Chapter 15

Connecticut 1997-98

Driving the streets of Connecticut I coveted the grassy yards and picket fences I’d once dismissed. I imagined our little family in one of these charming houses, the screen door slamming behind Molly as she came in from playing in our yard. I wanted a patch of my own to plant flowers and vegetables, to nurture my family in a normal life with friendly neighbors who didn’t harbor bizarre ancient hatreds. After four years in a war-zone I wasn’t even sure if I recognized ‘normal’ and my previous dreams of adventure had been replaced by a longing for stability and a home.

We decided to buy a house while we still had enough for a down payment and quickly fell in love with a white cape in a quiet neighborhood. As soon as we drove up to the corner property just shy of a quarter of an acre set back from the street, I knew we’d found home. Stepping inside the privet hedge that surrounded the property felt bucolic in spite of the drone of the nearby highway. On a September afternoon, the greens erupting into a flame of color, the owner, a woman in her eighties, stood on her small porch pointing out the variety of trees and shrubs on the property.

“What are these?” Neil asked gesturing towards some bushes in front of the porch.

“Azaleas in different shades of pink. And in the back there’s a whole row of peonies,” she said and turned to me, “I’ve lived here for 45 years. There are a lot of good memories in this house. It’s been a very happy home.”

“I hope it will be for our family too,” I said.

With glass doorknobs, hardwood floors and a sun porch, the 1930s cape was an antique compared to the boxy split-levels in the neighborhood. Satisfied that we would love her home as she did, the woman accepted our offer. We became homeowners just in time for Molly’s second Halloween.

The house needed an electricity upgrade, the bathroom’s pink sink had to go, the tiny hot water heater barely provided enough water for one quick shower. I paid for these things. Neil still didn’t seem to have money. Since he started selling cars, I thought he would be contributing more but it was never enough. I dreaded the mailman for the bills he delivered.

In life-before-Neil, I had loved opening my mailbox at the end of the day and never flinched at the sight of a bill because I knew what to expect, never had outlandish balances and paid them within days of receipt. Same thing with phone calls. Seeing a flashing light on my answering machine when I came home at the end of the day made me happy. What friend wanted to talk? What invitation awaited me? I hit the ‘play’ button even before taking off my coat.

This was no longer true. Now telephone calls and mail triggered anxiety. Even though Neil now earned more money than I did, his spending continued to be out of control but I could not figure out what he was buying. New charges and eventually, collection notices filled the mailbox. He didn’t seem to care about whether they were paid and hid bills. If I didn’t get to the mailbox first, balances remained outstanding until the following month doubled and with late fees.

When the phone rang, I held my breath, dreading a collections call. One regular caller frightened me but he wasn’t from a collections agency. Neil knew the guy but never picked up to speak to him and the man seemed to know we were there as he snarled out his message.

“Neil! Pick up the fucking phone. Neil! Neil! It’s Chet. I need to talk to you … now! You better call me back. I’m getting sick of this, Neil! I need my money. You better fucking call me back!”

That voice chilled the house. Sometimes I came home at the end of the day to multiple threatening messages on the answering machine and quickly hit the ‘off’ button so Molly would not hear the foul language. One night, after checking she was asleep, I kissed her dewy, toddler forehead and went downstairs to confront Neil. Still in his Landrover uniform of khakis and polo, he was sprawled across the couch watching English comedy reruns. He turned to me with a smile.

“Poppet asleep? Would you like a cup of tea?”

I picked up the controls from beside him and muted the television then walked over to the answering machine and pushed play. As Chet’s nasty voice came on, Neil put a hand to his face, fingers massaging his brow, eyes closed.

“Who is this guy?” I asked, a sick feeling in my stomach.

“He’s no one. I owe him some money – I’ll get it to him soon. He’s fine. Don’t worry, he’s a nice bloke, he just sounds bad.”

“You’re joking – a nice guy? He’s scary and I don’t want him calling here anymore. What do you owe him money for? And how much money are we talking about here?” I was shaking, afraid of his answer.

“Only a grand. Mike, the guy from security in Zagreb introduced me to him. He lent me some cash when we needed to fix the car and I didn’t want to ask you for it.”

“When was this?”

I searched my memory. In contrast to the fancy Land Rovers Neil got to drive, our car was old and needed constant repair – maybe he was telling the truth.

“But why would you go to someone like him for money? That’s crazy!”

“He’s a mate. That’s just how he is. He’s really okay. I made a mistake in borrowing from him but he’ll get his money. I’m expecting a big paycheck next week. I have a few big sales.”

“He’s not a ‘mate’, he’s a wack job. Friends don’t speak to each other that way – this guy’s a creep, don’t you see that? I don’t want him calling here anymore. Please, just get him out of our life.”

“I will, I will! I promise. Now, can I make you a nice cup of tea?”

He kissed the top of my head and hurried out to the kitchen.