by Shelly Crane
The bags stayed right there on the table. She wasn't about to put anything up. In her mind, it was back to square one. Was Roger only pulling the nice guy act so he could trick her into doing what he wanted and fool the community into thinking that he had her under control?
If that was the case, then why not go on and beat her?
He went straight into the kitchen and started banging things around. She inched herself into one of the wooden table chairs, lifting one leg to press to her chest and tried not to flinch. She knew he was angry and she knew why. He thought they could at least cohabitate for a while in peace, but the scene today had shaken Amy. She couldn't do this. She couldn't just have kids and live here forever.
He was still a monster and she needed to remember that.
She heard the front knob jingle. She looked over at it and hadn't thought anything of warning Roger until it was too late. Suddenly someone burst through the door and she knew what a grave mistake had been made. She was sitting at the table, Roger was banging around in the kitchen, she assumed making something to eat for dinner, and his father was at the door.
"What in the hell is going on here?" he roared and came at Amy. She scrambled from her chair and backed into the wall. Roger emerged from the kitchen and bolted across the room for him. He didn't reach him before his father reached her though.
His grip was full of hate as he grabbed her arm and then let his palm shock her cheek with a slap. She smelled alcohol and knew why the situation had escalated so quickly. When Roger gripped his arm to stop another hit, she was slammed into the wall in the struggle. The back of her head hit so hard she saw spots, but didn't pass out. No, she saw everything.
Every horrible detail in vivid color.
She was sprawled behind the table against the wall and could see them struggling on the other side through the table legs. It was like a bad movie seeing their shifty and uncoordinated movements. But one thing was for sure, Roger had no intentions of hitting his father back or defending himself. He let his father kick him in the stomach repeatedly as he yelled things over and over to him. Finally he turned back her way. She heard him say, "It's time your woman learned her place, even if I have to be the one to teach her."
Roger grabbed his leg to trip him and crawled to hold him down. Roger looked at her with blazing eyes and yelled, "Amy, go lock yourself in the bedroom."
She shook her head. It was the first time Amy was defiant for him instead of against him. If she left, his father could kill him for all she knew! She wouldn't leave him after he had saved her from him.
He growled, clearly frustrated as he struggled with his father. "Go, Amy." His father gripped him by the throat and started to strangle him. "Father, you're drunk, stop!" he wheezed. "Dad?" When his father wouldn't stop, Roger began to try to pry his hands away, but he wasn't letting go. His father rolled over to be over him and grunted and strained as if to squeeze the life out of Roger forever.
Amy just reacted.
She scrambled up from the floor and ran to him with purpose. She searched for something - anything - to use on him. A vase on the fireplace mantel looked like the best bet so she grabbed it. In a move so bold and risky that Amy had never pulled anything like it before, she let the blue porcelain vase fall from her hands to Roger's father's head.
It broke apart against his scalp and his father lay still. Roger pushed his father off onto the carpet and retched and coughed as he got his breath. She knelt down to pat his back, but he was too busy checking on his father. "Dad?"
His father groaned and moaned into Roger's shirt sleeve. Roger sighed and slumped as he realized his father was all right. "I'm going to go put him back in his truck. Hopefully he'll wake up there and not remember any of this because he's too drunk."
Amy nodded and watched as Roger picked his father up and carried him out the door that had been left open. She left everything where it was, all a mess and broken, and went to the bedroom. She opened the closet door and sat down in the floor of it. It was beginning to feel like her own little confessional.
She stretched her legs out. They almost touched the other side of the closet, but not quite. She stared at the opposite blank wall and tried not to break down. There had been enough of that and she had no idea what to expect when Roger returned. She felt a different kind of numb. The kind that was hard to awake from. The kind that made her wonder if she would ever be the same again.
She heard the front door close and braced herself. She heard his bare feet pad down the hall and disappear onto the carpeted bedroom. His shadow came into sight and then he was filling the frame of the closet doorway. He watched her for just a second before bending down to sit opposite her in the closet.
"How's the cheek?" he asked and leaned forward a little to see it better.
"He didn't get a very good swing," Amy said nonchalantly. "My head hurts though." She rubbed it with her fingers, feeling the little knot forming. He touched her cheek with his fingers gently, making her still, before sitting back and closing his eyes.
"I'm so sorry. I'm not sure I can ever get you to understand how sorry I am."
Amy wasn't able to help her next words. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," was his gruff response.
"I think you're lying," she countered and pulled her knees in to rise up on them. "Lift your shirt."
"Nah, I'm fine," he said tiredly.
She felt bad and knew he was tired, but so was she. She was also still in her numb mood and wasn't taking no for an answer. "Roger. Lift. Your. Shirt."
He sighed in a way men did to a stubborn woman. She could have grinned, but didn't. He lifted his shirt. As suspected, his midsection was already red and beginning to swell in spots. She leaned in close to inspect and smelled his cologne. It was a scent she'd never smelled before she met him.
