Like often happened, I chose wrongly and my choice was to take a step back.
He advanced quickly and no matter how much of a beer belly he had, my husband could move.
I didn’t have a prayer to avoid it, I’d learned that but, still, I tried.
As usual, I wasn’t fast enough.
He got close and backhanded me hard. With some experience, it was at the upper end of the scale of how hard he could hit me. I knew this because it hurt like a bitch and also because I flew to the side and landed hard on a hand and hip, I lost focus on the pain in my cheek when the pain radiating up my arm from my wrist took precedence.
Then he kicked me in the back. I bit back my cry at this new pain focus and thanked God he was only wearing a sock. When he kicked me, he did it no matter what footwear he was wearing and since his job meant he had to wear steel-toed boots, I’d learned a sock was far, far better.
“I said,” he snarled and I sucked in breath and stared at the carpet, “get me a fuckin’ beer.”
A beer.
I’d been watching Sampson Cooper, mesmerized by a beautiful man, a good man, a strong man, a loyal man, a loving man and I’d missed my husband, who was none of those things, asking for a beer.
And he hit and kicked me because I hadn’t jumped at his command.
God, God, I hated my fucking husband.
I stayed prone and kept my eyes from him. Again, it was a crapshoot how he would react to this.
Luckily, his presence retreated.
When it did, the beautiful Sampson Cooper was the last thing on my mind.
Getting my husband a beer was the only thing on it.
So I carefully but swiftly pulled myself to my feet and got Cooter a beer.
*
Two months, three days, four hours and thirteen minutes later…
The doorbell rang.
Memphis yapped at it.
I moved toward it.
Then Memphis yapped at my heels.
I sighed.
I loved dogs. I loved all animals, actually. Save snakes, they freaked me out. And lizards, they freaked me out too. And I wasn’t really big on rodents of any kind. No, that wasn’t true, hamsters were kind of cute.
But I could not pull up any affection for a dog Cooter loved. It wasn’t that she wasn’t cute, cuddly and sweet, even to me.
It was just that, anytime Memphis showed me any affection, it pissed Cooter off.
So I guessed that was it.
I did what I could not to piss Cooter off, including holding myself distant from our dog, even when he was not around.
Memphis, of course, had no idea what her being sweet to me meant. Memphis only knew Cooter’s devotion and did not get why she didn’t get the same from me. I had to give it to the dog, she never gave up. No matter how much I ignored her, she just got cuter, cuddlier and sweeter.
I admired her for that.
I’d given up years ago.
I looked through the peephole and blinked.
Then my heart started racing.
Then, in the expanse of about three seconds, my mind flew in a million different directions finally settling on one.
It was after six o’clock.
Cooter was usually home by five fifteen.
That said, if he wanted to have a beer with the guys or whatever he did, when he didn’t come home, he did it and didn’t bother to phone, text or pop home to let me know. Lately, this happened more often than not. And the lately that included most recently, Cooter didn’t come home until almost nine o’clock.
I wanted to enjoy these moments of reprieve but I couldn’t. Mostly because the time he was away and I was home I spent worrying about what mood he’d be in when he got home. He could be drunk and pissed, which did not bode well or he could be sober and pissed, which also did not bode well, or he could be either and horny, which was worst of all. Lately, he came back smelling of beer but not drunk and always horny but in a way that made my skin crawl even more than it normally did at the thought of him touching me and that was saying something. Nothing had really changed with our sex life except he got more into it (which also was not fun for me) and he lasted longer (again with the no fun part) and it seemed he was getting off on it more, was more excited and I did nothing (not one thing) differently to cause that.
But right then, Ozzie was standing outside my door.
Barney “Ozzie” Oswald had been Sheriff for as long as I could remember. He had to be older than dirt but he still looked fit, spritely and alert. He always looked fit, spritely and alert.
And now, with him on my doorstep, he looked all those things but something else too.
I opened the door, smiled and whispered, “Hey, Ozzie.”
At my whisper, which was pretty much my normal tone, I was cautious with everything including the volume of my voice, Ozzie did a mini-flinch.