“I was explaining to my wife how everything’s her fault,” Lincoln reminded him.
“Right. Which she already knew because you and she have had this conversation before and it’s always her fault. She also knows better than to give you any lip, because that never ends well. So instead she just stands there between you and the refrigerator, not giving you lip and waiting for what comes next. Someday, Lincoln, somebody’s gonna do a study and what they’re going to discover is the one place you absolutely do not want to be, if you’re a woman living with an abusive drunk, is between him and the fridge. Anyhow, you shove her the fuck out of the way, harder than you meant to, and down she goes. Lays there whimpering on the floor until you order her to get up. No fool, she does as she’s told. Stands there looking at you, blubbering, all what did I do? And do you know what you think, Lincoln?”
Having been warned against speech, Lincoln just shook his head.
“You think, Not the girl I fell for. Sloppy fat now, hair all straggly. You never forgot how slim and sexy she used to be and it makes you want to punch her right in her fat, ugly face. Which you’ll eventually do, Lincoln. Not tonight, but no question, that’s where you’re headed. You know it and she knows it and finally it happens and this time when you tell her to get up off the floor, she doesn’t because she can’t. She just lays there, blinking, dazed. And even though you’ve known for a while this was inevitable, it still surprises you that you actually hit her, how quick it happened, and what surprises you even more is that you feel bad about it, because you can’t remember the last time you had any tender feelings for this fucking bitch. But there it is: shame. Shame…on…you. So you think, No more. Tell yourself it’s a one-and-done deal and you got it all out of your system. But in your heart of hearts you know better, Lincoln. You know you’ve got a lot more where this came from. She knows it, too, which is why the next time she sees it coming, sees that look in your eye and your hand balling into a fist, she doesn’t wait around. She locks herself in the bathroom with her cell phone and calls 911. That’s when we show up.”
Lincoln decided to risk asking the obvious question. “What happens then?” Because now that he was down the rabbit hole, he had to admit he was interested. Also, thanks to all this you-ing, he felt personally vested. What would happen to him?
“These days? I don’t know. I’m talking about how it used to be.” A subtle change had come over the man, with his earlier menace mostly dissipated and leaving him almost forlorn. “There’s more female officers now. Everybody gets more training. Back in the day, though, you and your partner would just take the guy outside.” Thank God, Lincoln thought. Coffin was still you-ing him, but at least now he was a cop, not a perp. “Not out on the front porch, where the neighbors can see. Out back, Lincoln, where it’s dark and private. You tell the guy: If you keep this up you’re going to hurt her bad. Whole thing’ll be in the newspaper. You don’t want that, do you? Everybody knowin’ you beat the shit out of your wife? By this time the guy’s drifted into a fugue state, so you can’t really be sure how much is getting through. He’s just standing there looking at you, like he’s waiting for this to be over, for you to stop talking and go away, which he knows you will, eventually. If you were going to arrest him, you’d have done it already. You tell him, Next time, maybe you kill her. That happens, you go to prison. You don’t think your life can get any worse, but it sure the fuck can. That gets through, because even this dumb son of a bitch knows that much. Life’s always getting worse. You can see how conflicted he is, Lincoln. Part of him would like to explain how this all came to be, but he resents having to. I mean, we’re all guys, right? The three of us? Why should he have to explain about women to another guy? It’s just that sometimes…he