I take in the torn clothes, the remnants of the shirt he was wearing when he left the house this morning, and his dark head pressed into the welcome mat.
He moans, and I stumble forward.
“Pelo!”
I grab his arms and pull him inside. He’s only wearing one shoe and it gets caught on the threshold, the heavy wood trying to shut over his broken body.
“Rosa,” I managed to whisper. “Can you get Mama a washcloth from the bathroom?”
She nods sternly and toddles off.
I flip Pelo onto his back and almost wish I hadn’t. His face is a painting of the punches it’s taken. His skin awash in blood. He tries to speak but his lips are too swollen and shredded. His words don’t make any sense. Oh Pelo, what have you done?
I don’t wonder who did this to him because I am absolutely sure he brought this on himself.
Again, he murmurs something inaudible. I go to press my finger to his lips but stop just short of touching the purpling flesh. It’s angry, cut ragged from something sharp. Not a knife, it’s too messy for that. My mind conjures a plank with nails protruding from one end; my mind also conjures a group of men tired of Pelo’s ranting, of his anti-Superior attitude. Not because they don’t feel the same way as him but because they’re not stupid. They know the one man standing amongst a crowd of men kneeling, is the man most likely to be shot down. Pelo knows it too, he just doesn’t care, and that’s why my anger swells.
One eye is swollen shut; the other is roaming around the room like it doesn’t know where it is. A tear of pain slopes from the corner of his eye and falls onto the carpet. My eyes widen in terror at the stain that’s blooming under his head.
“You need to move, Pelo. The carpet…” My voice sounds shrill and panicky, a hollowed-out flute robbed of music. He tries to nod and pushes his legs until at least his head is bleeding onto the tiles.
A wet cloth is slung onto my shoulder. The cold water seeps into my nightdress, and I shudder.
“Is this Daddy?” Rosa asks, squatting down and angling her head curiously. Now that she can see his face, she’s confused.
“Parts of him.” Pelo laughs, then coughs and winces all in one expression.
Rosa looks at me seriously, her face creased with a directing frown. “Put him back together,” she says, standing and placing her hands on her hips, balancing unnaturally on the balls of her feet.
I shake my head and clamp my hands together.
“If you go to your room until morning, I will try,” I attempt to say as calmly as possible, though it sounds more like pleading gelled with fury. But she nods and leaves us.
I lean down, trying to see through the red splashes and hacked skin to the person lying on my floor. My hand is shaking. Not from fear anymore but from pure anger.
I snatch his collar in my hands and lift his lolling head. I want slap him. I want to add insult to injury. Injury to injury. Because he has put all of us in danger.
Through hissing teeth, I say, “How could you do this?”
One eye blinks and he gurgles, “It got out of hand. They were trying to provoke me…” he started.
I let his shirt go suddenly, and his head falls to the floor with a dull thud. “And just like always, Pelo, you took the bait. You’re going to get us all killed.”
He closes his eyes, huffs as if he’s had enough of me, and waves his hand over his chest. “Please, Esther, not now.” And he passes out on our floor.
I like him like this. With his face slack and his eyes closed, I can almost forget the dangerous thoughts that lurk behind those eyes. His peaceful expression, however crusted in blood and shaded with bruises, is beautiful.
As he lies there unconscious, I slowly clean his face, trekking back and forth to the kitchen to rinse and warm the washcloth. I squeeze it out and sob as I watch his blood rush down the drain. Then I suck it back in so I can attend to him. Once he’s clean, I lift his heavy head and place a pillow underneath. My hand comes away wet and so quickly, my stomach can’t find its resting place. I hold it, threatening myself not to fall apart. For Rosa’s sake, I have to stay calm.
He mumbles the words, “Children should be free to make their own choices,” and I sigh hard like I’m expelling bricks of stress from my lungs. He. Will. Never. Change.
It’s three am before I’ve managed to scrub the blood from the carpet. The blue-gray has mixed with the red, leaving a swatch of purple the color of the marks on Pelo’s body. I pick up the lounge room rug and drag the corner over to cover the stain; it still blushes out the sides a little. I shrug. I’m too tired to care.
