ROUND SIX

There is no mat, no ropes are around the square, no wild crowd is booing or encouraging the fighters. We, my husband Chas and I have an entire two story house and club basement for our battlefield. There were a few times he slapped me around and I cowered. I got a little braver as months went by and pushed him out the front door, yelling like a fish wife,’ We’re through. Get out and stay out!’ He leaves every time and is back in a few hours begging on his knees that I let him in. ‘I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?’ He wins me over with his sweetness, his hugs and we make-up.

What I am slowly learning and believing is that he does not regret his actions, his tone of voice. I am coming to the conclusion that he doesn’t love me and is using me for his own reasons. There is something I didn’t know before we tied the knot. He is a compulsive gambler. If kids had the money, he’d bet on the winner of a hopscotch game. He’s a Gin freak, a poker player with big hopes and little money, my money. My Dad left me enough to live comfortably for a while but my ’while’ is dwindling. Chas gave up his office job. When I strengthen my determination and deny him a few dollars, he borrows, has even cut a few lawns, washed a few cars. It is beneath him but he wants those dollars. The well will run dry and then what? Stealing?

He got a new idea from a buddy recently and wants me to give him $25 to get a prescription filled. ‘Prescription?’ I ask. ‘What’s wrong with you? You haven’t been to a doctor since we met.’ I’m stern. I’m strong. He’s crazy. He’s strong, too. Standing right in front of me he tells me his pal Joey got a prescription from his doctor for medical marijuana and has sold the juice. He made $50 the first time and is going to another doctor in a different area to get a new prescription. ‘Come on, Gladys, give me $20 at least.’ ‘Not on your life.’

My face is on fire. I’m boiling mad at this jerk. ‘Get out of this house, now, Chas. or I’m calling the police and telling them your foolish plan.’ ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’ ‘Darn right I will. Don’t underestimate me.’ I leave him standing in the hall, his face contorted in anger. From the basement I bring up two soft pack suitcases, put them in front of Chas and tell him to take his stuff and get out! ‘This is my house, Mr., and you are not wanted here any more. ‘ Chas grabs my arm and almost twists it out of the socket. Then he punches me in my mouth. I spit blood and a front tooth. He looks at me, doesn’t even offer me his handkerchief, doesn’t apologize, doesn’t pack, takes $25 out of my purse and saunters out the front door.

It’s heavenly quiet with him gone for a week. Being the nervous wreck that I am, I make an appointment with a therapist because I know I have to deal with Chas and that he can still use his wiles on me and get back into my semi-good graces or he can break a window and get inside without my permission. After my therapist visit, I apply for a licence to own a hand gun, fill it out completely and tear it up.

The therapist has offered me good advice. Contact the Domestic Violence Hotline, keep a weapon of some kind near my front and back doors, talk to my neighbors who can warn me if Chas is hanging around. Most important, I am told to report the abuse to the police and have that phone number glued to my brain. Go to the station and take out a restraining order, she advises. I do it but know it will be useless.

Before I follow through with even half of what I must do, I hear his familiar banging on the rear door. ‘Let me in, Gladys. I’m a changed man. I won’t ever hit you again. I promise. Let me in, please.’ With not a moment’s hesitation, I answer, ‘Go away. We’re thru. That last wallop ended our loving relationship. Now go away, forever, or I’m calling the police.’ The big jerk whines. ‘You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, Honey?’ Let me in. I’m your husband, let me in or I’ll break the damn door down and your neck after that.’ While he’s pleading, I take his old baseball bat out of the guest closet, pick up the phone and dial 911. Sirens wail. Two police cars pull up in front of my house. Four officers, armed but not showing their power, rush to my door. Charles is out of sight.

I lock the door, take my largest, sharpest bread knife upstairs, put it on the nite stand and try to fall asleep. It isn’t easy.

Chas will be back!