A Tortured Soul

by L. A. Detwiler

  Henry quiets, and after a long moment, I sit up, my head aching. I drag my worn-out body toward the dog, who greets me with a tail wag. I lean against him and clutch his fur. I cry into him as I think about what’s going to happen to me and wonder where it all went wrong. Then again, I consider as I rock my body gently in the dirt by the doghouse, I know exactly where this road to hardship started.

  WHY DIDN’T DADDY COME for this job? Why did he send me alone? It wasn’t like him to send me on errands, especially like this. He was always so careful with me. But that afternoon, he and Mama had been fighting more fiercely than normal.

  ‘Crystal, take the truck and get that tire rim fixed,’ he’d crowed at me as I sat on my bed, staring out the window when I was supposed to be reading. Monday evenings were reading time.

  ‘But I still have reading to do,’ I replied, looking at Daddy in the doorway. I could hear Mama in the kitchen, sobbing. I tried not to think about it. He took five even steps toward me, and my stomach clenched. Why did I say anything? At nineteen, you’d think I’d know better.

  ‘What was that, Crys?’ he asked me. I shuddered. I hated it when he called me Crys, but I couldn’t say anything about it. Mama always said Daddy wanted a boy. It was his way of reminding me of that—I was a mistake, an unwanted mistake. He hadn’t wanted a weak girl like me.

  ‘Sorry, Daddy. Of course. Right away. Where am I taking it?’ I asked. It was rare that Daddy let me take the truck. He’d taught me to drive at sixteen, but only as a precaution in case he needed a ride—or needed me to go out so he could do something more horrible to Mama than usual, something he didn’t want me interfering with. But it was rare I was sent out. He worried I’d get into mischief, even though I barely knew anyone to get into mischief with. At nineteen, my life revolved around playing secondary housekeeper to my Mama, church, and that was about it. I hadn’t done well in school, but that was okay. Mama and Daddy always said education was wasted on girls, that we didn’t need it anyway. I knew what my role would be someday. If I were lucky, I’d find a nice enough man who would provide for me. I would have a child, and that would be my purpose. Until then, I was trapped in this house following their rules—and their rules weren’t always the easiest. But I knew I was lucky to be safe, to be taken care of. Daddy always reminded me that I was lucky. Mama too. Lucky Crystal. So lucky.

  ‘Down to the Connor garage. He’s reasonable. Saw him at the bar yesterday, and he said he’d take care of it.’

  I studied Daddy, his jaw clenching in the telltale sign. I wasn’t a little girl anymore. I knew why he was sending me away. It had nothing to do with a truck he wanted fixed. It had everything to do with Mama and what he wanted to do her. I had lain awake plenty of nights, heard the yelps and the harsh words, heard the familiar sound of his fist hitting Mama’s flesh. I’d seen the bruises, the blood, the devastating reminders of the cold, harsh truth. But sometimes, Daddy’s whims were too dark for just a closed bedroom door between us. Even Daddy had principles, after all.

  We were the weak ones. Daddy was the strong one. We were at his mercy.

  I thought about saying no, like I wanted to do so many times. But what could I do? I knew all too well what price I’d pay if I spoke up. I wouldn’t be able to change anything. Worst of all, I knew the penance I’d do, not only at Daddy’s hand, but at Mama’s. Women obeyed. That was the law of God. It was best to keep my mouth shut and do as I was told. I wandered out to the driveway to jump into the beat-up pickup truck, studying the dilapidated house as I did. What had brought me to this life? Was this really it for me? I hoped there was something more for me out there. I prayed for escape.

  When I got to the garage and pulled up, I gingerly stepped from the truck and approached the garage.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I timidly said, standing in the doorway of the garage as the rock music blared at a ridiculous decibel. I leaned on the frame of the door, feeling nervous and out of my element.

  ‘Hello?’ I muttered again into the dark garage secluded on the windy path I’d driven down, away from town. Away from civilization, forgotten out in the middle of the woods. Beautiful in its own right. Peaceful and beautiful, the forest cocooning a tiny house like a magical getaway. Compared to the trailer court, it looked like heaven to me.

