“Are you that fucking stupid?”
Being completely tanked, offended, and thrown off guard I simply said, “Excuse me?” I’m not a fan of rhetorical questions anyway.
The rest of the argument went like this:
I shouldn’t have answered if I knew it was Amanda. I shouldn’t have used that ‘tone’ of voice. I shouldn’t have taken my jacket off in front of people (by showing my shoulders, I was trying to take someone else home). And, most devastatingly, Ike shouldn’t have moved in with a whore like me.
I sobbed the rest of the 20 minutes I was stuck in the car with him. Once we were home I drank a glass of water in silence while he sat at the kitchen table. Perhaps my drunken state was clouding my vision. Could Ike have been right about the way that I handled the phone call?
I tried talking to him. Bad decision. He catapulted himself across the kitchen table and began vomiting unidentifiable words at me. Hovering in my personal space, more insults were thrown.
“You’re a fucking cunt, you know that? Amanda is my son’s mother and she’ll always be a part of my life. If you fucked anything up…if she tries to keep him from me, you’re going to be sorry.”
Tears streaming down my face, I decided that sleep was the only solution to our problem. As I began to walk past Ike, he grabbed me by the back of my neck. Upset and still very drunk, my reaction was to turn and push him away. When given the opportunity to fight or fly, I usually choose fly…I’d never been physically held in one place. My reaction to push him surprised me.
Ike was off-balance and took a few awkward steps backward before falling over a chair. He stumbled and then fell hard into the back door. His elbow went straight through the glass window.
Running to his aid, I wasn’t fearful of him hurting me. He was drunk too; we would be fine after sleeping. After all, he had never done anything like this before. We’d talk. It would never happen again. She had to say something far worse to him than she did to me. That’s why he was acting the way he did.
Ike didn’t say a word. He grabbed a kitchen towel from the counter, put on his shoes, and walked out the front door. I watched him walk to the office from the living room.
Five minutes later I looked out the window, in hopes of seeing his silhouette walking down the dimly lit street.
Police lights were flashing in front of the office. Knowing that I was too drunk to drive, I grabbed my sandals and sprinted the block and a half to the scene. One police car had already left the scene. Ike was in the backseat.
“Are you suicidal?”
With swollen eyes and skyrocketing anxiety, I answered each question given by the police officer. Ike called the police to come check on me. He said he was worried about me and wanted them to make sure I was okay. Instead of coming directly to my house, they ran a background check on him. He had an outstanding warrant for his arrest for a speeding ticket he hadn’t paid.
“When can I pick him up?”
The dispatcher gave me a three-hour timeline and a fee of $350. I had just enough money to bail him out of jail. He’d be home soon enough.
Bailing him out was the only thing I could think to do. After all, it was my fault that he’d ended up in the slammer anyway…right?
He wasn’t thankful. As soon as I pulled into the driveway, he began walking back to the office again. Nothing was said.
For two more nights, Ike slept on the floor of his office. He waited until I left for work before coming to the house to shower. I called him repeatedly. He ignored my calls. For those same two nights I didn’t sleep at all.
And then on day three, he showed up on the doorstep with a gift in hand.