Too Loud

It all hit the fan in late November. I turned twenty three, and everything went to shit.

I’d been out of work for too long, and my husband, Jeremy, and I were constantly at each other’s throats. To top it all off. the landlord raised the rent, and now Jeremy was the only source of income for our family of three. Our daughter was only three months old at the time.

So, November 29th, the day before rent was due. Jeremy had an epic meltdown. 

He had his fingers laced behind his head, and he was doing his favorite thing as of late; ranting about our financial situation.

“We’re broke. How the hell are we going to come up with an extra six hundred dollars a month?” He was pacing the kitchen floor, as he always did when he was stressed. The loose floor board in front of the kitchen sink creaked each time he made his rounds. It drove me absolutely nuts.

“Will you stop pacing, please?” I asked politely.

He shot me a glare.

“Or at least take your boots off.”

He slammed his fist down on the table, which made me jump.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re flinching for. I’ve never laid a hand on you.” He scoffed and shook his head.

I rubbed my temples. I could already feel a migraine forming. “I’m sensitive to loud sounds, Jeremy. You know that! Will you stop being such a prick?”  

 “Will you get your shit together?” he snapped. “This is the fifth job you’ve had and lost this year. You still haven’t told me why you lost this one, by the way.”

I threw my hands up in defeat. “I got laid off! How is that my fault?” 

“Oh, sure. ‘Laid off’,” he mocked. “Yet you won’t apply for unemployment.”

Jeremy reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, jammed one into his mouth, and went to the balcony. He slammed the door on his way out, which made me flinch.

I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for what I knew was to come. 

Madonna wailed like a banshee, her high pitched screams filling the apartment. I felt all of my muscles go tense. Loud sounds really bother me. Always have. Like, more than other people. Sometimes I think that I was born with an extra ear drum or something.

Madonna had been napping in her bassinet, and Jeremy knew damn well that slamming the door would wake her up. She was still shrieking when I went to get her. She doesn’t like loud noises either. I guess she takes after me.

I picked her up and cradled her in my arms, shushing her as I gently rubbed her back. Within a couple minutes, her cries stifled and she began to relax. I made funny faces at her.

When I heard Jeremy come back in, I called out to him, “You woke the baby!”

“It’s almost time for her to get up anyway.”

“That’s not the point,” I argued, but I said it quietly and he didn’t hear me. It didn’t matter. Anything I said to him at that point wouldn't have mattered. 

Truth be told, I hadn’t been laid off. My last job was as a gas station ‘Team Member’, and I quit during my second shift because the manager told me I had to clean the bathrooms.

After that, I pretended to go to work for about two weeks. I’d tell Jeremy that I had a shift, and then I’d take the bus downtown and go to the playground that my grandma used to take me to. 

It looked the same. I watched the kids play, and imagined Madonna in a few years joining them. I imagined pushing her on the swings, and helping her across the monkey bars. I imagined her making friends with the other kids, and thought that maybe by then I’d have my shit together and could make bagged lunches for my girl and all her friends, and drive them to the pool on hot summer days. I wanted to be the type of mom that Madonna would be proud of. 

I didn’t have that growing up.

The bus stop at the corner of my street has always been an unavoidable hellscape. First of all, there’s no pavilion; so if it’s raining and you don’t have an umbrella, you’re shit outta luck. Secondly, there are always sketchy people hanging around.

The bus turned onto my street, and the driver stomped on the brakes. I instinctively covered my ears to shield them from the noise. It was ear-shattering, like metal scraping metal and being crushed by an incinerator at the same time. I wanted to punch the bus driver in the face.

At the store, I speedwalked to the baby aisles. I swiped three jars of formula off the shelf and stuffed them inside my jacket. I wasn’t wearing it; I was holding it all bunched up so no one could tell what was inside of it.

I pretended to look at clothes for a bit. The trick for shoplifting is to stay and shop for a little while. If you walk in and then leave immediately, it looks suspicious. Stay calm, and you’ll blend in.

It also helps to buy something. Nothing too expensive. A pack of gum, maybe. A pen. Anything. This time, I chose the pack of gum. Spearmint. I scanned it at the self-checkout, and then dug into my pockets for my life savings of two dollars and seventy five cents. The machine should have given me a dollar back in change. Instead, the screen read ‘ERROR’.

“Is there something I can help you with?” A gray-haired woman gave me a toothy smile. Her name tag said ‘DOLLY’. 

“I was supposed to get change back, and the machine must have jammed or something,” I muttered. 

The woman retrieved a key from her pocket, and cleared the error message. I felt her hand on my shoulder. “Come with me. I’ll get your change for you.”

I followed her. I wish I hadn’t. I know it sounds so dumb, it was just a dollar. But it was my last dollar. 