He’s making strange sounds in his sleep. Rattling, rasping noises like there’s something puncturing his lungs, or something clogging his airways. I imagine a snapped rib pressing against the inside of him, and my anger liquefies to panic. Because I can’t take him to hospital, and he would never agree to the other option.
I stumble down the hallway, holding my heart like it might pulse too hard and perforate my chest. He’ll be okay; he’ll be okay. It beats. I want him to be okay, I tell myself. Because I’m starting to understand that as much as I need him, he’s a danger to me and to Rosa.
Cardboard ripping grabs my attention as I pass Rosa’s door. She’s tearing her creations to pieces and piling them in the center of the room. It’s a toppling tower of scrunched-up paper higher that herself. It looks like raked leaves in the dark. I wish it were. I want to go back, before this, when she would play in the yard and mess up my piles of leaves. Before she saw this. My first reaction is to scold her for making a mess, but I soften when I hear the sniffing and see her damp face lit up by the orange safety light. Her eyes look brown in the dark. The light gives the illusion of flames licking up the curtains; her heathen-like expression makes me smirk as I can very well imagine her dancing around her cardboard crafts, lit on fire. My mind feels wild with fire too. I’m struggling to understand how I can be so angry, so scared, and so in love all at the same time.
“What are you doing?” I say, crouching down to her level and gazing into her strong, determined expression.
“Daddy’s dead,” she says angrily, pulling another piece of cardboard from her rocket ship. It makes a sound like corduroy ripping, and I put my hand up to still her.
“Daddy’s not dead, darling, he’s just… hurt,” I say, gripping her bony little shoulder.
“Hurt now, but soon he’ll be dead,” she says stubbornly, and I’m not sure what she’s talking about. Is she saying he’ll die from his injuries, or does she understand that one more ‘incident’ like this and he will probably not come home? We’ll see him in the circle. They’ll make us watch… I stumble over the last few thoughts, not really willing to form them properly.
I gather her up and lay her in her bed. “Daddy is fine. He will be fine,” I say, I pray, I wish. But I’m not fine, and I’m not sure what to do.
For now, for tonight though, I will tuck my daughter into bed. I will grab a pillow from our bedroom, drag the quilt to the kitchen floor, and lay beside my husband. When the sun rises, light and truth will come pouring through that window like spears, and Pelo and I will have the biggest fight of our lives.
Chapter Six
I roll onto my side, reaching for the warm, battered side of my husband, but touch only worn, cold linoleum. A clatter above jolts me up, and I’m staring at Pelo’s legs and looking at his dark head cutting through the sunlight streaming through the window. His surprisingly upright body is hunched over the kitchen sink as he washes a coffee cup.
“Morning,” he says brightly but forced. I return his greeting with a scowl. “Please, darling, don’t be like that.” His expression is pleading, his voice a promise I’m not going to fall for.
He takes a jerky step towards me and I can almost hear his bones clattering inside him, not fitting together properly anymore. His knee buckles a little, and I shuffle back. He’s trying to pretend that he’s okay when he’s clearly not. When he bends down towards me, his face pales and his bo
dy wobbles. My resolve softens around the edges.
“Pelo, you need to lie down before you fall down,” I urge quietly. I expect the totter of willful feet thumping down the hall but hear nothing. “Where’s Rosa?” I ask, jumping to my feet in alarm. My heart sinking as the very real possibility that she’s been taken from us surfaces.
“I sent her next door so we could talk,” he says, stumbling to the kitchen table and nearly falling over, as gray-green as the walls. “I figured you’d have something to say to me.”
I rush to him, because even though I’m angry, I still care about him. I still want him here with me. I just wish…
I wish things were different. I have an empty wish that my life wasn’t wrapped around others. That I didn’t have to think about what was best for our family, our daughter. But no one else is going to do it. I try to stay angry by not looking at his proud, purple face.
