Chuck's Place

       I took a risk, going to Arkansas. The marriage was over and so was my job.  The union with Jeff dissolved years before we finally broke it off. We ultimately agreed to file as non-contested. I went ahead and began the paperwork, since I didn’t trust him to follow through. On the upside, we were finally splitting up. In a seemingly amicable fashion after the shouting matches and slammed doors of a worn-out marriage.  It was a time of endings. My job as a lead agricultural scientist also died around that time. Lay-offs do come from out of the blue, understood, but the reason they gave was stunning. My title didn’t fit anymore with their mission.  After that sting, I looked for another position while I lived with sister Carol, her husband the math teacher, and two toy poodles on a very explicitly-stated temporary basis.

            Shortly after moving in with Carol, Jeff threw me off balance in his normal fashion. 

            “Hey Shelby, you need to sign for something. Mail guy’s here.”  I made my way down the wooden stairs past the poodles, took the pen, and signed the certified mail card.  We stared at the official-looking manila envelope. 

            “You got some legal documents, from an attorney it seems,” she said quietly. My chest tightened.  

            Legal documents have always scared me. So do seeing cops doing their normal cop stuff, like stopping people for not signaling.  My mind leapt quickly to being handcuffed or money taken out of my account.  Anxiety does run in our family. 

            “Let me go figure this out,” I said, eyeing the stairs that led back up to the guest room. What’s the fucker done now?, I asked myself.

            The papers spoke to Jeff’s cruel streak.  Despite our previous agreement to file non-contested, he was now the plaintiff.  I was being served as a defendant accused of cruelty and gross neglect of duty in our marriage. We had just agreed to do this thing together, and I was now the accused. 

            I thought back to the events that led to my contemplating suicide during the marriage. The calculating way he forced another driver to run into my back end as he stopped suddenly in the middle of the street, giving the guy no choice on a dark night.  He laughed at flashing camera lights in my eyes, until I told him I’d break his camera if he did that again.  How he put tape on his face in the grocery store, like a pig-man, and rode around on the handicapped buggy.  He enjoyed making people uncomfortable.  He was also a playful extrovert and could be the life of the party. Capable of being well-spoken, polite, and looking out for others, even though it was fake, in my opinion. While I was not inclined to offer help in a parking lot or by a road, he’d be the first to see if he could rescue someone.  He had been a cop. The problem is, cops are composites of good guys and bad boys. In the last couple of years, he showered about twice per week in my estimation. His toothbrush was always dry, but he had stolen some dental tools from his last visit. I’d find him picking at his teeth while he watched movies on his iPad in the basement. The man cave was his bedroom. But I was the one now accused of gross neglect of duty.

            Carol appeared in the doorway of the guest room where I sat, her converted sewing room for my temporary haven. I perched on an old love seat, documents in hand. I had taken up residence in her combination arts and crafts room for the time being.  I looked up, distracting myself from sorting buttons by size and color.  I had therapeutically preoccupied myself, categorizing some buttons as matte, some glossy, some with little swirly, cream colors in them.  Shortly afterwards, I got in gear, hired an attorney, and the divorce proceedings unfolded in a fairly methodical fashion.  

            Having a specialized doctorate in agricultural science and research projects on drought tolerance led to the Arkansas gig. The job was a step up, with supervisory functions; my mental state somewhat improved and I quickly went about transitioning westward. 

            Rental prices seemed affordable, particularly with my new six-figure salary. 

            I rented a townhouse sight unseen, seeking refuge in the website’s carefully-crafted descriptions.  My new safe haven.  It was an “end unit” (implying quieter) townhouse in a “community” (meant to instill a sense of protection) with a basement (translation- spacious). It was “excellent” and “minutes away” from a main corridor to the city.  The open floor plan promised entertainment opportunities, along with the essential granite and stainless-steel accents with plenty of “backsplashes.” Natural light “flooded” the first floor’s high ceilings. I couldn’t wait to see what a raindrop shower head was or how that would improve my life. 

            The property held promise of a finished basement that I imagined for morning yoga and meditations next to its tidy laundry area of black and white checkered floors. I thought I’d start a wellness kick.

