Stop right here. Did you read my blog post from last week? If not, please go here, and once you’re done reading then return, for this is part 2 of Chapter 1. Perhaps part 3 will get posted next week, if I hear from enough of you that you wish to read more!

For the first time since I had made the phone call I checked my wristwatch, and realized that unless Johnny had passed out, there would be a row in store for me when I returned. I said I was only headed out for a stroll, and it was hours since I left. Maybe, I let myself believe, if this Thursday night was anything like all the others, he would have fallen asleep and I could slip in undetected. Tomorrow I would pack a few things into the boxes I had hidden under the bed, call a cab, and I’d be gone before he returned from work. 

I suffered my last backhand, I told myself. No more hiding from friends or family. I pictured Mrs. Hendricks, even with her near-blank stare into her gilded mirror, even if she resided rather numbly and alone, that all held appeal on that night. As I walked back to my apartment, I wondered if I’d leave a note or just vanish. Going incognito felt like pure freedom. Drifting around in a quiet mansion even better. Yeah, there’d be no note easing anything with that deadbeat I thought before heading up our rickety stairs. 

The blue light of the TV told me all I needed to know as I quietly pushed in my key and opened the door that led into the kitchen. Johnny was slumped back still holding a beer can, which gave me all the time I needed to change into a nightshirt  and slip into bed without even talking to him. Eventually he’d let go of the can, beer would slosh over him until he actually woke, and then I’d hear the shits and fucks and god-damn-its before he’d just shift to the couch. With any luck we’d never say another word to each other.

It must have been a few hours later, certainly after midnight when I realized all was not going as I hoped. Sure the can slipped, and as always, there was beer sloshing about the chair and Johnny, but instead of only swearing and moving in his stupor to the couch, I heard him call out my name. Out of my deepest slumbers I heard the growl in his voice. 

“Helen, fuck Helen, what the fuck bitch, where the fuck, you left me here to fucking…” the can hit the window and I could hear the bing. How to react? I did not know what would get me out of a punch to my gut, a rap across my face. In my panic I curled into a ball and pulled every bit of the coverlet around myself. But fear enraged him like little else. 

As he stood in the bedroom doorway, seeing me tighter and smaller, his rage grew like wildfire and that growl became a roar. I stiffened even more as I felt his hand on my collar pulling me straight onto the floor and into his kick. First my hip, then straight into my middle, I doubled into pain and instinctively grabbed on to his leg to pull him off center. I had never been an equal adversary to his brute force, but initially I tried to slow his attempts. Before I knew it he had me standing up in the corner, his favorite slugging position, as if he wanted to murder anything that might be growing in my heart or soul, he pushed his fist in and in and in not to exactly kill me but certainly to kill the life in me. I let my mind drift upward like the smoke from one of Mrs. Hendricks cigarettes and float up along the ceiling. He must have felt me go limp and lost his thrill, because moments later, he let me fall flat on the floor. 

The way this scenario went I would cry, and cry and cry, and he would curl around me with apologies and promises, but instead on this night I pulled myself up to sit on the bed. A slow stream of blood trickled down the side of my face onto my ripped nightshirt. I did not push it away but let it build momentum so there was visible blood between us. I was done cleaning up for him. I tried to stand but the pain in my rips was a reminder that they were minimally badly bruised if not cracked, again. I sat back down. I’d never make it through the night with an attitude, I told myself. Better to lay back and just cry. That was never hard to muster. There was plenty to cry about. My mom dying. Dropping out of high school. That first pregnancy. Somehow landing in this shit hole with this shitty human. I turned right over and wept until sleep overcame me. Who knows why, but he never came to bed, never forced himself on me, never even promised it would not happen again. 

At 6:30 I awoke hearing the shower running, and by 7 the door shut behind him. I learned how to tape my own ribs long before Johnny, but that didn’t make the process any easier. I hated myself for falling into his trap. I should have pulled the can from his drunken hand and been the bitch he respected instead of sulking away. But here I was, again, ready to bail from another guy via the back door. One more failure I said out loud while looking in the bathroom mirror at my newly swollen face and my taped chest. One more, one more, one more, it became a sort of refrain as I went through the motions of shower and making a cup of tea. 

I found myself talking out loud, “You may be a failure, you may never make anything happen, but you are getting out of this shit hole, yeah, you are,” all voiced as I pushed through packing up a box of clothes, a few knick knacks that survived the string of abusive shitheads I romped with these past years. 

