the food, pay the bills and generally keep things running smoothly. Her only concern in staying in that house was how to meet the mortgage, but her attorney had told her Kyle was going to have to cover it until the agreement was settled, as his income was so much higher than hers.
Ironic, she thought, with a little toss of her head, he is finally 'the primary bread winner' and he ends up walking out on me. If she were honest with herself, he may have been the one to physically leave, but they'd left each other. He wasn't all to blame.
She didn't care about the money, and discovered she actually enjoyed being alone. For the first time in her life, she bought just the foods she wanted, and prepared her own simple little meals in the evening, instead of the lavish full course dinners Kyle preferred. The bed was easy to make now, since she still slept on her half, which was really her third, since Kyle was so much bigger than she was, and needed all that space to comfortably fit his 6'5' frame.
She ate ice cream straight out of the pint, not worrying that Kyle would be 'grossed out' by her germs. She left her pantyhose drying over the shower rail and didn't hide her tampax away when she was having her period.
She still kept the house clean as she always had; that was too deeply ingrained, and she was neat by nature. As Kyle came by periodically to remove his things, she was happier with the place, which she had always felt was too cluttered with his extensive 'objets d'art', the knickknacks he liked to collect and line every available shelf with. Not to mention his 10,000 CDs and his fancy stereo system which had taken half the space in the living room.
Over the weeks Tracy bought a few pictures of her own, and a small CD player. She slowly replaced her record collection with CDs, listening to an entire Joni Mitchell CD without anyone constantly remarking how childish and tedious it was, and finally demanding she put on headphones. She bought another laptop, charging it to their joint credit card. She lay in bed, talking openly with Paul, usually with her hands in her panties, until he told her to take them off.
She was happy – until one Friday evening, about four weeks into their separation, when she was startled to hear a key turning in her lock. Kyle still had his key. She hadn't thought about it since he had needed to come in sometimes to get his things while she was at work.
He had been so adamant about not wanting to see her ('You're nothing but a source of pain to me now,' he had proclaimed dramatically) it never occurred to her he might come over while she was home. Why hadn't he called if he needed something?
Maybe it wasn't Kyle, but some burglar who had somehow gotten a copy of her keys? Tracy stood quickly, moving toward the phone. She could call 911 before they got in the door, but the door opened.
Her relief was palpable when she saw it was Kyle. She almost felt affection toward him at that moment. He looked so familiar, the tall gangly boy she had known for so many years, his dark blond hair tousled making him look like a little kid.
'Kyle!' she said, more warmly than she might have, if she hadn't been glad to trade him, in her mind, for a burglar with murderous intent. 'What are you are doing here? Something you need?'
As he came closer, she saw that he didn't look so much the carefree young boy any longer, but unnaturally flushed, and his eyes were bright, the pupils pinpoints, like shiny metal balls at the center of pale blue irises.
'Yeah, something I need. That's right. Something I need.'
She didn't understand what he meant, but she did understand the menacing tone. The man must be high on something, or drunk, or both.
'Look, Kyle,' she began, trying to sound tough. She was going to say this was her house now, and he had better leave, but her words died in her throat as he came toward her, his hands out, moving fast.
Before she could react, he had her in his arms, and was roughly trying to kiss her. She smelled gin on his breath, and something else, something bitter that she couldn't identify. She struggled to get out of his grasp, but Kyle was strong, certainly much stronger than she.
'Stop! What are you doing!' Tracy spluttered and struggled, trying to get away from him.
'I'll tell you what I'm doing, bitch – what I should have done a long time ago. I know what you like, don't forget. I know you like it rough, you sick cunt. Well, I'm gonna give it to you, just the way you like it!'
Tracy screamed, horrified and truly frightened. She glanced toward the phone, desperately scheming in her mind how she could get to it.
'Stop it. Kyle, get away, you're drunk! You don't know what you're doing!'
'I know what I'm doing all right. I'm going to fuck my wife. You're still my wife, you know, you bitch. We aren't divorced yet. For once in your fucking life, you're gonna get what youdeserve. I'll show you what it'sreally like to be pinned down and raped. And you'd better love it, bitch, because that's what your nasty fantasies are, and you deserve whatever you get.'
Tracy was crying, struggling under the weight of her estranged husband. He pulled open her blouse, spraying the little buttons over the carpet. Her skirt was hiked up and he had her panties down.
He held her throat with one hand while trying to get his pants unzipped with the other. He was clearly impaired, and couldn't seem to work the mechanism of the zipper.
'Please,' Tracy begged, 'please Kyle. Don't do this. Think about what you're doing. Please! I trusted you!'
Kyle loosened his hold on her throat and jumped up, grabbing a dishtowel that was hanging over the kitchen chair. Holding an end in either hand, he wound it in the air, rolling it tightly. Standing over her, he flicked it against her bared breast, the snap like a razor slicing against her skin.
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.
