Breaking the Beast by Nicole Casey
Isabel
The restof the day passed in a blur, until finally I found myself back at home in the tiny apartment I shared with my father.
I closed myself in my bedroom with my laptop, trying to shut off the loud voices of my sisters that carried out from the kitchen and the cheers and groans from my brothers in the living room. I sighed, frustrated.
My older siblings all had their own homes — none of them wanted the responsibility of caring for our aging father — but I sometimes felt I saw more of them now than I did when we were all growing up in the same house.
Popping some noise-canceling headphones over my ears, I tried to concentrate on the screen in front of me. The first result when I searched “The Beast Jacques Martin” was a video titled THE BEAST GETS DUMPED. I watched as the woman I recognized from the paparazzi photo in my file shouted angrily in The Beast’s face. “I’ll be the last person who ever loved you,” she said, and I winced.
Scrolling through the search results, I felt like I was watching The Beast’s fall from grace in reverse. I skimmed through magazine articles that breathlessly reported on The Beast’s hedonistic lifestyle: the drugs, the drinking, the alcohol-fueled orgies. There was no denying the man had been a mess.
But scrolling further back, I started to see a different picture. Early stories on The Beast detailed his commitment to his career, his impressive skill and physique. “There is no doubt that Beast will go far as an athlete,” read one such article. “Having come so far in so short a time, one can only imagine what he’ll continue to achieve in his career.”
The media had clearly had a field day following his public split from the Enchantress, but interest quickly waned as it became clear that The Beast had no intention of re-emerging into the public eye. After a few months following the fight, I could find no more mentions of The Beast in the media.
I paused in my scrolling, finger tapping against my bottom lip. Jacques Martin had clearly hit his rock bottom five years ago. There was no telling what he’d been doing with his time since then. It was entirely possible he’d completely turned his life around...but not likely. I was intrigued. Bonita was right; there was a story here. Whether or not I would be the one to uncover it would remain to be seen.
Without warning, my bedroom door opened with a crack, and Marcos, my father, shuffled in. “Mia?” he asked, looking at me. His eyes appeared unnaturally large through the lenses of his bifocals.
I sighed. “No, Papa,” I said. I knew from experience that there was no use trying to explain to him that my mother had been dead for years. It would only confuse and aggravate him. Getting up, I put my arm around his thin shoulders and tried to gently steer him back to his favorite chair in the living room.
“I need to get ready,” he said, attempting to pull away, “I have a very important meeting.”
I wanted to cry.
This small, frail man was unrecognizable as the powerful father of my youth. Once the CEO of a large shipping company, my father had lost the business—and his fortune—when one of his merchant vessels sank and my father lost the ensuing malpractice suit.
My mother had died not long after, and my father had never fully recovered from the loss of his business, his wealth, and his wife.
“It’s okay, Papa,” I said, “You have some time before your meeting. You just rest here.” I lowered him back into his armchair. With any luck, he’d forget about his “meeting” in a few minutes.
As I arranged a warm blanket across his lap, a crash sounded from the kitchen. I swore softly to myself as I went to investigate. Sure enough, my sisters, Patricia and Andrea, were rifling through the contents of the refrigerator. A pickle jar, thankfully unbroken, lay at their feet.
“You need to go shopping, Belle,” Patsy said by way of greeting.
Andrea opened a tupperware and sniffed the contents before making a face and tossing it back in the fridge. “I hope you’re feeding Papa well.”
Instead of responding, I counted to ten in my head. “Are you staying for dinner?” I asked instead.
My sisters trilled laughter. “Are you kidding?” Andrea asked. “It’s a Friday night. We have dates!”
I regarded my sisters. Sure enough, their clothes were even tighter than usual, and they tottered slightly on sky-high heels. Patsy’s hair held enough hairspray that I could smell it from the doorway, and Andrea had done her best to cover her acne-scarred skin with layers of makeup. “You both look nice,” I said kindly.
Patsy sniffed and eyed my work outfit critically. “You know, Belle, if you put a little more effort into your appearance, Luis might still be around.”
Andrea gave a shocked, abrasive laugh.
This time, I couldn’t bite my tongue. “He is still around. I can’t seem to get rid of him.”
Patsy rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Belle, I don’t know what your problem is. Luis is handsome and successful, and he’s willing to put up with you. It’s not like you’re going to do better.”
