Done

DONE

“You know what? I quit. I’m done,” I said taking a big breath. It had been a long, brutal day, and I was admitting defeat. My crusty father used to tell me that losers quit, winners got the job done. I mentally shrugged my shoulders. I guess I’m a loser, ‘cuz there’s no way I can finish this job.

My husband, Uriah, smirked at me. “Again, Amelia? What is it this time? Did I leave my socks on the floor? Or put an empty milk carton back in the fridge? Or leave an empty toilet paper roll in the can? Come on, tell me—what catastrophe has occurred that makes you think that you can no longer go on living in this house with me.”

He was sitting on his chair, looking at me. Smug bastard.

“I didn’t say that I was moving out. You’re the one who’s going to be moving out,” I said, calmly.

He looked shocked. Then he started laughing. Like, really laughing—as if I’d just said the funniest thing in the world. His belly giggled. He snorted. He guffawed. Tears welled up in his eyes. He slapped his own thighs. “Good one!” he chortled, as if what I was a comic on stage that he found particularly funny. Then he got serious—deadly serious. “There is no God-damned way that I am leaving my house! I paid for this house, and the only way I leave is in a body bag!”

Don’t give me any ideas, big guy, I thought.

Instead, I said, “And, if I remember correctly, I bought this house, not you.”

He grabbed his drink from the table beside his chair, and chugged it down, the ice cubes tinkling against the side of the glass. “Get me another,” he said, holding his glass out to me.

I was shocked. The balls on the guy!

“I don’t think so. If you want another drink, you’re gonna have to get it yourself. I am not your indentured servant.”

Any signs of the humour he had experienced a minute ago evaporated. “I said, ‘get me another drink!’ Now!”

“No,” I said. “You’re not the boss of me. Get your own damn drink.”

He pulled his arm back and hurled his glass at my head. Good thing this was drink five, so the glass missed me by a mile. Instead, the tumbler smashed against the wall behind me, shattered glass and ice cubes littering the floor. I have to admit, this behaviour was totally unexpected. Uriah wasn’t prone to throwing actual physical things. But he was a world class thrower of insults.

“Clean that mess up!” he bellowed, pointing vaguely in the direction that he had thrown the remnants of his drink.

I looked at him. He looked like an enraged bull—hands balled into fists, his face all red and mottled. Losing control. Again.

“No,” I said. “Not my mess. You threw the tantrum, you clean up the mess.” I turned and walked to the front hall, grabbed my coat and keys, and left. Even after the front door was closed, I could hear him baying after me. “You can’t walk away from me! You get back here, right now! If you leave, don’t expect to come back! I’m serious! Get back here!”

I ignored him. Of course I ignored him. I always ignored him. He wasn’t interesting enough to pay attention to.

We’d been married for what felt like a thousand years. But in reality it was only seven years. Only … ha! It had been seven long, miserable, demeaning, degrading, painful years. I’d known it was a mistake from the beginning. In my heart I knew Uriah wasn’t the right person for me, but, it was better than living at home. And, well, I was impressed with him—he was chasing his dreams. He’d played triple “A” minor league baseball, with his eye on the prize—the bigs. But he’d torn his ACL sliding into second—and BAM—no more big leagues. No more minor leagues either. Just like that, everything changed. By that time were were already married and I was committed.

I really never believed that Uriah was good enough to make it to “the show.” He was good. Don’t get me wrong. But he wasn’t great. I think he knew that as well, but kept denying it. I’m sure he would have aged out of pro ball, and gone into coaching, or something related. Instead he’d had his future yanked out from under him at the age if twenty-five. One day he was a ball player, next day he was in the hospital with a messed up knee, his career over.

Not that it paid all that well. It didn’t, and most of the players that we knew had off-season jobs—real ones that paid a decent wage. Instead, Uriah let me work and support him, while he attended training camps and played in the winter leagues—usually Venezuela, once in Mexico, where he spent all his money, never bringing any home. I couldn’t understand it—the cost of living was low and his accommodations were paid for. Sometimes he even had the nerve to ask me to send him “a little extra” to tide him over. I didn’t mind … actually, I did, but I figured that at least he following his dream. When he finished with ball, it would be my turn to pursue my future. At least I thought it would be.

But after he blew out his ACL, that was all history. We’d been married five years by then. His recovery took almost a full year, and he still walked like an old man. The surgeon said that Uriah needed to do the exercises and continue with physio, but he didn’t. Instead, he invested his time in day-drinking and the only exercise he go was walking from his table to the bar for a refill.

I hoped that he’d find something to give him joy. But other than whiskey, there was nothing. Certainly not me. I gave him the opposite of joy. If he was Marie Kondo, I would have been relegated to the discard pile, tout suite.

I’d tried. It had been two years since the surgery and he was not moving towards his future. He needed to be doing something—excerpt drinking. Which, of course, was exactly what he was doing. Going to a dive bar gave Uriah joy. He was spending more and more time at there, reliving his time on the field. His cronies treated him like a minor celebrity. A washed-up minor celebrity, but still a celebrity. He was living that Bruce Springsteen song, Glory Days. That was all Uriah had—memories.

And resentment—towards baseball itself, towards the system that spit out young ball players with nothing. Oh, and let’s not forget me, of course. He really resented me.