            I drove in on a rainy Tuesday night, stopping at a small Thai place near the neighborhood before seeing my new home. I Googled- Thai food near me.I was craving a concoction of coconut, curry, and lemongrass with sticky rice and ginger in some form or fashion.  Comfort food. Instant gratification.  

            Dusk had settled in. Orange streaks created horizontal patterns interacting with smoky grey lines in the sky.  I pulled the Subaru into the single driveway, the radio turned up with violins and clarinets permeating the inside of the car. I stopped, engine running, to absorb the last few bars of the orchestra.  Turning off the ignition, I took in the scene.

            A large oak tree filled up the small-sized front yard next to the driveway.  I opened the car door and stood next to the sidewalk going up to the dark green front door. A few feet of low, white lattice bounded the front of a small garden near a bay window.  

            The landlord had forgotten to turn on at least a porch light for my arrival. I made a mental note to bring up the exterior lighting system to him in conversation.  Kind of a hyper fellow, at least on the phone.  

            Something rustled in the bottom of some large shrubbery under the window to my left as I stood on the front step. At the time, I chalked it up to a raccoon or squirrel. 

            I rummaged in the pocket of my wallet for the code to the lock box, which wasn’t easy to find in the dark. I looked down and found the black box next to my right foot. The darkness made it difficult to see the numbers so I pulled out my cell phone. The lumination was sufficient to open the box and retrieve two keys. I excitedly, yet cautiously, opened the door.

            Wood floors of an ordinary light brown color ran through the townhouse. Dust created a thin carpet throughout.  Ahead was the kitchen.  I entered, noticing the small peach-colored bathroom on the left. Nice fixtures, as promised, but just okay. 

            The recently renovated basement was cozy. I was satisfied with the rental, not overwhelmed, but relieved it wasn’t an unexpected disaster.     

            I settled in to the new job, mingled with my co-workers in the normal course of a workday, and learned the area.  It offered a good blend of grocery stores, a mall with a couple of department store anchors for the occasional shoe and blouse purchase, and cheap gas stations. I noted the restaurants, which thankfully offered some Indian and Japanese beyond cheeseburgers and bagel places. 

            My neighbors were quiet, generally. I never actually got to meet any of them but I’d notice them leaving the parking lot and getting their mail. All the serenity was really fine, welcomed in fact, given the recent stressors of job and husband loss. The new job was a good change, although my boss was quirky. I never could get used to his voice, kind of syrupy.  He had continual flakes of dandruff on his blazers.   

            I never really spent time in the basement until it became apparent Chuck was living down there. One night, he made his presence known when he coughed loudly enough for me to hear him through my bedroom walls. I suspect he’d been doing that the whole time I lived there and I had just slept through it.  

            Fearing intruders, a home invasion, I grabbed my semi-automatic pistol and headed to the kitchen.  I was no dummy; I wasn’t going to live by myself in a strange town without a weapon. Also, I didn’t have a dog, so I had to have something. I was comfortable with a gun, having served in the military for one tour, ten years prior. 

            I stood at the top of the basement stairs. Chuck looked up at me from the bottom. He was disheveled, with a long beard that made him look like a Viking. His steel gray eyes had sort of startled, yet concentrated look. His thick mass of silver and black hair was alluring. That’s what really pulled me in. Underneath all the hair, I could tell he was handsome. He also turned out to be musical. Although he had a sweet side, as it turns out his dark side was even more of a powerful draw for me. 

            His eyes blinked a lot.  I knew he didn’t want me to know how scared he was.  He confirmed this later to me, as it turned out. 

            Our conversation that night occurred with me on the stairs and him looking up at me, eyes blinking. Sometimes frenetically. My finger stayed ready, near the trigger.  Neither one of us moved. 

            I learned he occasionally walked around in the house when I was at work, which helped me understand why magazines on my coffee table ended up on the couch. When I did laundry, he’d leave the house through the basement door and stand outside. The door had been dead-bolted when I moved in and I never thought to check whether it remained that way. I suspect there were times when the door stayed unlocked with his comings and goings. 

            I told him he couldn’t stay in the basement. He said he was disappointed, but then turned, collected his things and exited through the basement door to the yard.  I locked the door behind him to ensure he couldn’t re-enter that night.  

