“Go out the way you came in,” he says. “You can have the television—it’s a rabbit-eared piece of crap. But you will leave the answering machine. There’s a number on there I need.” He takes a few steps forward. He is terrifying, powerful in a way I have never seen. A wolf, transformed by the full moon. “Now,” he growls. “Before I have your blood on my hands.”
The man backs out, leaps like a cat from the window onto the fire escape, picks up the TV under one arm, VCR under the other. I listen to the clang of his shoes descending the metal stairs, the rasp and rattle of cords dragging behind. On the floorboards beside my face, there’s a spray of red. I’ve cut my chin. In the far corner of the room, the closet door slowly pushes open.
“Peter,” I warn. “Behind you.” Then I close my eyes to whatever is coming, wait for the creak of heavy footsteps on wooden floors. Instead, something silky brushes my face. I open my eyes. Next to me, the cat is licking my blood off the floor.
* * *
—
Later, after the police have come, after the answering machine has been dusted for prints, after we have swept up shards of glass and splintered wood, after I have forgiven Peter for shoving me to the ground, for the scar on my chin that I will carry the rest of my life, Peter asks, “If I hadn’t stopped you, would you really have pushed him out the window?”
“I guess so. I don’t know. I just reacted.”
Peter frowns, looks at me as if he’s seen something just under the surface of my skin, tiny broken capillaries, or a bluish hue—something that shouldn’t be exposed to the light, and I feel the creep of shame, of exposure.
“You would have killed a man over a TV and VCR?”
“Not the TV. He was coming back inside for me,” I say. “His eyes were black.”
“We need to get out of this neighborhood before you end up in prison for murder.”
“Screw you, Pete. I was terrified.”
“I’m joking,” Peter says. “Well, mainly.” He laughs.
I grab the answering machine from the bureau and head into the living room. “You said there was a number you needed?”
Peter follows behind me. “Elle. Please. Come on.” He picks a pack of cigarettes up from the coffee table, pats himself down for a lighter. “You risked your life to save a drowning man, for fuck’s sake. You’re hardly a killer. I’m the one who threatened him with a knife.” He looks around for somewhere to put his ash. Settles for the geranium pot.
I turn away, pretend to look for something on the bookshelf.
“Bastard must’ve nicked my ashtray.”
“It’s in the dishwasher,” I say.
Peter comes over to me, turns me around to face him, serious now. “I wouldn’t give a toss if you had drawn and quartered that pig, hung his innards on a flagpole. The only thing I care about is that you are safe. You’re my wife. The love of my life. There’s nothing you could ever say or do to change that. I was just surprised, is all. I’ve never seen that side of you.”
I wish so badly that I could believe him. But I don’t. Some things can be forgiven—an affair, a cruel comment. But not the dirty, vile instinct lurking like a tapeworm in the dark folds of my gut, ready to emerge the moment it smells bloody meat. Until tonight, I thought it was gone. Pulled from my mouth inch by inch, foot by foot, year by year, leaving only the hollow space, the memory, of where it had once nested.
Peter pokes the tip of my nose with his finger. “Now, no more grumping, missy.” He goes into the kitchen, comes back with an ashtray and a saucer of milk. “Here, kitty, kitty,” he says, placing it on the radiator.
Tell him, I think. Let him see you. Kill the worm. Be clean. But instead I say, “Cats are lactose intolerant.”
* * *
—
That night when we get into bed I feel a distance from him far greater than the crumple of sheets between us. The fault line I have cemented. I love him too much to risk losing him.
1999. July 31, Los Angeles.
My plane clears the last spiky, desolate ridge of mountains. Below me, an endless suburban sprawl, a drab blanket on the earth, the low-hung shimmer of the Pacific barely visible in the distance. The plane shudders through a gyre, lowers its landing gear with a rough throat clearing. Moments later, we hit tarmac and the passengers cheer. We are always expecting the worst.
I go straight from LAX to the hospital, dragging my heavy carry-on behind me, pushing through air and space with aggressive, panicked need. I cannot be too late. I cannot be too late. There’s a taxi waiting for me—Jeremy has arranged everything—but the driver is lazy, unobservant. He manages to miss every light, slows to let other cars merge, carefully picks out the Murphy’s Law route. By the time we pull up in front of the hospital, my teeth are ground to a chalk, and I’ve gone from 15 percent to 10 percent to shoving a few dollar bills in his hand and saying, “Asshole,” under my breath.