There is one thing about being a runaway, you never can stop that instinct. I was once again on the way out, not exactly under the cover of night, but moving furtively like a thief all the same. I had been hiding flattened boxes around the apartment for months, almost unconsciously, just knowing all the time that one sunny morning I would be pushing my knickknacks and sweaters and tees and jeans into them while all the while keeping an eye on the door in case I had to push them quickly out of sight. It was the same with possessions, never kept more than would fit in five boxes, and not huge ones either, but medium-sized boxes I could pack up and haul into a trunk or a cabby’s back seat in less than 10 minutes. This sunny morning was no different. 

When the cabby pulled onto the gravel drive of 15 Highland Avenue, it was a sound I had dreamt of. Somehow it sounded rich. After all the dirt or torn up asphalt drives of my past, this graveled turn-about felt as far removed as I’d ever gotten. In the daylight I could see the absolute manicure of the garden beds and lawn, the stately oaks and hedge of roses. The cabby was nice enough to ask if I needed help getting everything up the steps, but I didn’t want to let him know I was arriving as hired help, so I carried the boxes up the stairs to the garage apartment one at a time and didn’t stop until all five were sitting on the floor. No one from within the house ever looked out a window, or at least I saw no signs of life. 

I looked around at the dust dancing here and there in the drifting light and felt exhausted. Not nearly as triumphant as I’d hoped, but how many losers can you let blacken your eye until you are fairly certain you are one yourself? I wandered to the small alcove that stood in for a kitchenette and opened the middle cupboard. There was a tin of sugar, another of tea bags, an odd assortment of mugs and bowls and plates. One martini glass and behind it half a bottle of vodka. I turned to take in the whole of the room and thought, I am going to unpack, and turn this strange place into a home. Regardless of what happens, I’m going to allow that at the very least. 

By the time I finished everything from my boxes had found a place. My grandmother’s quilt was on my bed, and my three framed photos, of me at sunset at the beach the last time I went with my mother, another of Squirrel that funny dog we had for a few years when I was a kid, and the Eiffel Tower which was the prettiest place I could ever dream of going. I set them on the wall shelf next to the four books I always kept close at hand. Emily Dickinson verses, the collected works of Shakespeare, a children’s book that had no words but the watercolors were all under the sea, and my diary from fifth grade when I wrote short stories about enchanted forest animals. Even by my standards these books should not have made it into the five boxes. I didn’t understand even one of Dickinson’s poems and got bored after reading two pages of Shakespeare, but they both were from my favorite high school teacher who thought I was far greater than it turned out I was, so I guess I kept them around as reminders that someone eons ago believed in me. Rereading my diary did make me laugh out loud, such silly kid’s stuff, that one was an always treasure.

Tires hit the gravel hard and I peered out the front window just next to my bed. Three jeeps rolled in fast, one after the other, all black. People started pouring out of the open doors while the drivers went around back and opened the tailgates, almost in unison, like this was a ritual they had performed countless times. Once or twice two of the drivers yelled over to each other and I recognized their faces from the family photos. Here were the twins. Taller, with chiseled cheekbones and shaggier hair but them all the same. That same smirk, not quite a smile or exactly a smile with some edge to it. The third driver is clearly of the same ilk. There was a pile of them, grabbing overnight bags and loose bottles and heading right up the steps to the front door like they owned the place. 

My eyes drifted to the second floor window closest to me and realized that Mrs. Hendrick’s dressing table was in view. There she sat with little wisps of smoke circling her profile. She didn’t budge or stop her gaze into her mirror for a second although by now the crowd must have entered the house and be banging down below her with their frivolity. A movement in the window two rooms away stole my attention. It was Beth peering down at the crowd. She had pushed back her drapes only a fraction, enough for her to glance down, enough for me to see the worry in her face. 

At the same time her sister burst out the front door with a loud hello and threw her arms around the third driver, almost throwing him off balance. There was a big kiss which momentarily quieted her. Beth let her curtain fall back to cover her reaction. Mrs. Hendricks had moved to lining her other eye, again. Within minutes the whole crowd had moved indoors with overnight bags and grocery bags and much jubilation at having arrived.