I hold him steady as he collapses into the chair. My thumbs press into the sides of head, and he moans in pain. “What are we going to do?” I say breathlessly, still staring at the wall, avoiding his eyes. “You need to see a doctor and you can’t. Pelo, you’ve left us stuck here with no way of getting out or getting you help. Did any officials identify you before you got away?”
He shakes his head or at least tries to, but I’m squeezing him too tightly. I drop my hands and walk to the kitchen. “It will be okay,” he whispers.
It’s never okay. “You always say that and everything is… for a while until the next fight, the next speech…” I sigh and dip my hands into the cold dishwater. Rosa’s plastic cups float and knock against each other, the dull clunking sending an ache right through me. I’m so confused about what I should do, what the right thing to do is. “You could have been killed, and then they would come after me, after Rosa…” I gulp and say, “Even if you don’t care what happens to me, think about her, your daughter.”
At this, he seems to react. His head falls down, he makes a small, sad noise, and I’m almost happy, because it gives me hope that maybe this time, I’ve actually got through to him. That I’m not thumping on the other side of a brick wall with no one to hear me.
“Pelo, please, for the sake of our family, you have to stop.” I keep talking, taking my hands out and wiping them dry on a tea towel. He is quiet, hopefully thinking over what I’ve just said.
I start to feel guilty that I’ve hurt him. He can’t help how he feels. He can’t help but fight for something he believes in so very much. I pad over to where he’s sitting and wrap my arms around his shoulders from behind. I kiss the top of his head. He doesn’t move.
My stomach inches towards my throat as I draw my arms back, and they are stained red. I rush around to face him. His chin touches his chest, blood pours from his nose. He is unconscious.
I don’t hesitate. I call the only person I know who will help us.
“How long has he been unconscious?” Paulo asks as he pushes through the door with his physician behind him. He pulls his shirtsleeves down crisply and buttons his jacket. He sniffs the air and pulls a sour face.
My wide eyes lift to his, and his face relaxes. “Don’t worry, Esther. I’ll take care of this.”
Wind blows through the door, sending leaves scuttling across the carpet. They dance over Pelo’s motionless, but breathing body, which I managed to drag to the living room floor. “He’s been unconscious for about fifteen minutes,” I manage, my head darting back and forth between the two of them. Paulo looks so put together. Classically handsome and stern. Pelo is a sprawling mess.
The physician bends down and checks him over as I hold my breath.
Paulo comes to stand next to me, taking my hand between his and rubbing gently. It’s unnerving that it’s reassuring. “When is this going to stop, Esther? He’s a danger to you and your daughter,” he murmurs, and it sounds like more between the words. It sounds like an invitation.
I pull my hand from his like it’s a trap. “He promised this was it. The last time,” I lie.
Paulo’s laugh is cold, hard, and disbelieving. “He will never change and you know it. You remember the first time we met? You were running from a group of angry citizens because of something he’d done. That was five years ago and look where we are now.” He gestures around our small home as if it disgusts him.
I smooth my hair down, suddenly aware that I’m still in my nightdress. I run my hands over the fabric. He takes a large step closer, his face still edged in hard lines, but a slight softness to his eyes when they alight on my face. “Don’t worry about your clothing. You look beautiful, Esther. Too beautiful and sweet to be with someone like him.” His eyes darken as they pass over Pelo’s motionless body.
I shrink, but he doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t seem to care. He puts a hand to my face. It’s warm, strong. Safe. Safer.
The physician shouts from the floor, “He’s going to be fine. He’s sustained a concussion. The blood was just a dislodged clot in his nose from the beating. He should be moved to bed though, and you’ll need to watch him closely for the next twenty-four hours.”
My eyes slide to the quilt still strewn across the kitchen floor. Paulo’s eyes follow. “If you were with me, you wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor. I would take care of you, and his child,” Paulo says, his eyes fierce with jealousy. I shouldn’t have called him.
I lean into his hand because I don’t want to make him angry. Then I lean away because the way he makes me feel is confusing and wrong. “I’m married, Paulo. That hasn’t changed… it’s… it’s not going to change.” His eyebrows arch at my stuttering words.
