Again and Again I Walk Toward a Dusk That Isn't Yours

Six months of dating Duane James, and I finally showed up at his family's door with gifts, ready to meet the parents.

The one who opened the door was a boy with dyed blond hair. He looked me up and down.

My brother finally got me a new maid?

Before I could say a word, he started counting off on his fingers.

"Starting today, you get up at five every morning to make my breakfast, you hand-wash my underwear, and when I'm gaming you cut up fruit and bring it over."

"I'm your future sister-in-law."

I couldn't listen to any more of it and cut him off.

He clutched his stomach and laughed so hard he tipped backward onto the couch.

"You idiot! My mom said a sister-in-law is just the desperate slut who comes crawling to be my maid!"

Then he kicked off a yellowed sock and threw it in my face.

"Wash this for me first!"

I turned to Duane, wanting him to rein in this out-of-control brat.

He didn't even glance at me. He just said, offhand, "Les is still a kid. He's only messing with you."

I let out a cold laugh, picked up the sock, gripped his chin, and shoved it straight into his mouth, packing it in tight.

"A mouth that filthy, this sock suits it just fine!"

...

Lester James wrenched free of my hand and doubled over, retching.

"What the hell! Are you insane?"

Duane rushed over from the living room, yanked Lester behind him, and turned to glare at me.

"Carissa Fox, what do you think you're doing! Les was just joking around with you. What gives you the right to put your hands on him?"

Lester cowered behind him, saliva still on his face, whimpering, "Bro! Throw this slut out, now!"

Duane patted his back and soothed him a couple of times, then turned to fix his eyes on me.

"You apologize to Les right now, and you agree to be his maid for a month. Laundry, cooking, cleaning his room."

"You don't leave until he's not mad anymore!"

He said it fast and urgent, without a flicker of hesitation on his face.

"Les is scared out of his mind because of you. You're going to take responsibility and calm him down."

"Fine."

I stared at Duane and laughed, past the point of anger.

Lester's smug expression snapped right back into place.

The next second, I asked him coldly, "Then let me ask you. What's the monthly pay?"

Duane froze for a beat.

"Hiring a maid, right? The kind that hand-washes even the socks and underwear. Ten grand a month isn't asking too much, is it?"

"Get me the labor contract and full benefits. I'll start right now."

Duane's face changed instantly.

He stepped forward and dropped his voice. "Carissa, I never knew you were this materialistic. My brother's just messing around with you and you bring up money?"

"We're family and you're still keeping accounts? If you can't even accept my family, what right do you have to walk through the James family's door?"

That last line came out almost through gritted teeth.

I stared right back. "Duane, we're through!"

His face twisted. He shot out a hand, grabbed my hair, and clamped the other one around the back of my neck.

My knees buckled and I nearly dropped to the floor, my scalp screaming where he pulled.

"Apologize." He ground it out against my ear. "Apologize now, and I'll get Les to forgive you. Otherwise you're not leaving today."

His fingers tightened and tightened, nails almost digging into the flesh.

A cold dread crawled up through me.

"Duane, if you don't let go, I'm calling the cops! Malicious assault. See if I can't bury you with it!"

The words came out almost as a shout, my whole body shaking.

Six months.

Six months I'd been with Duane, and in all that time he had never been anything but gentle, thoughtful.

Crossing the street, he always kept me on the inner side, always asked what I wanted before we ordered, always stood under an umbrella outside my office when it rained.

He said family meant everything to him. Every week he went home to see his parents, to look after his brother.

I used to think that made him a good son, a man with a sense of duty, someone I could count on.

Now I finally understood what kind of good son he was.

The kitchen door slammed open and his mother came charging out with a spatula in her hand.

"Who? Who's picking on my boy!"

She jabbed the spatula right up to my nose.

I opened my mouth to speak, but she turned and caught sight of Lester's pitiful, wronged little face, and that set her off on the spot.

She wheeled around, yanked open the security door at the entrance, and plopped herself down in the stairwell, kicking both feet against the neighbor's door across the way.

"Oh, oh, oh!"

She slapped her thigh and started wailing. "I can't go on living! My boy brought home a little tyrant!"

"Not even married in and already hitting people in this house! Picking on my youngest!"

