The Wrong Place - A Free Short Story

The thoughts in my head play ping-pong with the pain in my face as I knock on Billy’s door.  When the door swings open, Billy doesn’t look surprised.

“Another bruise.  That’s real nice, Jane,” he says.

I haven’t seen his dismay in over a year.  He doesn’t gape at me anymore.  His eyes don’t widen in surprise.  All I see is the color of the deep scar that cuts across his forehead and digs down into his left eyelid.  Whenever he gets upset the skin around the edges of his scar darkens to maroon.  Right now the scar is a deeper shade of red than normal, telling me he’s on the brink of agitation.

“Can I come in?” My voice is harsh, but I can’t help it.

Each time I have to knock on Billy’s door, I get more pissed off at my husband Frank.  Right now, I can’t think past wanting to strangle him.   He fooled me again, giving me six weeks to relax this time.  My blood boils thinking of what an idiot I am.

“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” Billy says.

No, I’m not sure, but I don’t know what else to do.  Billy doesn’t deserve my problems, but my face throbs with the memory of Frank’s fist.  In the morning, if I have the courage, I’ll go to the police.  Right now, I just want to get away from the pain.

“Can I come in or not?”

“Sure, Jane.  Come on in.”

Billy straightens his arm, and I duck under it as I slip through the doorway.

“Can I use your bathroom?” I say.

Billy sighs. “You know where it is.”

“Thanks,” I say.

 Billy’s condo is small and tidy, no clutter anywhere.  He works with computers all day and always says he has enough clutter at the office to give him nightmares.  He probably has enough of me there, too.  I sense it whenever I come here.

We work together at the same company, in the same department, doing the same type of job.  That’s how we met.  Billy was already working in the computer department when I was hired as a programmer.  He handed me the company handbook on my very first day, and he has answered every question I’ve ever had about the job.  We’re buddies at work, but I don’t think he likes me much when I knock on his door.

Billy works harder than anyone in our department.  I used to be able to match him in efficiency.  Lately, though, whenever the boss is gone, I search the Internet’s freakiest chat rooms and blogs looking for ways to kill my husband.

Frank is a personal injury attorney.  He started his own one-man firm three years ago.  Frank Meyer and Associates.  Except he has no associates.  It’s just him, all alone, collecting cases that barely pay the bills.  Maybe once a year he finds a client with a legitimate case that will settle for enough money to keep his business out of bankruptcy.  Sometimes he even asks me for money.  The rest of the time he works on worthless cases and stresses over maybe having to go back to his old law firm.  When he’s really stressed out, his temper can snap in a split-second.

I close the bathroom door behind me and rinse my hands, avoiding the mirror.  The water slides over my wrists, cooling me, calming my jitters.  I rub the soap between my palms.  Then I wash my face, careful around the mark on my cheek.

Frank is careful not to hit me too much.  Most of the time his temper explodes and calms in one swing of his arm.  The contact stuns him as much as it does me, and he is always sorry.

The first time, he only slapped me.  He still worked for the law firm then, and he was miserable.  He was doing collections and couldn’t stand having to badger people into paying their bills.

“Maybe you should try bankruptcy law,” I told him.  “It seems like the flip side of collections, so you’d be helping them instead of badgering.”

Frank didn’t like my suggestion.

“Shut up!” he yelled, swinging out at the same time.

An hour ago, he backhanded me with his fist.  Most of his clients really piss him off because they make a habit of getting into car accidents just so they can file lawsuits.  The work isn’t what he expected.  He isn’t really helping anyone.  I’d never seen him as frustrated as he was earlier.  I tried to comfort him, running my fingers through his dark hair, but he swung out.  His way of pushing me away.  His knuckles slammed into my cheekbone, and the pain sparkled through my face.

I splash water over my face, rinse the soap away, then glance up.  Great.  Pink and purple.  My cheek is a pastel bull’s eye.  I dry my face and hands then lean closer to the mirror.  Blinking my eye hurts.  Looking at myself hurts.  I can’t believe he hit me again.  I hang the towel back in its place and open the door.

Billy isn’t waiting.  He used to wait, but not anymore.  I walk through his condo looking for him and, eventually, find him in the kitchen.  He sits at the table by the window sipping a beer.  I clear my throat, and he looks over, head tipped back, bottle at his lips.  Then he lowers the bottle and stares.  Right now the skin around his scar is dark purple, darker than my bruise.  The scar pinches his eyelid so that his eye never quite closes when he blinks.  I want to squirm.

 “Sit down,” he says.  “I’ll fix you something to eat.”