I sat back down on the bed and wondered, now what? How was I to make my appearance through that party in the making? Did Mrs. Hendricks even remember her proposition to me yesterday? Was I an idiot to have believed in a drunk and possibly delusional elderly woman and got myself stolen away prematurely? Why hadn’t I gone to Beth, the face of reality in that house, and get her to verify the offer? I laid back down to contemplate my fate…

How long I slept I’m not sure since I had couldn’t find my watch but all was dark when I finally sat back up. Something outside woke me up. I could hear that loud voice again, coming from the girl with the banana curls of yesterday, and the voice was getting closer, maybe even headed up the stairs to the apartment. And she wasn’t alone, but being pursued by a male for sure, and yes they were headed right up the wooden stairs, after switching the light on I could see more of the apartment illuminated. My first reaction was to scoot into the bathroom to hide but I was still barely awake and there was all my stuff around, with no time to scoop even the quilt off the bed, so I just sat there as they rounded the top step and were turned to each other in full embrace. 

So that’s what this place was normally used for, I thought, Blondie’s booty call. 

I waited and watched. Maybe they would not make it to the bed I thought at the speedy rate they were headed. His hand under her shirt. Her’s straight into his pants. Their kissing more and more like gulping air, frantic and down right noisy. Here is where I might have cleared my throat, or stood to say, why hello neighbors, funny story to tell, but I was a bit shell-shocked, dazed from a long nap, so I braced myself for the discovery. She was headed to her knees as he pulled her top right off, and with the skill of a player, her bra came off too. His belt buckle undone and pants now below his hips she had at it. I watched his head roll back, his gaze toward the heavens, and her honed skills unleashed. Nothing I did at this point would be appreciated by either participant so I moved as slowly as possible to a reclining position and inched the edge of the coverlet over my head. Could I really feign sleep? I mean besides her initial laughter mounting up the stairs, she was quieted by her primary action of pleasing him. But as anyone except me might have imagined he could not stop his drive to get her onto the bed and under him, and so, with a sweeping motion, she was lifted up and dumped right across my legs before I could even pull them under me. 

Instinct hit us all at that moment, her bare chested with his jeans at his knees, and now with me sitting up facing them. I think it was my scream that alerted them.

“What the fuck,” the dude inches away from my face yelled. Blondie broke out in a huge laugh. Stuck between the two of them I felt as if an entire liquor cabinet was ignited on the bed. She could not have cared less about her tits bobbling freely but he was desperate to get his purple dick out of view and under wraps. 

He began to repeat himself.  “What the fuck, who the fuck…” staring at me with bloodshot eyes and a grimace on his face, while his counterpart just was laughing.

“Well it’s not you that’s fucking, that’s all I know,” I found myself saying. So used to hitting aggression with the same, I pushed my chin out and gave him back the same force he was dishing out, which just caused Blondie to double over in hysterics. His pants were secured now, the belt buckle doing its job, and he was on the quest to at the very least get her shirt on.

As he threw it in her direction he yelled over, “Valerie, put it on and stop being an idiot. You got a grifter here and I think we better get her thrown out.”

I was standing face to face with the asshole before he got another word out as his girl just rolled onto the hole in the bedcovers and further into her drunken silliness. What would she know about grifters? She was as sheltered as they came, I mused. “Who are you calling a grifter asshole? I live here. Moved in this afternoon. Hired by Mrs. Hendricks yesterday. Watched you good old boys roll into the driveway a few hours ago and I guess I just lost track of time. Why don’t you and Blondie here go find another snack shack?”  I was going so full Townie on the guy that it shocked him sober for a moment. 

But then his entitlement steamed back in, “Hired for what? Spying in the dark? Bet you enjoyed the show? Maybe you were hoping to get some of this yourself? Fucking tramp, looks like someone made you their punching bag. Even in the dark I can see you’re just someone’s beat up bitch.”

I raised my fist up looking like I would swing myself right into more trouble when Valerie grabbed my arm and turned me to her. “Shush Peter. She’s just a kid. And if my mother wants her for some reason, then that’s good enough for me. Let’s take her over to the house and find out what exactly she’s hired to do.” She hadn’t taken her eyes off of me, and I could see that she had no faith that I’d last ten minutes on this story I was telling. With an odd sort of satisfaction she put on her lacy blue bra and pulled over the gauzy top without taking her eyes off of mine. Her mother was hers to twist and turn, of that she appeared certain, and as drunk and funny as she thought the whole scene, she wasn’t going to have any woman stand higher than she in her mother’s estimation. I felt all that within a close moment. 

Peter switched on the lamp and the fullness of my bruised face and tossed hair and rumpled clothes came into full view. “Let’s go whatever your name is,” he reached for my elbow, but I backed away, and knew that I had to at the very least splash some water on my face, and apply a layer of foundation. 

