My hand was still resting on the strap of my canvas work bag when I heard Duane laugh that loud, braying laugh of his from the living room. It was 6:45 on a Sunday evening, and my feet felt like lead inside my clogs after twelve hours on the orthopedic floor. For almost four years, my husband Gordon and his three buddies had treated our two-car garage outside Tulsa like their own private sports bar.
Every single Sunday meant cases of cheap beer, my heavy coolers emptied without asking, and cigarette butts ground down into my flower beds for me to rake up on Monday morning. Gordon always promised it would be different next time. It never was. If I complained even a little bit, they would all laugh and tell me I was uptight about a little fun.
This Sunday I came home from a double shift to find four pickup trucks crowding my driveway and the game already blasting through my kitchen speakers. One of them, Gary, grinned at me from my own recliner with his boots up on the coffee table. There she is grab us some ice? he asked, not even bothering to mute the television. Travis raised a half-empty bottle of beer from the sofa. She always gets so few guys hanging out is the end of the world. I didn’t argue.
I didn’t remind anybody who scrubbed stale beer out of the indoor-outdoor carpet every single week. I just set my bag down on the counter, and the silence in my head was louder than the TV.
Gordon was sitting on the arm of the couch, watching me with that look he always got when he knew he had pushed it too far but hoped charm would bail him out. He gave me a quick, apologetic nod that meant nothing at all. Hey, hon, he called out over the third-quarter announcers. Can you grab that spare bag of ice from the deep freeze? We are running dry. I did not answer him. I walked past the kitchen island, stepped right over a discarded bag of chips on the floor, and kept walking straight toward the interior door that led into the garage.
The garage was thick with stale tobacco smoke and the sweet, heavy smell of spilled Busch Light.
A tangled mess of heavy-duty orange extension cords ran from the wall outlet across the concrete floor to power a second refrigerator and a big-screen TV Gordon had mounted on the drywall. Chad waved a half-smoked cigarette at me from behind a folding table covered in bottle caps. Evening, Loretta. You look beat. Maybe sit down and have a cold one with the boys. I still did not say a word. I reached up, grabbed the heavy wooden handle of the interior deadbolt, and threw it home with a sharp, echoing click.
Through the solid wood door, I heard Chad pause mid-sentence. What was that? he asked. I didn’t wait to hear Gordon’s excuse. I turned around, walked back into the kitchen, and popped open the breaker box mounted next to the pantry. It took three seconds to locate the two heavy-duty switches labeled garage subpanel and exterior outlets. I flipped them both hard to the left with a loud, metallic snap.
The television in the garage died instantly. The fluorescent strip lights flickered once and went pitch black. A chorus of confused groans and shouts echoed through the walls.
Gary popped his head around the living room corner, looking genuinely offended. Hey, what happened to the power? Did you trip a breaker with the microwave or something? I looked right at him, wiping my hands on my scrub top. That breaker is off for the rest of the night, I said. My voice didn’t shake. It was just flat and level, the way I talked to patients when they tried to climb out of bed with an IV drip still running. Gary blinked at me, his mouth half open. What do you mean it’s off? We are watching the game. Not in my house, you aren’t, I told him.
Gordon finally got off the couch, his face flushing a bright, angry red as he hurried into the kitchen. Loretta, what the hell are you doing? His buddies were crowding behind him now, standing in the doorway like a pack of confused dogs. Duane crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at me with a sneer. Jesus, Gordon, your old lady’s really losing it tonight. Can’t even let a few guys watch the game in peace after a long week. Gordon looked back at Duane, then at me, and that was the moment I saw the whole pathetic truth of our marriage laid out in front of me. Gordon wasn’t just hosting his friends. He was performing for them, playing the generous, easygoing lord of the manor while letting me play the scullery maid who cleaned up the mess when the party ended.
Gordon reached out and grabbed my forearm, his fingers digging in a little too hard. Cut the crap, Loretta, he hissed under his breath so the boys wouldn’t hear every word. Reset the breaker right now before they think we are total freaks. I didn’t pull my arm away. I just looked down at his hand until he let go of me, looking embarrassed that his grip had slipped. You want the power back on, Gordon? I asked, loud enough for all four of them to hear across the living room. You go outside, hook up your own generator, and clean every single cigarette butt out of my hydrangeas before you step foot back inside my kitchen.
The kitchen went dead quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. Chad let out a low whistle from the back. Well, looks like we’re officially uninvited, boys. Come on, let’s head over to Buffalo Wild Wings. Travis muttered something about crazy wives and started walking toward the front door, shaking his head. Gordon stood there in the middle of the kitchen floor, looking like a teenager caught stealing from the collection plate. He looked at me, waiting for me to wink or smile and tell his friends it was just a joke, that the ice was coming right up. I just stared back at him with my hands in my pockets.
Ten minutes later, the front door clicked shut behind the last of them, and the gravel in the driveway crunched under their tires as four trucks backed out in a hurry. Gordon stayed out on the porch for a long time, smoking a cigarette he had bummed off Duane, pacing back and forth on the concrete slab. When he finally came back inside, he didn’t look angry anymore. He just looked tired and small, the way a man looks when he realizes the scaffolding under his entire life was made of matchsticks. He walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table, staring at the salt shaker like it held the secrets of the universe.
I didn’t say anything to him. I walked over to the counter, picked up my work bag, and carried it down the hall to the guest room. I set the bag on the mattress, unzipped it, and took out my stethoscope and my badge, laying them neatly on the nightstand. When I walked back past the kitchen, Gordon was still sitting at the table, his shoulders hunched forward under his plaid shirt. Loretta, he started, his voice cracking just a little bit around the edges. I didn’t mean to let them walk all over us. I know I should have set better limits years ago.
I stopped in the doorway and looked at him, leaning my shoulder against the frame. You didn’t just let them walk all over us, Gordon, I said softly. You invited them in and handed them the shovel. He looked up at me, his eyes wide and bloodshot around the edges. What happens now? he asked. I walked into the kitchen, pulled a clean glass from the cabinet, and filled it with cold tap water. The garage is done, Gordon, I told him, taking a long drink. The locks on the interior door are staying changed. If you want a sports bar, you can go rent a storefront down on Main Street and pay the lease yourself.
He opened his mouth to argue, to find some old excuse about how things were, but no words came out. He just nodded once, very slowly, as the weight of four years of selfishness finally settled onto his own shoulders instead of mine. I left him sitting there in the dim light of the kitchen and walked out the front door onto the porch. The Tulsa air was warm and heavy with the smell of cut grass and approaching summer. I sat down in the white wooden rocking chair, listening to the crickets start up in the tall grass by the fence. Down in the flower beds, the hydrangeas stood tall and dark in the twilight, completely free of white filters and gray ash, waiting for tomorrow to come on our own terms.