“I don’t want anything to eat.  I just want to sleep.”

“Fine.”  He looks away from me, down at the bottle, and picks at the label with his thumbnail.  “You can take my bedroom.  I’ll sleep on the couch.”

I would argue.  The first few times I did, but Billy always insists on taking the couch.  It isn’t worth mentioning anymore.  I’m too tired.

“Thanks.  I mean it, Billy.  I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He slams the bottle on the table.  I flinch.

“Go to bed, Jane,” he says.

The whip of his voice stings.  Sometimes Billy’s anger is almost as bad as Frank’s fist.  Sometimes I wish he would hit me so I could blame him instead of myself.  I back away, turn away from his bad mood, then walk out before my tears spill over.

I know I frustrate Billy.  The only time he ever sees me is at work or on his doorstep right after Frank has hit me.  At work we’re friendly, but when I come here, his mood darkens.

Billy’s good at flirting.  Before Frank started hitting me, Billy would flirt with me all the time.

“So, when are you going to dump your husband and marry me?” he would say.

The attention made me feel special, made me blush like a girl with a crush.  But I can’t feel that way about Billy.  When we’re sitting at our desks next to each other, I can forget about the scar on his face.  I feel protected by his presence.  He’s built like a gladiator.  Any woman would feel protected around him.  But when I look at him, my blood shivers.

 On my first day of work, he caught me trying to avoid looking at his scar and blurted out that it was the result of a bar fight.  He used to work nights as a bouncer until a drunk hit him in the face with a bottle.  The glass shattered against his forehead.  A chunk sliced into his skin.

“I’m lucky it missed my eyeball.  It could be worse.  Instead of just ugly, I could be blind, too,” he said.

I don’t know why Billy likes me or puts up with me.  I know he liked me a lot more before he saw bruises on my face.  He hasn’t joked about marrying me since the first time I knocked on his door.

In the bedroom, I drop on the bed without even undressing and lie down on my side.  I toe off my shoes then pull my legs up, knees curled to my chest.  Before I fall asleep, I stare at the wall for a long time.

When I met Frank in college, he was so passionate about life.  He planned to be an attorney, but he actually wanted to help people.  He didn’t want to be one of those lawyers who only thought about money.  He wanted to fight for people who wouldn’t have a chance against the legal system without him.  Those people needed him.

He teased me when he found out I was majoring in computer science.

“I’ve never seen a leggy, blond nerd before,” Frank said.  “I might have to be jealous of all those geeky guys in your classes.”

“Don’t worry,” I told him.  “The geeks in my classes may be book smart, but they don’t know how to hold a door open for a lady.”

 Frank never had a problem being a gentleman.  He was good-looking – tall and rangy with a sweet, baby face – and devoted to whatever he decided he wanted.  For some reason, he decided he wanted me.  We dated all through college and got married right before Frank started law school.  I worked while he studied.  Then he graduated, passed the bar, and got a job with one of the biggest law firms in the city.  Unfortunately, the job wasn’t enough for him.  I watched his frustration grow like a cancer.

Now, most nights, I stare at the wall imagining ways to kill Frank.  Baseball bat, gun, knife, poison.  They’re all too obvious, though.  I would never get away with it.  I would do it.  I really would. . . if I could get away with it.  I just can’t figure out how to get away with it.

***

Something brushes across my hair.  I open my eyes, blink away the cloudiness.  The sun shines beams through the cracks in the window blinds.  Billy smiles down at me.

“Still hurt?” he says.

I sit up, but he doesn’t move away.

“Not as bad.  Mostly just stiff now,” I say.

“It’s dark blue.”  His thumb glides over my bruise.  “Why do you let him do this to you?”

“Gee, I don’t know.  Maybe deep down I really like it.”

“You know who Frank reminds me of?”  He tucks my hair behind my ear.

My blood shivers.  “You’ve never even met him.  Why would he remind you of anyone?”

His gaze sharpens, cutting my soul like a knife.  “I’ve seen what he’s done to you, haven’t I?”

I look down at my hands.

“That movie A Clockwork Orange,” Billy says.  “Alex. . . That’s who Frank is.  A pretty boy with a violent streak.  I always imagine him slapping the crap out of you while he’s singing Singin’ in the Rain.”

 I roll my eyes.  “Give me a break.  It’s not like he’s running around raping and murdering people.”

Billy grabs my chin, forcing me to face him.  “What he does is bad enough.  He’s hit you so many times, I figure he must get off on it.”

“He doesn’t hit me that much.  What’s wrong with you?”

I raise my chin to get away.  His fingers tighten around my jaw.