  Richard Connor meandered out from behind a car parked in his garage. I’d seen him before around town. He wasn’t exactly a secret, even though he lived out in an isolated section of town, trees and distance keeping him aloof from everyone else. In fact, he was quite the opposite of being a secret, his reputation marking him as infamous. Still, there was something about him that made my heart flutter as he walked toward me, oil and grease covering his shirt. Maybe it was his dark hair or his tan skin. Or maybe it was the way his muscles bulged beneath his shirt, a tight body that screamed power. Maybe it was that he was tall and walked with a sense of confidence, of purpose, I’d rarely seen and never experienced. Or, in truth, maybe it was just the fact that in Richard, I saw something that I was so desperately craving at nineteen: an escape route I was frantic to claim.

  ‘Can I help you?’ His voice was gruff but silky in its depth. Richard Connor was an enigma, even from the first moment he spoke to me. I liked the mystery that crept around his edges. I felt my chest tingle.

  ‘My dad said you were going to help fix the truck? Denny Holt?’

  Richard put down the wrench with a clink, walking closer to me, his eyes drinking me in. Suddenly, I felt underwhelming in my long skirt and turtleneck sweater. I felt like a stumbling fool.

  ‘Ah, yes. Denny. Not a problem. I can fix it, but there are two conditions,’ he said as he appraised me. He stopped in front of me, much closer than any man had ever stood. My breathing intensified.

  ‘Yeah?’ I said, trying to play it cool.

  ‘One, you tell me your name. And two, you stay and keep me company. Gets pretty lonely around this here garage, you know?’

  I smiled, his own grin warming me. The song changed on the radio, and I realized it was actually a song I knew. I felt at ease.

  ‘I’m Crystal. And yes, I’d love to stay. Where else would I go?’ I asked, shyly. I tried not to think about the questions Daddy would ask if it took too long. I would worry about that later.

  ‘Good. Come on. I’ll set you up a chair,’ he replied, grabbing my hand and yanking me into the garage. The touch of his skin, ragged and rough, the hand of a true man, sent electric warmth through me. It wasn’t the hand of a boy like Timmy Grenshaw, the boy who had tried to kiss me last year in the hallway after school. No, this was different. Richard Connor had strong hands, ones that could save me. I was entranced. I was sold. I was taken by him before I could consider the danger of it.

  I didn’t care about his reputation or that he wasn’t the kind of guy Mama or Daddy would approve of. Something told me Richard wasn’t a God-fearing man, but I liked him all the more for it. Maybe, in truth, I liked him for what he represented—a true rebellion against the ideals of that house I was being held basically prisoner in and the repression of parents who made me feel weak. Following Richard into the garage, suddenly I didn’t feel feeble at all. I felt alive. I felt vicariously strong through him. I felt like for once in my life, I could make my own choice; I ached to be autonomous, for better or for worse.

  ‘So, I’m sure a gorgeous thing like you has a boyfriend, right?’ Richard asked, and I stared into his eyes, the darkness of them speaking to me.

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘You a virgin?’ he followed up, playing it off with a smile. I blushed, not expecting the question.

  I nodded.

  ‘Interesting. Very interesting,’ he whispered, putting a hand on my waist and pulling me in. My heart raced as I thought he might kiss me, but then, before I knew it, he started singing loudly to the radio, pulling away as he jumped in the car parked in the garage and pulled it out, his driving reckless enough to startle me.

  I sat on the metal chair he kindly set up for me, wonder
ing what path that night would lead me down—and wondering if Richard Connor could be the man to rescue me from the house of horrors I was used to. Maybe he was the one I’d been praying for. Sometimes hope and rescue come in very unexpected forms, after all.

  PATTING HENRY ON THE head one more time for confidence, I say goodbye to the stars, goodbye to the memories, and stand up on my two unsteady feet.

