Woke up with gritted teeth. Blue anger on my lips. My limbs charged. A desire to blow the door off my room. I’d had enough of Maggie’s apathy, her stiffness. Being ignored makes me feel like less of a human being. I boosted myself into my chair without wobbling. Jerked open my door. Went into the kitchen and saw Maggie. She sat at the table, holding her coffee. Her eyes slanted, cupped by a porcelain shine. All right, I said. I steered the Pequod so I was almost touching her knees. I’m tired of this crap. Do you want me to move out? Maggie studied me. Do you wanna fight? I said. Just roll around the kitchen floor here and get it all out? I waited. Maggie! She stirred. Talk to me! She fiddled with her coffee then pushed it away. I don’t know what to do, Dexter, she said. I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to think of something. She shook her head. I’m stumped. I don’t know what to do with you. Do you want me to leave? I said. Well, if you left I’m pretty sure you’d have no quality of life. That’s not an answer. I want you to go, but you can’t. So am I staying? Will I remain your tenant? Yes. Will you continue to resent me? Yes. I waited. So we’ll just endure each other? That’s a good way of putting it. I sighed. Are you going to apologize for beating me? Are you going to apologize for telling Randal about my abortion? I stared at the wall. Maggie watched me. She said, Does it bother you that neither of us can apologize, just for the sake of apologizing? It bothers me. Do apologies mean anything anymore, I asked. Between you and me, that is. They mean something to me, she said. They don’t mean anything to you? Depends on how much damage is done. Hm. She pushed her faint red bangs off her forehead. And the damage I’ve done is beyond repair? I don’t know. Let me ask you something, Dexter. How can someone as intelligent as you be so unaware of other people’s feelings? I’m not unaware. Yes, you are. Not of your feelings. I just don’t like you, Maggie. Why not? I’ve never respected you, not as a person or as a sister. Her brows pinched. You’re a depressed, desperate woman. You’re much too sensitive and insecure, and frankly, I think that you’re weak and ridiculous. Maggie studied me for a moment, and then stood up and swatted me hard on the ear. Jesus! I said. I could report you for abuse. That’s no excuse, Dexter. Your philosophy or cult or whatever it is that you follow doesn’t protect you when you mistreat other people. I held my stinging ear. It’s not a cult, you dumb cow. Another swat on the temple. I hissed and slapped the table. What will Randal say about this? He’ll understand. He’s on my side, I said. Wait until he sees who you really are, she said. I grunted. If you hit me you’re breaking the law, I said. It’s perfectly legal to discipline a child this way when all other methods fail. I reached out to hit her, and missed. I slapped a chair instead. Don’t you dare call me a child, I said. You’re a child, Dexter. That’s all you are. You’re an angry, lonely, insecure little boy. I leaned forward to try and hit her again; Maggie stood and backed away toward the kitchen sink. Stop running, I said. You’re not making this fair. She smiled. You think this is fair? You’re a cunt. You’re a pathetic fuck. I’m not a child. You’re worse than a child. I picked up a spoon and threw it at her. It hit her on the breast. Maggie dodged around my chair and switched it off. Hey! She turned me around and started pushing me down the hallway. I tried to swing my arms backward but they were too stiff. My elbows and hands whacked against the walls. Maggie! She shoved me into my room. You sit in here and think things over. She then closed the door. I could report you, Maggie! I could report you for abuse! Goddammit! Turn my chair back on! Maggie! My cheeks heaved with heat. My lower lip quivered. I drooled freely into my lap. I slapped the arms of my chair. I punched the wall and broke open a knuckle. I bucked and growled and screamed.
After a few minutes I glanced out the window. All I could see was the browning wall of the house next door. I sighed, and began to imagine leaving the house and becoming a street person, cupping my twitching palms for money. I imagined gathering all the other street people into a corner of the alley and instructing them on the basics of the English language and teaching them how to read using old newspapers and discarded McDonald’s wrappers. I shook the thought away when a more realistic image arose: sitting on the sidewalk with my back against a brick wall, my arms and legs limply splayed, my dried face blushing with mosquitoes. I’d try to trip people in an effort to be noticed, but it would seldom work. They’d easily skip over me. Combined with Maggie’s resolve, the image incited a tumble in my gut, and I became frightened.