That howl brought every door upstairs and down swinging open.

Neighbors poked their heads out to look.

"An old woman with a bad heart and high blood pressure," she gasped, thumping her chest and coughing twice, "and she's given me an attack!"

"This woman, this woman!" She pointed at me, and before she could finish, her whole body slumped sideways to the floor.

I turned to Duane, disbelieving.

"Your mother is standing here twisting the truth in front of all these people!"

Duane didn't even glance at me.

He bent down to help his mother up and called out to a middle-aged man in the crowd. "Uncle!"

"If we end up going to the hospital, or if the cops show up, you back me up. This woman was unreasonable and made my mother sick."

A chill spread across the back of my head.

Not one of the seven or eight people standing in that stairwell had a phone out to film. Not one of them said, "Call the police, pull the security footage."

They just stood there with their arms crossed, watching, like an audience at a play that had already been staged.

I stood in front of the James family's open security door, looking at those seven or eight faces in the stairwell.

They had crowded in close, but their eyes stayed fixed on me.

And then it hit me.

No wonder Duane's mother had the nerve to throw a fit with the door wide open.

Out here, every last one of them was on her side.

It was the uncle who called the police.

Less than ten minutes after he hung up, sirens carried up from the street.

Two officers came up, took one look at Duane's mother sitting on the floor, then looked at me.

One of them frowned. "Who called us?"

The uncle stepped forward. "I did. This woman, my nephew's girlfriend, walked in and started swinging. She got my sister so worked up she had an attack!"

Duane helped his mother up off the floor. She clutched her chest and groaned as he half-carried her over to the couch.

The female officer came over and asked me what had happened.

"They" I started.

"Officer," Duane cut in at once, "this is my girlfriend. It's her first time at my place today."

"My little brother's young, doesn't know any better, teased her a bit, and she just hit him out of nowhere. My mom came out to stop it and got shoved. My mom's got a bad heart. She went down right then and there."

The uncle nodded. "I saw the whole thing. This woman, she's a real piece of work!"

The old woman from next door chimed in.

"I live right across the hall. I heard shouting and came out, and there she was, an old lady sitting on the floor, couldn't get up!"

The male officer picked it up. "Young lady, a person her age, whatever the argument was, you don't throw the first hit. That's on you."

"And if she really got sick over this, the responsibility falls on you. There's no getting out of that."

I watched Duane's mother on the couch, rubbing at her chest, while Lester crouched beside her handing her a glass of water.

Duane turned to face me, his tone still that same gentle one.

"Rissa, hand over the medical fees first. Thirty thousand."

"My mom and my brother are hurt. You're paying to treat them."

"And for now you'll move in and work as their maid. Look after their meals, take care of them, until they're back on their feet. We'll talk after that."

The officers had only come to mediate. Once they left, the people out in the stairwell drifted off little by little.

On his way out, the uncle clapped Duane on the shoulder and said, low, "Call me if you need anything."

The second the security door clicked shut, Duane's mother sat up straight on the couch, the hand that had been rubbing her chest dropping away. "What are you standing there for? Go clean up the kitchen. The oil's still on the burner."

Lester had long since dropped the act, one leg crossed over the other, foot swinging. "Maid, sis. You threw out my socks, right? Consider those a gift, then. Go buy me a new pair."

I looked at his face and my hands curled into fists.

Duane came over and stood next to me, laying a hand on my shoulder.

"Be good, just do it. My mom's angry right now. You behave, and she'll let it go on her own."

His voice was still that same warm, gentle thing it had always been.

I walked into the kitchen. The scallions in the oil pan had already scorched black, the burnt smell stinging my nose.

I shut off the burner. The sink was piled with the lunch dishes, a layer of grease congealed over them.

Duane's mother followed and leaned against the door frame, arms crossed.

"Dishes have to be done by hand. Don't use too much soap. Rinse three times, dry them, put them in the sterilizer. When you're done with the rag, wring it clean and hang it up. Anything drips on the counter, you wipe it."

Out in the living room Lester was playing a game, the sound effects blasting from his phone speaker, crackling away. Duane's mother went back and started talking to him, and the two of them laughed, loud.