  Sometimes hope and rescue do come in very unexpected forms, I remind myself as I breathe in and think for a fleeting moment about what I’m going to do.

  Chapter Three

  10 hours later: Tuesday Morning

  I unfurl the corner of the rug, smoothing out the tasseled ends as I try to put every single string in place. My knees ache from the gritty, splintery texture of the living room’s wooden floor. Richard refers to it as rustic, but I’ve always thought it was just plain ugly. Not that I would dare suggest that, of course. I straighten out the tassels into the rigid line like I’ve done so many times, each thread lined up with precision. Everything always has to be in its place.

  I sigh, thinking about the mundaneness of the task. In light of everything, it seems so arbitrary to worry about the rug, but I can’t help myself. Maybe it’s a good thing that I’m thinking about something besides all that’s transpired since last night. I feel maybe it’s a sign. Maybe I’m going to be okay.

  At the mere thought of him, though, my gut clenches and I feel as though I might be sick. I have to shove the fear aside. I have to be strong. I can’t do this again. Richard said over and over I need to get on with things, that I can’t keep crying. Maybe he’s right about that, even if I don’t want to admit it. It’s time to get on with it all. What choice do I have?

  I pluck the rag from the bucket and wring it out, the scent of bleach no longer assaulting my nose as I take the container to the bathroom to dump the grimy water down the drain. My hands sting, pruned from scrubbing all of the floors for the past hour, but I relish the feel of it. It’s familiar, the notion of being productive, worthy even. There’s nothing like the smell of fresh bleach, of laundry soap, of lemony freshness to make me feel valuable. The house might not be majestic or perfect or flashy, but it’s spotless, as spotless as it can be at least. I always make sure of it. I might not be able to control much, but I’ve always regulated that. I learned early on that my survival depended on it. Setting the bucket aside, I stand at the threshold, taking inventory of the house.

  Good as new—as new as 414 Peacoat Drive will ever be. Our humble abode, of course, had been a source of tension between my parents and Richard when we got married. Daddy didn’t feel the tiny shack-like ranch and detached garage was good enough for me—ironic, since our one-bedroom trailer was hardly a castle, and Daddy was never the doting type. Still, maybe it’s every dad’s right to judge the next phase of his daughter’s life and to emasculate the man she chose, even if she wasn’t exactly a daddy’s girl. And even if the man she married wouldn’t dare let anyone emasculate him.

  For all their differences, Daddy and Richard have their commonalities, some dark and some not so dark. They’re both inarguably clean freaks, or rather, demanders of cleanliness. Neither liked a messy house, although arguably neither ever did much to contribute to an orderly living space. They instead rely on the women in their lives to pick up their messes, to clean up where they couldn’t. Until the day Daddy died, Mama did everything for him. She was his caretaker, his servant, his worshipper in all ways. He wouldn’t have it any other way. I wonder if this is my fate, too.

  It’s one of Richard’s many ticks, his expecting everything perfectly clean. It’s one of the things I’ve just learned to accept. In truth, Richard’s obsession with cleanliness is one of the easiest to deal with. He likes things spotless and orderly. He expects things tidy and methodical and, with little else to occupy my days, I’ve obliged. Not that it’s a bad thing. Cleanliness and godliness and all of that good business Mama had instilled in me over the years. It’s hardly Richard’s worst attribute, after all.

  Truthfully, I’m fine with cleaning. It’s what I’m good at. There are, I suppose, worse occupations of one’s time, and there is something therapeutic about feeling the rag between my fingers, of washing away the filth in the house. Of wiping away everything I can, leaving nothing remaining like a great disappearing act.

  Even if I wasn’t a woman who liked cleaning, I would have learned quickly during our early months of marriage that it isn’t always about me. Marriage is a sacrifice, and Richard always makes sure I understand that tenant fully.

  Tears trickle now without warning, as they so often do ever since last night. Tears over everything that has gone wrong. Tears over everything that won’t be. And tears over everything I can’t quite set right. Then again, I think, as I wipe at my eyes, maybe I can.

