me what a great girl I was getting. He acted as though it was some sort of inside joke we both shared. Did you sleep with him? I have to know because it’s eating me up inside.”

  It went on like that for hours.

  In her entire life a man had never hit Damita. She had always had the common sense to leave if she had even an inkling that it might get to that point. However, she had been in enough dysfunctional relationships to know the signs and all logic indicated this was heading down a bad road. Her tears still falling, she listened as he volleyed back and forth between being apologetic and on the cusp of violent rage. She knew she should open the door and run at breakneck speed until she was gone, but something kept her rooted to the spot. She was powerless to do anything but listen to Neal rant and rave. Eventually, she was so exhausted that she managed to completely tune him out. Huddled in a corner on the floor, she cried herself to sleep.

  While Damita slept fitfully locked inside of a closet, Neal stewed on the other side, waiting for the moment when the door would open. He had no interest in sleep. He was keyed up and anxious to resume where he left off.

  • • •

  It was nearly seven in the morning when Damita awakened. She looked around, frowning, then winced when she felt the split in the corner of her mouth. Without a window or clock she wasn’t even sure what time of the day it was. She could hear Neal pleading outside the closet door to let him in. This time, instead of yelling and screaming, he spoke barely above a whisper.

  “Please, baby, I need you to open the door. The police are here.”

  Disoriented and still wearing her wedding dress, she suddenly remembered what happened the night before. Glancing at the full-length mirror, she could see that there were bloodstains on her mother’s beautiful wedding dress. It occurred to her that it was the same dress she had told Carmella she might like to one day pass on to her own daughter, if she ever decided to have children. It was the same dress her mother was wearing when she’d married Damita’s father. Her father had always been her ideal of what a man should be. All she ever wanted was to be lucky enough to have the same sort of marriage her parents had enjoyed for over four decades. That dress was now tainted with so much more than a few blood stains. She realized she would never be able to look at that dress the same again and wondered how she would explain any of this, including the dress, to her mother.

  “Damita, I’m afraid if you don’t open the door soon, the police are going to bust in here with their guns drawn.”

  Damita could sense Neal’s attempt at levity in his voice. The forced chuckle he added was unconvincing.

  She exited the closet and glanced meekly at Neal. The bloody dress forgotten, she walked into the living room and toward the front door of the apartment.

  “Wait!” Neal cautioned.

  Damita visibly recoiled at the sound of his voice. Recognizing her response to him, he softened his tone.

  “Take the dress off,” he whispered.

  Neal didn’t bother waiting for Damita to respond and unzipped the back. She stepped out of it, leaving the beautiful lace embroidered dress lying in the middle of the floor. She grabbed her robe from a chair and proceeded to the front door in order to let the police officers in, while Neal nervously looked around the apartment. In the corner the large Queen Anne, oxblood-colored armchair she had selected for the apartment was turned over. The chair was so heavy, she was amazed at the level of anger it must have taken for Neal to turn the chair on its side. She looked at him and he looked at her pleadingly, and with what Damita thought was remorse.

  “Who is it?” Damita asked, before opening the door.

  “Police, Ma’am.”

  “Can I help you? It’s kind of early. I’m not dressed.”

  “That’s okay. We can wait.”

  By the time Damita opened the door, Neal was standing at her side, having tidied up the apartment a bit. For the first time in the year since they’d met, Neal’s hand around her waist felt foreign to her and she discreetly attempted to pull away, to which Neal held on to her even tighter.

  “How can we help you, officers?” Neal asked, in his most charming voice.

  There were two young officers; one black and one white. The white officer spoke. “Do you mind if we come in?”

  “Of course not,” Damita said nervously as she moved aside to allow them entry.

  She could feel Neal’s grip tighten around her waist.

  Once inside the apartment, the white officer continued to speak. “We received a call. One of your neighbors thought she heard fighting. She also mentioned that she heard screaming as well.”

  “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, officers. You see, my wife and I got married last night and we got home pretty late from the reception. We had a lot of champagne and I’m afraid that in the excitement of our wedding night, we may have gotten a little bit raucous. You know what I mean, my man?”

  Neal smiled broadly and Damita couldn’t help but be disgusted by his insincerity.

  Although the white police officer had been the only one who had spoken since they arrived, Neal switched his focus and directed his last comment to the black officer.

  “No, I don’t know what you mean,” the officer responded stoically.

  “What did you say your name was, Sir?” the black officer asked.

