by Susanne Beck
The young woman dropped her gaze, her hand wandering, birdlike, to her throat. If it weren’t for the horrific bruising which covered her face like some demon’s patchwork quilt, I’m sure her blush would have been readily seen.
From beside me, a woman stepped forward, taking the stranger into a tender embrace. As if breaking a dam, others came forward, and still others, until the woman was surrounded by a circle of support.
"Her name is Nia," Montana explained, low voiced, as I looked on, my jaw hanging agape. "Unfortunately, she’s an all too frequent visitor to Akalan."
"Who did this to her?"
"Her husband."
"Oh no," I half-moaned, half-whispered as my mind was suddenly deluged with scenes I spent long years trying to forget. Scenes of Peter standing over me, teeth clenched in an animal’s snarl, eyes bulging, hands tightly fisted—waiting to lash out... waiting... waiting... waiting.
I closed my eyes against the strength of those images, then opened them quickly when the small group of women brushed by me, Nia safely ensconced between them.
"Are you alright, Angel?" Montana’s voice was soft with concern.
I turned a weak smile toward her. "Yeah. Just dealing with some memories."
She nodded sagely, but remained quiet.
"You said she’s been here before?"
"Many times, yes." Now her voice held a note of deep sadness.
"The same man... ?"
"Yes."
"So why does..." But I trailed off, the question unfinished. It was the same question I’d asked myself a million or more times in my own life, and one for which there was no ready answer. Did she feel trapped, as I had, with nowhere to turn? Did she feel somehow deserving of his fists, his fury? Did she believe his tearful recriminations, his promises to do better, his pleas for just one more chance to show his love?
I’d believed each and every one of those things in my own marriage. And though it shames me now to admit such things, back then, it seemed my only chance for survival. The woman I am now would never, I hope, accept the lies nor cower before the cruelties, but the woman I was then felt she had no choice in the matter.
Hindsight is, as is often said, viewed through perfect vision.
After a brief squeeze to my shoulder, Montana left me alone with my thoughts.
* * *
Nighttime came quickly and, as I was settling down for some well-earned rest, a soft knock came to my door. "C’mon in."
The door opened slowly, and Nia peeked in, freezing as soon as she saw me. "Oh. I’m sorry. You’re getting ready to sleep. I’ll just..."
"No, that’s alright," I replied, hastening to sit up. "Please. Come in."
"Are you sure?"
My heart breaking at her timidity, I gave her my brightest smile. "Sure I’m sure." Pulling my arm from beneath the blankets, I patted the bed. "Make yourself comfortable."
"I... um... just came to see if I could borrow some toothpaste. I... don’t have any and I... kinda saw your light on under the door."
"Help yourself," I replied, gesturing to my toiletries laid out neatly on the dresser-top.
With the bearing of a beaten dog, she made her way over to the dresser, retrieved the requested item, and after looking at me for another long, assessing moment, finally sat down gingerly on the bed, as if expecting me to kick her off at any second..
"I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Angel."
Keeping my smile as bright and friendly as possible, I slowly extended my hand, watching as wary eyes took the gesture in. After a moment, she wiped her own hand off on her pants and extended it to meet mine. I began to clasp it gently, then stopped, looking down.
Only by the grace of some beneficent god was I able to keep the gasp in my throat. Though a woman I knew to be younger than myself by at least two years, her hand had the look of a crippled octogenarian beset with a horrible case of arthritis.
I knew without asking, however, that no disease laid its touch on those once supple fingers. Rather, they were deliberately broken and then refused treatment, left to heal as best they could. The end result was a crooked tangle of swollen joints only vaguely resembling the hand it used to be.
Noticing my stare—how could she not?—Nia smiled hesitantly, and retrieved her hand. "I... got it stuck in a..."
"Don’t," I whispered, on the verge of tears. "Please."
"Don’t what?" she asked, her expression the very picture of innocence. An innocence I wasn’t even close to buying.
