“Now go back out and close up the shop,” John orders. Obediently, I do what I’m told.
Freebase is back in our lives; there is no questioning it. I never ask John why he broke his promise about the pipe; I only accept that this is now the way it is. Once his secret use isn’t secret anymore, John makes a last-ditch effort to show that he is in control of his drug habit and not the other way around. The effort is lame, and John is again gone for days on the pretense of purchasing more inventory for the shop. Predictably, when he eventually comes home, he is empty-handed. The back room is bathroom central again, and David and Karen use every excuse to be granted entry by the king.
A few months have withered away, and business for the Just Looking Emporium is bad. We have no customers, and we have nothing of value to sell anyway. John doesn’t seem to care, and when I complain to him about the lack of inventory, he casually rips apart a cabinet or shelf and displays the fractured pieces for sale. I’m embarrassed to assist a customer in the purchase of obvious junk. But John ignores my pleas to shape the place up and, instead, hides out in his cramped porcelain cocaine haven.
Indian summer September, late in the evening, I hear a bang. What’s that? I am working late dusting the shelves and cleaning the glass on the display cases. I wonder if it is the ghost of John. I grab my protective baseball bat, the one I keep hidden by my desk, and walk slowly into the back room. “John? Is that you?” There is silence. I think about calling 911, then decide to check out the window to see if his van is here. It is. It wasn’t there a minute ago. But something is wrong. The bang I heard was angry, and the silence is tense and mean. “John?” I walk slowly toward the bathroom door.
Wham! The door flies open. John rushes like a gale force wind in my direction.
“So! You gonna tell me who ya been fucking?” He is shouting an attack song like a martial arts expert, storming toward me, his eyes bugged out, maniacal, his arms and body stretched out on the offense.
Walking backward into the shop I stammer, “N-n-n-nobody, John! Quit it!” I clench the smooth, wooden bat in my hands.
He charges me menacingly, veins bulging, a furious scowl distorting his face.
Fear washes over me. “Quit it, John!” I shout again. “Nobody! Stop it!” I peek down at the bat in my hands dragging the ground. John looks at it too and strains to compose himself. He takes a step to the side, settles down for a moment.
He snatches a paper towel and some Windex and begins to roughly clean the already clean glass of the cabinet.
I circle to the other side, distancing myself.
Fuming, John purposely calms his tone. “So who were you with today?”
“Today? Nobody, John. Really. Who told you that?” I watch his every move.
“Didn’t you go to lunch today?”
“Ye-yeah!”
“Who did you meet there?”
“Meet? I didn’t meet anyone. I went to the Mexican place down the street in the Galleria, but I ate by myself!”
“You mean you didn’t meet the busboy for a quickie after you ate your taco?”
Fear turns to terror when I realize he is serious. I get really confused. Anything I say will be wrong; he will find a way to make me guilty. “Busboy? What busboy?”
Bam! John’s hand flies out across the glass and lands hard across my face.
I hit the ground with a thud that sends the air from my lungs. I immediately feel the searing pain of the blow rip through my jaw. It cracks with a loud snap and aches like it is broken. Stunned and in shock, I have no vision except for sparks of light against a black background.
In an instant, John is on top of me, hands grasping the collar of my shirt and shaking me. “Who is it?” he demands. “I’ll kill the motherfucker!”
A quick rush of adrenaline and a flash of Carol City have me bucking and flailing for my life. “Aaaaahhhhhhhhh!” I let out a banshee scream at the top of my lungs, throwing wild punches and grabbing at his clothes.
John tries to hold down my arms, and I fight even harder, sliding across the room. The back of my head hits the wall as he pins me against it. “Fuck you, bitch. I know you’re fucking around on me. Now tell me. Who? Who?”
“Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” I wrench a knee up to kick him in the groin. His face pales with surprise and pain as he loosens his hold on me. Scrambling out from under his weight, I crawl over to the baseball bat and hold it up against him. My cheek is numb except for the sharp pain deep inside my mouth, and I feel something warm trickle from the corner of my lip.
John jumps up and stares, surprised. He looks at his finger, disbelieving, and shakes off a droplet of blood. Beet red and panting for breath, he lunges at me, grabbing for the bat. Falling to the floor, we fight to gain control of it. John’s strength overpowering, he rips it out of my hands.
I curl into a fetal position, close my eyes, cover my head, and expect to feel my skull crush in like a grapefruit.
Crash! John brings the bat down into the glass display case and smashes down over and over. Crash, bam, crash! The shattered pieces fly everywhere as he demolishes the once-shiny case into a pile of rubble. I curl into a tighter ball and try to avoid the debris until, finally, the breaking noise stops.
John, exhausted, bleeding, and breathing hard, slides to the ground and lays down the bat. I hear a breathless whimpering sound, like a wounded desert coyote, and then an unfamiliar sound.
Carefully, I take my hands away from my face and peek over at him.
His head in his hands, he is sobbing, pitiful, and poor. “Baby? Baby, I’m sorry.” He chokes back tears and wipes the sweat from his eyes. Still weeping, he reaches out his bloody hand. “Come here, baby. Please?”
Emotion gushes out of me like a tsunami. “John! John! Why, baby, why? Why did you do that? Why did you hit me? Oh my God, I can’t believe you hit me!” I sob uncontrollably. I touch the side of my face and the blood from the corner of my mouth. My heart aches as I weep. “I love you, John…”
John inches his way over to me and wraps me up in his lap. “Are you all right, baby? I’m sorry; I’m sorry; I’m sorry. Let me see.” He gently traces my face to assess the damage.
I close my eyes. The physical pain of my cheek is nothing compared to the searing pain in my heart. The man I love has hurt me. He hurt the very person he loves and cherishes and adores. My thoughts numb. Nothing makes sense anymore. I don’t understand how love can hit you and make you bleed. “Why, John, why?” I cry into his lap.
“Oh, baby, forgive me… please. I’m sorry. It was just… you’re here every day and I never get to see you. David tells me stuff, and I miss you.”
“I never cheat on you, John. Why did you hit me? I never cheat on you!” I insist. “David doesn’t know anything. He lies to you.”
“I believe you, baby. I believe you. Please forgive me. I never meant to hit you, baby.”
We cry into each other’s arms for hours, rocking back and forth and cradling our wounds. Kissing my head and my cheeks, John promises over and over that he’ll never let it happen again.