            For a few weeks I checked the door regularly for signs of entry and found none. The basement was quiet.  I’d go down and inspect, pistol in hand, every night before bed. 

            But one evening after work, I noticed Chuck had left me something in the living room. I’m not sure how he got in. Some old pictures of the basement, showing the way it was before being refinished, were propped up on top of a coat rack. The basement had basically served as someone’s workshop. Next to the old 4 x 6 pictures, he lined up three small, vintage-looking oil cans. I do remember him saying he was an artist at some time.  In actuality, I think it was just that he saw art in everything. 

            He did eventually come back to the basement. This time, he let me know he was down there.  He wrapped on the basement ceiling three times so it was obvious. I grabbed my weapon and headed to the basement. 

            He explained he was an Army veteran from Desert Storm. He was very proud of being an on and off again musician.  He’d been coming to the basement for about two years, undetected. The previous renters were an older couple. This was before the basement was renovated. They never heard him and he was certain it was because they had hearing aids.  I imagine he’d inspected their bedroom at some point when they were out.  Although they didn’t go out much, he said. Chuck thought the man had died in the townhouse, something the landlord hadn’t shared with me, and the woman had gone to a retirement home. 

            Chuck revealed he was pretty happy when the landlord didn’t have a tenant in the house, and I could understand why. 

            “What are you looking at?,” he’d ask me on more than one occasion. “You might think my life is not ok, but who’s to say it isn’t?”

            “What do social services say about you, Chuck?,” I asked.

            “Bunch of bureaucrats. They don’t like me smoking pot. What’s it to them? Come on down here, honey. I’ll play you something on the guitar.”

            He’d serenade me and his voice was hypnotic.  Sometimes he’d put some twang into it.    

“I’m from West Virginia. That’s where I got my voice,” he said.

            Eventually, Chuck became close company and I allowed him to sleep with me. No penetration, but he brought me to climax.  I don’t think he could have an erection, but he seemed to want to please me. Maybe he was thanking me. Whatever the reason, it was something I hadn’t experienced since before my divorce. Back when things were still civil with Jeff.

            “How about I move in?,” Chuck asked one day.

            “There are things about you I like and don’t like,” I said.  

            I loved his romanticism, albeit fleeting, like a medieval knight practicing chivalry for just one moment. But then he’d turn into a low-life mental abuser the next.

            I liked his edginess, but reminded myself it could turn dangerous. I wish I hadn’t been drawn to his darkness. 

            He started asking me for money before the incident happened. I’d say no and we’d argue. 

            Then, he started stealing things. From the kitchen, the bathroom, even from my dresser drawers.  Half of my underwear went missing after I’d just done laundry. 

            “I don’t know anything about it. Why would I want your underwear?,” he asked. 

            “To sell. I mean they were brand new. And lacy.”

            “Are you insane?,” he asked.

            I wondered if he was right. Perhaps I was losing it.  Being around a mentally unstable individual will do that. They’ll play on your vulnerabilities until you feel like the crazy one. Of course, you do become, how shall I say, out of it, after a period of tolerating their abuse. 

            One night he drank almost a full bottle of gin, the strong stuff, and went for my gun. By then, he’d figured out where I stored it in a drawer near my bed. 

            There can come a point in a woman’s life when she stops caring about what people think of her.  Coincidentally, she becomes unimpressed with fake advances and attitudes meant to impress. I was at that point when I met Chuck. This made me more vulnerable to his apparent authenticity about who he professed himself to be. He was living life on his terms. I had never had the courage, until I moved on my own to Arkansas. For a brief time, Chuck and I were kindred spirits in our mutual recklessness.  He taught me about letting down my guard.  We indulged in each other, shared some laughs.  Until he decided to kill me.

             I’d say that was the height of his chaos. He just pulled out my pistol and pressed the trigger. Multiple bullets tore through my body. It happened quickly and I didn’t stay alive for long. I believe he wanted that basement back for himself.  Which he did get, once I was gone.  The current tenants aren’t aware of his presence, but I also see him staying around town in shelters more and more. I’m hoping he leaves that basement for good, someday.