Damnit.

Sometimes only a curse, if only a mild one, will do. And it was certainly the only word that occurred to me this afternoon, as I pulled up to the house and saw the white truck.
He's back.
Two weeks ago, I stood on the sidewalk in front of "Kelly's" house. Her boys, the older one my son's best friend, had come over to say good bye.
"Grandma's taking us to her house," one said, "because mom and dad are fighting so bad."
I'd planned to take the boys swimming, so I walked over to see if I could pick "Dylan" up at his grandma's.
She paced the sidewalk, cell phone in hand.
"He won't leave," she said.
The screaming coming out of the house was loud, and, though I couldn't pick out the words, sounded aggressive. Things, I hoped not Kelly's body, were hitting the floors and walls.
"I can't leave until he does," her mother said. "I'm afraid of what will happen."
I herded the boys toward my house. They didn't need to hear the fight, even from the sidewalk.
"You need to call the police, " I urged Kelly's mom.
"I just wish he'd leave, " she said.
I took the boys for the afternoon, gave them lunch, dropped the younger one off at grandma's and took Dylan and Jake swimming.
I thought about calling the police myself, but surely that was Kelly's mom's call to make.
We came home and toasted marshmallows; it got dark and it was time for Dylan to go home. Earlier, Kelly's car had disappeared, but "Greg's" truck stood on by the curb, door open. Now it, too was gone.
I called the number I had for grandma.
"Kelly's just coming back from the hospital," she said. "Greg tore an earring out of her earlobe, so she had to go get stitches."
Well, I thought, maybe he'd get arrested for that. I spoke with Kelly the next day. She was still quite tired. She said it was over now between them, "thank god."
I thought about calling a few times since, just to see how she's doing. But Kelly and I mostly just have the boys in common. She's probably twenty years younger than I. A few years ago, she was in a car accident, and her life since has been a cycle of pain and surgery. Both knees, both elbows, I think the back too. She's on full disability. She speaks of some day going to college and becoming a nurse, but for now she summons energy only for occassional outings with a friend.
Now, Greg's truck is parked in front of her house again. When it began appearing a few days ago, I told myself that perhaps he was just there to get his stuff. Then, perhaps that it was just parked there while he was in jail. When it left and came back at regular intervals, I realized things were back to what, in Kelly's household, passes for normal.
Kelly and Greg, according to their son, fight often. And as with all couples, a bit of the fault lies on both sides. Kelly sometimes sleeps all day. Dylan tells me that it wasn't always so. Once, before her accident, Kelly's family would go camping. They too would toast marshmallows then, he says. And Greg hogs the living room with his elaborate game system. The younger boy is biologically his, and he frequently punishes the older one, excessively it seems to me, for being an inadequate older brother. I can't count the number of times Jake's asked if Dylan can come over to play, only to be told that his friend was grounded again for some imperfection. That this consequence does not seem to improve the boy's behavior is lost on his pseudo-stepdad. That he seems to be acting out the age-old story of favoring his own genes over another man's seems beyond his comprehension.
He's back, and I shake my head. Because this is such a well-worn story, it's almost not worth telling. Greg will hit Kelly again, and maybe next time he'll hurt her hard enough that she'll press charges. And that could be the best outcome. The others don't bear thinking about.
I think about Kelly, there but for the grace of God. There go I, except for my parents' ability and willingness to pay for my education 'till I got a degree that results in a middle class income and a stable position, so I don't have to depend on a man to pay the mortgage. There I go, except for the reverence for physical culture that they passed down to me, that had me out walking two days after a head injury.
And I know how hard it is to leave, or to be left. I was never hit, but even when it was made brutally clear to me that my ex-husband didn't want to be in the same room with me, I still wanted him to stay, on the chance that things might get better. You've built a life, and it seems impossible to leave it behind, when there are even tiny things, a smile here and an evening there, that make it bearable.
But Kelly, next time, it'll be ME calling the police.