She had known a girl who used to get beaten when she was in grade school. The girl told her how her father never hit her in the face because he didn't want people to see her bruises. He always hit her under her clothes. Roger's stomach had plenty of scars on it and she knew that bastard of a man that he called a father had been doing what he'd done to Roger in the dining room for many years before this. She shook her head and touched one of his ribs to see if it might be broken. She couldn't tell, but he still winced and grabbed her hand.
"It's fine, Amy. I've dealt with worse."
"I'm sure you have," she said. "He always hit you under your clothes, didn't he?" Roger just looked at her. "But why? I'm sure the community doesn't care if the people beat their kids here or not."
Again no answer so she just sat back against the wall and sighed. She closed her eyes for just a moment before he spoke. "I've never fought back before." He shook his head slowly. "I've always been told that honoring your mother and father was first and foremost."
Amy stiffened. She had never been so grateful for the wonderful parents she had, and felt Roger's misery and…shame. How could he feel that way after what his father had done to him? "He tried to choke you," she reasoned.
"Doesn't matter. He's my father."
"He hurt you and it's all right? You're telling me that God would want him to do that to you?"
"Honor thy father and thy mother," he repeated bitterly.
"The Bible says to honor them, not take all of their bullcrap!" she shrieked. He stared stunned at her, then cracked a smile. Before she realized it, they were both laughing.
When they quieted, he took her hand in his and rested them on his knee intertwined. "Thank you. I'm not sure I could have… If you hadn't knocked him out I’m not sure what would have happened."
She looked at their skin touching and wondered why she felt no anger toward him anymore. It was like it all dissipated into nothing once he went after his father for her, once he did something he'd never done before. Once he pushed passed something that had been blocking him for years.
She let her fingers move across the top of his hand. She felt the rough scars and the calluses on his fingers fro
m hard work and dedication. She looked up at his face and saw something there she hadn't felt herself in weeks.
Hope.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head to the side to rest in the corner. She felt him move, his hand pulling away, and then her head was lifted. She looked up to see him stuffing a big, soft, black coat under her head. Then he resumed his spot and took her hand in his again. She closed her eyes, accepting his gift with silent thanks.
She slept peacefully that night. Whether it was the closet, or the company, or the mini-breakthrough they'd had that day she didn't know. But she'd take it nonetheless.
* * *
It was stupid to sleep in that closet, Roger thought, but that closet was allowing him to touch her right now. Her guard was down and he was thankful, but he could also tell that she was struggling with what she'd seen and with what she'd done. He knew she was asleep by now so he let his fingers caress hers lightly just because…he had to.
This girl - this woman - had saved his life whether she knew it or believed it or not. He'd seen his dad angry plenty of times. He'd seen his dad drunk more times than he could recall, but his mother was always there to pull him off. He'd never been drunk at Roger's house before because he never cared about Roger's house until Amy showed up. Roger would have just let his father kill him, because he couldn't have faced the consequences of the alternative. That's what fighting back would have been; to disobey, to betray them, to spit in the face of everything they'd taught him.
He rubbed his face in the dark. Everyone he knew, even his friend Alex, was following the rules and lifestyle laid out for them. So why was he having such a hard time with it? He thought maybe he should ask Alex…but that thought made him gulp. Alex had been his friend his whole life, but something like this would be grounds for them to brand him a traitor. They'd kill him and give Amy to someone else. His father would probably be the one to pull the trigger.
His father…God, please let him wake up and not remember, Roger begged.
Please, God, if nothing else, don't let him remember that Amy was the one who did it.
Chapter 7
The kitchen was exactly as she thought it would be. There were pots on the stove and blue plates on the counter. She peered inside and saw green beans in one and flank steak in the other.
He had been making dinner for them last night.
She sighed and leaned back on the counter to think. She'd woken before Roger. They had been exactly as she remembered following asleep in the floor of that closet, but he must not have slept at all during the night. When she woke, he was out like someone who needed the sleep. She gently pried her fingers from his so as not to wake him and crept out of the closet. She started to just leave, but he was so asleep she figured she could move him to the bed and he'd fall right back asleep. He'd been sleeping on the floor every night since she'd been there.
So, she shook his arm gently, and when his eyes opened, she took his arm and pulled him up. He fell into the bed and groaned a little, grabbing his side. She lifted his shirt as he pressed his face into the pillow. He was pretty banged up, but it was just red and yellow bruises. With his eyes closed she pulled the blanket over him there in the bed. She heard his deep sigh as he sprawled out further and got comfortable.
And now, she stood looking at the dinner he had been making, though he swore he'd never cook or clean a thing in this house. He also swore he'd never stand up to his father, but he'd done just that for her.
She grabbed the dustpan and went into the living room to clean up the broken vase pieces. The vase had been empty so the floor was only scattered with shards. She swept them up, and then repeated the process to make sure she got all the pieces up.
Then she righted the table chairs, went back into the kitchen and dumped the pot's contents into the trash, ignoring her growling stomach at not having any dinner last night or breakfast. She gathered the dishes together and started to stack them into the dish washer. It was then she heard the handle jiggle on the front door. She peered out and then started to bolt to Roger's room, but it was too late. Roger's father stood in the doorway, holding his head, still squinting at the sunlight.