“Sure, I’m happy to follow you two into the main house, but allow me a moment of privacy in the bathroom, would you?” As he might have wanted to argue I added, “You may want to get your girl’s shirt on the right side and zip your fly while I’m gone for a moment.” I watched his eyes go to Valarie’s inside-out blouse, and then to his open fly.

“Yeah, yeah, fine. But make it fast. Valerie, what the fuck, pull yourself together too, would you. The last thing I need is either of your brothers knowing about us …” Perhaps not the right words, for as I stepped into the bathroom I heard her hand hit his face with a sting. “Hey, don’t get bitchy with me. I’m the one hurting here, jeez Val, you know your brothers. They will never have me around if they think we’re banging…”

“Is that what we are doing? Banging? Get your ass out of here Peter. You piece of shit. Stay clear of me or I’ll be the one to tell them you’re ‘banging’ their sister… “ I could hear through the thin walls as she continued, “Clear out would ya. I’ll take care of whatever her name is. This is my home. Go play with your boys.”

I couldn’t hear them anymore over the water I was splashing generously on my face. If only I didn’t already feel regret for having found myself in yet another shitty situation. And the kicker was if Mrs. Hendricks didn’t remember our conversation, I was minutes away from being homeless. Not the situation I had left the shithead for when I packed up this morning. 

I rummaged inside my make-up bag for a tube of foundation and squirted a generous amount in my palm. I was used to patting over bruises, careful not to puff up my skin any further. I layered as best I could, and then looked for some eyeliner and mascara. I was desperate to pull off decent despite the obvious irony in the situation. Finally I brushed my teeth, used some pink tinted lip gloss and brushed my hair and let it spill around my face a bit more than I normally did. I didn’t have time to curl it but tried to give it a shake and fluff. 

When I opened the bathroom door I could see Peter was indeed gone and Valerie was taking the vodka out of the kitchenette cabinet and grabbing two glasses. I walked past her and thought this a good moment to change my shirt. I had two blouses hanging in the small closet. I grabbed the gray silky one with black buttons and quickly made the switch. Valarie downed the first knuckle and re-poured another for herself and me, then carried both glasses over to me. 

“Well, whatever your name is, I guess you know enough about me to wreak some havoc, but if you want to keep this position you mentioned, and judging from the bruises I just saw all over the chest and on your face, I’ll assume you’re pretty desperate.” She looked me right in the eye as she handed me the vodka, “Truce?” As sheltered or privileged I might have imagined her to be living in wealth, I could see enough pain in the strain across her brow to know this might be my best chance for an alliance. Equally present in that face was the ability to lie, so I figured this was not a time to confess anything.

“Truce,” I proclaimed as I held the glass up and then swallowed the whole of it in one gulp. 

“What is your name anyway, and how long have you been here?” She was nursing her second pour and relaxing enough to sit back down on the bed. 

“I’m Sylvie, Sylvia if you want to get formal, but just Sylvie to everyone I know.  I arrived this morning. I spoke with your mom yesterday, after reading her advertisement. I have it somewhere, I’ll show you…” I went to the table where I had left my purse, and found the newspaper clipping, “See?” 

She looked at it with a hint of disbelief, but the phone number was their house phone, and the offer was clearly there. We both sat on the bed, now dressed, and for that minute I let myself believe maybe I would get to stay. Peter wouldn’t say a word, not after what I have witnessed, and from what I gathered already about these brothers of hers.

“Beth let me in last night. She took me to meet your mother. You can ask her about that too, if your mother is confused…” I halted right there and we both eyed each other as I turned crimson over that embarrassment. A stranger did not call someone’s mother a drunk. I added quickly, “She was busy when we met, I just thought it might slip her mind…” I let my eyes fall to the crazy quilt rumpled on the bed.

“One more sip, and we’ll head over. I should warn you, my brothers are, well, I guess you’ll find out. But they can be very dominant when they are home. Since the divorce they think they need to rule the kingdom, or something like that.” Sitting there she looked so much younger suddenly, perhaps even her age, instead of the haggard look of last night when I saw her making her way up the stairs. Clearly she had no memory of that meeting, and I wasn’t about to remind her.

“Before we go, let’s come up with a good story about your face, your bruises I mean, and maybe even how you got here. They will grill you. They are very protective of our mother. If for no other reason than to keep her under their rule, well, anyway,” she looked like she had said too much and stood to pull her own look together. “Let’s say that you were referred by a local temp agency, and that you are just looking for a short term position before, before something… like maybe your fiance is in the military, or something? I just don’t want them sensing you’re desperate. They can smell fear…” her whole face clouded and she went to refill her glass with the last of the vodka. This time it was a double. After she knocked it back with one swallow, she looked over at me. “Listen Sylvie, let’s see if you can pull this off. Just don’t blame me if it doesn’t work out. Don’t rat me out and I will do what I can to keep you here. At least for as long as it’s working out. I’m counting on you being able to lie as well as I hope you can.” I spent her whole speech hardening myself to meet two more assholes, and nodding to this half drunk girl who was holding my future in her shaky hand. I stood and walked toward her.

