by Eden Royce
“Four years.”
“Too much.”
“For good?”
The floorboard in front of her mother’s room creaked and the whispers stopped. When Sandra, wrapped in an old fleece robe, came padding into the room her mother was alone and sitting on her bed, remote control in hand. The curtain at the window fluttered.
“Mom, the air conditioner’s on, why is the window open?”
“Sometimes I like fresh air. It can get stuffy in this place.”
She sat next to her mother on the bed. “Who were you talking to?”
“Talking to? Nobody.”
“I heard voices in here. A moment before I walked in.”
Her mother smiled the same way she had when Sandra was in grade school. The smile that was supposed to reassure her that the other kids teased because they liked her but didn’t know how to express it. “Just the TV.”
Sandra looked at the TV, its screen flickering with images, but no sound. The white curtain lifted, floating on the cooling night air. She crossed to the window and looked out, her fingers running over the sheer fabric. Nothing below moved.
“How come someone in this family is always in some mess?”
Her mother gave the same answer she always had. “We’re the Cases.”
“This was the right decision,” Sandra said, pulling back from the window and closing it. “Coming here.”
“I’m glad, baby.”
***
Sandra was finishing her jog as the sun crawled into the sky and the streetlights flickered off. She’d run an additional half hour, her heels pounding on the pavement, trying to get the past twenty-four hours out of her mind. As she rounded the path to her mother’s building a man stepped out from one of the patios.
“Robert,” she struggled for breath. “How did you find me? What are you doing here?” She wanted to run, but her legs were gelatin, wobbly and soft. Her energy was near gone—she didn’t eat before a run—and she’d saved enough to get back to the condo and fall into bed. Fatigue settled in her chest like bags of sand buffering against a hurricane.
Robert ran a hand over his bald head. “I’m just here to talk, Sandie.”
She hated that name now. It was the one he used when he brought home an extra steak for her black eye.
“I don’t want to talk,” she said. Instead of assertive, her voice came out breathy, winded.
“You sound so sexy, panting like that.” He stepped toward her, arms outstretched. “You can get me all sweaty if you want.” His grin was part mischievous boy, part feral wolf.
“No, I don’t think so.” The street was quiet, but the day was already warm. Barely dawn, the sun hadn’t completely chased the night away. No one was around as the community was mainly older retired residents, no one had to get kids on buses or beat the eight o’ clock traffic.
“This is stupid, Sandra. You’re the one who left me, but I’m apologizing.”
“You’ve never apologized to me. Not once. It was always my fault for getting you angry or moving your keys.” Her outburst took more of the wind out of her and she sagged against the column in front of the building entrance. “I don’t want to live like that anymore. Always wondering what’s going to set you off, because it changes every time. I can’t keep up.”
“It’ll be different, I promise. You know my job is stressful. When I come home and the house isn’t straight and food isn’t cooked, it makes me a little crazy.” He jiggled his keys in the pocket of his jeans. A quick glance around told Sandra his car wasn’t nearby. Or he had a rental.
“I could’ve handled things better.” This was Robert’s standard line, an acknowledgement, never an expression of remorse. “Come home.”
Sandra wiped sweat from her eyes, they were stinging and the dogwood tree-lined parking lot was starting to blur. “No, not this time. I want out.”
A visible darkness passed over his face. “You ungrateful bitch.” He grabbed her arm, lightning quick, and yanked her to him, ignoring her squeak of protest. “I came home to you every night. Do you know how many women throw themselves at me on a daily basis? To get out of tickets or not go to jail?” He tightened his hand around her wrist and Sandra could feel the bones grind together. “And what do I come home to? To a cold oven and a colder bed.”
She pulled at her arm, but he held it fast. He raised his other hand.
Headlights came on across the parking lot, illuminating the pair, and an engine started, making them both jump. Robert dropped her wrist and walked away as if he’d only been passing by. “Run, Sandie, run.” His taunts faded under the sound of an engine coming to life. She watched the Shaded Arches truck pull out of the parking space and turn in the direction her husband had taken.
