Tracy screamed in pain, then scrambled up, trying to get away from him. He continued to pop her, hard, on the leg, on the back, wherever he could make contact.
"Howdare you talk to me abouttrust!" he roared, apparently, to her relief, forgetting his former plan of raping her. "I trustedyou, you bitch. I trusted that you were what you pretended to be – a good, decent, loving woman, instead of some cold fish who turned out to be a secret sex pervert. I trusted you. I gave you my life. I gave you my heart."
The roaring dulled to a whimper, as he sank to his knees, and began crying. Tracy was at the phone, willing her voice not to tremble, as she turned to him. "Kyle, you're drunk, you're high and you're out of your fucking mind. Get up and get out before I call 911. Go. Now."
Tracy was relieved when he did get up, weaving slightly, all the bluster gone, a pathetic drunk whom she almost felt sorry for. The welts he had raised with the towel were smarting, and the excess adrenaline still coursing through her made her nauseated. Just go, she willed silently, as he continued slowly toward the front door, which was still ajar.
She followed at a distance, ready to slam the door behind him at the first possible second. Suddenly he turned back to her. Leaning in close, he spat – a glob of thick spittle landing on her cheek.
He turned again toward the door, as Tracy, stunned and disgusted, stood wiping the slime from her face. The second his feet crossed the threshold, she locked the door as fast as she could, and put on the chain lock. She watched out the window, seeing him drive away and wondered if he'd make it to his girlfriend's house without killing himself or someone else.
She didn't call Paul that evening. She lay in a hot tub, trying to wash away the memory of the spittle on her cheek, and soak away the stench of fear Kyle had created in her home.
After Kyle left, she called a locksmith who had night hours, and was willing to come over on short notice. He changed all the locks for her, at a hefty price, but she didn't care, in fact, charging it to their still joint credit card. Let the bastard pay for the new locks, she thought.
When the locksmith left, she locked the door behind him, leaning against it with a great sigh of satisfaction, knowing she clutched the only keys in her hand.
Lying back in the tub, and feeling calmer, she thought that at one time her first reaction would have been to call 'her man,' be it Kyle or Paul, or whomever. This time she wanted to handle it herself; not only because Paul had told her a while back he didn't think it was a good idea for Kyle to come and go as he pleased, and she should consider getting new locks. Paul would never say, 'I told you so.'
She also realized she didn't need to call anyone. She'd tell Paul later, when time had faded some of the original horror. After all, it was just Kyle being an asshole and a bully. He would probably wake tomorrow and feel terrible about it – not that she cared. She toyed with pressing charges, but didn't know what that would accomplish except make divorce proceedings even more tense.
She did promise herself that if he approached her again for any reason, and seemed at all high or threatening, she would go straight to the police and get a restraining order.
Tracy stepped out of the tub and dried herself, sipping a glass of red wine she had balanced on the edge of the tub. She slipped into her cozy robe, and reflected on something that actually made her smile. She must be growing up.
CHAPTER 8
She wore a little sundress with big yellow sunflowers splashed across a dark blue background. It had taken her three hours and endless trips to the dressing rooms of countless stores in the mall to find just the right thing. Underneath she wore a satin pushup bra and matching pink thong panties, courtesy of Victoria's Secret. Nervously she licked her lips, then mentally cursed herself for messing up her lipstick.
Walking as fast as she could in her pretty new yellow sandals, which exposed small toes painted a virginal pink, she rummaged in her purse for her lipstick, while scanning the walls for a monitor that would tell her at what gate he was expected. It had taken her so long to find a parking place that she had practically run all the way from the lot to the main terminal.
She read the little piece of paper in her hand, though she'd memorized it by now. American flight 202 from JFK, arriving at 2:08. God, don't let it be late. Worse, don't let him have missed it. Don't let him turn out to be some crazy person. She knew that wouldn't happen, after all the months of talking and writing to each other. They weren't online lovers meeting for a one-night stand. They were the best of friends meeting face to face at last.
Paul had been supportive this last month, as she struggled to work out a separation agreement with Kyle, who had gone straight back to his old girlfriend, apparently. It was Jane, a psychiatric nurse where he worked, and someone they had actually had to dinner once. Kyle had pretended to find her boring, but obviously that hadn't been the case.
Jane had actually had the nerve to call Tracy at the bank. "Kyle needs some documents you must have hidden somewhere. He's really busy right now so I told him I'd call for them." Tracy was grudgingly impressed at Jane's sheer gall. She would never consider calling the estranged wife of a man with whom she was having an affair. Did Jane know what her 'boyfriend' had done the other night? Did Jane know he was high on something and drunk as a skunk, trying to rape his soon to be ex-wife?
Had he gone home to her for succor and comfort, telling her he had had to drink because he was hurting so badly? Bad, bad Tracy had hurt little Kyle. Tracy actually grinned at the image as Jane was reciting her little speech over the phone.
The documents in question were his will and life insurance policy, which Tracy had 'hidden' in a safe deposit box at the bank, along with her own important papers and some jewelry from her grandmother.
She was taken aback by Jane's call, and realized the woman was probably trying on some level to 'lay claim' to her new man. Tracy certainly wasn't going to stand in the way. She told Jane she would mail the documents to Kyle or his attorney.
"I'll pick them up," Jane had said.
"No, sorry. I can't release documents like that to a stranger." Tracy had enjoyed that little dig, and Jane huffed a bit but backed down. She arranged to have them sent by certified mail since, 'It's too painful for Kyle to have to see you right now.'
Tracy bit off her own retort that she'd bet it was. The jerk was probably totally humiliated by his horrible behavior the other night. Either that, or he conveniently didn't remember a thing.
Not referring to the incident, Kyle had recently sent her a long heartfelt letter about her betrayals and said, despite it all, he still loved her. He admonished her that she owed him, owed the relationship, so much more than she had given it. Tracy thought a lot about what he had written. She realized she herself had spent much of their marriage feeling that Kyle 'owed' her something as well. In the end, neither got what they felt was their 'due.'
She had asked Paul, "How do we get to this point then, where we feel someone owes us something?"
"When we have given more than we should have," he answered.
"Why should? Tracy asked, confused.
"Because. We didn't give because we wanted to be generous. We gave because we wanted to control."
Ah. Bingo.
Things had gone pretty smoothly, once attorneys got into the process, and the proceedings became more impersonal. There were a few phone calls at night when an obviously drunk Kyle called to scream at Tracy, calling her horrible names and finally breaking down in tears over the phone. The calls shook Tracy badly. She got Caller ID and took to screening all calls after that.