"Don’t lie. Not here. Not to me. Please."
"But, I’m..."
"Please."
I watched as her shoulders slumped and her head bowed. "Maybe I should just go."
"Is that what you want to do?"
She looked at me for a long, silent moment. "No. Not really."
I smiled again. "Then stay."
Her smile was tiny, but it reached the dark of her eyes. "Alright. Thank you."
We sat in silence for a moment as I cast about for a conversation opener. "So... have you settled in ok?"
The smile broadened. "Yeah. The Amazons are so nice. They always make me feel at home here." She looked down at the bedspread, tracing an abstract pattern on its surface. "And safe, too." Then she looked back up at me. "You’re one, aren’t you? I think I remember them talking about you the last time I was here."
"Good things, I hope."
"Oh yeah. Very good things."
I grinned. "Guilty as charged. So to speak."
Her hand went up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear—a nervous gesture that I well recognized, having done the same thing a million or so times myself. "If you don’t mind my asking, what did... ?"
"I killed my husband."
Amazing how I could state that without any inflection in my voice whatsoever.
"You k... For money?"
I caught myself laughing. "Not quite. We didn’t have two nickels to rub together between us."
Her eyes were round within their swollen, black mask. "Then why?"
Could I speak of this thing aloud? Could I let it see the light of day in a way it never had before? Even with Ice, I had never spoken of it. It was something which was intuitively known, resting comfortably between us, yet not needing to be explored. A pink and purple elephant which grew smaller with each passing year.
In the end, however, I didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter. It was almost as if fate had decreed that I save my story for someone who really needed to hear it. And it appeared that person was Nia.
"He was raping me at the time," I replied in a voice I scarcely credited as my own.
"But... that’s impossible! You were married!"
Though a thousand sharp retorts entered into my mind, I found I couldn’t utter even one. Not to a woman who had endured just as much as I had, and probably even more. "Rape is rape, Nia," I said, in the softest tone I could manage. "It really doesn’t matter who’s doing it at the time."
"But how... ?"
I shrugged. "He wanted something I wouldn’t give him. So he took it." My gaze turned inward, viewing a movie meant for my eyes only. My arms came up to cross my chest, my hands gripping my shoulders in a hug of solace against the memories. "I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted him to stop. But..." Tears threatened, but I fought them back, heaving a great sigh and letting it go. "He just wouldn’t listen."
"What happened?" Her voice was timid, unsure, delicate almost.
The movie continued to play, drawing me back to that night with vivid clarity. The sounds were there. The sights. The scents of alcohol and cigarettes. "I begged him... god... over and over... begged him to please stop... please stop hurting me. He wouldn’t listen." I took in another deep breath, still fighting tears of anger and anguish, trapped in the past as surely as a rabbit in a snare. "A bat... I kept a bat by the side of the bed. He worked nights, and I was... afraid. Afraid that someone would break in and... do exactly what he was doing to me. I didn’t thin
k. I couldn’t.... I just reached out and grabbed it. And hit him. To make him stop, you know?" I felt my fists clench at the bed linen, wadding it up tight against palms wet with sweat. "And it worked. He stopped. He just... slumped down on top of me."
The tears fell, hot and scalding down my cheeks. I lifted a hand, brushing against them almost absently. "I remember not being able to breathe. So I just... pushed... him away from me. I remember him rolling off, like a rag-doll, almost. And I realized, when I looked down at him, that I’d done more than just hurt him."
I looked up at her, wishing with all my heart, mind and soul that the eyes I was seeking out were a pale blue fire instead of the deep, somber brown I was actually seeing.
"I’d killed him."
"No," she whispered.
"Yes. He was my husband, and I killed him."
The look in her eyes changed then, and to my horror, I saw the tiniest spark of speculation brighten their somber depths.
