Time Off for Good Behavior (14 page)

“
Whoa, whoa, whoa
—
what are you doing?
”

He paused before hitting the talk button.
“
I
’
m calling for pizza, Wanda. What the hell do you think I
’
m doing? I
’
m calling the police.
”

“
No!
”

He froze, his face tight.
“
Wanda.
”

“
The cops are not going to help
this situation. You
’
re a lawyer. You gonna tell me you don
’
t know what happens when...
”
I trailed off. It didn
’
t matter what Walter knew or didn
’
t know. I
’
d sent George to jail once. I learned that lesson. I grabbed my bag, battling my shaking hand to kee
p my grip.

“
I
’
m sorry I called you. I
’
m gonna go.
”

Walter put the phone down and stepped toward me.
“
Where are you gonna go, Wanda? Back home, just wait for him to come and kill you?
”

I shrugged. It was a thought. I waved my hand dismissively at him, stari
ng at the natural wood coatrack by the door on which he
’
d tossed my denim jacket, which looked horribly out of place next to his London Fog raincoat.

Pipe dream.

“
This isn
’
t your problem,
”
I said.

He shifted on his feet.
“
That
’
s bullshit. If you come to me
because some maniac is going to kill you, you
’
ve just made it my problem.
”

Walter
’
s anger made my muscles go wooden. I felt George
’
s hands grabbing my arms and leaving bruises. I felt his hot breath on my face. I saw the fury in his eyes as he raised his
fist.

Walter touched my arm gently. I screamed and punched him in the chest. Hard. He took a step back and looked at me. I was frozen. I dropped my eyes to avoid seeing the look on his face, but I knew what was there: the same look that had been on the fac
e of everyone who had gotten close to me only to realize that I was so much less than the sum of my parts.

“
I
’
m sorry.
”
I still didn
’
t look at him. I picked up my bag, which had fallen from my grip.
“
I
’
m sorry.
”

His hand was on my arm again. I stopped and
looked at it, cursing every tear that fell on it as I crumpled to the floor. He moved slowly down to my side, eventually curling his frame around mine, which was hunched in a fetal position. He smoothed my hair as I cried, and repeated,
“
Shhhhhhh...,
”
unti
l I regained my breathing.

We stayed there, silent and still, for a long time. Finally, I heard a whisper in my ear.
“
What did he do to you?
”

I was silent. I didn
’
t want to tell him. I didn
’
t want to think about it. I didn
’
t want to move. I just wanted to
lie there in the safety of Walter
’
s arms and go to sleep, which was exactly what I did.

***

When I woke up, it was dark. I was lying on a bed under a flowery quilt, my head resting on a soft pillow tucked inside a clean white pillowcase. A small circular
table covered in purple cloth and white lace sat next to the bed, supporting a phone and an alarm clock that read 7:18 p.m. On the wall was a picture of a baby surrounded by sunflowers. Good God. The place looked like Martha Stewart had puked all over it.

I scanned the room, getting my bearings. The closet door was open a bit, and the only thing I could see in it was my duffel bag, slumping in defeat on the floor. I heard a gentle knock, and a tentative shaft of light crept into the room. I looked up and s
aw Walter leaning against the doorway, keeping his distance, being careful.

“
How ya feeling?
”
he asked. His face was half-lit by the hallway, and his expression was kind, without a hint of pity or condescension. I sighed. Assholes were so much easier to de
al with than Jimmy Stewart types.

I pushed myself up to sitting and ran my hand through my hair.
“
Never better.
”

He nodded. He had his hands in his trouser pockets, and the top two buttons on his white shirt were undone. I pulled the quilt up around me, co
vering my torn jeans and Bangles T-shirt. I ran my finger over the purple flower design on the quilt, took a deep breath, and summoned up the courage not to be flippant.

“
I
’
m sorry I hit you.
”

He held up his hand and shook his head.
“
Don
’
t worry about it.
It
’
s okay.
”

“
It
’
s not okay. I was just freaked out.
”

“
I know.
”

“
You can come in if you want.
”
I gave a feeble laugh.
“
I probably won
’
t take another swing at you.
”

He gave a small nod and walked in and sat on the edge of the bed, holding his hand out palm-u
p. I hesitated, then put my hand in his, feeling the warmth ride up my arm as his fingers closed around mine. I stared out the window and started talking.

