“By all means. And if she doesn’t ask …” I shrug like she can see me. “She’ll find out when she gets there, and we’ll help the community center, which is the ultimate goal, right?”
“Right, but I don’t want any trouble.”
“There won’t be. Promise.”
It’s silent on the other end for a few moments, and I hope I’ve convinced her.
“Alright,” she finally says, her voice still a little uncertain. “I guess we could leave it a surprise for everyone. That might add some excitement.”
“Excitement. Exactly. Great idea. It’ll be fine. I have no beef with Iris.”
“Okay, well, I’ll send that email of the topics we suggest. You can modify as you see fit.”
“Thanks, Sylvia. I’m really looking forward to it.”
Once I disconnect from Sylvia, I sit on the plastic bin alone. On instinct, I walk back over to the box of my father’s things and pull out the jersey, slipping it over my head again.
“Perfect timing, huh?” I ask the empty garage. “Looks like the game is coming to me, Dad. We’ll see if I get to take the shot.”
24
Iris
We’ve found a new normal, Caleb and me.
I’ve learned to negotiate the terrain of the hell in which I’m trapped. There is this strange balancing act of compliance and strategic resistance. Caleb is a sleeping volcano, always primed to erupt. I’ve learned his cycles. He’s a pendulum that swings from Jekyll to Hyde. I try to anticipate his triggers as much as I can, but sometimes they don’t follow the pattern they should.
He doesn’t attack every day. In some ways, the unpredictability of it makes it even worse. He’ll go weeks being perfectly well-behaved. He’s still repulsive because I know what he’s capable of, but he manages his behavior—and I manage to ignore it. And then something will set him off, a straw I didn’t even know had landed on the camel’s back. His steak is too rare. He’s lost a game. His favorite show has been cancelled. There’s no rhyme or reason to his viciousness.
“We’re really looking forward to next week, Iris.”
I glance up from my plate of chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans, to the source of that statement.
Sylvia.
Sylvia’s one of the eight or so people at our table. The Stingers are celebrating the end of a successful season with this dinner. They made it to the second round of the playoffs.
Whoop-dee-doo.
“I’m sorry.” I bring Sylvia’s face into focus. “What did you say about next week?”
“Yeah.” Caleb slumps a little in his seat beside me, then leans back and rests his elbow on the back of my chair. “What’s next week?”
He shifts to caress my neck under my hair. I force myself not to flinch at his touch. That infuriates him, seeing me flinch.
At least, it infuriates him when I do it in public.
When we’re alone, it feeds him. It empowers him to see the fear he has carefully cultivated over the last few weeks thriving and growing inside of me. My fear is a plant he nurtures in the dark.
“Oh.” Sylvia’s dishwater blond eyebrows snap together. “The community center? Iris is scheduled to volunteer there next week.”
Thank God.
Give me something. Something outside of that house and the open-air prison of my life with Caleb.
“I don’t know if she’ll still be able to do that,” Caleb cuts in with a frown.
His hand at the curve of my neck probably looks like affection from the outside—like the hand of a rich, powerful man stroking his pet. He displays a possessiveness that might send a thrill of excitement through someone else. Most women have a bit of a crush on Caleb when they first meet him. They don’t know him the way I do. Only I feel his fingers tighten. Only I know his hand at my neck is not love. It’s a warning. It’s a shackle.