by Mary Logue
His face was contorted with rage. He became someone she didn’t know. He looked like a demon, like a devil of anger. He put his hands around her neck and began to choke her. She tried to get a wisp of air, and when it didn’t come, she went into a total panic, slapping out at him, trying to get away.
The choking was the worst. He had only done that once before. She had thought he was going to kill her. It taught her that he could.
Just when she thought she would pass out, he let her go. Let her fall to the floor. She didn’t move. Let him think she was dead. Maybe he would leave her alone then.
He walked away and looked out the window at the lake. Then he came back toward her and kicked her in the face. She screamed.
“You know what I can do,” he said, standing over her.
When he was leaving, he said he would be back. She wondered when. Now that he had come to her house, he would do it again. He had told her there was a bond between them that was stronger than any other kind of love on Earth. There was no pattern to his anger. It made it harder not knowing what made it happen.
Once she had loved him so much that she didn’t mind when he beat her. Every time he had promised her it would never happen again. Every time he had been so good to her afterward, it more than made up for it. But after he had choked her the first time, she had left him.
That was over a year ago.
She reached her house and climbed the stairs, then pushed open the front door to her house.
It smelled funky. Her house had turned into a pigsty this week. She hadn’t done anything but moved from the bed to the couch. What was the use, when her world was going to be destroyed?
Stephanie sat down at her kitchen table and felt huge gulps of sobs pushing up inside her, trying to break out. She swallowed hard. Do something, she thought, anything rather than start crying again.
She stood and carried her coffee cup to the sink. The dishes were piled up until there wasn’t any room to put another plate down. Time to do the dishes.
She cleared out the sink and piled the dishes on the counter. She ran the water until it was hot, so hot it scorched her hands. Then she poured some yellow liquid soap into it. The bubbles came. She sank her dirty dishes into the water. She washed the dishes and stood them up in the drying rack.
Stephanie had always liked washing dishes. Submerging her hands in the warm water felt good after her cold walk to town. After a hard day’s work at the factory, it was about the only way she could get her fingernails clean. When she was finished with the dishes, she wiped down all the counters with her sponge. The kitchen was clean. It was a good start.
A bath. She needed a long, hot bath. She would wash her hair. She would put clean sheets on the bed.
Stephanie looked down at her hands. Short, stubby fingers. Plump and soft. They looked just like her mother’s hands. She should never have told her mother where she was. Her mother had a soft spot for him. She always told him everything, even when she promised not to.
2
I CAN smell pumpkin pie,” Rich said as soon as he walked in the door. He let himself in without even knocking.
Claire was surprised by how good it was to see him. He had only been gone since Wednesday, driving a load of pheasants up to Alexandria in Minnesota, but it felt like longer. It was the end of his busy season; he had frozen pheasants that he would deliver to town through the holidays, but that was the end of it.
He looked tired but happy, his dark hair falling in his eyes. He was wearing a red plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, jeans, and Red Wing boots. Pretty standard outfit for down along the river, but she knew and loved the body that was under it all, lean and muscled, weathered in a good way.
Claire remembered, amused, that when she was twenty she had worried about whether she would like men her age when she was forty. At the time, she hadn’t found older men attractive. But of course, as she matured, so had her taste in men.
Now when she looked at Rich, who was moving in on fifty, she loved what she saw: the touch of gray in the hair at his temples, the wrinkles that accentuated his moods, laugh lines around the mouth, eyes that crinkled with delight when he was happy, and even the thought lines that appeared in his forehead when he was puzzled. She loved them all. She found young men in their late teens and early twenties surprisingly blank, unformed-looking.
She walked out to greet him. “Good to see you,” she said and stood in front of him. He pulled her in closer, and they kissed deeply for a moment. Then she heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and her daughter flung herself into the room.
“Rich, guess what?”
Claire and Rich pulled apart, and Rich bent down and hoisted the young girl on his hip. “What, my pumpkin pie?”
Meg turned and glared at Claire. “Mom, did you tell him?”
“Tell him what? I haven’t said a thing to him.”
Meg yelled, “I made you a pumpkin pie.”
“My favorite.”
“I thought apple was your favorite.”
“I stand corrected. My second favorite. But my first favorite for the month of November.”
“Because of Thanksgiving.”
“You got it.”
“Mom helped.”
“Good plan. Let her think she’s needed,” Rich teased.
Meg squirmed down and grabbed his hand. “I want to show you something in my room.”
Claire decided it was time to step in. “Later. He’s going to be here all evening. Let Rich relax for a moment. Besides, he’s my boyfriend, and I want to talk to him too.”
“Yeah, but Mom—”
“No yeah-but-Moms right now. You go and set the table, please.”
The evening was pleasant. Claire watched with pleasure as Rich cleaned his plate of pork chops, mashed potatoes, and steamed kale. Meg proudly brought out the pumpkin pie and even cut it with a little help. Big blobs of whipped cream were plopped on top, and they all declared it the best they had ever eaten.
“I didn’t know pumpkin pie could be so good, Mom.”
“It’s always better if you make it yourself.”
“Then you can trust everything that’s in it, right?”