Her mother was in the kitchen stirring a pot when Sandra stumbled in. The scent of microwaved bacon filled the steamy room as Mrs. Case filled two bowls with creamy white grits and dotted each with butter.
“What happened to you?”
“I just saw Robert,” Sandra wheezed and sank into one of the bar chairs, all of her adrenaline spent.
“How did he know you were here?”
“I don’t know, Mamma.” She didn’t have the energy to remind her mother about their earlier conversation, the house sale records, any of it. “I don’t know anything.”
“Call the police.”
“And say what? That I left my husband in Virginia, he came down here to find me and wanted to talk?”
“No, say he’s been beating on you since hatchet was a hammer and you can’t take it no more.”
Sandra stared at her mother, speechless.
Mrs. Case sat next to her daughter and answered her unvoiced question. “A mother always knows. Not sure how, but we always do.”
She lay her head on her mother’s shoulder and inhaled her gentle scent, gardenias and Tide. They sat in silence until Sandra finally spoke. “You got that from Gramma, didn’t you? I remember her saying it. Exactly how long has a hatchet been a hammer?”
“As long as anyone can remember. Since forever. Now, let’s go get breakfast instead.” Mrs. Case took off her track jacket to reveal a “Sexy Senior” t-shirt.
Sandra winced. “Ugh. How about we stay here forever?”
“I know what you mean, love, but that never solves anything, does it? You gotta go on living your life.” She looked at her daughter and pulled her reading glasses from her nose, letting them dangle from the beaded chain around her neck. “What are you going to do now?”
“I…I’m not sure, Mom. I feel like I messed up so bad this time that I can’t ever make it right.” A sob welled up in her throat, born of shame and embarrassment at having made the wrong choices, and she choked it back with effort. Her parents had made so many sacrifices for her over the years, working extra hours to send her to private school and driving her all over the city for various music recitals and plays she’d been in. They’d driven up to Virginia to help her move into her first apartment. That all seemed like so long ago. “I think I ruined my life,” she whispered.
Mrs. Case hugged her daughter close, then pulled back and damp tendrils of hair away from Sandra’s face, where they’d begun to curl. “No life is ever ruined until it’s all over. That’s when you have no changes left. You can recover from this. You’ll see.”
A light knock sounded at the door. “Don’t answer,” she pleaded with her mom. “Look through the peephole. It might be him.”
“Relax, honey. Must be Miss Maggie from upstairs. She said she’d come by this morning to bring me some article from the paper she wanted me to see.” Mrs. Case winked at her daughter. “We old ladies need to check on each other, especially when our kids live so far away.”
Instead of the elderly neighbor, Robert stood at the door. He took advantage of her mother’s shock and elbowed his way past her and into the condo.
“You can’t come in here. I don’t want—” Mrs. Case’s protests were cut off as Sandra’s husband shoved her away from him—hard. She
fell against the guest bathroom door and it yawned open. Sandra screeched as she heard her mother emit a cry of alarm, followed by a crack against the ceramic tiles and she started toward her. Upon seeing the rage in her husband’s face, she stopped short, then scurried away to hide behind the couch.
Robert made a beeline for his runaway wife as she tried to hide behind the sofa. “Did you think I wouldn’t find you? That I didn’t know you’d run off to Mommy?” He dragged the couch away from the wall and sneered as he dragged Sandra from her hiding place by her ponytail. “How did I find where she lives? Easy. House sales are public record, available to anyone that gives a shit. I didn’t even have to leave my desk to find out where you were. Where else would you go? You’re not the type to make it on your own.”
Sandra wailed until he slapped her, the pain halting her cries for a moment. He released her hair and she slumped to the floor. He grabbed her face, his thumb and fingers pressing into her jawbone and forcing her mouth open. “You got some nerve, bitch. Who do you think you are, huh? My wife. Mine!” Spittle flew into her face and she closed her eyes.
