An innocent witness

It was summer, and as such it was made of long afternoons, one after the other, with the sun always hanging lazily in the sky, casting shadows that stretched far all over the neighborhood. I have clear memories of those happy days, even though I was only seven years old.

They always said I had a good memory for my age, but I don’t know if that’s true. I think some things just stick with you longer than others.

Like that day.

I’d been riding my bike up and down the street: I used to let time pass pretending I was a superhero on a secret mission, looking at people's businesses without letting my true identity be exposed. The sidewalk chalk lines we’d drawn the day before marked out paths, though most had faded after the rain that morning. I was slowly riding back toward my house when I saw Mr. Thompson across the street, standing in his yard. He was wearing his usual brown overalls and a red shirt, and he was doing something with the bushes near his porch. I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time: grown-ups were always doing boring stuff like that.

But then I saw her. Mrs. Thompson was sitting on the porch, which I thought was kind of unusual. She never really sat outside during the day. She usually waved at me from her windows when I passed by, but this time, she didn’t. She was staring at Mr. Thompson, her eyes looking down, like she wasn’t very happy with him.

I slowed my bike down and watched them standing behind a tree not to be found. My bike squeaked a little as the wheels turned. Mr. Thompson started talking—well, yelling, I guess. I couldn’t hear all the words he was saying because I was on the other side of the street, but I could tell he was angry. His arms were moving in big, wide circles, and he kept pointing at Mrs. Thompson, who didn’t yell back, though. She just sat there, looking really sad. She looked up at his face and then back down repeatedly. I think maybe she was crying.

I’d seen my parents argue a couple of times, so I figured it was something like that. Grown-ups argued about silly things as who forgot to take out the trash or whose turn it was to wash the dishes. I was about to ride away and get home when Mr. Thompson did something strange, he quickly walked up to the porch and grabbed Mrs. Thompson by the arm. I could see he was grabbing her arm very tightly.

She didn’t move at first. But I think that even if she wanted to she couldn't.

I left my bike on the sidewalk and walked a little closer to their garden. I guess I shouldn’t have and I was reckless, but I was curious and didn't know what was about to happen yet. My heart was beating fast because it knew something was wrong. Just as I knew what was happening right in front of me wasn’t the same thing as when my parents argued.

I heard Mr. Thompson say something about "not letting this go on anymore." He was pulling her off the porch now, down toward the yard. His hand was still tight around her arm, and I saw her stumble a little. I don’t know why, but as all of these happened, I stayed right there, watching.

That’s when I noticed it—the shiny thing in Mr. Thompson’s other hand. It glinted in the sunlight. It was a plate. Not a big one, but one of those thin kitchen ones we had at home. I recognized it because Mom always told me to be careful around them not to make them break.

He waved the plate around, and I think I heard Mrs. Thompson say something like, “Please don’t” but her voice was so soft I could barely hear it. She wasn’t screaming.

I felt weird. My stomach hurt a little, and my legs didn’t want to move. I should’ve gone back home, but I didn’t. I just stood there, frozen, my eyes fixed on the bowl in his hand and the look on her face: for some reason she looked terribly scared.

Mr. Thompson raised the dish. He didn’t say anything else, and for a second, everything seemed so quiet, as if even the birds flying over my head had stopped chirping. Then, suddenly, Mrs. Thompson fell. I turned my gaze in another direction in that moment right as I heard my mom calling my name loud from the garden of my house, so I didn’t see what happened exactly, but as I turned back, the first thing I saw was Mrs. Thompson lying on the ground, and Mr. Thompson was kneeling beside her. His hands were moving quickly, and there was something red on them.

as I looked carefully at it I thought it was tomato juice.

That’s what I told the police later, anyway. Mom said I was mistaken, but I was sure I could recognize tomato juice when I saw it. Mrs. Thompson liked making dishes with tomato sauce from what I remembered. I thought Mr. Thompson had spilled it from the plate he was holding or something, but I couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t getting up anymore.

Mr. Thompson stood up and stared down at her for a while. His face didn’t look mad anymore. It looked… scared. I’d never seen him scared before. He always seemed so big and strong, like the kind of person who wasn’t afraid of anything.

Then he walked into the house, leaving Mrs. Thompson on the ground. I guess I should’ve told someone right away, but I didn’t really understand what had happened. I thought they were just playing a game, or maybe she’d just fallen and he’d gone to get help. So I got back on my bike and rode home.

It wasn’t until later, when the police came, that I realized something bad had happened. They asked me a lot of questions, and I told them everything I remembered: about the tomato juice, the knife, and how Mrs. Thompson fell. They didn’t say much, but I could tell from the way my parents were looking at each other that something was wrong.

A few days later, they told me Mrs. Thompson had "gone away". I didn’t understand what they meant, but I noticed that Mr. Thompson wasn’t around anymore either. My mom said he was "in a lot of trouble" and when I asked why, she just told me not to worry about it.

It wasn’t until years later that I finally understood what had happened that day. Mrs. Thompson didn’t spill tomato juice and she didn’t fall.

Mr. Thompson had hurt her. Badly.

And I witnessed the whole thing without even realizing it.