Claire laughed and thought what an odd thing that was for Meg to say. “Do you sometimes worry about what’s in your food?”
“Well, sometimes I worry about the school lunches.”
They all laughed.
“Speaking of food, can I talk to you about Thanksgiving?” Rich said.
Claire’s heart sank. Was he going to tell her he couldn’t make it? “Sure.”
“Well, I was just wondering if there was any chance of my mother having it with us.”
“Of course. What happened? I thought she was going to some friends.”
“They canceled on her.”
Claire couldn’t believe they had progressed this far already. She would be meeting Rich’s mother for the first time. The woman was coming to her house—talk about putting the pressure on. Rich’s father had died a few years ago, and his mother lived in Rochester, Minnesota. He said he thought she moved there to be closer to the clinic, “just in case.”
“Okay, let me ask you this. What do you need to eat for Thanksgiving?”
Rich cocked his head, puzzled. “What?”
“You know. Everyone has that special dish that makes or breaks it. Wild rice, green bean casserole with fried onion rings, cherry Jell-O with bananas and whipped cream. What’s yours?”
Rich thought. “I guess it would have to be the chestnut dressing. My mom always makes chestnut dressing.”
“Wow. That sure sounds exotic and rich. We better have your mom bring that, because it certainly isn’t on my menu. And I meant to ask you—is it okay if we don’t have pheasant?”
“More than okay. A big turkey is just what I want.” Rich turned and looked at Meg. “And, of course, pumpkin pie.”
Rich did the dishes while Claire settled Meg into bed, letting her read until she was sleepy because it wasn’t a school night. �
��I want your light out by ten-thirty at the latest, you hear?”
“Is Rich staying over?” Meg whispered.
“I would guess so.”
“Yes,” Meg said and snuggled into her blankets.
Back downstairs, she found Rich lounging in front of the woodstove, a cup of coffee in his hands.
“I’m amazed you can drink that stuff and still sleep at night,” she said.
“Well, I was planning on doing a little more than sleeping tonight.”
“Maybe I should have some too.” She sat down next to him, took his cup, and drank a couple sips.
He took the cup from her, put it down on the coffee table, and pulled her close for another kiss.
After a moment Claire pulled back far enough to be able to see his face. “Rich, when was the last time you hit someone?”
He looked at her, and a slow smile bloomed on his face. “You know, I can always count on you for romantic conversation.”
“This is leading to something.”
“I’ve no doubt of that. Let’s see. I pounded Scotty Warden in sixth grade out back of the school. I slugged a guy in France when he tried to lift my wallet. That’s about it. Disappointed?”
“Have you ever hit a woman?”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “Against my religion. Claire, what’s going on? Are you having panic attacks again?”
“No, nothing like that. I’m trying to understand something. I hit a boy when I was in fifth grade. We were fighting over whether I tagged him out at first. I can’t quite remember how it felt.”
“Who won?”
“Nobody. I think we quit playing.”
“What’s this all about?”
“Do you know Stephanie Klaus?” Claire asked him.
“Sure. I know who she is. She lives out on the highway on my side of town. We’ve probably exchanged three sentences the whole time she’s lived in town. I would say hi to her if I saw her on the street. That’s about it.”
“I think someone’s been beating her up.”
“Do you know who?”
“It’s usually the husband, but since she doesn’t have one, I’d guess it’s the boyfriend.”
“Is it a job for supercop?” he asked.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Buck stood at the edge of the lake. The ice had formed weird ridges along the shoreline where the water had lapped up and frozen. Looked like it was at least four inches thick just out from shore. He thought of walking out onto it, but decided it might be wise to wait another day or two. There was supposed to be a hard freeze that night, drop down close to zero again. That would beef up the ice.
The lake didn’t usually freeze up until the beginning of December, but the weather had been mighty mean lately. The Farmer’s Almanac had predicted an early, cold winter. More snow than usual, too. He’d take it. He loved winter. It made him feel like a warrior every time he went out to start the car.
He kicked at the ice with his boots and then walked along. His dog, Snooper, was snuffling in the weeds. Probably found a dead fish or something. He had to watch that dog. Even though it was a tiny Pomeranian, it had the personality of a big dog and went at life with a lot of gusto. He had inherited Snooper when his grandmother had died. She had called the little dog Bitsy, but he hated that name. You give a dog a name like that, and he can’t help but act like a wimp. Snooper fit him better, Buck decided.
He could hardly wait to get out on the ice. His skates were all ready to go. He had gotten them sharpened last week. He loved that he could go out, if the ice froze without too much snow on it, and skate the whole lake.
Even though he was big, he moved like lightning on ice skates. His dad had grown up on the range in northern Minnesota, and they put skates on their boys up there before they could walk.
Buck had grown up in the cities and played hockey all year long, skating late at night just to get ice time in the summer. He had played varsity his junior year. Went into his senior year one of the best, but got busted for smoking right before hockey season and kicked off the team.
It made him mad just thinking about it. He could have gotten a scholarship and been someone.
That was five years ago. Now all he did was work at W.A.G. Not much of a life—certainly no hopes for advancement—but he didn’t mind the work.