Robert tossed her away from him and she hit the wall, back first, and all of the air whooshed out of her lungs. Her high school graduation picture wobbled on its hook before crashing to the floor next to her. Sandra tried to pull in a breath, tried to get to her feet and stand, but she couldn’t move. She stared up at her husband as he marched toward her, reaching her side in three long strides.
Sandra could only watch as he reached down and hauled her up to her feet and higher, higher, until he pressed her against the wall of the condo with his hand around her neck. Her wind was back, but she knew better than to use it to cry out for help. Who would come? Instead, she could try to reason with him or keep silent.
She dragged her now rough tongue over her dry lips. “Robert, I…”
“You what?” He pressed in, using the weight of his body to add to the pressure on her windpipe. “What is it, Sandie? Are you sorry? For making me take time off work when we could use the money? How about for making me drive down here to get your ass and haul it back to Virginia? Are you sor—”
His voice slid into a scream as a well worn blade came down into his forearm, wedging itself deeply into Robert’s thick flesh. He howled and released Sandra and she dropped to the floor, her knees cracking on impact. Even so, she managed to crawl under the dining room table for cover. While there, she was able to get a good look at the hatchet’s owner.
“You. You go away,” the man said, his coveralls dusty and crusted with dried dirt and grass. He hadn’t come in the front door, Sandra thought madly. Did he? He was tall, taller than Robert even, with hunched shoulders as though he had tried to hide his size all his life. His hair was buzzed short, masking where his hairline had begun to recede, but the fuzz was a dark brown, making his sweaty scalp and prominent ears the focus. The rest of his face, thin lips and narrow, pointed nose—could pick a pea from a jug with that nose, Gramma used to say—was unremarkable save for the look of worry in his mismatched, yet earnest eyes as he wiggled the hatchet out of Robert’s arm and raised it again.
“Fuck you, you ugly fuck.” Robert said and pulled his service revolver from its holster. He aimed and squeezed off two rounds and the tall man jerked under the impact, releasing the weapon as he stumbled backward into the bar of the kitchen. The man grasped at the marble bar top to stop his fall, sending plates and cups crashing to the floor around him. Robert rushed up to the man where he slumped and kicked the body in the side with his boot.
Sandra cringed where she crouched under the table, knowing what impact those steel toed boots could have, as she watched her husband lean down to check to see if the threat had been dealt with appropriately.
Mom. She had to see if her mother was okay. Sandra had seen her fall, had heard the stomach-turning crack when she’d collided with the floor. She hadn’t seen if the crack had been a hip, or her head. At forty, Sandra knew the toll a fall could take, knew the aches and pains a sound punching left on her body. Her mother couldn’t take that at her age. The fall alone could have broken her bones.
No. It had been her choice to marry Robert. Her parents had been cautiously happy for her when she’d called to tell them, unsure at the reason for such a brief engagement period. But they were unsophisticated in the nuances associated with abusive relationships and did not know to counsel her.
In the back of her mind, she knew the signs had been there from the beginning: the way he’d dealt with the young barista for getting his coffee order wrong, bringing her to tears; the blatant disregard he had for the female officers; the way he spoke to his own mother. But her clock had been ticking, about to sound an alarm for end of baby-making time, and she’d heeded nature’s call to procreate. But in two years of marriage, no children had come. When she’d suggested Robert get tested for fertility, as she already had been, the first hit came. Of course, he’d apologized by explaining that he’d lashed out because of his shock and hurt.
Stupidly, she’d carried on with him, adapting her behavior with each hit, each round of beatings, trying to predict what would light the fuse of his anger, only to have it change before her eyes. Weeks would go by with no hits, then she’d forget to run the dishwasher.
No sound came from the bathroom. Mamma, she thought, I’m sorry to bring this mess to you. I should have left years ago. I should have reported Robert the first time it happened. I just couldn’t admit I chose the wrong man. There were so many choices she should have made. But there was still a chance to make this right.
