The Light Between Us

A Light in the Dark To my husband Paul. Thanks for your support. I could not have done this without you. I head to the kitchen for a third refill of Earl Grey. Through the window above the sink, I stare out into a bare October morning and glimpse Darth Vader, my neighbor’s grey and white Huskie, thirty feet from me over the well-tended hedge separating our yards. He yanks at the end of his too-short leash as though he is playing tug-of-war with himself, trying to get free from the metal porch railing. My lips curve into a snarl at the ungodly sight. Some people should not be allowed to have pets. Bret Hicks, the dog’s owner, is a seventeen-year-old high school dropout who lives with his mother and hosts drinking parties at his house on weekends when his mother is out of town. Which is the case now. I watch as the gangly boy steps out onto the stoop of their porch, shirtless, and readjusts himself in broad daylight. I wait to see how Bret handles the situation with Darth. One finger on the dog and I am out the door. I watch. Wait. It is like trying to stay awake during a tedious scene in a B-rated movie. I fill my cup to the rim with lukewarm tea from the kettle and turn to go back to my computer when I hear Bret’s grating voice drowning out Darth’s barking. I poke my head around the hanging spider plant in the window and am crippled at the ruthless act of cruelty playing itself out across the way. Bret is slapping the dog across his face to quiet him. My anger simmers as I clutch the teakettle hard enough so my knuckles turn white. I feel woozy, and I lose the grip on both my mug and kettle. Everything crashes into the sink, the dregs of my tea splashing on my face and arms. I fly out of my back door, and by the time I reach the frozen ground, I am yelling obscenities. “Bret Hicks! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I call Bret by his first name because we have known each other for years. At the edge of the hedgerow, my palms are slick with sweat. “What do you think you’re doing to that poor dog, Bret?” Bret turns away from Darth and looks up at me with his spooky-empty eyes, grinning mischievously. He answers me with a flip of his middle finger. “Mind your own frickin’ business!” Even in the chilly air, heat crawls up my neck. Behind the shrubbery, I clench and unclench my fists. In a tight-throated response, I say, “Bret Hicks, if you don’t stop hitting that dog, I’m going to report this to the sheriff!” I hear Darth whining at his master’s feet. With adolescent arrogance, Bret scoffs, “Sheriff Erickson is just another stupid pig.” And he flips me the finger again before unleashing Darth from his chain, and pulling the defenseless animal up the stairs by his side. Before Bret slips behind the door with his dog, I hear the troubled teenager mumble, “Faggot.” He slams the back door hard enough that I step back a few inches. I tug at the collar of my bathrobe against the spitting cold and race along the yard to the safety of my house. * * * * The rest of the morning is uneventful. No more noises from Bret or Darth. No barking or screaming. Hearing the dog’s woof would set my frayed nerves at ease, but all is unnervingly quiet. The stillness unsettles me. I check the Hicks’ backyard from my kitchen window: dead calm. I go back to my writing, trying to wrap my head around something more pleasant, my hands flying across the keyboard as if inspiration suddenly beckons me to write my one thousand words. I even manage to produce twice as much before lunch. By then, my mind is tapioca. I cannot string any more words together if my life depended on it. Will I ever be able to write another bestseller? * * * * Later in the day, I busy myself with the house chores I’ve let go by the wayside all week: dusting, vacuuming, laundry. At two, I take my customary half hour nap. I am restless and anxious, staring up at the cream-colored ceiling in my bedroom, my mind racked over Darth Vader’s unfortunate living conditions. The vision of Russ, my ex-boyfriend, invades the basement of my brain: the way he used to smile at me with his lopsided grin and cocksure manner triggers my heartstrings. I turn to the bay window across the room and gaze out. The sky crackles with thunder. A feverish wind slams against the shutters. Dime-sized balls of sleet peck the panes. Calm before the storm. Unable to find comfort in my favorite place in the house, I crawl out of bed and pad downstairs. Against the mounting pains in my stomach, I toss together a tuna fish salad and sit down to the kitchen table to eat, alone. My thoughts drift into the past, and I recall Russ’ face. An anesthesiologist. Around-the-clock workaholic. Two loving years of our lives tested against an ambitious career—the knife in our relationship, a year and a half ago. I slowly close my eyes and see his aquarium-blues staring back at me over the miles separating us. Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I stare around the eerily quiet house. I stab a leaf of lettuce with my fork but I am no longer hungry. The fork clatters against the side of the bowl. My body starts to shake, my shoulders slouch, and my head falls as I cry into my hands.