Then there was Stephanie. Buck didn’t know what to do about her. She made him feel like no other woman had ever made him feel: frustrated, helpless. He wished she would just listen and give in to him. But she had to resist. Maybe that’s why he wanted her so bad.
He hadn’t gone out with many women. Just had a hard time around them. But now he knew why. He had been waiting for the perfect one. Stephanie was perfect: beautiful, quiet, and kind. He had grown up in the Lutheran church, and they didn’t have any saints, but if they did, she could be one.
Sometimes he felt like he didn’t understand life. He had never been good at talking, but maybe he should try harder with Stephanie. If he sat on his hands and talked and tried to tell her how he felt about her, maybe she’d give him more of a chance. She seemed to like him.
Snooper came up and stared at him.
“You want to go home, Snoop?”
The dog seemed to nod and trotted off in the direction of the truck.
Buck knew where Stephanie hung out sometimes. Maybe he would swing by Shirley’s Bar and see if she was there. If she wasn’t, Buck would keep checking until he found her. She hadn’t been answering her phone the last few days. She hadn’t showed up at work either.
Buck had decided he would say something to her, maybe even ask her to marry him. Maybe that’s what she wanted. He knew he could be persuasive. It helped to be six-four and weigh in at over 270 pounds. Working at the pet food factory lifting hundred-pound bags kept him in great shape.
“I’ll tell her, Snooper.”
The small dog stood up next to him in the car seat, his tiny paws up on the dashboard, and turned to stare at him with his eyes, dark brown as a coffee bean. He often struck him as smarter than most people Buck knew, and certainly more willing to listen.
“I’ll say—Stephanie, you be my woman and marry me, or I’ll kill myself. You think that’ll do it?” Buck chuckled.
Snooper wagged her tail at the sound of Buck’s voice.
“It’s a plan.”
“Hey, baby.”
Stephanie’s heart sank when she heard Jack’s voice on the other end of the line. She had hoped it might be Buck. That was why she had answered the phone. But now that she had answered the phone, she knew she needed to talk to him. Otherwise he would get mad and come over to teach her a lesson.
“Hi.” She tried to keep her voice calm.
“It was good to see you the other night. You’ve put on a little weight, but it looks good on you.”
“You looked good too,” she said. She knew he needed to hear that. He was a handsome man and loved to hear her tell him how fine he looked. Women loved to look at him.
“Thanks, baby. What’re you doing?”
She hated that he always called her baby. Why couldn’t he ever use her real name? “Not much. Haven’t gone to work since you stopped by.”
“Why not?” he asked, sounding surprised.
“Because I look like shit.”
“Why do you say that, baby?”
She couldn’t help it. She was getting mad. “You saw to that. A big black eye, bruises all over my face. Can’t go to work looking like that. All your fault.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought you looked fine when I left.”
She hated it when he did that, denied what he had done. “What’re you talking about, Jack? You beat me up good. Choked me. Why do you pretend that nothing happened? Do you think I made it up?”
Silence. Not a good sign. Then he said, “You know I would never do anything to hurt you. I love you too much for that. But I’ll tell you one thing, if I ever did beat you up, you wouldn’
t be alive to talk about it.”
She recognized the signs. His voice was getting lower. He was getting mad—she could hear it. It was time to get off the phone before she said something to really provoke him. “I gotta go, Jack.”
“Why’s that? Is that boyfriend coming over? I wouldn’t count on him, baby. You never know what might happen.”
3
MEG knew he would be back in to talk to her in a moment or two. She determined not to cry. She was a big girl, and that never helped anything. Except sometimes with Mom. Mom hated to see her cry, but Meg did reserve it as a weapon of last choice. She heard Mr. Turner’s footsteps echoing down the hallway. Like clock ticks, they were even and steady and would not turn back.
Mr. Turner was her fifth-grade teacher. She had never had a man teacher before and had really been looking forward to it. There was something more adult about being taught by a man. He had dark, spiky hair, long legs, and hairy eyebrows. Some of the girls thought he was cute. Meg thought he looked like a smooth-talking devil.
She hadn’t at first. She had liked him like everyone else. But then he started picking on her. He didn’t want her to read in class when she was done with the assignments. All her other teachers had always let her read in class. It was the only way she had gotten through school so far. Otherwise it would have been too dull and boring waiting for everyone else to finish. But the first time she had tried to read, Mr. Turner had taken her book away and asked her to clean the blackboards for him.
When she tried again, he had taken her out into the hallway and talked to her. “This is a school classroom where we do schoolwork. If you are finished with the work I have given you, then I want you to raise your hand, and I will give you some more work to do. Or better yet, check over your work. If you are doing it so fast, there are probably mistakes you should correct.”
Meg hadn’t taken either of his suggestions. Instead, she had done the only thing left to do. She had slowed down. She was doing the work as slow as she could, and it was killing her. Boredom weighed her down like a ton of bricks. That’s what had gotten her in to trouble this time. She had been so bored that her eyelids had closed, her head had dropped onto her desk, and she had fallen asleep. Mr. Turner had woken her up by tapping the top of her head with a pencil. She had jumped and given a little shriek. The whole class had laughed. He had asked her to stay after class when it was time for recess.
