The Intruder

It was two-thirty in the morning when my eyelids inevitably fluttered open, giving in to yet another restless night. Wide awake, I rolled over and fixed my eyes on the untouched pillow next to me.

Being by myself was preferable to having Jack beside me; frankly, anywhere near me. His absence should put my mind at ease now, but it continued to churn even while I slept, vigilant as it had been for the past three years. Even though I’d been alone in the apartment for several weeks now, my ears were always attuned for sounds such as ice cubes clinking in a whiskey glass or a fist slamming into a cupboard or wall. 

I had learned to dread my soon-to-be ex-husband’s voice when it intensified from another room, when he blurted out nonsensical, abusive monologues that would abruptly stop as quickly as they’d begun. Of course, that had been my cue to leave if possible; often, it wasn’t. Why was I still listening for such sounds? Jack was gone. But fear had attached itself to me like barnacles to an old boat and would not slip away easily. 

The last straw in our marriage had occurred when I’d been awakened by our bedroom door opening so violently that the doorknob smashed a hole in the wall. Jarred by the loud bash, I’d popped straight up in bed, wide-eyed and instantly ready for anything. A few feet away, silhouetted in the doorway, Jack had been standing with his legs apart like Superman, clad only in dull gray boxers, a pistol dangling from a hand at his side. Even in the darkness, I had known booze was floating behind his unfocused eyes.

Where had that gun come from? Had it been loaded? My heart had lodged in my throat, rendering me speechless, and my mind had wrestled with the realization I was in danger.

“You’re a bitch.” A growl had followed his words, low and menacing.

“Get out of here, Jack,” I’d said, trying to sound calm, using an authoritative tone my high school English students would have instantly recognized. From experience, I’d known that any sign of fear from me would only thrill him, fuel Jack’s desire to belittle me.

Jack had sputtered just outside the threshold like an old jalopy running out of gas, waving his pistol around in the air, swaying, and mumbling incoherently. At some point, I think he’d forgotten where he was or what his intentions had been. I’d remained motionless, hoping to meld into the darkness, while creating a plan to charge at him, knock his drunk ass onto the floor, and then run like hell. 

Within minutes, though, Jack had simply exhausted himself and stumbled into the living room where he’d collapsed onto the couch. The pistol had landed on the carpet with a muffled thud.

Now, I hurled a pillow across the room, which didn’t feel at all satisfying. The thought of that night—that painful memory of being terrified like that—infuriated me all over again. How could one human being—someone’s husband, no less—threaten another with a gun? It had been the exact moment, though, when I’d known it was over, that vow or no vow, Jack had to go. There wasn’t a single I’m sorry from that man that could cut it anymore. 

With a sigh, I closed my eyes again and willed my jangled nerves to calm down, to just give the anxiety a rest, for God’s sake. I was breathing slowly in and out, pondering a few capfuls of Nyquil to induce sleep, when I heard the distant sound of shuffling outside the front door. 

I strained to listen, so focused I could have heard grass growing. Again, footsteps scuffled on my stoop. A key jiggled in the lock. Stopped. Clicked again. Tumblers turned.

My feet hit the floor, heart jackhammering painfully in my chest. It couldn’t be Jack—he’d sworn that his key had been lost. I’d believed him, hadn’t bothered to change the locks as my divorce attorney had advised. But if it wasn’t Jack, who on earth was at my door? My landlord? I needed a phone. Where was my cell?

I leaped behind my door and pushed it nearly closed, peering through the cracked opening into the  dark living room, holding my breath. As the front door drifted open, I silently screamed with my mouth wide open, too terrified to look but instinctively knowing I must. My body was trembling, yet paralyzed in place; my brain had turned into a mushy, useless organ incapable of functioning. 

A stream of light from a tall street lamp slipped inside the living room along with the shadow of Jack, who crouched over while deftly closing the door. Jack. Jack! Still my husband for now, yet not.

I took three fast steps into the living room and flipped the light switch on the wall. Jack swerved to face me, blinking, his eyebrows arched and eyes bulging. He straightened to his six-foot height and tugged the hem of his windbreaker. 

“You just scared the hell out of me. You said you didn’t have a key any longer.”

He waved me off. “So what if I did?” 

I puffed myself up. “How am I so stupid that I didn’t think you’d lie? My attorney warned me you might pull this crap. But I said no, he wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh, fuck your attorney, Tess.”