“Trust me, I got your back. I need this roof. I need you all to take me in. I’m no snitch. Let’s go meet these brothers of yours.” As she turned I noticed her hair was a mess, “Wait Valerie, let’s brush your hair a bit too,” I grabbed my brush from the bathroom shelf as she stood still and I pulled the bristles though her blond hair, moving slowly over the tangles, brushing slowly over her shoulders and down to the middle of her back. She could have been a five year old letting me brush her hair. It must have struck her as absurd because after a few minutes she started to laugh as loud as when she first mounted the steps up to the apartment with Peter an hour earlier. 

She spun around, “Okay Sylvie, we got this, thanks,” she took the brush from my hand and placed it on the coffee table. “Let me have one last look at you,” and her eyes went down and back up, “Okay you look good enough, but not so good that my brothers will be catcalling you when we walk in. Hold yourself off, not too friendly, maybe even a touch subservient. That might throw them off. Walk behind me, and don’t argue,” and with that we descended. 

As we left the garage and hit the night air, the lack of food and the aid of vodka hit me too. I was off, but I needed to muster everything to keep this job and place, and follow this to the outcome. The moon was high overhead and the music coming from the house filled the air. I peered up almost instinctively to Mrs. Hendrick’s room perhaps thinking she might be peering down but there was no one. Then, just before we went up the steps to the front door I saw Beth’s curtain fall into place.  

Valerie pushed open the door with surety and once inside did not look back at me. I felt a coolness come over her like a cape, she tossed her hair into place and let her stride get bigger. “Follow me,” she said without turning her head, and with that we crossed over the vestibule and down the step through the dark living area. The music was getting louder as did the voices. Sounded like a million people crammed into a small space as we opened the door into a deceptively large gathering room. There were floor to ceiling windows with a shuffleboard along one wall and a pool table across the room along another. A massive stone fireplace large enough for a roaring fire and a deer head over the mantle. It was then that I noticed several gun cases filled with shiny, black rifles. Hunters. I’m not sure I saw all of that those first few seconds, but I was taking it in as fast as I could. This was new territory and I was enthralled by the glossy sheen of the place. These people too. Their white straight teeth and stiff blue jeans, their ease with commanding others, even me. This was not like the shitheads I was used to, lashing out to make themselves feel better because they were a disappointment to themselves. No, this was true surety. They knew without a shadow of a doubt they were better than just about anyone else on the planet. 

Valerie strode into the center of the room, threw her arms up and stole attention from everyone. She was indeed the princess in the place. Doing a quick spin, she motioned for me to come closer to her. “Everyone, this is Sylvia, Sylvia, this is everyone,” and then she walked toward the minibar and grabbed a bottle, while most people returned to whatever it was they were doing before we waltzed in. But her older brother, one of the twins, of that I was sure, he let his eye linger for a moment before knocking the 2 ball into the pocket. After Valerie had poured herself another splash of vodka, she said over her shoulder, “You should go up and see my mother now.” I couldn’t have been more relieved to get out of there and didn’t wait around to hear any resistance. 

I walked back through the dark living area toward the grand staircase before he caught up to me.

“Is it Sylvia? Is that what my sister said?” he was asking in that rhetorical tone that I knew didn’t demand an answer. Only a halt in my step. But here we were, in the shadows, and at that moment it felt like my best advantage, so I stopped and turned to him with extended hand, “Yes, you heard right, but I prefer Sylvie.” We shook but without any real interest in him touching my hand.

“Great, Sylvie, but beyond names, what’s your business here?” I could see over his shoulder, back in the glowing light, the bounce of his sister’s hair, and the way she was working that space with confidence, but I was also equally aware that her head was cocked in my direction, and even sideways she watched my every move. It actually made my skin prickle knowing there was that much tension in this house. But we had practiced exactly what information I would divulge with her brothers and what I would not, and I reminded myself I had outwitted more sober people than this crew in my day.

to be continued…

Oh do let me know how it is all flowing together for you. A writer’s world can be a busy one, but a singular one, so your ideas are always welcome.