The Duplex

DISCLAIMER: CONTENT MAY BE DEEMED INAPPROPRIATE BY SOME READERS

Jack cursed the neighbor’s truck parked in the middle of the driveway. Covered with pro-gun bumper stickers, it had remained in the same spot for almost a week, prohibiting parking on either side. Although he did not own a car, Jack was angry his half was blocked.

He walked to the other side of their duplex, trying to catch a glimpse of the vehicle’s owner. The neighbor had the curtains drawn and the blinds shut. Jack returned to his side and fished a carton of generic cigarettes out of a shopping bag. He placed a pack in his shirt, and discarding the cellophane wrapping on his porch.

Kicking the snow off his boots in the entranceway, Jack placed the bags on the kitchen table. He lit his smoke on the gas stove, making sure to sweep his hair away from the flame. He pulled the sports section out of the newspaper and tossed the rest on the couch, next to his wife Tyra. She reassembled the paper, and noticed the lead story.

"Police are still searching for clues in the disappearance of 14 year-old Natalie Shirpson, last seen leaving cheerleading practice nine days ago," she read aloud. "See, Jack. I told you they still haven’t found that girl. Now do you believe me?"

"No," Jack replied flatly.

Tyra threw the paper on the coffee table. "Are you going to tell me that you didn’t hear those voices last night? You didn’t hear all the screaming and crying?" she exclaimed, shadowed her husband as he walked down the narrow hall.

"We’re still talking about the same guy, right?" Jack asked.

"Jack," Tyra said, grabbing his arm. "What do we know about him? We’ve never even seen the guy leave his house."

"Just because we don’t see him all the time doesn’t mean he’s some freak," Jack said, retreating inside the bathroom.

"Are you defending this guy?" she shouted through the door. "That girl is probably locked in his closet or something?"

"So what do you expect me to do?" Jack asked as he made his way back to the living room. "You want me to go knock on his fucking door and ask if he’s got a kid stashed under his bed?" Jack fished a potato chip bag from between the couch cushions and emptied the crumbs into his mouth.

"Jesus," Tyra exclaimed disgustedly. "Listen to you. It’s like you’re afraid or something."

"Shut the fuck up. I don’t need this shit from you," he said through clenched teeth. "Besides, if that girl is over there, do you think it’s a good idea for you to be shouting? If we can hear him, he definitely can hear us."

"See, I knew it," she said, waving her finger at him. "You do think there’s something going on, don’t you?"

Jack focused his attention on the television, trying to appear interested in a laundry detergent commercial. Tyra lowered her head and walked to the couch. Sitting on her feet, she swung in close to her spouse. "Baby, I’m sorry, but it’s kind of scary, you know. I mean…I heard her again last night. I can’t help but think there’s something going on over there."

He knew she was probably right, although he didn’t want to hear any more of her logic. First, it was about finding a job, then the repossession of their car. Jack told himself every Monday he was going to do right by Tyra, but every Friday found him no closer.

Jack Hudson had been in the Army when the two met at a military mixer. Fresh from boot camp, Jack found Tyra dancing with a group of guys, her gorgeous curls bouncing freely as she gyrated to a Bob Seger tune. After a generous amount of persuasion, Tyra agreed to go out with him. They met out several times, but when Jack showed up at her house unannounced with flowers, he learned she was only sixteen.

Undeterred by her age, Jack wrote Tyra twice a week after he was deployed. She sent him letters doused with perfume. He bought a ring and proposed the day he returned home. Without her parents’ support, Jack had to pay for the wedding. They served pizza and beer to seventy-five of Tyra’s closest friends.

When his obligation to the military expired, Jack chose to return to civilian life. The job search was difficult, as they moved from apartment to apartment and town to town. They ended up in Arkansas, near his hometown of Little Rock, and moved into a duplex. Jack took a job at a manufacturing plant that paid well – until the random drug test. He tried not to think about money, but they were slipping further behind on the bills.

As Jack retrieved a mangled Frisbee from under the ottoman, they watched talk shows. Surveying the stash that had collected around the rim, he separated the twigs from the buds and rolled a pinky-sized joint.

About four o’clock, an addled Jack staggered to the bedroom to lie down. Tyra followed. She removed her slippers, placing them far under the bed, and crawled in beside him. The silence was broken by a female voice in distress.

"No. Don’t. Stop it."

Tyra sat up and nudged her husband. "Jack?" she whispered. "Jack, can you hear it?"

He opened his eyes, rolling over on his back, and nodded. The muffled screams and cries continued for several minutes before dying down. "Honey," Tyra said. "What are we going to do?"

"There’s really nothing we can do," he said. "We don’t have any proof." Tyra slid to the edge of the bed and pulled a pair of jeans out of the hamper.

"Where are you going?"

"I’m going over there," she announced. "I can’t take this anymore. I can’t just sit here and listen to that girl. She needs our help. Can you imagine what the TV is going to say if she’s dead and we didn’t do anything?"

"You ain’t going anywhere," he exclaimed, propping himself up on his palms. "I’m not going to let you go over there and get yourself killed."

"Yeah, but you are going to sit here and let that girl get attacked again," she shouted.

"Goddamnit, Tyra... Okay, I’ll go check it out," Jack conceded.

