American River Review 2019 - Flipbook - Page 49
“What’s that, Einstein?” Bruce says, placing his
hands on his hips, drawing in an exaggerated breath that
whistles through his nose as he straightens his posture.
“You’re telling me that you did all this, helped me get
rid of Lisa’s body, became a co-conspirator to murder, for
some goddamn cripple who’s never getting out of—”
“Shut up! You shut the fuck up!” Bruce grabs Josh’s
throat with both hands, his fingertips growing whiter with
each word. “You don’t know Jackie. The only thing he
ever wanted was for his sister to be hap—”
Bruce seems to leave himself, the blood vessels in the
whites of his eyes becoming visible. He let’s go, pushing
Josh into the thick mud. “You ain’t worth it. Stay the
fuck away from me.” He flexes both hands, trying to get
feeling back and heads toward his truck. “And if anything
happens to Melissa,” he continues as he opens the
driver’s side door, a dead cold look in his black eyes, “I’ll
kill you…and I’ll enjoy every goddamn minute of it.”
For the next three months, I follow Josh and Bruce,
watching their every move. Bruce, back at his catch-ascatch-can construction jobs, lives a solitary life of TV
dinners, Miller Lights and Marlboros while Josh begins
the process of eliminating every trace of my existence
from our apartment. My make-up, flat iron, even a box of
tampons he throws in a dumpster behind Save Mart late
one night. As for my clothes, he donates those, dispersing
them to several different bucket shops. He takes down
curtains, removes the bedspread, throws out most of the
kitchenware. Like a strung out ex-con with two cops
and a warrant at his door, he stuffs garbage bags full,
searching our apartment and our car, leaving nothing
untouched. He burns pictures and scratches MOVED
across any mail addressed to me.
I sit across from him on the couch, drag my fingernail
over the ribbing in the material, while he phones Melissa.
“Hey Babe, listen, I’ve been thinking, I think it’s time I
cooked you dinner.”
I lean back and remember the last time, years ago,
when he made me a meal. We had been doing pretty
well then. And while I had been clean for two months,
he had entered his second week of sobriety. It was one
of those times when the phrase things will be different
now still meant something. After dinner that night, he
went to an NA meeting and I took the opportunity to visit
my parents. When I picked him up from the meeting, he
hugged me and that’s when I saw it. That twitch in his left
eye and a dreadfully familiar chill walked up my spine.
“You smell like smoke,” he said.
I tried to be casual, patted his shoulder and laughed. “I
went to see my dad, sure wish he’d stop but old habits die
hard.”
“You told me your parents were on vacation.”
That’s when I knew I had blown it. I had told him my
folks were on vacation because he had wanted me to ask
them for a loan. I quickly added, “Oh. They were. Last
week. They’re back now.”
On the way home that night, the drive was silent. I
remember turning the radio on and gripping the arm of
the seat as he wordlessly switched it off. He waited for
probably twenty minutes after we got home before he
began with the abusive foreplay.
“You were either at a bar or you’re lying to me. Which
is it?” his tone even and flat.
“I – I must have got the vacation dates mixed up. You
know how bad I am with dates, Josh. I was at my folks’. I
swear. You can call them if you want. My mom, my mom
said to tell you hi. I - I swear. Besides, no one smokes in
bars anymore.”
“Well if you weren’t at a bar, why the lipstick? And
what’s that on your fuckin’ ankle?”
“It’s just a tattoo. You know one of those fake rub-on
ones. I, I thought you might like it.”
I remember the way he came at me, his breath smelling
like cold coffee and sour milk. “You smell like sex. Now,
why is that?” he whispered. The open-handed slap spun
me around, knocked me off balance, the pain, quick and
hot that shot across the back of my eyes as I slammed
into the corner of the footboard.
“Josh, don’t.”
I didn’t know then how many more times I would
say those two words, how adept I would become at
concealing bruises with the right combination of Almay’s
natural sun-kissed foundation and Revlon’s light blonde
concealer. Or that two Advil migraine pills with one and
half shots of bourbon would be the magic combination
to take the edge off just enough to sleep, without feeling
drugged the next morning.
These things take time to learn.
He grabbed a handful of hair and pulled me to a
standing position and screamed, “Tell me the truth.
Where were you?”
“I am telling you the truth Josh, I swear. I was at my
parents’ house.”
And as he yelled, “I don’t believe you,” he let go and
pushed me hard. I fell against the dresser then touched
my temple, flinching at the rapidly rising welt, the
result of a half-opened drawer. Before I could reach
the bathroom, he came at me and with one deliberate
movement, smacked me square in the back with a
wooden chair so hard part of the backing broke.
American River Review
47