Duane sat on the couch scrolling on his phone, glancing over toward the kitchen now and then, calling out, "Rissa, mop the floor while you're at it."

I finished the dishes, wrung the rag out three times and hung it, wiped down the counter, mopped the floor.

When sweat ran down past my temple I lifted a hand to wipe it away, and caught that sour reek of the socks still on my sleeve.

Out in the living room Duane's mother was on me again. "What's taking so long? When you're done mopping, wipe the coffee table. Look at those marks!"

Lester lifted his eyes from his phone to look at me, the corner of his mouth curling up, and stretched out a foot to poke at my elbow.

"Sis," he drawled, all singsong and smug, "tomorrow morning I want a sandwich. Cut the crusts off, double the cheese inside."

By the time I finished cleaning up, Duane was sitting on the living room sofa, waiting for me.

He tapped a knuckle against the coffee table. My phone was lying on it.

"You're sleeping in the guest room tonight. I'll hold onto your phone for now."

He picked it up and slid it into his pocket.

I stood in the guest room doorway and looked at him for two seconds, said nothing, then turned and shut the door.

Once the lock clicked, I leaned back against the door, and the watch face on my wrist lit up.

My best friend had given me this watch last month for my birthday. It could sync with a phone to send and receive messages. I'd always thought the feature was pointless and had barely used it.

Now the phone was sitting in his pocket, but the Bluetooth was still connected.

I opened the messaging screen, thumb hovering for a few seconds, then typed.

"Muriel Henson, I'm being held at Duane's place. They took my phone. Can you come?"

Three minutes after I sent it, the watch buzzed.

"Send me the location. I'm rounding people up now."

I pushed her the address downstairs.

Muriel didn't ask a single extra question. The chat window went quietly dark.

A little after two in the morning, the watch buzzed again. She sent only four words: "Text me before you leave."

Outside the window it was too dark to see anything. The guest room bed was hard as a board, and the blanket smelled of mothballs.

I didn't undress. I lay there with my eyes open, checking the watch face every little while.

A little after four, Muriel sent: "On our way. Three cars."

I pulled my hand up into my sleeve and gripped that thin strip of watchband.

Dawn came slowly.

In the living room, Duane's mother's footsteps went back and forth, pots and dishes clattering. She knocked twice on the guest room door and yelled, "Get up and cook." I didn't answer.

She knocked twice more, shouting, "Quit playing dead." A key turned in the lock, but I'd bolted the door from the inside. She couldn't get it open, and she stomped off cursing.

At ten past six, I heard the elevator doors open in the hall.

I heard Duane go to answer the door.

Muriel's voice carried in from the entryway, even and level. "You're Duane? I'm here on Carissa's behalf."

"She was trapped in your home last night, her phone was confiscated, and her freedom of movement was restricted. I'm here under an emergency personal protection procedure."

Duane's mother came charging out of the kitchen. "Who the hell are you?"

"Ms. James," another voice caught her, "I'm Ms. Fox's attorney. My name is Floyd."

"Under the law, unlawfully restraining another person's freedom carries ten to fifteen days' detention. We've already documented and preserved evidence of your conduct last night."

The living room went quiet for two seconds.

Lester poked his head out of the bedroom, hair sticking up, mouth opening to say something.

Muriel's voice came again, slower now than before. "Duane, think carefully. Last night you took her phone, held her here and wouldn't let her leave, and made her do labor. That's called unlawful imprisonment."

"Your mother and your brother went along with you. Not one of them walks away clean. I've already sent someone to pull the security footage. The hallway camera caught all of it, clear as day."

Duane's voice finally came out, much rougher. "Are you people reasonable at all? She came to my home and made a scene and made my mother sick with rage."

Lawyer Floyd cut him off. "Did you bring the medical records? Which hospital? What illness?"

"Show me the diagnosis. If you don't have one, I'll call an ambulance for you right now. The police station is running its process in parallel, and filing a false report and false accusation are separate charges."

The living room went completely silent.

I opened the guest room door and walked out. Muriel was standing in the entryway, four people behind her, one carrying a briefcase, another holding up a phone and recording.

She saw me, ran her eyes over me once, her brow tightening, then gave me a nod.

"Let's go," she said. "The car's waiting outside."