I stayed on the burned couch, dozing.
I had my nightmare. I'm still working up the courage to tell you about it.
When I finally heard the front door open and close, it wasn't her, but little-Rhonda. "Good morning, sunshine," he said.
"Old lady Rhonda is coming right back," I said. "Don't you have something else to do?"
"Are you getting rid of me?"
"I'm trying."
My neck hurt from the charred couch so I crawled over to my mattress, which was still streaked in Madeline's entrails. I let my hand linger over her blot, but I have to tell you that I didn't feel sad. I didn't see the stain and feel defeated. And once I'd seen the stain, my good hand didn't shimmy like a possessed maraca. Yes, I thought of Madeline, I missed Madeline, but I was all right. There was no Letch haunting me. No Lyle ignoring or hurting old lady Rhonda. Just me and her, two people who'd been segregated from happiness.
An hour later she still wasn't back and I worried something had happened. I put some clothes on and walked downstairs to our usual liquor store.
"You seen Rhonda?" I asked the guy.
"Half an hour ago."
"Did she say where she was going?"
"No, but they seemed like they were fighting."
"They?"
"Her and Lyle."
"Lyle's gone."
"He was just here"
"Are you sure?"
"I've known Lyle a long time."
"And he was just here?"
"Rhonda started buying this," the guy said, tapping a box of Lucky Charms, some OJ, and champagne. They sat behind the counter. "But then Lyle walked in and said he had to talk to her right now"
"Was he mad?"
"How do I know?"
"Was he yelling?"
"No."
"Was he aggressive?"
"Like what?"
"Did he grab her?"
`Yes.'
"Where?"
"The elbow"
"Was she hurt?"
"How do I know?"
"Did she look hurt?"
"She looked fine."
"What do you mean `fine'?"
The guy picked up a remote control and flipped on a little TV. "She didn't look hurt."
"Are you sure?"
"No."
"No?"
He changed channels, zooming through them, stopping on a soccer game. "I don't know. She looked normal, okay?"
"Then what?"
"Then they left."
"Did they say where they were going?"
"No."
"Did they go to their apartment?"
"I don't know!" he said and fiddled with the TV's volume until it was so loud people could probably hear soccer blaring in the lower Haight.
I was back in my apartment. Pacing. Opening and closing my good fist as it shuddered with angry life. There was a knife lying on the counter. It wasn't that sharp, but if I had to, I could take it upstairs to defend myself. "Where are you?" I said, hoping little-Rhonda would answer me, that he'd help me figure out what was supposed to happen next. Should I go up there and pound on the door? Should I hold the knife behind my back?
It was the only knife I owned. I used it for everything. I sliced cheese for quesadillas. I used its tip as a screwdriver, its handle as a hammer.
Then my toilet flushed, and little-Rhonda walked out carrying the newspaper. He looked at me, knew something was wrong, and said, "What?"
"Her husband's back."
"And?"
"He took her," I said, and as soon as the words wormed their way out of my mouth, my hand took off buzzing at mach speeds because I was convinced I'd never see her again. That he'd hurt her. Or hold her hostage. That he'd say, "We're still married and I want to work things out," and she'd say, "I love Rhonda Eke a son," and he'd say, "Not if I have anything to do with it," and if I never saw old lady Rhonda again it would be the worst disappearing act of them all.
"Took her where?" little-Rhonda said.
"Upstairs, I think."
"What are you going to do?"
"Should I kill him?"
"How do you know he took her?"
"The guy at the liquor store heard Lyle tell her he needed to talk."
"So they're just talking."
"Why would he come back just to talk?"
"I don't know"
"Help me figure out what to do."
He flipped his light, off, on, off, then left it on. "Go up there."
"I'll go up there."
"Go up there, knock, and see what they're doing."
"I'll knock and see what they're doing."
I walked toward the door and picked up the knife.
"Leave that," little-Rhonda said.
"I'll leave it for now"
My feet moved and my legs moved, carrying my crooked arm, my buzzing hand, my legs carrying every part of me, and I could kill her husband because no one was going to hurt her. My feet and legs carried me to the stairs and I sprinted up the stairs and I sprinted down the hall, sprinted right up to their door, pounding on it.
No answer.
I pounded.
Nothing.
Pounding.
Then footsteps.
Then old lady Rhonda's voice talking through the door, "Who is it?"
"Are you okay?"
"I can't talk right now"
"What's going on?"
"I can't talk."
"Are you all right?"
And I heard Lyle yell, "She can't talk!"
And the footsteps retreated from the door.
There were whispers between them.
I pounded again.
No answer.
Pounding.
Nothing.
Pounding.
Nothing.
I said, "I'm not leaving until you tell me what's going on."
Footsteps.
Old lady Rhonda said, "I'm fine. I'll talk to you later," and I said, "Will you open the door?" and she said, "I'll talk to you later," and I 'said, "I need to talk to you now.-
Footsteps, heavier, jabbing their way toward the door, and Lyle saying, "Get out of my way"
"Leave him alone," she said.
"Then tell him to get out of here."
A feeling in my good hand like its walls were being pulverized by a sledgehammer.
"I'll talk to you later," old lady Rhonda said to me.
"I want to know you're okay," I said.
Someone punched the other side of the door. "Leave us alone!" Lyle said.
I punched the door back, creating gunshots in my good hand.
Old lady Rhonda told him she'll handle this and to please go back in the other room, and the cruel noises of his feet as he stomped away.
"Rhonda, don't," old lady Rhonda said. "Please go."
"I don't want to."
"But I need you to."
"You have my wallet."
"I'll give it to you later."
"But — "
"Go!" she said, and her footsteps retreated back into their apartment.
I stood there, my good hand in a fist to pound on the door again, but I didn't know what to do. Was I crying? I needed the knife, and old lady Rhonda said she didn't need my help, but I didn't believe her. She did need it. She was just scared. Maybe he'd hit her. Or threatened to. She only told me to leave to protect herself from another of his attacks, but she couldn't protect herself, I needed to protect her. Me, Rhonda, I needed to make sure nothing else happened to her.
I bolted back downstairs to my apartment and threw the door open and little-Rhonda said, "What happened?" and I said, "He's got her trapped in there," and he said, "Did you talk to her?" and I said, "He's got her so scared," and he said, "How did it end up?" and I said, "It hasn't ended yet "
I picked up the knife and turned toward the door, but littleRhonda said, "Talk to me," and I said, "She needs me," and he said, "Sit down for a sec," and I went over to the burned couch and sat down next to him, holding the knife in my hand.
"So you're going up there to kick the door down and stab Lyle?"