"No," I said, reaching out and grasping her wrist firmly. "No. That’s not even something to consider, Nia. Take it from me. It was the worst mistake I’ve ever made in my life."
The speculative gleam remained, though she tried her hardest to eclipse it with a look of practiced innocence. "There isn’t anything to consider. Richard loves me. He’d never do something like that to me."
I met her stare, suddenly feeling old beyond my years. My hand floated up to her cheek, pausing when she flinched away. "Love doesn’t hurt, Nia. Not like that."
It was as if my words had drawn a veil across her eyes. She stiffened, then pulled away from me, as if I had somehow become suddenly dangerous; a thing to be feared.
And perhaps, in a very important way, I had.
"I think I’ll... go back to my room now. It’s been a long day and I’m really tired. Thanks for letting me borrow this," she said, standing and waving the toothpaste tube. "I’ll get it back to you in the morning."
Like a seasoned general who knows that losing a battle just might mean winning the war, I backed down and gave her a smile and a nod. "You’re welcome. Thanks for coming by to talk. It’s good to meet you."
Her smile became a bit shyer, a bit more genuine. "It’s good to meet you too. Goodnight."
"Night."
Though the house was still and quiet, I spent the night wrapped up in a misery of memories, wishing for nothing so much as a pair of strong, loving arms to hold me close and chase away the demons of the darkness.
* * *
The days marched on in their interminable fashion; tin soldiers with no watch-spring to wind them down. Where I thought our night-time conversation would make Nia wary of my company, she seemed, instead, to seek me out, albeit tentatively, much like a child who wants desperately to jump from the high dive, yet can only manage a walk to the very edge before turning and scampering away in fright.
We talked of many things. Her childhood, which was very much like my own, yet very much different as well. Her marriage and life with Richard, the man she called her husband when words like "jailer" and "keeper" would have been much more appropriate. To my mind, anyway. Her hopes and dreams, which seemed to all revolve around this man in one way or another.
In many ways, being with Nia saddened me. It was so hard seeing someone in such a high state of denial, especially when I had been in much the same state earlier in my life. In other ways, though, it showed me just how far I’d come from the woman I used to be all those years ago.
My chores at the ranch kept me busy, and almost before I realized it, another Thanksgiving was nigh. Living on Native American land with a group of women of many different nationalities changed the "flavor" of the holiday, to be sure, but because each and every one of us had something to be thankful for, the festivities went full steam ahead.
I woke up that morning feeling rather out of sorts. I wasn’t exactly sure why until an offhand mention by Corinne brought home the differences between this Thanksgiving and the last, the first one I had prepared with my own hands, in my own home, my lover by my side instead of just in my memories.
Corinne, Critter and Pony tried their best to keep my mind and hands busy, and for a time, I’ll admit that I was able to lose myself in the pleasant tasks that went with a feast’s preparation.
But after the meal was cooked and laid out on the table, after everyone had gathered and thanks were given, I’m afraid that the feast I had spent all day preparing suddenly lost its appeal, especially where my stomach was concerned.
After pushing the food around on my place while trying to give the impression that I actually consumed some of it, I threw my napkin down on the still-full place and made as if to rise from the table, well before even the quickest of eaters had thought to go back for seconds.
A gentle touch to my shoulder made me turn, and when I looked up, it was Montana’s face I saw. "If you’re through, do you have a minute?" she asked quietly.
I nodded quickly, fully expecting to be the first tapped for clean-up duty. I didn’t mind, really, since it was another task which would hopefully keep my mind carefully numb. Holidays without the ones you love most deeply can be the most depressing of days. At least they are for me.
I know that sounds incredibly selfish and more than just a bit petty, and in many ways, it probably is. Looking back over that time through the wonderful gift of hindsight we’re all blessed with, I had so many things to be thankful for. I was free. I was warm, dry and well-fed. I was surrounded by people who loved me and cherished me for who I was. I was safe from harm and free from danger.
Why, then, did I feel so incredibly alone?