  Neal offered a handshake, to which the officer did not respond. “I’m Neal Westman. This is my wife, Damita. And, you are?”

  “I’m Officer Bruns
on. This is my partner, Officer Blackwell.”

  Neal suddenly chuckled.

  “Is there something funny, Mr. Westman?” Officer Brunson asked.

  “I’m sure you must get this all the time, but it’s just ironic, that’s all. A black officer named Brunson and his white partner Blackwell.”

  Neither officer seemed amused.

  “I just meant—”

  Damita looked distractedly toward the living room window while the officers spoke.

  Before Neal could continue his thought, Officer Brunson interrupted him. “Are you okay, Mrs. Westman?”

  “Uh, yes, officer, I’m fine; just fine. I’m just a little tired, that’s all.”

  “What happened to your eye?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your eye; you seem to have broken a blood vessel. A broken blood vessel in the eye is a pretty nasty thing.”

  “She gets those a lot,” Neal added.

  “Yeah, I bet she does,” Officer Brunson responded, sarcastically.

  “We saw a doctor about it. Some people are more prone to them. Anything can cause it; coughing or sneezing too loud, eye-rubbing, even hypertension.”

  “So I’ve heard. Do you know what else can cause a broken blood vessel, Mr. Westman?”

  “Please, call me Neal.”

  “Mr. Westman, a broken vessel in the eye can also be caused by choking or severe eye trauma.” He paused and looked at Damita. “Mrs. Westman, are you absolutely sure you’re okay?”

  Damita’s momentary hesitation was all Officer Brunson needed.

  “Blackwell, we need to get to the bottom of where those screams were coming from this morning. We’ll save a good deal of time if you speak to Mr. Westman and I’ll talk to Mrs. Westman. . .separately. Mrs. Westman, is the kitchen okay?”

  Damita replied, “Yes, that’ll be fine.”

  It was Officer Brunson’s hope that once they were alone, Damita might do the smart thing and be honest so he could help get her out of harm’s way.

  Damita offered the officer a seat at the kitchen table.

  “This is a Parsons table right?,” the officer asked.

  “Huh?”

  “The table; it’s a Parsons. My wife and I had one just like it.”

  He looked around the gourmet kitchen. There wasn’t a thing missing, down to the matching stainless steel appliances. Officer Brunson couldn’t help but think that despite popular opinion, it wasn’t just those below the poverty line that were victims of the worst kind of abuse. He was sure that Damita was one of those women who believed the fairytale before it turned into horror.

  Damita looked at the officer quizzically.

  “You had some questions you wanted to ask me?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Westman, can you please tell me what actually happened to your eye?”

  “It was . . . There was . . . nothing. Nothing happened.”

  He shook his head in dismay. “Mrs. Westman, he will not stop. Whatever happened here will continue and it will get worse, much worse, unless you stop it here and now. I can escort him out of here this morning. All you have to do is say the word.”

  “But nothing happened. I’m not lying. Really, I’m not.”

  He stared at her, realizing that it was a lost cause. She was too afraid to tell the truth so he could handle the situation properly.

  • • •

  Once Officer Brunson and Damita were finished talking, they joined Officer Blackwell and Neal in the living room. Eager to push Neal’s buttons, Officer Brunson touched Damita’s back as they entered the room. It was a simple gesture, akin to holding a door for someone, but Officer Brunson understood men like Neal. He was hoping it would be enough to fuel his possessive nature and cause him to strike out without thinking. As soon as he did, he would lock Neal up for as long as he could hold him.

  Neal gave the officer a sidelong glance as he gritted his teeth.

  Damita and Neal escorted the officers to the door. Before they left Officer Brunson addressed Neal. “My man, do you mind if I talk to you for a minute?”

  Neil smirked. “Of course I don’t mind.”

  Officer Brunson led Neal to the hallway, stopped, and held him in the grips of an unmistakably menacing stare.

  “Is there a problem?” Neal finally asked.

  “There most certainly is. Since I’ve been on the job, I’ve encountered what most people would consider the dregs of society; drug dealers, addicts, prostitutes, even pedophiles. Now, for most people, pedophiles are the worst. No self-respecting, decent human being can stomach a baby raper. But, I can think of something just as bad. It’s men like you that I can’t stomach; men who go about their daily routines, presenting this impeccable image to the world and then go home and beat their defenseless wives. I can’t stand a bully or a coward, and any man who beats his wife is a bully and a coward, plain and simple.”

  “Now wait a minute!”