Sandra crawled from under the table, her knees aching from where they pressed against the hardwood, and pushed herself carefully to her feet. She scanned the room for Robert’s presence. He’d satisfied himself that the man was subdued and was in the kitchen wrapping one of her mother’s good dishcloths around the wound in his arm. She walked, wobbly but determined, over to him. He watched her approach, gun holstered, confident he could handle her bare handed.
“Let’s go,” she said, surprised at the confidence in her voice.
Robert seemed taken aback as well, but that may have been the shock from his injury settling in. “Go where?”
“Let’s go home.”
He looked at her, suspicion clouding his squinty eyes. “What? You ready to go home now that your mutant in shining armor is down for the count?” He sneered before he nudged the man on the floor again with his foot. No response from the gangly body.
When she didn’t respond to his taunt, he continued. “How do I know you ain’t gonna pull this shit again, Sandie? Huh?” He reached out for her, then cursed again as the slice in his arm released another gout of blood.
“You leave my mother alone and you’ll never have to worry about me ever again. I’ll be the good wife you’ve always wanted. And then some. You let me check on my mom, and take her to the hospital if she needs it, then we will leave.” Sandra reached in the drawer and threw a clean towel at him. “That and you swear to never lay eyes on her again.”
“So you’re bargaining with me now?”
Sandra looked the man she’d married almost four years ago, where he stood in her mother’s beautiful new kitchen sweaty and bleeding, a look of hooded viciousness in his eyes. Like a dog that pretends to be friendly, then sinks his teeth into you once you’re comfortable and reach out to pet him. But she could handle this mutt by not giving him his treats, not giving him the fear he craved. Sacrifices, we all make them, sweet pea. Her mother had said right before the wedding. You just be sure to make the right ones.
Her stomach churned and she felt lightheaded, swaying on her feet from the overload of adrenaline and lack of food. She steadied herself by grabbing onto the faucet and leaning her head against the cabinet above the sink. “Yes, I am. Do you accept?”
Robert watched her, his eyes taking in everything: her exhaustion, her resignation, and he seemed to accept her offer. In fact, he looked like a man who had managed to storm the castle’s defens
es, slay the dragon, and steal the princess. “Yeah. Yeah, I accept.” His laugh came out as a snort and he wiped a viscous film of perspiration from his head with his undamaged sleeve. “I’m surprised that after all this you’re trusting me to keep a promise.”
From the corner of her eye, Sandra saw a flash of movement, possibly from the back bedroom or from the living room, it was hard to tell. She was so tired. Bone weary. Her head swam, but she was determined to do this. She could hold it together for a little while longer. Sandra stiffened when she felt Robert’s hand on her arm, caressing the exposed skin there. His rough caress moved up to her face, then to her straggly ponytail, which was now loose and floppy from his earlier attentions.
“Maybe was can start again, Sandie. You know, wipe the slate blank. It’ll be easier once we’re back in Virginia. When we’re home, There’ll be no one to bother us, no one sticking their nose in our lives. Maybe I can start to trust you again.” He ran his fingers down her neck and over down over her breasts. “Do you trust me, Sandie?” When his hands brushed over her throat, she winced. Robert pulled his hand away just as the butt of the hatchet crashed down on the back of his head.
“No,” Sandra said. A crunch like the crack of a lobster shell sounded in the room. His body went slack as he crashed to the floor.
“I thought you were going to chop his head off.” Sandra sagged against the bar top, and stared at her husband’s body, unsure if he was alive or dead. She trembled as she realized it might be the latter.
“No,” Mrs. Case said, lowering the hatchet carefully to the throw rug in the hall. “That much blood would have ruined my new floors. This is all hardwood, you know.”
“He made such a mess.” Blood was everywhere; pieces of glass and china figurines littered the floor. She looked around at her mother’s new condo and the tears burned her eyes. Her mother slid over and hugged her tight. “I’m so sorry, Mom. Your beautiful place is a mess.”
