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RONALD VOIGHT'S life was turning to shit. On top of the Cissie thing, the site manager had ragged on him about his daily report. "You call this quality control? What the hell have you been doing all day?" High and mighty sonovabitch. Probably never missed a payment. Probably never had anything worse than a hangnail in his whole friggin' life. What if his wife let another man into the house in the middle of the day? See if the short fat fuck could concentrate with that going on in his head.
He'd picked up his neighbor's message ten after twelve and called right back. Had to be about Cissie, because he'd asked Harry to keep an eye on her.
"Hey, man," his old drinking buddy opened. "Sorry to bother you, but..."
At first it sounded like Harry messing with him. Unemployed, bored, and soused most of the time, there was an even chance he was jerking his chain. But no. He put his wife on, and Evelyn swore on their kids' heads that her husband was sober. So it was with disbelief and anger sizzling through his veins that Ronald told Harry to say it all again.
"I got a good view from the front room, as you know," Harry reminded him, "your front door and mine maybe forty feet away, fifty tops. So it’s lunchtime and I was taking turns watchin’ TV and lookin’ out the window, and there he is. Big guy. Big! Two thirty, maybe fifty, that big. Seems to be stayin’ with that old lady. Anyhow, he parks in her drive and walks down the sidewalk plain as you please. Then he knocks on your door like maybe he's a long-lost friend or somethin'."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Harry told him. "Then the door opens and in he goes."
"How long?"
"Hour. Maybe hour and ten minutes."
"See anything else?"
"Naw. The door was closed."
"Thanks, man. I owe you."
"No problem."
Except there was a problem, a huge problem. He wanted to kick down a tree. The world was a blur. His head was so swollen with fury all he could hear was the buzz of his own blood.
Never in a million years would he have figured Cissie for a cheater. Didn't he keep a roof over her head and food on the table? Damn right, he did. And the way she oohed and ahhed over that kid, you'd think she had everything she could possibly want.
He, on the other hand, had plenty to complain about. One glance and Cissie used to jump. Breakfast, beer, sex, whatever, she fell all over herself trying to please him. No more. Those days were gone.
Ronald locked up the company pickup and strode to his car.
His usual pub started out quiet but soon filled with noisy men, construction workers softening the edges before they went home to deal with their own women and kids. Any other night he would have been one of the back-slappers, in the thick of the crowd trading jokes and complaints.
Tonight he kept to himself at the short end of the bar and ordered his bourbon neat. The bartender, a skinny guy with the ridiculous notion of growing a beard, eyed him from a safe distance. Only a matter of time before he got flagged.
We'll see about that. The bourbon condensed his anger, toughened him, tightened his fists until he felt capable of taking on a heavyweight champ.
He raised his hand to signal the bartender.
The next thing he knew he was being man-handled into a cab.
***
CHELSEA HAD PUT the finishing touches on the guest room then cleaned all afternoon. Now she longed for a shower and a guilty half-hour in front of the TV before Bobby came home. But first she needed to unload the dishwasher, make the first impression complete. The voila factor, as she thought of it.
The open window over the kitchen sink offered a slight breeze laden with humidity. Probably a thunderstorm overnight. Her mother-in-law might have a messy trip in the morning.
Glancing toward the street as she peeked past the trees, Chelsea noticed Eric Zumstein depositing a loaded box on the sidewalk beside their trash can. Because of the township’s limits, he'd asked permission to add some of his overflow to theirs.
"Getting ready for when Gram comes home, whenever that will be." He’d looked so forlorn Chelsea had been tempted to hug him.
Just as he set down a second huge box, a taxi pulled to the curb and disgorged Ronald Voight.
Loose limbed and stumbling, Cissie’s husband shouted at Eric. "You! Get away from my house."
Chelsea rushed to her front screen door but hid behind the door jamb where she could both see and hear.
"You sonovabitch! Stay away from my wife."
"We talked," Eric responded with remarkable calm. "You should try it sometime. Your wife's a smart woman..."
"Why you..."
Eric stood solid as a fireplug while Voight jabbed his collarbone, moved within inches of his face.
"You. Were. With. My. Wife."
"We talked," Eric repeated. "Nothing happened."
Ronald’s first punch landed soft, but his second connected hard.
Eric waved his head. Rubbed his upper arm. Muttered, "Neanderthal."
"What'd you call me?"
Another swing. Another feint. Then it began full force, a free-for-all of kicks and jabs and obscenities.
With longer arms and an extra thirty pounds, Eric easily held off his drunken attacker, but he soon tired of the inconvenience. Intercepting Ronald’s wrist, he forced Voight’s arm up behind his back.
"Get sober," he warned. "Then get yourself a brain." He shoved his attacker flat on the sidewalk then turned back toward his grandmother's.
Voight regained his feet. Wiped his bleeding palms on his jeans. Followed Eric’s retreat with hate in his eyes.
Then, just as Chelsea feared, Ronald broke into a run and tackled Eric from behind. Darting for the cordless phone in the living room, she could hear the men wrestling no-holds-barred on her front lawn. She was telling the 9-1-1 operator her address as she yanked open the screen door.
"Stop!" she hollered as she ran down the steps. "I called the police. Stop stop stop..."
She was still holding her trembling fist to her lips when the police arrived. A clumsy scuffle ensued, but the officers loaded him into the patrol car without too much difficulty.
When the door finally shut on Ronald with a resounding “chunk,” Chelsea allowed herself to check on Cissie’s whereabouts.
She was just in time to see a curtain drop back into place in one of the Voight’s upstairs windows, the only indication that Cissie even knew the fight had happened.
The patrol car left in a cloud of exhaust, and Chelsea shepherded Eric into her kitchen to address the damages.
Scrapes and bruises mostly. For a man who hadn’t played football, he’d defended himself awfully well.
Although...
"You better watch your back," she warned as she angled a band-aid across his swollen knuckles.
"You, too.”
Chelsea dropped his hand and stared.
She hadn't thought of that.