“Please come in,” Aunt Margaret said after pulling away from Jean and remembering that there was someone else standing outside with them.
Seeming to notice Jean’s hesitation to go in, Aunt Margaret spoke again.
“Pete’s not in.
He hasn’t been home for a few days, thankfully.” At that, Jean relaxed a bit and followed after Michael, who was already making his way into the sitting room, Aunt Margaret just in front of him.
Michael immediately sat on the long sofa in the sitting room and tapped the space beside him for Jean to sit.
Reluctantly, Jean obeyed, not failing to notice just how carefully Aunt Margaret was watching her.
Jean immediately began studying the house and was not surprised to find that the inside did not look much better than the outside.
The paint here was breaking too, and everything in the house was the same as Jean remembered.
The sofas were the same, including the broken couch that was situated close to the also broken flat-screen TV that hung on the wall.
The red rug remained unchanged, and so did the flickering bulb in the kitchen just straight ahead.
Aunt Margaret remained standing over the two.
“Would you like something to eat or drink?” Aunt Margaret addressed her question to Jean, not bothering to look at Michael.
Jean could see the joy in her aunt’s eyes, and she felt sad for some reason.
“Uh…” Jean looked to Michael before looking back at her aunt.
“Just water for me, please.” Aunt Margaret finally turned to Michael and arched a brow.
“And you?” “Water will be fine too, thank you,” Michael answered politely.
“I’ll be right back.” Jean studied her aunt as she gave a small smile before walking away, the gait in her step not properly hidden.
The once-upon-a-time tall and beautiful woman Jean remembered when her parent and brother had been alive was now a shrunken, disfigured woman with a bad leg.
Jean’s pity grew, and she had to look away.
Jean’s eyes fell on Michael, who remained seared, his posture rigid and alert, as if he was waiting for something to happen.
Aunt Margaret returned with a tray and only one glass of water in it, and she set it before Michael, on the small glass table in the center of the living room.
“I’ll go back for yours in a bit, my dear.” She explained to Jean, and her niece gave a small nod.
Aunt Margaret took one long look at Michael as he brought the glass to his lips and drank.
She studied him and probably figured that his perfectly combed, dark hair, his perfectly tailored suit, his shiny black shoes, and the paper in his right hand were suspicious enough, because she asked: “My Jean isn’t in any trouble, is she?” Michael set the glass back down on the tray and leaned back in his seat, a bit relaxed.
“Not at all, Margaret.” He responded with a charming smile.
“In fact, I’d say she’s brought good news.
We’re getting married in two weeks.” The house went silent for a bit before Aunt Margaret exclaimed and turned to look at Jean for confirmation.
Jean gave a small nod, and Aunt Margaret let out a genuine smile.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, and was making her way to the kitchen once more.
Jean, similar to Michael before, was tense, anxious, and equally alert, waiting for the door to slam open and for a drunk Pete to stagger in, a bottle of beer in his hand, and an ugly scar that started from his temple and went down the left side of his face to his jaw.
Pete would beat Jean to within an inch of her life if he were to come in and find her sitting here, in this house.
He would call her a bitch, and then he would most definitely take a knife and do to her exactly what she had done to him.
* * * * * It had happened on a Saturday.
Aunt Margaret had just gone shopping, and Jean was in the kitchen, getting ready to go to the diner where she worked shifts to gather money so that she could escape the hell that she was in.
Jean was already done with high school then and hadn’t bothered with college applications because she knew Pete would never release a single penny of her father’s money and college fund.
It was hard to let go of college, despite the scholarship she picked up, but she knew that her survival was more important than college.
Like every other day, Pete had barged in drunk, with half a bottle of beer in his right hand.
He wore only khaki shorts and was barefoot and shirtless, his pot belly and dirty, hairy chest laid exposed.
Pete had made his way straight to the kitchen and pressed himself against Jean’s backside, pinning her front against the counter where she had been slicing carrots for her aunt.
With his free hand, Pete began groping her breasts very aggressively.
That day, Jean wore a high-waisted baggy jean and a pretty brown crop top that left a decent amount of her belly exposed because of the summer heat.
But it did not matter what she wore.
Pete was a monster, and he came upon her whenever he wanted, and after the beating the first time, Jean had stopped resisting him.