She led me to a small office room with stuffy air and no windows. The walls were white and made of cement, with a large whiteboard mounted in the front of the room. It was almost like a classroom.

“Wait here.”

I clutched my bulky jacket to my chest. The formula jars felt so much heavier all of a sudden.

A bald, heavy-set man rounded the corner. He looked like a manager. I stood up straight and tried my best to look composed. Maybe they’ll just give me my dollar back and let me leave. Maybe they don’t know about the formula at all.

“What’s going on?” I asked him.

He gestured toward my jacket. “Show me what’s in the jacket, please.”

I huffed a laugh. “What are you talking about?”

He crossed his arms. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. The police haven’t been called yet, but that can be arranged. Your choice.”

We stared at each other for a moment, and then the man shrugged. 

“Suit yourself,” he said as he pulled out his cell phone.

“Wait!”

The man raised his eyebrows expectantly. I swallowed the bile that had risen to my throat, and opened up my jacket. Three cans of baby formula clattered onto the table.

The man nodded smugly, as if to say, ‘that’s what I thought’.

“Have a seat. You might be here a while,” he said before disappearing down a dim hallway.

I bolted.

…

When the bus dropped me back off on my street, I saw a young girl sitting on the curb. She had her face buried in her hands, and she wasn’t wearing a jacket.

“Hey,” I called out to her. It was so cold I could see my breath. “You okay?”

“Not really.”

I walked over to where she was sitting. “How old are you?”

“Twelve,” she sniffled.

It broke my heart. She reminded me of me. Or at least who I was eleven years ago.

 “What’s wrong?” 

“It’s my dad. He’s just so mean sometimes.” She was shivering, her thin arms covered in goosebumps. 

I took off my jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

“What happened?” I asked her softly. 

She shook her head.

“With your dad. Did he hurt you?”

“No,” she whispered. She kicked a pebble away, which bounced a few times and then came to rest in the road. 

I thought maybe she didn’t have a safe person in her life. Maybe she didn’t trust anyone at all. “My name is Molly. I live over there.” I pointed at my apartment building. 

She picked at her sneaker.

“What’s your name?”

“Eliza.”

We just sat for a few minutes. I was the one shivering now, and I knew that Madonna had to eat soon. I’d have to ask Jeremy to go get some formula, and I knew he’d be pissed.

“It’s getting late,” I said finally. “Are you okay to go back home?”

She nodded. 

I stood up and offered her my hand. I noticed how small her hand was compared to mine as I helped her to her feet. “Okay. If you ever need help, I’m right next door.”  

Back at my apartment building, I dragged myself up those same old splintering stairs. The stairwell was pitch black and had been for months. I always thought to myself that we should buy a new light bulb, but then I’d forget about it by the time I made it upstairs.

When I opened the door, Jeremy was making mac and cheese. 

“Hey,” he greeted me.

“We need formula,” I stated.

“I know.” He just kept stirring the pot of macaroni, the pot overflowing with steam. “Did you have an interview today?”

I cleared my throat, trying to sound confident. “Yeah. At the clinic over on Main.”

“How’d it go?” He looked at me, and I saw genuine hope in his eyes. The same sparkle in his eye that made me fall in love with all those years ago. The first time I really noticed it was when he first approached me in the school cafeteria to ask for my number. The next time I saw it was when we were at the altar, getting married. We were seventeen. Now that I’m older, I don’t think anyone should be allowed to get married that young. Anyway, the sparkle in his eye was significant, because it proved he isn’t a monster. He had a good heart. 

“They said they’ll call me next week,” I lied. 

“Sounds promising,” he beamed. “That’s great, babe. Proud of you.”

I wanted to die. “I’m going to lie down.”

I went to the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. I really needed to cry, and I never liked to cry in front of Jeremy. 

The hushed darkness of the room enveloped me as I silently cried.

The quiet didn’t last, however.

The next door neighbor had a motorcycle. I’d heard it occasionally since moving in, usually during the daytime. It always made me jump and hurt my ears, but I could tolerate it. Usually I would just close my eyes and imagine myself leaning out of a window with a sniper and getting a good headshot on him. 

It had gotten to the point where it was no longer tolerable. He would ride it at night and wake me up, and he would purposefully open the throttle so that everyone within a 3 mile radius knew what a piece of shit he was.

This time, he revved the engine super loud. It felt like someone had taken a sword and sliced through my skull just above my ears. The roar faded as the motorcycle peeled out of the driveway and took off. I was seething.

As expected, Madonna started crying.

“Goddamn it!”

Jeremy ran into the bedroom, his face etched with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s that fucking asshole with the motorcycle! It’s loud and it hurts my ears and it wakes up the baby. It has to stop!”

