There was not anything about Tiffany that I didn’t recognize from my worst memories. That false smile spreading only so far over a fear she could not hide. The rounded curve of her shoulders as if she was already figuring out how to protect herself from his fists. The preemptive kiss, dry and full of self-loathing, placed on the rough plane of the man’s cheek once he got out of the rusty blue car.
“I didn’t think you were going to be home until next week,” Tiffany said to a small man wearing a tee shirt and jeans a few sizes too big. He had mean eyes and big hands. A terrible combination.
The hair rose on my neck.
My throat closed with fear.
Quickly as I could, I ducked back inside the concrete walls of the laundry room, but through the open door I could still hear Tiffany and Phil talking.
“No, I fucking quit that bullshit job,” he said.
“Wait. What?” Tiffany asked, her voice suddenly shrill.
Careful. Oh God, be careful.
I moved my wet things from the washer one at a time into the dryer, wishing truly that I were anywhere but that laundry room.
“Ruin it? The fuck you talking about, Tiff? I’m paying for this shit. Your mom sure ain’t giving you enough to pay for jack.”
“You’re right. Phil. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But we’re having a nice party. Look, there’s cake, honey. Why don’t you have some cake?”
This conversation was engraved on my heart, beaten into my brain. I knew exactly how this was going to go.
Tiffany would keep apologizing. Over and over again, swallowing all her anger so that this man wouldn’t raise a fist to her. To her children. So he wouldn’t demolish the small bubble of normalcy she’d so painstakingly blown for her children with all the air and hope she had in her.
But in the end it wouldn’t work.
It never worked.
Because guys like Phil—like Hoyt—they walked into the room knowing what was going to happen. Whether they would smack a person around or not. They had all the power. Her apologies were for naught. Her pain and fear—irrelevant. All that mattered was what that man wanted to do to her and he’d made that decision way back in his lizard brain—miles ago. Maybe years ago.
I have to leave.
It didn’t matter that I couldn’t sneak out, that I had to walk right past them and their awful domestic drama, the miserable unhappy end of which I knew too fucking well. Gathering up my book and laundry soap I ducked out the door, my head down, hoping not to garner any attention. This was the last situation I wanted to get pulled into or bear witness to.
Holding my breath, I got past the rhododendron bush and ran smack into someone.
“Careful,” Joan said, picking up the book I had dropped. Joan wore a pair of short cutoffs and a tee shirt with the neck and sleeves ripped out, the ties of a bright pink bikini visible underneath. She had her eyes over my shoulder, trained on Phil and the blooming catastrophe.
“You shouldn’t go over there,” I said.
“I shouldn’t?”
“No. It’s…they’re fighting.”
“And you think we should all just stand around with our thumbs in our asses while he beats her up?”
That was what was going to happen. That was exactly what was going to happen and I was walking away. Head down. Eyes averted. Thumb in ass. “No…but—”
“Get out of my way, kid,” she said, clearly through with me. Joan brushed past me, stomping past the rhododendron, making the leaves quake as she went by.
“Hey, a birthday!” Joan cried, out of sight. “Sorry I’m late, Tiffany. Hey, Phil—”
“Get the hell out of here!” Phil yelled. “You fucking bitch.”