I heard the deep bass of Matt’s voice and then the rising screech of Frankie’s. The yelling moved past the door, from one end of the apartment to the other. My heartbeat quickened every time. I wondered if one of them might come to the front door and swing it open unexpectedly, their angry faces seething at my spying. When I was young, I’d listen at my parents’ bedroom door after they’d put me to bed, willing my ears to take in as much as I could.
Banging from the kitchen. I tried so hard to make out what Matt and Frankie were saying, wondered if they knew how loud they were being, if they cared that someone else could hear. How we act when we know we’re being watched is so different. I stilled myself until my muscles ached, cupped my hands, and pressed my ear against the door.
“You don’t have to repeat yourself, I heard you the first time.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Are you okay? Is there something wrong with you?”
“Stop. I’ve told you this time and time again—”
“Why is it such a big deal, are you hurt about it?”
The banging continued until I heard Frankie’s voice rise into a guttural howl.
“Don’t patronize me. I have to clean up your mess all the time, over and over again, I have to clean up after the child over and over again. Do not make this harder on me. You can take your shoes off or you can eat dinner outside.”
“Jesus. You were fine earlier and I don’t know what happened.”
“Fine,” she said.
I heard footsteps toward the door and panicked. I jumped as quickly as I could to the side of the door, in between the apartment and the hedges, as it swung open violently.
Frankie’s voice, now unmuffled, said, “Here’s your dinner, bitch!” And then something ceramic broke against the front walk. She seemed unhinged and free, like she’d had to perform for so long. I could see Frankie’s face contorted into anger. She looked like that a lot now: her brows knotted, the muscles in her body tense, her whole face in that new way, the stranger her. “If I had a fucking shotgun, I would have shot you by now!”
The door stayed open what seemed like a long time. I hoped she would close the door and this would all go away. I couldn’t decide if showing up as if nothing had happened was a good idea, or if I should leave and go home for the night.
I had two paths. One was toward righteousness. If I went home and waited, I could come back when Matt was at work and comfort Frankie. We might sit at the kitchen table drinking coffee while I asked if she was okay, while I prodded, shared the experiences of my own tumultuous family, gradually worked her open. I would highlight the ways in which we were alike, conjecture that we were both women and thus somehow similar, facing a common enemy. She could find repose from her anger within me.
I imagined it in my head: us being friends. Being able to gain her trust. If I could comfort her in her time of need, she might be willing to let me in.
The other path was the one I was more familiar with. It was the path of sex. I could feel the manipulative part of myself light up like a highway at dusk. I felt sorry for Matt. I wanted to be the girl that was subdued for him instead of angry. I remember thinking how harsh it was for her to say that, I would have shot you by now, how violent it seemed, despite how physically violent Matt was during sex. I played the situation over and over in my head, the movement of the muffled voices, the door swinging open, the plate breaking against the concrete. And then how it was quiet for so long. Matt’s voice said something low and inaudible. The door closed. My phone vibrated in my pocket as the door was clicking shut, and I almost died from the noise. It was a text from Patrick.
—hey dude
Real casual.
—matt and frankie fighting, I responded. they always do this?
I contemplated telling him where I was, hiding in the hedges. It felt comical. I worried it might make me look like a coward or some kind of stalker.
—should i leave you think?
I put my phone on silent and placed it in my lap, in case he texted back.
It had been silent for several minutes. I decided I should knock, to check in on them. I stood there for a few moments catching my breath, then heard what sounded like a scuffle and an angry scream. I opened the door right as it happened, just in time to see Matt holding her by the shoulders.
“I hate you!” she shouted, and then “Stop,” from Matt.
The light was shining onto that long dark hair of hers, the halo of it around her head. Her amber eyes, I couldn’t look straight into them. She stood there, Matt holding her, and they both looked at me. It was then I made my decision.
SELF-DECEIT IS NOT UNDEFILED WISDOM
THINGS CALMED DOWN OVER the next few days. I didn’t ask questions about the fight, and neither of them talked to me about it. It was reminiscent of the fights I remembered my parents having, shouting about his drinking problem and how much money he spent on irresponsible things. Matt and Frankie simply moved on, as if nothing had happened.
The three of us lay together in bed. I woke up slightly as I heard Frankie stir, but I kept my body faced away from them. I was on the edge, facing the wall.
