Page 14 of The Last Road Trip

The headlights of my car shine on Gary’s split-level house as I pull into the driveway. Light comes from the windows. I turn off the ignition and sit, my hands holding the steering wheel tight while the engine clicks as it cools down. An hour in the diner booth with Kwemby did not prepare me for walking back into this house.

I open my phone and tap the screen to order an Uber, then step out into the cold air. The front door opens before I reach the porch steps. Buck stands in the doorway, blocking the light from the living room lamps.

“Look who’s back,” he says, smirking. “Come to grovel?”

I stop at the bottom of the steps, my boots planted on the gravel. “I came to get my clothes, Buck. I talked to a lawyer. I am staying at a hotel tonight.”

His mouth drops open for a split second before he pulls his shoulders back. “Don’t be ridiculous. You are upset. Come inside so we can talk.”

“I am going to get my things,” I say, walking past him up the steps.

He follows me into the entryway, his voice dropping low and slow. “This is about the fish at dinner, isn’t it? Harriet, it was an accident.”

I turn around and face him. “It is about the fish. And the Xanax you put in my water. And the years you spent ignoring me when you came home from the grocery store.”

Coris steps into the hallway from the living room, with Maren right behind her. Their faces are pale and they are clutching their phones.

“Mom, please,” Coris says. “Don’t do this. Dad said he was sorry. You can sleep in our room tonight. We can push the twin beds together against the wall.”

“Yeah, don’t leave,” Maren says, stepping up next to her sister. “You’re our parents. You can work it out. Stay until tomorrow morning so we can talk. Coris and I will mediate.”

I look at my daughters. Coris keeps her eyes on the floor, and Maren shifts her weight from foot to foot. For twenty-five years, I stayed in this house, packed their bags, cooked their meals, and never argued with Buck when he turned up the radio to drown out my voice. Now, my daughters expect me to do the exact same thing tonight to avoid a scene.

“Oh, girls,” I say, my voice shaking. I keep my hand tight on the handle of my suitcase. “No. I cannot stay. If I stay in this house tonight, I am teaching you that this is how a husband should treat his wife.”

Buck lets out a short laugh and shakes his head. “Listen to them, Harriet. They have more sense than you do. You’re throwing a tantrum and ruining the weekend for everyone. It’s embarrassing.”

“We haven’t had a marriage in years, Buck.” I turn around, open the front door, and pull my suitcase out onto the porch floor.

“Harriet, stop,” Buck calls out, his voice louder as he follows me. “Fine, you win. I won’t give you the pills anymore. I’ll remember you are allergic to fish. You’ve been married for too long to throw away over one bad day.”

“It wasn’t one bad day,“ I say, turning on the top step.

I walk a few yards onto the gravel driveway before the plastic wheels of my suitcase stick on the stones. My muscles still feel heavy and slow from the Xanax. I hear Buck’s boots crunching on the gravel right behind me before he clamps his hand around my upper arm. He squeezes into my flesh, pulling my shoulder back toward the house.

“You’re not leaving,” he says, his face red. “We are going back inside right now.”

“Let go of me!” I slam against his chest. “Get your hands off me, Buck!”

Kwemby walks fast across the gravel lot from the road, his arms swinging at his sides. Before Buck turns his head, Kwemby hits him in the jaw with his fist.

Buck staggers back, his boot heel slipping on the stones as he presses his hand to his face. “What the fuck?” he shouts, blood seeping between his fingers.

Kwemby steps right between us, his broad chest blocking Buck from my view. He takes a deep breath and grabs the handle of my suitcase. “You okay?” he asks, keeping his eyes on Buck.

I nod. “Yes.”

The screen door bangs open against the house. Gary and Christine walk down the steps, while the twins stand at the door watching us.

“He attacked me!” Buck shouts, pointing his bloody finger at Kwemby. “He just punched me in the face!”

“Because you were grabbing her arm,” Kwemby says, keeping his hands down.

“She is my wife!” Buck yells, wiping the blood from his lips with his sleeve. “A husband has every right to hold his wife’s arm to keep her from walking away. You do not interfere with my marriage.”

There is so much wrong with that statement, but I am past the point of arguments. “You do not have a right to touch my body, Buck, and this is not a marriage anymore,” I say, stepping into the light from the porch lamp so they can see my skin. “I talked to a divorce lawyer already. I am single, and I am leaving.”

The girls stare at Kwemby’s split knuckles, then look up at his face in silence. They have only met him at our annual lunches.