“I can’t stand looking at your face,” he’d said to me a couple of weeks ago. It was after he’d spent all evening at the bar, and was pretty drunk.

“I beg your pardon?” I’d said, gobsmacked. We’d just come home after he got me out of bed to come get him because he was too drunk to drive. He thought he was okay to drive, but the bartender had his keys, so I was called.

“Your face,” he’d slurred. “It used to be so pretty. Now it’s just old.”

I stood there in the front hall, looking at my husband, not believing the words coming out of his mouth. I took a deep breath.

Do I tell him that he’s the reason I look like shit and start an argument. Or just let it ride ‘cuz he’s drunk. Decisions, decisions.

“There are a lot of women who look better than you and would love to have my baby.” He burped.

Ah, the baby argument. I do not want children—at least not with Uriah. He’s a drunk, he has no job, he’s abusive. I couldn’t imagine leaving a child with him while I worked. Drunks are dangerous. But still, again, the balls on the guy to talk to me this way!

“Then they can have you,” I said. “And, you can sleep on the couch.” I turned on my heel and walked towards the bedroom, shutting and locking the door.

But that wasn’t the end of it. Uriah staggered down the hall—or at least that what I figured he did, hearing him bounce off the walls. He hammered on the door with his fist, making it shake in its frame.

“Open this door up right now, Amelia! My house, my bedroom. You sleep on the couch!”

I ignored him, and put my noise cancelling earplugs in my ears, and fell asleep.

That was two weeks ago. And the verbal abuse continued, escalating up to the throwing of the glass at my head.

“I can’t eat this shit! Learn to cook!’ he yell at me, drunkenly.

“Do my laundry!” he’d demand after he’d spilled something down the front of his shirt.

“Clean this God-damn house! It’s a pig sty” he order after leaving a trail of dirty clothes and empty booze bottles littering the house.

Okay, do I need to mention that Uriah sits on his ass all day, drinking? That he does sweet F-all around the house? No? Okay.

“If you weren’t so lazy, I wouldn’t have to yell at you” he’d said over dinner.

“Lazy?” I said. “You’re calling me lazy? Me with the full-time job, and the full course load at university? I’m the lazy one?”

“You need to do your woman’s work!”

I was dumbstruck. “Are. You. Kidding. Me? You don’t do anything around here. You don’t even put your dirty dishes in the dishwasher! In fact, you don’t even take them into the kitchen—you just leave them where you ate. You wake up at noon, and sit on you ass all day, or go down the the bar and hang out with your unemployed cronies.” I was getting angry. I could feel my jaw tighten, and my pulse start to race. “I come home and you expect me to clean up your skat—clothes dropped where you left them, empty bottles left on the counter. Then cook dinner and clean the house and do your laundry! I think not.”

“Your job is to take care of me and the house!” he spouted off. “And screw school! You have no reason to be in school. You’re too old.”

Again with the age! We’re the same age, buddy. You’re as old as I am!

“My job is the one that I get paid to do so that we can keep this roof over our heads.” I said. And school is what is going to allow me the time and money to divorce your misogynistic ass, I thought, but did not say.

“You are my wife, and you will do as I tell you!”

I literally started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. The absurdity of the statement struck me. “Oh my God, Uriah! What decade do you think this is? The nineteen fifties?” I stood there with my hands on my hips. “You really need to look around, maybe read a newspaper, or watch something other than Fox News. Women have personal autonomy, and don’t have to do anything they don’t want to do. You are not in charge.”

“When you married me, you said to honour and obey!” he shouted. “And I want you to obey me now!” He was getting worked up.

“Hey! Remember? That wasn’t in our vows. We promised to love and cherish.” I squinted at him, “And you are not holding up your end of that bargain. Not even close.” I walked up to my bedroom—Uriah had been banished since the “other women want to have my baby” episode—locked the door, and put in my noise cancelling earbuds.

That was yesterday. And today he’d escalated to physical abuse. So, I was out. Uriah needed me more than I needed him, he just didn’t realize it. And, regardless of what he thought, the house was mine, not his. I’d put all the money into it, and it was only my name on the deed. But that would be for the lawyers to work out.

Yup, lawyers. After he’d thrown the glass at me, I’d decided I was done. It had actually been a couple of days before that I knew there was no hope for our marriage, but a glass whizzing by my head cemented my resolve. For my own sanity and self esteem, I needed a divorce. Part of me wondered how Uriah would take me kicking him out. Probably not well. But, c’est la vie. This was about me, not him.

I drove over to the theatre, and watched the latest Mission Impossible movie. Then I stopped at a coffee shop for something to eat. It was after ten when I got back home. I really hoped that Uriah was asleep in his recliner—the place that he slept when he was too drunk to make it up the stairs to the guest room.

I listened at the door, and heard nothing. Good! I twisted the knob and slowly pushed the door open. The house was dark. I figured he’d made it up to bed. Thank God! I couldn’t face another confrontation. I flipped on the switch. And there he was, in a pile at the bottom of the stairs.

I strode over quickly to see if he was … what? Dead? Injured? Asleep? Passed out? The unnatural angle of his head told me it was the former. A person’s head should never be at that angle. I checked for a pulse. Nothing.

I called nine-one-one—police and ambulance were on the way. I looked at Uriah, in a heap on the floor. I guess I wouldn’t need that divorce lawyer after all.