Jack Rogan: The Ocean Dark

That was Tori’s secret, and her strength.

As far as anyone from her old life knew, she’d been dead for years.

She didn’t go by Tori, then. That wasn’t her name. But it didn’t really matter what her mother named her, because her husband mostly just called her bitch . As in, “What are you lookin’ at, bitch?” “Get me a beer, bitch.” And “What the fuck you do around here all day, bitch?”

There were other pet names. Sweet nothings. Sometimes Ted called her whore just to change it up. Sometimes worse. It rarely bothered her, him not using her name. Even when she’d been a little girl and her father had actually called her by the name she’d been given at birth, it had always come out sounding like bitch . The tone was key. The disdain. The dismissal.

On a rainy Sunday morning the week before Halloween, she sat in the backseat of a taxi as it slid through the streets of Manhattan. Just why there were so few cars on the street, she couldn’t have said. People didn’t go to church anymore, did they? Most offices were closed, and the number of trucks rolling through the labyrinth of the city fell almost to nothing. A lot of people were out walking. No, strolling.

The word peaceful came to mind, and she almost laughed. What did it even mean?

Ted shifted on the seat next to her and she glanced at him, then quickly away, dropping her eyes in deference. She didn’t need more than a glimpse to see that he could change his mind at any moment. The usual mix of poisons swirled behind his eyes. Anger, suspicion, paranoia … and cocaine. Most people had pancakes or bacon and eggs on Sunday morning. Ted enjoyed the breakfast of champions — fried Spam sandwiches, his childhood favorite, and half a dozen lines of high-grade blow — after which he’d demand she go down on him. When she was done, he’d hit her, slap her, sometimes kick her — either in fury because he hadn’t been able to get off, or in disgust at what a slut she was if he had.

And so she drank. Once she tried to get medication for depression — she’d seen one of those ads on TV — but it had gone badly when Ted found out. Said all she needed was a better attitude, maybe to take a little more pride in their Upper East Side apartment, in her appearance, in her goddamn husband.

She hadn’t had a drink this morning. Strangely enough, her hands were not shaking. In the back of the taxi, she glanced down at them and found herself astonished to see how still they were. Her hands felt detached, as if they belonged to someone else.

“Here you go, folks. Penn Station,” the cabbie said.

He pulled up at the curb and flicked off the meter. When he announced the total, Ted shot her a look: See what you’re costing me, bitch? She didn’t speak, didn’t challenge, only waited for him to pay and get out of the cab, and then she followed. On the sidewalk, she stood one step behind him while the driver took her suitcase from the trunk and set it by Ted’s feet.

“Thank you, sir,” the bearded, dark-skinned man said in an accent she didn’t recognize.

Ted ignored him and picked up the suitcase. As the taxi driver climbed back behind the wheel and started to pull away, Ted looked at her.

“Well?”

He waited. Terror lanced through her. She had known the moment would be coming, and here it was. He would change his mind now, refuse to let her go. With the wave of a hand he would summon another cab and force her into the back with nothing more than the silent promise of what would happen if she defied him. Back to the apartment with the gleaming wood floors and the twelve-foot ceilings and the sixty-thousand-dollar kitchen where she cooked elaborate meals only to escape.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “I just … did you want to get a coffee or something?”

Her soft smile felt carved into her face. At some point she’d forgotten to breathe, remembering only when she’d had to speak. Now her heart beat so hard it hurt her chest.

Ted scowled, the message obvious. Why would he want to have coffee with her? Bitch was leaving him to fend for himself for three days, get his own meals, endure his own company, muster his own orgasms.

“Don’t want to miss your train,” he said, his tone just a half-note away from schoolyard mocking. Then he sniffed and wiped at his nostril, as though imaginary crumbs of coke hung there, irritating him.

She started walking and he fell into step behind her, close enough that she could feel his shadow on her like it was her leash. They descended into Penn Station, underneath Madison Square Garden, and passed by the flower vendors and the restaurants and shops that reminded her of some dingy airport.

People jammed the waiting area. It was Sunday morning, and everyone who’d come up for the weekend was heading back to DC or Philly or wherever. Mothers with strollers, twentysomethings kissing their boyfriends good-bye, business suits. She saw an actor she recognized from a cable TV show. He played a cop, but not the star. Nobody else seemed to recognize him, or they were too polite to bother him. New Yorkers tended to mind their own business. How else to explain why no one had ever asked her about the bruises she so often hid under makeup or sunglasses?

Ted pulled her along in his wake to the departures board. Her train to Philadelphia left in less than thirty minutes. They waited in silence, her skin prickling with his presence, her heart in her throat, her voice silent. She wished she could just vanish, but the best she could manage was to say nothing, to keep still, afraid that any word or motion might be enough to trigger him.

The train was late. The suitcase sat by her feet. At the scheduled departure time, Ted gave a low huff.

“Fuck.” He turned to look at her. “Your mother better really be dying this time. It’s the last fucking time you go down there.”

The words cut deep. She let him see how much they hurt because she had learned that was what he wanted. If she’d smiled, tried to brush it off, soothe him, he would know something was off.

“Honey, she’s my mother. And it’s only the second time.”

Ted reached out gently, like other husbands might caress their wives. Instead he pinched her forearm fiercely between thumb and forefinger, digging in. With a sharp gasp, she fought tears, but she said nothing. If she drew attention, she’d pay for it.

“It’s the last time,” he said.

“Okay. I know. The last time.”

And it was. The first time had been a test, to see if he’d let her go, and to see if she’d have the courage.

They called her train. Fighting the elation that fluttered in her chest, she picked up her suitcase.

“Hey,” he said, that tone in his voice. Sweetness. The c’mon baby voice. “Say good-bye.”

This time, the smile felt real. It made her stomach turn, but she kissed him. Ted stood in close, his chest against hers, taking his time with the kiss.

“Who loves you?” he asked.

“You do.”

“And who loves me?”

“I do.”

If there’d been fewer people around, if others weren’t already pushing past them, he’d probably have grabbed her ass in one hand and ground himself against her to make sure she felt him. Instead he stepped back, reached out and cupped the side of her face, stroked her cheek roughly with a thumb.

“Three days. Don’t make me come after you.” He smiled like it was a joke.

She smiled, too.

Then she got in line, wanting to scream at the shuffling passengers in front of her to hurry, to get out of her way. Forcing herself to breathe in tiny sips, her heartbeat thrumming through her body, she managed to keep from shoving anyone.