“Hey, don’t you talk to my wife, you hear me?” Tom says, holding the knife up threateningly.
“I’m all right, Padre. You can go.” I urge him to leave with a trembling voice, hoping to save him from injury and save my husband from doing something I know he’ll regret when the heat of passion has worn off.
“Non è sicuro.” It’s not safe, he warns in Italian this time. “Per favore vieni con me.” Please come with me.
“Hey, hey! No. None of that.” Tom slashes at the air between them. “I get it. You have a little crush. You’re a priest, but I’m sure your little dick still works.” He gestures with the blade. “But she’s my wife, okay? Get the hell out of here, or I swear to God I’ll cut your throat.”
“Tom . . . ,” I start to reason, but he stops me, yelling loud enough that his reverberating voice feels like it will burst my eardrums.
“Shut up, Vivian. Shut the fuck up!” He waves the knife at me now, hurrying over to where I’m standing, holding my damaged wrist. I stiffen as he presses the knife against my throat.
“I’m sorry, Tom. I’m sorry,” I repeat over and over, but it doesn’t work. It doesn’t turn off his rage. The knife starts to dig into the delicate skin on the side of my neck when a loud thump and an audible “oof” send Tom reeling away.
Trombello stands behind him with a bat in his hands. He drops the makeshift weapon and takes my hand.
“Correre!” Run!
Tom writhes on the floor, the wind knocked out of him but seemingly fine otherwise. I take Trombello’s hand and rush for the door to the gym, but we don’t get far. Tom catches his breath and regains his footing. Using one of the wooden benches as a booster, he leaps across the tiled floor and tackles Trombello, who falls to the ground still holding my hand. I trip, and our hands break apart. Tom lands a blow on the side of Trombello’s head, and I scream, thinking he’s still holding the knife. But his hands appear empty.
Tom pins Trombello to the ground with both knees on his chest. The priest twists from side to side, trying to free himself but unable to budge an inch.
“Tom, stop! Stop!” I scream, tugging at the back of his uniform, but it’s like he can’t hear or feel anything other than his rage. He takes Trombello’s head in his hands and slams it on the hard floor, and my stomach turns. With or without a knife, he’s going to kill him.
I spot the bat on the floor a few feet away next to the open switchblade. I slide across the tile and confiscate the knife to keep Tom from grabbing it again. I can’t figure out how to close the blade, so I hold it in my injured hand and then pick up the bat.
I’m not strong and the bat is heavy, but if I don’t act now, Trombello won’t stand a chance. I swing as hard as I can with my one good arm, and the solid wood bat lands with a heavy thunk against the back of Tom’s head and shoulders. It’s not hard enough to cause damage, but he definitely feels it.
“What the . . . ?” He glares at me over his shoulder, touching the place where the wood met his skull. “Are you kidding me? Did you just hit me with that?”
Tom drops Trombello like a cat dropping a dead mouse. The priest’s chest rises and falls regularly enough that I know he’s still alive, but there’s blood on tile, and that can’t be good. I hold the bat up in front of me like a shield.
“That was stupid, Vivian. Really, really stupid.” He takes the bat from me with one yank and tosses it against the lockers with a crash. Trombello moans in the background. I switch the knife into my right hand and hold it defensively.
“Leave us alone.”
“Us? You and that dirty fascist are an ‘us’ now? I should’ve known when I met your father that you were nothing more than immigrant trash.” I want to bite back at his insults, but I’m too scared to speak; my hand is trembling, and if I had anything of substance in my stomach, I’d likely vomit. He lunges for the knife, and I slash at his hand, making contact.
“Ow! Oh shit, Vivian. Damn it. What the hell?” he yells. I’m instantly immersed in guilt. Did I overreact? Did I hurt him seriously? Am I in the wrong here?
“I’m sorry, Tom. I’m sorry,” I say, crying now. But I keep holding the knife up. I’m shaking so hard that I’m not sure how I’m keeping a grip on the handle.
“You’re not sorry. You’re a crazy woman just like your mother, aren’t you? Damn it.” He cradles his hand and then pulls a handkerchief out of his inner uniform pocket.
“I . . . I’m not crazy,” I say, sniffing, watching him bandage the wound.
At least I think I’m not crazy. Is this what crazy feels like? Is this how my mom felt when she lost her mind? I’m sure my eyes are glowing wildly like hers used to—like a trapped animal. He might be right. Maybe I’m losing my mind. My head swims with the possibility. I want to wipe the tears from my eyes, but my left hand is throbbing and the other still clutches the knife. I can’t put it down. Whether I’m crazy or sane, the one thing I’m definitely not is safe.
I back away. He pursues me with slow, methodical steps until I back into a row of lockers, the brackets poking into my back through my dress. I consider thrusting the knife at him, sinking it into his chest, but I’ve never intentionally hurt someone before. This man is my husband—I don’t want to hurt him. I love him.
As soon as he senses my resignation, he moves in swiftly and pins the knife to my side and wraps his uninjured hand around my neck, squeezing.
“They’ll put you in the loony bin after this.”
I try to shake my head, but he clamps down harder, my breath wheezing loudly through the shrinking airway.
“Or I could squeeze a little tighter, crush your windpipe, finish off your priest over there, and blame the whole thing on your illicit love affair.” He crushes my neck against the metal cabinets, bringing up his bandaged hand to increase the pressure. The edges of my vision turn gray and then black. I’m going to die.
With the darkness closing in, my other senses pick up. I hear the scratching of tables being folded and put away under the stage in the gymnasium. I taste the blood in my mouth as my airway closes off. I smell the scent of Tom’s fancy cologne mixed with the whiskey on his breath. And I feel the handle of the knife still in my hand.
I grasp it as tight as I can and drag one last miniscule breath past his crushing pressure, and then, with all my might, I shove the blade outward and upward, not stopping when I meet resistance.
All at once his hands drop, and I collapse to the floor, my hair catching in the metal latches on the row of light blue lockers. When I come to, my breathing is ragged, and the lights are dim. The copper taste of blood sours on my tongue. But my hand is empty. That I can tell.
A calm touch gets my attention. Trombello checks my breathing, my eyes, my pulse. I breathe in and out deliberately, and soon the scene comes into focus. Slumped on the floor in front of me is my husband, the dirty knife in his hand and a pool of blood around the seat of his pants as though he’s messed himself.
“Tom,” I say, my voice deep and raspy like an old man’s.
“He’s gone, little one,” Trombello says in our shared language.