Rising to my feet, I followed close behind Montana. Instead of leading me into the kitchen, however, she instead ushered me down one of the darkened halls and into a room I hadn’t yet seen. Soft lighting glowed from a small lamp on an equally small table set next to a deep-set window, heavily shuttered against the blinding sun. The walls were a soft white, the carpet a peaceful pale blue. Bookshelves lined three of the four walls, and several comfortable looking chairs sat to either side of the table.
I loved it on sight.
Walking over to the table, she picked up the handset of a cordless phone, returned, and handed it to me, smiling slightly.
Taking the phone, I stared at her. "What do you want me to do with this?"
Her smile broadened, becoming a grin. "Normally, you put it up to your head and talk into it."
"Fun-ny." Even so, I decided to do as she suggested and put the phone to my ear. "Hello?"
"Hey."
My hand went numb and I felt all the blood rush from my face, leaving me slightly dizzy. "Ice? Is that really you?" Tears clouded my vision, but I didn’t care. I barely noticed as Montana quietly left the study, closing the door softly behind her.
"Happy Thanksgiving, my Angel."
"Oh god, it is you. Hi, sweetheart. How are you?"
"Doin’ alright. How ‘bout you?"
"I’m..." My throat closed for a moment. "I’m crying right now, but otherwise I’m ok."
"Don’t cry, Angel." The note in her voice only served to cause more tears to fall.
"No, they’re happy tears. I’ve just missed you. So much."
"I miss you too, sweet Angel."
The sound of breaking glass came over the line, then, followed by loud, masculine laughter and the slightly discordant strains of music. "Where are you?"
"Mexican cantina," came the succinct answer. "The Yellow Dog, if the missing letters are any indication."
"Charming," I replied, grinning like a madwoman behind my tears.
"Definitely high society."
More breaking glass, more riotous laughter.
"How are... things?" I asked finally, feeling like some absurd extra in a James Bond movie.
"Slow. Cavallo’s on the run. One of my ‘helpers’ tipped off the wrong man." The disgust was plain in her voice.
"Where are your ‘helpers’ now?"
There was a moment of silence, and I pi
ctured her craning her neck to see through the crowd. "About one tequila away from passing out. Again."
"And they’re supposed to be helping you?"
Her snort sounded softly over the phone line. "Guarding me, actually."
"That’s even worse!"
"Not really. It’s better for me when they’re out of my hair."
I sighed. "I suppose that’s true."
A silence settled between us then, though it was a comfortable one. That might seem silly, being quiet over the telephone, but since it was, at that point, my only connection to her, I took it willingly.
"Ice?" I asked when the sounds of laughter came through the line once again.
"Mm?"
"If those guys are as bad as you say they are..."
"Worse."
I chuckled. "Ok, worse. But... couldn’t you just... you know... give them the slip? Come back over the border? We don’t have to go to Canada. I mean, the desert here is huge. No one would ever find us. And... I really like it here. We could..."
"I can’t do that, Angel," her soft voice broke in.
"But why?" God, did I really sound as petulant as I thought I sounded?
"You know why."
"No I don’t, Ice. I don’t know why. You’ve got a chance to be free of all this. Why can’t you just walk away? It would be so easy."
"For how long?"
That question stopped me dead in my tracks. "What?"
"For how long, Angel? How long do we run? How long do we hide? How long do we look over our shoulders until some other well meaning neighbor does something without thinking? Until Cavallo finds our trail again and tries to finish what he started?" Her sigh was heavy and filled with emotion. "I won’t put you through that anymore, Angel. I won’t put us through that. Not anymore."
"But..."
"No, Angel. Whatever happens, it ends here."
A shiver ran down my spine at the chord of utter resolution in her tone. Running my free hand over a bare arm, I wasn’t surprised to feel the gooseflesh pebbling my skin.
"No more running, Angel." Her voice was hoarse, raspy. "No more."
