“I want out,” he says again. “Out of this house. Away from this fucking asspucker of a town. I need to get away from here. Don’t you get it? I wanted to get you and Eli out of this place. Broaden your horizons. But you’ll never go for it. You’re embedded in this house like a goddamned tick.”

I have no idea who this man is. His face twists, mouth slick with spittle and even some froth at the corners of his lips. I try to back away from him, but he grabs my wrist. He’s strong.

“You’re hurting me, Ken.”

He releases me, instantly apologetic. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been under a lot of stress. You have to understand that, right? I’m out there busting my hump to do right by this family, and I come home to find out it’s all going down the drain.”

“Nothing’s going down the drain.” My attempt at humor falls flat.

This is where I would hug him, tell him it’s all going to be okay. Rub his shoulders. Take him upstairs. The thought of that curdles my stomach.

I reach for him. When I touch his shoulder, Ken whirls, throwing off my attempted embrace. His open hand catches me in a slap that sends me stumbling back.

“You leave her alone!” Eli’s shout turns Ken toward him.

My son launches himself at his father, fists flailing. Ken puts up his hands in defense. Eli’s attack falls short. Ken grabs him by the neck. Squeezes. Eli fights but can’t even speak.

I can’t believe this is happening. “Let him go!”

Ken shoves Eli away from him. Eli falls to the kitchen floor. Ken spits a gobbet of saliva next to his head. “He attacked me. Are you proud of your son, Jewelann?”

“He’s your son, too,” I whisper. My hands shake.

For a moment, my husband looks as though he means to hit me again, but he changes his mind. Steps back, hands up. Face grim.

“Fuck this,” he says. “I’m out.”

Then I’m on the floor next to Eli, helping him up, while Ken disappears upstairs. Eli isn’t crying, but his face is red and he’s breathing hard. I push his hair off his forehead.

“Did he hurt you?” he asks.

“I’m fine.” I look at his throat. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

We stare at each other. When he hugs me, hard, I put my arms around him and hold him tight. We stand that way for a few seconds before he finally moves away.

Thumps from upstairs have us both looking at the ceiling. Ken’s feet pound on the stairs. He comes back into the kitchen and doesn’t look at either one of us, but we both move away from him as he flings open the basement door. More pounding footsteps on the stairs. Then, quiet.

“Is he leaving?”

“I don’t know. Look, why don’t you go upstairs? Let me talk to Dad. We just … we just had a fight. That’s all.” I put on a brave face, but my son sees right through it.