Page 28 of The Quiet Tenant

You pick your fork back up. You can’t look at him, so you stare above his shoulder as you say it.

“Thank you for your service.”

He nods. Your mouth fills with acid.

CHAPTER 19

The woman in the house

The cramps come on a Friday afternoon. You don’t get cramps. Haven’t in years. At first, you figured your period had stopped because of the stress. He’s not a reckless man. He uses condoms. You worried for a while that your cycle would start again. Then, you lost all the weight, and you figured that was that. Perhaps your body knew that life in the shed would be easier that way.

Soon you will bleed. You need pads or tampons, need him to buy them for you. You will have to ask. At this prospect, your insides twist tighter.

You already pissed him off this morning. In the bathroom, as you got dressed, you pointed to the tight waistband of your jeans, the button straining against your abdomen. He has been feeding you, and you have gained weight. “Do you think it would be possible,” you tried, then started over. “I’m so sorry. But would it be possible to get the next size up? Whenever you can?” He sighed. Looked at you like you had done it on purpose, to spite him.

You are not in a position to make any more requests. Not for a while.

You try to lie down in a fetal position, head in the crook of your handcuffed arm. Everything about this inconveniences you. The dullness in your abdomen, insistent. Your body testing your limits, daring you to handle more pain.

—

AT DINNER, HEpulls his phone out of his pocket. This is a thing that happens inside the house: phones appear out of nowhere, the TV chirps to life, a car drives by while you sit in the kitchen. With every occurrence, the tips of your fingers tingle.

“I’m going to the store this weekend.” A father looks up at his daughter. “Need anything?”

Cecilia thinks. She mentions a four-color pen, maybe shampoo. He nods and taps on his phone.

“Anything else?”

His gaze is still trained on her. She shakes her head no.

Your lower abdomen is burning. For the entire meal, you’ve struggled to sit up. The cramps are worse than you remember, pain radiating from the center of you. You clench your jaw. Grind your teeth. Something is coming, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. You need help. You need fucking pads or tampons.

He’s about to put the phone back in his pocket when you say it.

“If you’re able, actually, tampons or pads would be…lovely.” You chuckle like someone who still has a private life and just gave a part of it away.

His forehead creases. For a few moments, his fingers hover over the phone. He tries to be nice to you in front of his daughter. He’s supposed to. He hands you utensils, sometimes puts food on your plate instead of letting you help yourself. But what you just said—he doesn’t like it. He puts his phone back in his pocket without typing, gets up, begins clearing the table. Cecilia goes to help.

“Go upstairs,” he tells her. “I’ve got it.”

He listens for her bedroom door, waits until it shuts. Before you can think of stepping out of his reach, his fingers are on you—pulling you by your arm away from the table, pinning you against the kitchen wall. He presses down on your neck, enough to make it hard to swallow. You are back in the shed. Back in a world that belongs entirely to him, where the light doesn’t come in. Four walls, no windows. One meal a day. The only world Rachel knew.

“Did you think it was a good idea? Asking me to do your little shopping? Run your errands?”

You try to shake your head no. You can’t move. Can’t talk. Can’t tell him you’re sorry, you didn’t mean to.

“It’s always something. New pants this, tampons that.”

Your throat emits a gurgling sound. He lets go with a nudge. You stay still. As much as you want to fall back on your chair, put your head between your knees, search for your breath, you know now’s not the time. The man in the kitchen isn’t done.

“I’m beginning to think it was a mistake, bringing you in here.”

You rub the back of your neck, nod your head yes and shake it no, the same way you used to after a day at the computer.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I wasn’t trying to…But you’re right. You’re absolutely right.”

He turns to face the window—shades down, always—so his back is to you. He’s not scared of the things you could do. Jump him from behind, reach for his neck. This is a man who has no reason to be afraid of you.

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