“The first time he hit you should’ve been too much.  Why didn’t you leave him then?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe I’m too stupid to know any better.”  I jerk my chin out of his grasp and knock his hand away.  “Why are you being an asshole?  Stop putting your hands on me.”

“Maybe you should try that line on your husband.”

“Screw you.”

His scarless eyebrow lifts.  “You just told me to keep my hands off.  Now you want to screw?  I don’t know, Jane.  We could try it with no hands, but it might be a little awkward.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Maybe, but not as crazy as you are.  Why don’t you leave him?  Seriously, Jane.  You’ve got to do something,” he says.  “You could stay here.  I’m all you really need.  I’d take care of you.”

All I really need.  Take care of me.  Right.  Meaning sex.  I can’t give him that no matter how much I don’t want to be alone.  Billy is the sweetest, but that scar. . .

“I have to go.”

He reaches for me again, but I dodge him.  I crawl off of the bed and step into my shoes.

 “Back to Frank?  Do me a favor, Jane.  Don’t come to me the next time he hits you.  I’m sick of you dumping your problems on me.”

“Billy, you say that every time.  Why do you keep letting me in if you feel used?”

“Gee, I don’t know.  Maybe deep down I really like it.”

The corner of my mouth tugs up.  I want to laugh, but it comes out as a sigh.  “I guess I’m no better than Frank, am I?” I say.  “Thanks for letting me stay here.  I’ll see you at work.”

I leave him sitting on the bed, go out to my car, and drive away.  On my way to the police station, my cell phone rings.  Billy’s number flashes on the screen, but I don’t answer.  I know what he will say.  He’s sorry for getting angry.  He’s sorry for being a jerk.  He’s always sorry, and that makes it easy to take advantage of him.  I know Frank will hit me again.  I know I’ll use Billy to escape.  And I know he’ll help me even if it makes him crazy.

I choose a parking space in the back of the police station’s lot.  Six weeks ago, with a split lip, I sat in the same spot for ten minutes before I drove home to Frank.  This time I actually get out of my car.  I walk to the front steps, but I only step up onto the first one.  I drop down onto the second step to sit and think.  For five minutes I sit all alone.

A police cruiser pulls into the lot and parks, and the officer climbs out.  He makes eye contact with me.  He walks toward me, still watching.  Adrenaline pumps through my blood and heats my skin.  What will I do if he asks if I need help?  I’m not ready yet.  I’m still hoping Frank will just die and leave me be.

The officer stops, towering over me.  “You can’t wait for the bus here, ma’am.  You’re loitering.”

My heart sinks into my gut like a boulder.  “I. . .”

 He stares at me with those hostile, distant cop eyes.  I should know better than to expect help from the police.

“Sorry.  I’ll go.”  I stand up and walk away.

Cops suck.  As I pass his cruiser, my fingers itch to drag my keys along the nice, white paint job.  I feel his eyes burning into my back and resist the urge to do damage.  I would never get away with it, and he definitely isn’t worth the trouble I would get into.

Holding back my temper, I get in my car and drive home.  When I pull into the driveway, the front door is open.  Frank stands framed in the doorway, waiting.  He smiles hello, awakening his dimples.  I draw in a deep breath, blow it out.  Then I go to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“I know.”

When he reaches for me, I hug him back.  When he touches my cheek, my hand clenches his sweater.  I pull away.  His fingertips slide along the mark left by his fist.

“You’re going to cover this with makeup before you go to work, aren’t you?” he says.

Bastard.

I push past him into the foyer.  “I wouldn’t have to if you’d stop hitting me.”

“It won’t happen again.  I promise.”

I stop and face him.  “Oh, you promise.  Then I guess I should believe you, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes.  It won’t happen again.”

“Bullshit.”

“Christ, Jane.  I said I was sorry.  I said I wouldn’t do it again.  What else do you want?”

“You could drop dead.  That would really help me a lot.”

 “Come on , Jane.  Don’t be like that.”  He steps toward me.  “You know how much I love you.”

“Then why do you do this to me?”

“I don’t know.”

I scrape my hands through my hair, holding it off of my face.  “What kind of an answer is ‘I don’t know?’”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Jane.  You know that.”  He keeps walking until we are toe to toe.  “I love you.”

When his dimples flash again, my hands fall to my sides.  His baby blue eyes mesmerize me.  He leans close and kisses the side of my neck.

My heart skips then melts.  My eyes drift shut.  I can never resist the feel of his lips on my body.  Every evil thought in my mind floats away.  Frank can’t die.  I need him too much.

Copyright Beth Pontorno 2020