Tyra sat down next to her husband. "Do you mean it?" she asked suspiciously.

"Yeah, I’ll do it. I’ll go check it out. I’ve just gotta wait until dark. I don’t want him to see me looking in his windows."

After the couple finished dinner on the couch, Jack made good on his promise. Sitting at the kitchen table, he slid his feet into his snow boots.

"Do you want the gun?" Tyra asked as she cleared the dishes away from the table, piling them atop last night’s plates. Jack paused to glare at his wife.

"Now why would I want to go and do some shit like that?" he asked. "If he sees someone outside his window with a gun, he’ll probably shoot my ass."

Jack mumbled as he closed the front door behind him. The dreadfully cold afternoon had turned into a brutal evening. The wind blew through Jack as he pulled his knit cap down over his ears. He walked to the back gate that was attached to the neighbor’s six-foot fence, which extended around the property. Jack selected a spot closest to a support pole, climbed the fence, and landed in the backyard silently. He felt reminiscent of his military days as he crawled up to the neighbor’s bedroom window.

Jack listened. The screams returned, louder and more desperate, as they rose over the sound of the neighbor’s television. He knelt down with his face nearly pressed against the glass, trying to catch a glimpse through the slants in the mini-blinds. Suddenly, the television went mute. He could make out the shape of a large individual walking toward the back wall. The figure stood there for several moments before moving out of sight. The sitcom volume returned. Jack’s heart flailed as he snuck back across the yard.

Tyra was returning from the bedroom as Jack made his way back inside. Locking the door, he collapsed in the hallway. "That was close."

"What? What happened?" his wife asked anxiously. "Did you see anything?"

"Yeah," he replied as he dropped his coat on the floor, "Yeah, I did." Jack recounted his short journey in detail, culminating in the distinctive sound of a young girl in pain.

"So what now?" she asked with a concerned tone.

"I still didn’t see anything that I could tell the police."

"Okay," Tyra said as she led her husband to the couch, "but there’s got to be a way." She paced around the recliner for a few minutes. Suddenly, she stopping circling and looked directly at Jack, who was staring blankly at the coffee table.

"You know," she offered. "You could sneak over there tonight after he’s gone to sleep."

"What good is that going to do?" Jack asked. "All the blinds are shut. I won’t be able to see any better with the lights off."

"No," she said as she sat on the arm of the couch, "I mean you could sneak inside."

"Are you fuckin nuts? You want me to break into his house?"

"It wouldn’t be that hard, Jack," she defended. "You could crawl over in the attic, drop down for a moment, and see if the girl is there. That way, we can tell the police we knew for sure."

"I could go to jail."

"Nobody’s going to put you in jail for saving that girl’s life. You’d be a hero. Reporters, TV, everybody. You might get your old job back. Hell, you’d probably have a thousand people lined up to give you a better one."

"No way," he announced, as he reached down for his stash. Tyra just glared, tears welling up in her eyes as he rolled a joint.

"You’re nothing but a coward," she muttered as she started to walk away.

"What did you say to me?" Jack asked, his tongue pressing against his front teeth.

"You heard me. A fucking coward," she replied, quickly turning to face him. Jack sprang up from the couch with his right hand clenched in a fist.

"Go on!" Tyra screamed. "Are you gonna hit me again? Do it! Make you feel like a big man?"

He struck her hard, one closed fist to the head that dropped her to the ground. As she lay sobbing, Jack reached for her. She recoiled.

"I’m sorry," he said quietly, "but you kept...."

Tyra spent most of the night in the bathroom, nursing her black eye. Although she had quit crying, her voice was still shaky. When she finally came out, Jack followed her into the bedroom.

"You know what, baby?" he finally said. "You’re right. And I shouldn’t of let you get to me like that."

Tyra wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. "So what does that mean?"

"Just like you said," Jack replied. "I’m going to climb across the attic and check it out."

He walked into the closet to change clothes. "You are bringing your gun this time, right? Just in case," Tyra said.

Jack emerged, displaying the 9mm in his waistband, before quietly pulling the handle down on the attic door. Tyra walked over with a cigarette. "You want one?"

"Nah," Jack said, "I’m gonna try giving them up again." He climbed up the ladder and made his way along the crawl space. As he opened the squeaky door on his neighbor’s attic, Tyra ran to their bedroom and pressed her ear against the wall.

"What the…" a strange voice exclaimed.

"Wait. I’m your neighbor. Let me explain." Jack’s pleading was interrupted by a single shotgun blast.

Tyra smiled and calmly reached under the bed to retrieve a cassette player. Removing the tape, she placed it in the stereo, and began recording a random radio station. When the doorbell rang, she found a distraught older man at the door.

"Ma’am," he said, forcing each syllable, "I think… I think I just shot your husband." Tyra let out a loud scream and dramatically collapsed in the entranceway next to Jack’s snow boots.

"He was crazy," she sobbed. "Paranoid. He thought I was sleeping with everybody. Before I went to bed, he said something about how he thought you and I…" She trailed off as the man stood awkwardly on her front porch.

When the police arrived, they took both statements. Tyra told of Jack’s jealousy and physical abuse. The neighbor backed up her story, reporting he had recently been hearing the faint sounds of a female voice through the wall, crying out for help.