He looked down at the plate in her hand and back up. "Where's Roger?" he barked.
She pointed to the bedroom without a word. He went swiftly down the hall, leaving the door wide open…almost as if testing her. Her mind flipped for one split second. Could she make it out? Had Roger been telling the truth about escaping? She knew it was true, she'd been in town and seen the eyes everywhere, but it still crossed her mind to bolt.
But she didn't.
Roger's father came back into the living room and glared at her. "I must've fallen asleep in my truck last night. Tell Roger to call me when he gets up."
She nodded and he left, slamming the door and locking it from the outside. He had a key.
She had literally just cleaned up the evidence of their struggle from last night…and Roger was in the bed. It painted a perfect picture for his father; her doing the dishes while the little husband slept in. She sagged against the wall and thanked whoever was above them for perfect timing.
She was not interested in watching another rematch between Roger and his dear old dad. She set out to make breakfast and coffee. She noticed Roger had grabbed some creamer when they had their little shopping spree.
When the coffee was made, the biscuits in the oven and the ham in the pan, she drank the hot mug slowly and sighed at the warmth and goodness. It was amazing what a little bit of hot coffee could do for your soul. She smiled. It really was the little things that mattered most…
She was just turning on the dish washer and wiping down the counters when Roger emerged. He was an exact copy of last night; hair a mess, shirt wrinkled from fighting and sleeping, his face lined with strain. She tried to smile slightly at him. "Good morning."
His eyes bugged at that. He watched her and looked around the room. "You've been up for a while," he said. "And you put me in bed."
"This morning when I got up," she confirmed and poured him a cup of coffee. She brought it to him and set it in his stunned hand. "I thought you could take a couple hours of sleep in a bed."
"You thought right," he said and chuckled as he sipped his coffee. "I slept hard." He sighed and groaned in his throat as the coffee went down. "Thank you."
"I made some ham biscuits," she said and turned to get them from the stove. When she came back he was still rooted to his spot. She gave him a questioning look and his eyebrows lifted as he made his way to his chair. "You father was here this morning," she ventured carefully and continued quickly when he jolted up in his chair. "You were right; he woke up in the truck and had forgotten everything. He said to call him."
"He was here, alone with you?" He looked her over quickly, head to toe. "Are you all right? What did he do? Why didn't you wake me up?"
"He just said he fell asleep in the truck and he went into the bedroom to see you. You were asleep so he said to call him later. What?"
He shook his head. "Just…thinking of my father alone with you…" He inched closer and winced a little as he touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "This is why," he explained. "Does it hurt?"
"Drunks don't have very good back swings I guess," she played off. He cracked a smile, but she could tell he was trying to fight it.
"Seriously, Amy. Are you ok?"
"I'm fine. I cleaned up everything before he came in. And you were in the bed, so… I'm sure everything looked just peachy to him."
Roger nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Probably." He continued to stare at her, so she stared back. "Amy, thank you. You did what I couldn't last night. I…" He swallowed hard. "I don't know what to do about…this." She didn't know what he meant by 'this'.
He moved slowly and practically slow motion as his arms came around her. She knew he was being cautious so as not to scare her, but she still held her breath as he pulled her gently against his warm, hard chest. He exhaled and let his arms relax a bit when she
didn't pull away. His cologne was a full on assault in her nose pressed to his shirt.
She knew he was just thanking her, but she had begun to feel strangely about him and though it felt nice, she didn't know if she was ready to welcome that or not. So she pulled back and gave him a small smile. "Sit down. I'll get you some breakfast."
He did as she said, yawning and rubbing his hair as he did so. She brought him a refill of coffee and a ham biscuit, and one for herself. She sat opposite him and tried to think of what to fill the awkward silence with.
"Are we working today? I let you sleep late, I didn't think about that. Sorry."
"No. No work today," he answered and rubbed his side. "I think we'll just stay here today and relax a bit." He took a bite and groaned as he chewed. "This is some kind of biscuit. Where did you learn to cook?"
"My mom, I guess." She swirled her coffee in her cup and watched it. "She was always raising me to be a good wife." She looked sadly at him. "I guess it worked out, huh?"
He laughed once without humor. "I'm sure this isn't what your momma had planned for you."
"And what about your momma?" Amy asked, remembering the gruff woman that she'd met. "What was she like when you were growing up?"
He shook his head, a line creasing his forehead in thought. "Momma was pretty much... She was always…prickly, like Dad is. He broke her long before I came along." Amy flinched at that. "Sorry," he said sincerely and put his head in his hands. "She's never smiled for as long as I can remember. She never laughed or did anything with me that wasn't on her chore list."
"That's terrible," Amy said, imagining such a life. "It must have been terrible to be stolen and then be pregnant. With that man…" She looked up at him to see her watching. "I know he's your father, but-"
"No, the truth's the truth." He leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head. "No man in his right mind would say that my father was a kind or just man."
