Lover in the Window

The Monster Under The Bed

2009

"Sometimes you laugh because you've got no more room for crying."

-Terry Pratchett

The Universe was not smiling on the day it created Wayward Bay, Pennsylvania. That is exactly what Tracy Layton feels every day of her life. It is an incredible fact of nature that she has decided to stay this long and under the most difficult circumstances. It is even harder to process that she is currently living with her ex-husband of eight years. The old scrooge is named Rory Layton, he is a rather large individual with graying hair, and his temper is not for the faint of heart. You see, Rory is an infamous gambler in these parts. A far cry from the man he used to be. A long time ago, Tracy would have given anything for that man, and she absolutely had done that. Two lovely children named Eli and Evelyn. In time, Eli and Evelyn had grown into what they are today. Smart, charismatic, and protective children of seven and twelve years old. Tracy is the owner of a restaurant downtown named The Gypsy Tavern. She works hard to ensure that they have everything to make the eyes and stomach happy, and for two years this was her life, a tormented one. She carries herself well enough that nobody can see just how fatigued she really is deep down, to try to protect the Layton name; which was hard to do with Rory dragging it through the dirt every time she brought it back up.

Eli is naturally more protective of his little sister and mother, but not without being severely damaged. However, Rory always kept a secret about his household - he was extremely abusive. You would not think that by looking at the two-tier house seated on the crevice of Norgrove Avenue by any stretch of the imagination. It was beautifully painted egg shell white at one time - one time being eight years ago. It has a small yard in the front and the back, usually brimming with colorful plant life, and there is a tall lattice positioned on the side of the house displaying lovely rose vines. Above the lattice full of vines is young Eli's bedroom, his domain, his world that he created apart from the damning existence of bruises and nurturing love, hatred and art, toxic Rory and soothing Tracy.

The sun is clipping the hands of the tall pine trees along Norgrove Avenue as a little red truck weaves back and forth coming down the lane. Eli is standing at his old, cracked window high above the ground watching Rory turn up and roll across the concrete driveway. The truck slams to a stop a couple foot from the flaking siding on the house. He exits. Rory is bent as he is ugly, and the dirt on his blue jeans resemble the oil on the driveway that he just put his foot in. In his rough palms, he fumbles around with a plastic pint of Ever Clear; looking around to see if anyone notices him, he tosses it over the neighbor's fence. The first step is usually the longest, however, to Eli watching the old man approach the house, every step is the longest. Rory cranks the door open but not enough to clear his wide frame, he clips it head on, springing it forward and backward on the metal hinges like it is free floating in the air. The door came to a standstill with the sun barely peeking through the threshold onto the floor. Through the motes of dust, Rory stumbles toward the kitchen, walks around the wooden dining table at the center, and pulls out his chair. He drunkenly collapses there, still as a mountain, breathing large heavy breaths.

Eli and Evelyn are not eating with their father tonight, the same way it has been for the last few years. Tracy had already slipped them both some food from work when she got home earlier - inside the container was two 8 oz steaks, a large pile of mashed potatoes smothered in brown gravy, two slices of homemade garlic bread, a small bowl of macaroni and cheese, and a side serving of rice with melted cheese sauce.

Tracy peeks her head around the corner of the kitchen and beholds a man at the end of his rope. As she stands there looking at his slumped over body, she cannot help but wonder where everything went downhill or why the golden ring that she once boasted proudly, now lies cold and purposeless in her dresser drawer.