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“Thanks.”
“Wait,” said Charlie.
“What is it?” asked Abby.
“It was really nice to meet you.”
“Okay? You too,” she said. She turned then and headed back, not wanting to leave the front desk vacant any longer than she had to.
Chapter 7
Abby never knew what was going to set off Randall. They’d have weeks or even months of even-keeled normalcy, and then something would happen and he’d turn into a monster. On the day she met Charlie, Randall came home from work earlier than normal, in a terrible mood.
“Nice to see you,” she said. She’d been swimming laps in their pool, but as soon as she saw that Randall was home she got out and toweled off. “Want something to drink?” she offered.
“Come on inside,” he said, holding the sliding door open. “Hurry up. I’m cooling off the whole neighborhood.”
She passed by him and went over to the refrigerator to get both of them some cold juice. He followed right behind her. Without speaking he pulled down her bikini bottoms and started fumbling with his belt and zipper. She did her best not to look as clenched up as she felt; what she was dreading most was that it wouldn’t work and he would then go ballistic.
“Suck it,” he told her.
“Could we go in the bedroom?” she asked. All the blinds were open; if anyone walked up to their h
ouse they’d see everything.
“Suck it,” he repeated, gritting his teeth. It started to firm up a little. She took her top off to try to help things along. Randall slapped at her breasts a little, glancing down at them and then squinting his eyes shut, clearly trying to draw on some sexier-than-her image in his head.
“I’m ready,” he hollered, spinning her around and bending her over the kitchen counter. He tried to slide it in but it was already starting to flop. So he jammed his flaccid penis, or more accurately as the minutes went by, his pelvis, against her butt crack for a while. Bloop bloop bloop. It felt like she was being slapped with a water weenie toy. She looked out at the pool, growing bored, hoping he’d give up soon.
“Rosa will be back from the grocery store anytime now,” she said eventually.
“Huhhh,” he grunted, giving it another try.
“Randall…” she tried again, concerned their housekeeper would walk in on them.
“Quiet,” he hissed.
It wasn’t simply a matter of telling him that she wanted a divorce. Several years earlier she had gotten up the nerve to tell him she wanted to leave, and he’d made it very clear that she’d be dead if she tried. Randall Greer was not the kind of man whose trophy wife divorced him.
After taking the conversation there, Abby’s life got much worse. She saw no point in ever bringing a hint of her unhappiness to light again. It could only hurt her.
Now he was zipping up his pants, rebuckling his belt. He spun Abby around and looked at her with repulsion. That was the funny part about being raped: (She considered it rape, even if it didn’t really work, even if she didn’t call him out on it.) It made him hate her a little extra.
He put his hands on her neck and squeezed. She felt like her eyes were going to pop out of her head. His eyes bulged out at her. They stood there, bulgy eyes locked into bulgy eyes, until he loosened his grip and went outside. She watched him get in his car. She scrambled to put her bikini back on, just as Rosa’s rusty Toyota Corolla began coming up the driveway. Randall nodded cordially at Rosa as she pulled over to the shoulder of the driveway to let him by.
Abby checked herself in the mirror. There were giant handprints on her neck so she went into the bathroom to hide until either they or Rosa went away. Staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, all she could think, over and over, was that she had to get out of this.
Chapter 8
Within a few months of her family’s accident, Abby’s grandmothers, both of them widows, had passed away, further cementing her status as an orphan. Her parents had both been only children. This was when Randall still had something to prove. He took care of all the arrangements for her grandmothers since Abby was their only living descendant. She wouldn’t have had a clue how to handle any of it; She was only twenty-two and had turned to her parents for advice on dilemmas big and small. How to deal with roommate problems, boyfriend problems, professor problems? Her parents had effectually made all her decisions. Their wisdom and experience influenced all her actions, and following their advice gave her the outward appearance of being very mature and pulled together. It was the exact opposite, however; She had barely any inner barometer of logic. With all the answers a phone call away, she’d never needed one.
Abby’s mom’s good friend Sharon had taken care of Abby’s parents’ and sisters’ funeral arrangements and the settling of their estate, and she’d let her, gladly signing over all the rights and responsibilities to her. She trusted people at this time. She believed that pretty much anyone could to do a better job than she could do. She was glad for people like Sharon, glad for people like Randall. She assumed they all knew more than she knew, and that deferring to them was the responsible thing to do.
During that summer, Randall was simply there. Everyone else was gone or busy or afraid of what to do with all of Abby’s sadness. But not Randall.
“Come out to dinner with me,” he’d tell her.
“I don’t have anything to talk about,” she’d warn him.