I sighed. I could try to explain, once again, how Luis had changed after our marriage; how he’d grown jealous and controlling, wanting me to quit my job and stay home. A military man, Luis was often gone for long periods of time, and I knew that I didn’t want a life of cooking and cleaning, waiting for a man to come home. I could try to explain all that, but I knew my sisters wouldn’t understand.
Growing up, I had often wished for sisters who I could confide in. It had taken me many years to accept that I would never have that relationship with Patsy and Andrea; they were simply too different. Try as I might, I could never connect with them, and eventually I had just stopped trying.
My brothers, Ricky, Gabriel, and Miguel, were no different. Sporty and rambunctious, they had little interest in their quiet, bookish youngest sister. As a child, I had found my refuge in books; as an adult, in my work and in caring for our father.
I mumbled something about going to my room, feeling like a teenager once again as I shut my door on my sisters’ peeling laughter and dropped onto my bed. In my pocket, my phone buzzed, and I groaned. I knew without looking that it would be Luis, that he wouldn’t stop calling until I answered. I considered picking up, staring at the image of him on my phone screen.
I should really change that, I thought. It was a picture from our wedding day; Luis looking handsome and strong in his military uniform as he gazed at me in my white gown.
When was the last time he had looked at me like that? I couldn’t remember. Everything had seemed so simple when we married, so straightforward. Now, nothing did. Sighing, I hit ignore, then turned off my phone before he had the chance to call me back. I knew I was taking the chance that he would show up at my door instead, but I couldn’t handle another endless phone conversation where nothing got solved and he didn’t listen to a word I said.
Right on cue, there was a banging at the front door. Luis must have been standing outside, waiting to see if I would pick up or not.
“Isabel!” he called, “I know you’re in there.” I rushed to reach the door before my father could be disturbed by the commotion.
“Luis,” I said, “you shouldn’t be here.”
Luis pushed past me as if he didn’t hear. He had been drinking; I could smell the liquor on his breath and seeping out of his pores.
“You didn’t answer my call,” he said, turning to face me.
“I have a lot of work to get done tonight, Luis,” I said. Not a lie.
He scoffed. “Work. You know I hate that you insist on staying at that shit job. No wife of mine should have to work.”
“I know I don’t have to,” I said, consciously making my voice low, soothing. “I like it there. I like working. For now,” I added quickly as Luis opened his mouth to object.
“You should come home,” he said, swaying slightly. Luis never could hold his liquor, and I predicted that I had maybe half an hour to get him out of the house before he passed out.
“I’ve told you, I can’t come home just yet,” I said. “My father needs me right now.” I’m not coming home, ever, I thought, but kept that part to myself. There was no need to antagonize Luis right now.
“I need you,” he insisted. “I’m not signing those papers you sent me. I tore them up. Divorce is a sin.”
“I know,” I said, laying a tentative hand on his shoulder. Immediately, Luis grasped it and pulled me to him. I pulled away, and Luis stumbled, too drunk to keep hold of me. “Look, Luis, why don’t you go home and get some sleep, and I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll talk then, okay? But you need to get some rest.”
Luis hesitated. “You’ll call me tomorrow? You promise?” I nodded. This seemed to appease Luis. “You’ll come home then?” he asked.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” I said. It was neither a yes or a no, but Luis was too far gone to notice. With a final gentle push from me, he headed out the door, and I closed and locked it behind him.
With Luis safely on the other side of the door, I sagged against it, heart pounding. How much longer could I keep this up? Luis was never going to take no for an answer, and I was afraid of what he would do if I kept denying him. So far, my protests that my father needed me and that we would talk soon had satisfied Luis, but I knew that couldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, he would try to make me come home.
From the next room, my brothers shouted, startling me. My sisters’ shrill laughter pierced my head, and I felt the beginnings of a migraine coming on. I glanced out the peephole. Luis was gone, for now, but I knew he would be back. I could only hope that I wouldn’t be here when he arrived.
That thought prompted a memory, and I pulled out my cell. Sound and chaos swirled around me: my brothers jeering at the TV, my sisters bickering loudly, my father calling my mother’s name. It was too much. I needed a break. I deserved a break. I dialed Bonita’s number.
“I’m in,” I said, by way of greeting. “I’ll do the piece. When do I leave?”