The first time George hit me, he broke my arm. It wasn
’
t long after we
’
d moved to Tennessee, and I
’
d
gone to a movie by myself
—
he
’
d driven off all my friends by that point
—
and he was convinced I
’
d been out with another man. Not long after that, we got married, proving once and for all that I was far stupider than I looked. On our first anniversary, I tol
d
him to stop drinking, and he hit me in the face so hard that my right eye was swollen shut for two weeks. I told everyone at work I had been in a car accident. Some of them even believed me. I learned that by smiling and nodding and agreeing to everythin
g
that George wanted, I could control the situation. He would still get drunk, call me names, grab me and shake me, but as long as I played the game right, he wouldn
’
t hit. For a long time, I thought I could live that way. I convinced myself it was a life.

George started working for an oil company on the North Slope of Alaska about two years into our marriage. It was a two-weeks-on, two-weeks-off deal; they would fly him back and forth from Anchorage, and my job was to make sure a ticket was waiting there f
o
r him to get back to Tennessee. His plan was to move us both up to Anchorage, but I stalled. Every now and again a fight would erupt. He
’
d want to know why I hadn
’
t quit my job, sold our house and bought one up in Anchorage. I managed to convince him I wa
s
trying, and eventually, he would calm down, and then it would be time to drive him back to the airport for his two weeks on.

At first, I stayed in the house and tried to convince myself I missed him when he was gone. I told myself that I looked forward to
his daily calls, that I thought it was sweet how he
’
d grill me on where I
’
d been if he got the answering machine. A few months into it, I started to venture out. The first place I ventured to was Molly
’
s.

Molly was the traffic manager at Hastings Channel
8. About five years before I met her, her ex, a paralegal named Joel, had stabbed her in the abdomen twelve times. She could smell what was going on with me and George. She gave me books. She told me whom to call. And when I finally packed up and left, sh
e
took me in.

For the first six weeks after I left, George went back and forth between the devastated lover who couldn
’
t understand what had happened and the vicious, violent freak who had to control every move I made. It all depended upon the mood and circ
umstance of the day, and I had no way of knowing whether it would be flowers or dead cats on my doorstep.

Until now, I
’
d received only one other letter from George, and it was during that time. One afternoon he followed me back to Molly
’
s and cried on the
other side of the door, begging me to let him in, to give him one more chance, swearing he didn
’
t mean to hurt me. The next day he slipped a letter under the front door while we were at work. The letter was short; it simply said that he would be back to
“
c
ut both you bitches into little pieces.
”
Molly called the police, and they picked George up in a bar two blocks away. He punched the cop and was put in jail; I filed for a restraining order.

Two days later he was out. He bashed down Molly
’
s door and dragge
d me across the living room by my hair. Molly came down the stairs. Her voice was shaky. She called him Joel. George dropped me on the floor, slamming my head against the wall, and headed over to Molly. He hit her, knocking her down and, as I found out la
t
er, breaking her cheekbone. Then he dragged me back to his place, where he kept me trapped with him for three days. He waved a gun in my face, telling me he was going to blow my head off. He burned my things in the fireplace. I still have a scar on my lef
t
ankle from the nylon rope he used to bind my legs so I wouldn
’
t run.

On the third day, while I was sleeping, George destroyed what was left of my belongings, then packed up and left. It was another year before the divorce was final.

“
Anyway, Molly called
a few days after that and told me that she couldn
’
t help me anymore.
”
I reached for the glass of water Walter had gotten for me when my throat started to go dry in the middle of the story.
“
She never pressed charges against George. I went back to work two
weeks later, and she was gone. That was the last time I saw her.
”

There was a long silence. I guess Walter was waiting to be sure I was done. Finally, he spoke.

“
You need to call the police.
”
His tone was low and dead serious. He got up from the bed and gr
abbed the phone off the night table. Instead of making the call himself, he held it out to me. I stared up at him.

“
I think it
’
s something you need to do,
”
he said. His eyes were kind yet firm, so unflinching in the face of the Jerry Springer nightmare he
’
d just heard. Not too surprising, I guess. The guy was a lawyer. Surely, he
’
d heard worse. Probably not from anyone sitting in the middle of his regurgitated Martha Stewart guest room, but still...

“
I
’
m not ready,
”
I said, not taking the phone from him. I
couldn
’
t. The muscles in my arms were shaking. I didn
’
t want him to see that.

“
Wanda..

“
Walter,
”
I said,
“
the guy
’
s in Alaska.
”

Walter shook his head.
“
Three days ago. If he even sent that letter himself. He might have given it to a friend to put in the ma
il. He could be anywhere now.
”

“
I need a shower.
”
I didn
’
t know where the hell that came from, but it was as good a change of subject as any. I got up and knelt down by the closet, poking through my bag. No toothbrush.
Crap.
I stood up. Walter was watching
me, the phone still clutched in his hand. I sighed.