Jeremy threw his hands up as if to say ‘what can you do?’. 

The motorcycle rounded our block again, which meant another deafening rumble. My nails dug into my palms.

“Molly, people are allowed to have motorcycles.” 

I knew he was right, but I wanted to scream anyway.

That evening, I saw the upstairs neighbor go onto the balcony for a smoke. I decided to join her.

“Can I bum one?” My voice shook as I asked her. I’ve always been super nervous when meeting new people. 

“Sure.”

“Thanks. Got a light?” 

She pointed to the lighter on the railing. On the first inhale, my head spun a bit and I erupted into a coughing fit. I even gagged a few times.

“Don’t you smoke?” Matilda asked.

“Not usually,” I admitted. My eyes watered and my throat felt like sandpaper. I was a little bit embarrassed, but Matilda didn’t seem judgmental.

“Do you know the guy who lives next door? With the motorcycle?” I asked her.

“Not personally.”

“Do you know his name?” 

She ashed her cigarette over the balcony. “Brett Finley.”

“Brett Finley,” I echoed. I ashed my cigarette over the balcony and flicked it with my thumb just as she had done.

“I only know his name because he used to get arrested, like, all the time before you moved in. I saw his mugshot online.”

I leaned forward, interested. “Arrested for what?”

She sighed, a swirling cloud of smoke flared out into the frigid air. “He used to beat his wife. Pretty sure she moved out a while ago. Anyway, he went away for a couple years, prison.”

“That’s fucked up,” I said. The smoke from the cigarette burned my throat every time I took a drag from it, but it was a feeling I could see myself getting used to.

“Yeah. Tell me about it.” She tossed her cigarette butt off the balcony and went back inside. She had forgotten her lighter.

I put it in my pocket.

Jeremy and I sat at the table, sharing in the quiet morning.

“Did you hear back from the clinic yet? About your interview?”

“Not yet.”

He frowned. “Hmm. Maybe you should call and follow up with them.”

I brought the mug of steaming coffee to my lips and sipped it carefully. “They said they’d call me this week. It’s only Tuesday.”

“Hopefully you hear something by Friday, then. Have you applied anywhere else?”

“Yeah.” I really wanted him to shut the fuck up. 

“Where?” 

The neighbor’s motorcycle cut me off right as I started to answer.

I kicked the leg of the table.

“What the hell?” Jeremy glared at me. 

“Do you have to ask a million questions right now? It’s seven in the morning.”

“We’re behind on rent,” he snapped. “Two months behind. You need to get a job, like, now, or we’re getting evicted.”

“Go to hell, Jeremy.” I dismissed his words as a scare tactic. 

“Don’t believe me? Look what was taped to our door this morning.” He flung open one of the kitchen drawers and retrieved a piece of yellow paper, which he slammed onto the table in front of me. 

Eviction notice. 

“How are we going to come up with thirty five hundred dollars in thirty days?” he demanded. “Tell me!”

“I’m getting a job!”

“You’ve been saying that for months. I’ll give you a week. Then me and the baby are going to my mom’s.” 

I had never been good with deadlines.

The incident happened a couple of days later.

In the early morning hours, I was crouched beside Brett Finley’s shed, holding shears in my left hand and a flashlight in the other. 

I had spent the last couple hours researching motorcycle mechanics, specifically the braking systems. If this one had a brake cord, I’d be in luck. 

I looked around to ensure the coast was clear, and speedwalked over to the motorcycle. 

I was almost ecstatic when I found the brake cord. I opened my shears, but then I hesitated. Could this get me into serious trouble? Surely Brett would notice the brakes weren’t working almost immediately and then he’d have to get the motorcycle repaired, which would give me a break from his continued assault on my ears. No harm, no foul. 

And honestly, even if he would be harmed, I wouldn’t have really given a shit. He was a woman beater. I’d be doing the world a favor. 

I snipped the cord.

The next day I slept in, and woke to the sound of distant sirens.

I got up and started the coffee pot. 

“There was a motorcycle accident,” Jeremy said. 

I froze. 

He went on, “A little girl died. Twelve years old. She tried to ride her dad’s motorcycle and the brakes failed.”

What an asshole, I thought. He’s trying to fuck with my head. 

“Stop being a dick,” I snapped. “How dare you joke about a kid dying?”

“Molly, I’m not joking. It was that girl that lives next door. They said her name was Eliza Finley.”

“You’re not funny, Jeremy.” I was surprised by how shrill my voice had become.

My hands flew over my ears as the sirens grew louder. Red and blue lights danced on the walls and Jeremy’s face fell.

He exhaled shakily. “Molly.. what have you done?”

I’d done something reckless that seemed reasonable at the time. I’d done something stupid. No; something terrible. Something unforgivable.

I should have known better.