  “Don’t you dare disrespect my intelligence by lying; we all know what happened here. You’re too good at being a bully for your wife to admit it; at least not yet. But let me tell you something. If I have to come back here again, it won’t matter what your wife will or will not admit to.”

  Brunson glared at Neal and considered what repercussions he would suffer if he knocked the shit out of him. Instead of doing something he couldn’t take back, he hit the wall where Neal was standing. He positioned his face inches away from Neal’s.

  “The next time I come back it won’t be just the wall I hit. You understand me, you punk?”

  “What I understand is that maybe you should lay off those sugary donuts, officer. Something seems to have you all wound up,” Neal responded, toying with the officer.

  Officer Brunson joined his partner at the door while Neal remained in the hall trying to maintain his composure. Before he left, he discreetly slipped Damita a card.

  “Call me when you decide you’ve had enough.”

  Damita looked at the officer and he knew it was fear he saw in her eyes. He had seen the look so many times before.

  Once the door was closed, Officer Brunson shook his head and hoped she wouldn’t suffer the same fate his mother had when he was a boy. His aunt and uncle raised him and from the moment he decided to become a cop they were both convinced it was because of the trauma he suffered as the result of his mother being killed and his father going to prison for her murder. As he stood outside the door of yet another victim he was dispatched to save, he realized he became a police officer in order to be a voice for those incapable or unwilling to speak for themselves. When he was a kid watching his mother walk around the house on eggshells, fearful of upsetting his father, he often wondered why no one ever tried to save them. As an officer he was continually confronted with the reality of why. You could do your very best to save someone, but in the end the person has to want to be saved.

  “You okay, man?” Officer Blackwell asked.

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  Blackwell had heard stories about his partner’s parents and the fact that his father was serving a life term in prison. He knew why cases like these took their toll on Brunson.

  “What did she say?” Blackwell asked once they were outside.

  “She denied it of course. I hope she comes to her senses before it’s too late.”

  “I don’t get it, Brunson. Why the hell do these women stay? Hell, they got married last night and he’s beating on her already. What the fuck is the point?”

  “First of all, who’s to say it started last night? And, second, this ain’t about a judgment thing. We chose this job to serve and protect. But, we’re all human, aren’t we? We make mistakes, just as easily as our perps and our victims. It’s up to us to maintain the peace.”

  “Is that what you were doing when you cornered Mr. Westman in his own hallway? Maintaining the peace?”

  “Hell yeah,” Officer Brunson responded.

  Anxious to lighten the mood, once inside their police cruiser, Blackwell looked over at Br
unson with a grin.

  “Ain’t it time for a break, Brunson?”

  “Hell yeah, but I don’t want no goddamn donuts!”

  “Why not; you love Dunkin’ Donuts?”

  “Not today, I don’t,” Brunson responded.

  And, by the way, Brunson, some of us only took the job for the cushy benefits package.”

  “I know that’s right!”

  Blackwell started the car and as they pulled away from the building, Brunson took one last look at yet another statistic he hadn’t been able to save.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The police gone, Damita did her best to keep her distance from Neal. She thought about what Officer Brunson said, about things getting worse and wondered why she hadn’t taken him up on his offer to make Neal leave. For two days she walked around in a haze, feeling like she had married a stranger.

  So much had transpired since Damita said I do that she almost forgot their honeymoon. They were supposed to board an eight a.m. flight to Jamaica the morning after their wedding.

  Somehow, Neal was still behaving as though nothing had ever happened.

  “Do you want to change our flight to tomorrow morning?” he asked.

  Damita shrugged. “I’m tired and I’m not really in a Jamaica kind of a mood.”

  “Damita, baby, are we even going to try to make this work? I’ve apologized again and again. What else do I have to do to make you believe how sorry I am?”

  Damita listened, but wondered if she had married a sociopath. How could a person go from being sweet and kind one minute to being a monster the next?

  “Neal, I do believe you’re sorry; really, I do. I was so sure I knew who you were. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Do you want to know the first thing I told Carmella when I met you?”

  “Yeah, sure I do.”

  “I told her I believed you were the last gentleman left in New York City.”

  Neal smiled. “I’m still that man. Nothing has changed.”

  “That’s the problem, Neal. I feel like everything has changed. The kind of man I was talking about would never hit a woman. I listened to you on our wedding night go on and on about Brandon and, at first, I thought it was something I had done or maybe even something Brandon had said or done. But, after having a couple of days to think about it, I realize I didn’t do anything wrong. Brandon didn’t do anything wrong.”