“Has it occurred to you that you don’t live here anymore? It’s the middle of the night.”

He shuffled toward me, side-stepping and dragging his feet, but I held my ground, chin high.  I’d faced him down before in flimsy pajamas.

“Been to the bars tonight.” He shook his head, seemingly forlorn. “Been lots of nights since I got the hell out of here. You know, pretty girls there like me. They flirt with me. Wish they could come home with me.”

Staring hard at him, my heart still racing, I held out my palm, unwilling to engage in this game. “Give me the key.” 

“No way. Gonna come here whenever I want.” Jack breezed by me, into the kitchen. 

“You have no business being here, Jack,” I said, my voice faltering. He was trying to pick a fight. His cool demeanor wasn’t fooling me: the muscles in Jack’s jaw were tight and his eyes were flashing. Anything I said might set him off.

He opened the refrigerator door and poked around inside before retrieving a bottle of Thousand Island dressing. Confused, I briefly wondered if he was going to make himself a salad.

“Why do you want to divorce me?” he said, shifting glazed eyes back to me. “What the hell is wrong with you? Frigid bitch.” Jack pointed the top of the bottle at me. “I had to rent a bedroom because of you, gotta get a job and leave school. My dad is pissed.”

I let my eyes casually roam the room, searching for my phone with a growing panic. Then I met his gaze full on to show I was unafraid.

“I gave you the choice to either get help to stop drinking, or get out,” I said, breathing through my nose. My words were pointless; I hated Jack’s blame game. “This is on you, your decision. You said, ‘I don’t love you, never have. I’m moving out.’ Stone cold sober, you chose your drinking over me.”

Silence crackled like electricity between us. My hands were shaking so I pushed them onto my hips; I no longer trusted my voice to be steady. 

Winding up like a baseball pitcher, Jack hurled the bottle across the living room. It shattered against the farthest wall in an explosion of glass shards and gooey dressing, splattering streaks onto the curtains and front door. Then he tossed his head back and bellowed an ear-splitting, blood-curdling scream of fury.

I fled to the bedroom and slammed the door, planted my feet, and braced my back against it with every ounce of strength I had. The window across from me was a possible means to escape, but I knew it was locked, requiring precious seconds in any attempt to flee.

 Then, I heard pounding. Heavy, urgent pounding of fists on the other side of the wall which divided my bedroom from the kitchen. Then a single, booming word, “Tess,” which I instantly recognized as Kevin, who lived with his wife Julie in the duplex’s adjoining apartment. Our kitchen doors opened to face each other on either side of a landing which led down a stairway to our respective basements; Julie and I had spent many an hour chatting with our doors open like neighbors who gossiped over a shared fence.

“Open the door. Are you okay? What’s going on in there?” Kevin’s voice was thick with concern.

I barreled out of the bedroom just as my front door closed, and raced to let Kevin inside my apartment. Both clad in their pajamas, Julie and Kevin poured into my kitchen, their yes darting everywhere at once. Kevin was clutching his cell phone.

“It was Jack,” I said, my eyes stinging with tears. “He left when you pounded on the door.”

Julie pulled me into a warm embrace and our hearts battered into each other’s chests. She, too, was genuinely frightened. “That son of a bitch. How’d he get in here?” 

I’d trusted him, that’s how, I wanted to say, but couldn’t—it was too embarrassing to admit another mistake, so I just shook my head against her shoulder. I’d grown weary of feeling like a fool—being a fool—and always hoping Jack would change. Tonight had permanently erased that naivety.

Just as friends had told me over and over, he would never change. 

I let Julie go and we stood together breathing hard, trying to settle ourselves, while Kevin opened the front door and stepped into the summer night.

“Car’s gone,” he yelled over his shoulder, and came back inside.

We talked in low murmurs for a few minutes, and they fussed over me as though a stranger had intruded on my space—which, when I think about it, one had. They shuffled back to their apartment while I found my cell phone, assuring them I’d keep it by my side at all times. 

Jack was gone, but the jackass still had a key—but not for long. Tomorrow morning I would call a locksmith before leaving for work, then put in a quick call to my attorney. Making those plans helped to slow my breathing, and I headed for the darkness of my bedroom, the comfort of my mattress, choosing to leave the living room light on all night to scare away the boogeyman.

I curled up and hugged my pillow, glad the other one remained on the floor, such a symbolic epitaph for my so-called marriage and now, what lay ahead.