The physician interrupts us. “Mr. Amos, can you please assist me? I need to carry him to the bedroom.” Paulo nods without taking his eyes off me.
“I have time. I’m not interested in anyone else. I know you need me. I know you need someone to take care of you.” He hefts Pelo up under the arms and the physician takes his legs. “I’ll wait.”
Tiny bumps rise on my arms, and I swallow.
I feel offended and yet curious, wondering what it must be like to have someone ‘take care of me.’
I shake it off and follow them to the bedroom.
When Pelo awakes, both Rosa and I greet him with relieved expressions, perched on the end of the bed. As directed, I have watched him closely. Neither of us has left his side. He tries to speak, but his voice is cracked and dry. He looks so small, huddled under my homemade quilt cover. His hands neatly stacked over each other. He actually looks regretful, not willful for once.
He reaches for the glass of water on the bedside and takes a sip.
When he’s done, he sighs and then smiles wide, wiping away the regret I thought I saw. I lean away, doubtful, but Rosa crawls across his legs and plonks herself in his lap. He groans at the impact of her body but manages to chuckle, smoothing her hair down lovingly.
His eyes find me, causing that cartwheeling in my chest I sometimes wish I could derail. He beckons with a bruised finger. “Come here. I want both my girls.” I move to his side reluctantly and he slings his arm over my shoulder, pulling me close. He wraps the other arm around Rosa, squeezing us all together in a hug. I want to believe in this moment. I want the wheel to keep spinning even though the spokes are missing.
“I understand what I almost lost,” he says seriously, gazing into my eyes. “I promise you both, this will never happen again.” He sounds so sure. So honest.
Rosa nuzzles into his chest and smiles. I stroke her ratty hair and press my ear to Pelo’s heart, listening to the sporadic beating, the fastness, and the unpredictability of it.
I choose to believe him.
Chapter Seven
He snores. Something came loose in his head that night, and now his breathing whirs like a blender rotor with nothing in it.
“Pelo,” I say, touching his angular shoulder, “I need a glass of water.” He grunts.
I slide gently from the bed, the sheets slipping from my bare arms, my skin prickling with deceit. I should
feel guilty, but I don’t. He doesn’t.
Cool metal beckons. The slice. The sharp. The calm. I look forward to this time. I try not to look to deeply for the reason.
I tiptoe, though I know it’s unnecessary. He trusts me. He’ll continue to whir, to dream when I’m gone. So will she.
Bare feet press into the worn carpet, searching for earth, for blades to bend underneath. I creep to the kitchen, moonlight cutting window shapes on the floor. Stooping down, I withdraw the garden shears from the bottom drawer, pulling them through my hands, my fingers coming back oily and smelling of sap. I smile a secret smile.
Pressing them to my thigh, I pad outside.
It’s after midnight. Bugs swarm around the lonely, golden streetlights and buzz around my feet. From here, I can pretend they are something different, stardust from one of Rosa’s books. Something magical, something hopeful. They are the only witness to my one act of defiance.
In the night, in this warm air, I feel stronger. When no one can see me, I am stronger.
Standing on the concrete path, rocking back and forth, I listen to the loose paver grate against the gravel. I take a steeling breath. It shouldn’t scare me to do this. It’s expected. Yet, it goes against Pelo’s wishes.
He hates the Pau Brazil tree. Rosa too. She frowns every time she passes it, like it offends her in some way. But I like it. The way its insubstantial trunk supports such a burst of thick foliage, to me, seems impressive. To Pelo, it is just another reminder that we are being controlled. “It’s not native to Russia. It’s a hypocritical way to remind us where we’ve come from when we’re not even allowed to acknowledge our roots!” he would say.
I bob my head and swallow. It shouldn’t be this hard. But every week, I feel the same. Scared, strong, scared, strong.
The moonlight shatters over the glossy leaves, strong wins, and I step forward.
The Willful Page 3
