“Right there, straight down. Do you see it?”
“I think so. Yeah, I do! I see it! It is still there!”
They were so excited over that old shoe. Now it sits in the trash, like so many of our memories.
“That’s it! They have to go.”
I take my sadness, anger, and rage, like a tornado, with me to the art studio. I tear it apart, piece by piece. I don’t know how I am doing it, and I don’t care. I destroy everything I can. Black paint! Perfect, I use it to smear big black Xs over her canvasses. Let’s see how she likes it! I stand before the large mirror she has hung on the wall. Taking notice that I no longer have a reflection, I scream, scream as loud and hard as I can. The mirror suddenly shatters into a thousand little pieces. I use the last of the black paint on what’s left of the mirror. I turn to look at what I have done.
“This room looks how I feel.”
I hear footsteps rapidly ascending the stairs. The door flings open. There is Jen, standing there, mouth gaped open. She turns a color paler then white itself, almost green really. Slowly and cautiously, she looks around the room. She starts to tremble. She takes small steps backward toward the door, then quickly turns and runs out of the room, leaving the door open. I hear her run through the house and out the back door. I go to the window and watch as she flees to her car and speeds away.
“Good riddance.”
* * * * *
So it seems that the way to move something is to feel. Not think but feel. If I think, nothing happens. I can only move an object with raw emotion. The kind of overwhelming feelings that cause you to become dizzy. I was able to push Stanley’s glass into the floor that night because of the overwhelming love I have for him. The overwhelming need to be heard by him. The art studio, well, that was pure, unharnessed hate. But she brought that on herself. I won’t feel bad about it.
It is dark out now. The construction workers are gone. I see headlights coming toward the house. Peter’s old white Chevy pickup truck pulls into the driveway. I watch as he gets out and walks toward the house. He’s alone.
Maybe he has come back for their belongings. He walks through the back door; Jen didn’t bother to shut it on her way out. He is looking around the house, going through it room by room. I follow him upstairs. He checks all the rooms, leaving the art studio for last.
“Holy shit, Jen! What the fuck…”
He doesn’t look scared; he looks angry. He pulls his phone from his back pocket.
“Yes, I need to speak to a manager. Well then, let me speak to the owner! Yeah, this is Mr. Gibson, Peter Gibson. I hired you all to rebuild the porch on my house. Yeah, well one of your employees came into my house and vandalized my wife’s fucking art studio! You heard me, I am standing here right now looking at it! No, she didn’t see them do it. She freaked out and left. Well, this is complete bullshit! All I know is I want it taken care of. Yeah, thank you too.”
Peter takes pictures of the room with his phone.
He goes downstairs and comes back with a broom, mop, dustpan, and trash bags. He breaks up the canvasses and throws them away. He sweeps up the glass and takes down the frame of the mirror. He tries to clean the black paint off the wall but only ends up smearing it. He takes his phone from his pocket a second time.
“Hey, babe. I took care of it. Yeah, everything’s taken care of. It’s all cleaned up. Just come home baby. No, it’s okay. Don’t be ridiculous, the house is not haunted, Jen. No, one of those motherfuckers came into our house and did this. I am just glad you didn’t get hurt. No, he’s going to send a completely different crew out to finish the porch. It’s going to be okay, babe. Just come home, Jen.”
Peter leaves the room. He showers, then goes to bed.
* * * * *
The house is quiet. The construction crew has finished the front porch. It is bigger than before, wider. And screened in. It really does look nice. Jen hasn’t been back. Peter only comes here to sleep. Maybe things will settle down now. Maybe I can have my house back. The back door opens, Peter comes through carrying something. It’s a puppy! How sweet. A white puppy with a brown patch over one eye. I swoop down for a closer look. He has one blue eye and one brown. The brown eye on the side with the patch, how appropriate. He’s adorable.
The puppy begins to shake as if he is cold and then to whimper.
“What’s the matter, buddy? It’s okay. Your momma will be here soon. She’s going to love you,” he says as he massages the puppy’s ears.
Peter ties a big red ribbon around the puppy’s neck and puts him in a large box. Then he runs upstairs. I can hear the water running. He must be showering.
“Hey there, boy.”
The puppy is shaking again. He growls then barks at me.
“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you. I like dogs.”
The back door opens, and Jen walks in. She sets her purse and keys on the table and walks over to the box.
“Oh, look at you. What’s your name, hmmm? What’s your name, little guy?” she says in a baby voice. She bends down and picks up the puppy. He licks her face and wags his little tail rapidly. “Oh, thank you for the kisses. Thank you…”
Jen laughs as she hugs and squeezes the pup.
Peter rounds the corner wearing only a towel around his waist. Beads of water roll down his back.
“Hey, baby. I see you met our little boy. What do you think?”
“I think he’s beautiful. What kind of dog is he?”
“A mastiff-pit mix. He’s going to get really big! People will think twice before they come into this house again. Look at him, he likes you. Hey, man, quit kissing on my girl.”
Peter walks over to Jen, takes the puppy from her arms and puts him down on the floor. The pup looks up at me and whimpers, scooting in closer to Jen’s legs.
“I really missed you, baby. So glad you decided to come home.”
Peter says to her as he puts his arms around her and pulls her toward him. She runs her fingers through his wet, curly hair then down his neck and over his shoulders. They kiss passionately.
“Thanks for the puppy,” says Jen breathlessly.
He puts his hands around her waist, lifting her up from the ground. She wraps her legs around him, and he carries her upstairs. I can hear them making love. The puppy paces nervously back and forth. He growls at me every time he looks at me.
It breaks my heart.
* * * * *
Jen is back. She hasn’t gone back into the art studio. She approaches the door cautiously, reaches for the handle, then quickly backs away from it. I can see that she is afraid. But not only can I see it, I can feel it. I can feel the energy of
