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The noise makes me jump. It’s much louder than the usual incessant banging of fists. Boom. The door shudders. Crack. The frame splinters. “Still my god damn house!” he shouts from behind the door. “Shit,” mom hisses. “Help me.” She yanks on my arm and pulls me down to the floor with her. We press our backs against the door. The hard wood bites into my back as he tries to force his way inside. I remember standing in this doorway at four years old, watching him storm away with a paper bag full of his hastily packed belongings tucked under his arm. It was me banging on the screen door then, begging him to come back inside. Now, almost ten years later, I’d give anything to just keep him out. My body bends forward as he manages to wedge the door open a little. A dark hand slips through the gap, clawing at the air with dirt caked fingernails. My mom and I dig our heels into the carpet and push back harder. There’s a yowl, and the hand disappears. The door slams back into place. “God damn bitch!” Something shatters against the door – the remnants of a broken beer bottle will crunch beneath my shoes as I leave for school the next morning. The banging resumes but is soon cut off by the whoop of a siren. Flashes of red and blue light filters in from the window and dances on the wall. A neighbor must have made the call. Footsteps retreat on the other side of the door. Mom and I stay put, straining to hear bits of a muffled conversation, snatching a few shouted words: can’t keep me out… my damn house… Eventually there is the slamming of a car door then an engine roars to life. A moment later there is a knock at the door, but not like before. A deep voice rumbles, “Police.” My mother hauls herself to her feet and gestures for me to do the same. She cracks the door open just enough to peek her head out. “He shouldn’t bother you anymore tonight,” the officer informs her. Shouldn’t. “But there’s not much we can do if he comes back.” We already know there’s nothing they can do; we’ve heard it all before. That’s why we didn’t bother calling them ourselves. Divorce doesn’t matter; he still owns half the house. I don’t know if he says the words out loud this time or if I just hear them in my memory from all the times before. My mom thanks the officer and closes the door. We wedge a chair from the kitchen table under the doorknob – just in case. We settle down on the couch and watch TV, trying to go back to how it was before our evening was interrupted. Every now and then my eyes stray to the front door, and I hope that, for the rest of the night at least, it will remain silent. |
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Amber Goodman grew up in a small town in Oklahoma. As a child, she used stories as an outlet to sate her thirst for adventure. To this day she continues to use writing as a means of exploring the world both in and outside of herself. She is a current undergraduate student seeking a degree in English. |
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