  As long as he doesn’t show up, I can set things on a different, better path. I can make it all okay. I can serve my purpose and rise up. It’s a thought pattern that dares to conjure up a foreign sentiment in my dented but still beating heart: Hope. Nevertheless, the cold, harsh truth rips through me like an icy, winter wind. The bitterness of it stops my breath, causing me to lean hard against the threshold, clutching at my shirt and clawing at my heart.

  Hope never flies very far from Peacot Drive. I crash back to the muddied path, my heart denting a little bit more. True, Richard is missing, disappearing into the night like he’s done time and time before. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to think about last night, about those fingers around my neck. I shove aside the aftermath of what happened, of the horrific feelings that overtook me. I wipe away the tears, knowing I need to be strong.

  Richard’s not here. I woke up from a restless sleep this morning to find the house still and quiet—and empty. His truck is gone, slipped away into the darkness of the night. Even though I should be worried, terrified even, a sense of peace takes over. Maybe this is exactly what I need to heal, to be okay again.

  After all, I really shouldn’t be worried. Richard’s done this so many times. His truck is gone, off to another town with better booze and better women. I’ve grown used to it over the years, and so has everyone else. No one will blink an eye at the disappearance of Richard. It makes me feel a little bit sad for him—just a little. Out here on Peacot Drive, I’ve got nothing but silence. My only company is Henry. I’ve got all of this space, all of this empty space, to figure things out. For once, I’m thankful we live so far out from town.

  Still, there’s the sense of foreboding that this will end so differently than all those other times. Maybe it’s because of the anger from Richard’s reaction to me claiming Gideon, or maybe it’s just that I’m feeling unbearably frail. Regardless, I’m rightfully on edge. Any second, he will end all of this. He will show up and destroy me for good. He will certainly be coming any second now. He has to be. I can’t help but feel like this temporary reprieve from Richard, from my life, will be short-lived. How long could it realistically last? A few hours? A few days? Eventually, he’ll come through that door, and it will all end there.

  And what can be done about it, really? Hope hasn’t clouded my vision after all. I never let it creep too far in. It is a tempting mistress so many lust for . . . until she shanks you in the gut. I protect myself against her, let reality guide my life. I know I’m nobody special, nobody strong. I’m a weak woman who depends on Richard for everything. For years, I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s no escaping it.

  I should at least enjoy the limited time I have to be free, though. I should be thankful for the reprieve, for the gift. I know it will be tough. I’ve never been good at doing things on my own. In truth, I’ve never had much practice. I’ve always been under the watchful eyes of Daddy or Richard, except for the benders Richard goes on. But there’s always the knowledge that he’ll come back. I think that’s why he’s okay with disappearing at random. Richard knows he still has control of me, even when he’s not here—the knowledge that at any moment, he will return has always k
ept me honest. He keeps me on a tight leash even when he’s out of town. And really, where could I go? I have no money of my own, no place to go, no life to build without him. I’m tethered as tightly to Richard as Henry is to the tree, but I lack both a foreboding bark and a set of puncturing teeth.

  Nonetheless, things feel different this time, no matter how much I try to convince myself it’s all fine, that this is just like the other times. Things don’t feel exactly right. Who am I kidding? This isn’t right. It will probably never be right again. I tremble, feeling like any second, that door will fling open and I’ll be back on the ground, staring up at a starless sky this time, no fireflies in sight.

  I’d thought about leaving the house for a while, of wandering into town, of maybe looking for a new dress or something of the like to take my mind of things. But I knew it was a terrible idea. I can’t leave, not now. He could be here any second, and how would that look? How would he react? I would look guilty as sin, and I’d have to explain where I’d gone. I might not be the smartest woman in the world, but even I know that wouldn’t be a good thing.

  I tell myself to take a breath and then another. I remind myself it will be okay. This is nothing new. Richard’s pulled this kind of thing before. In fact, a few hours missing for Richard is nothing, absolutely nothing in the scheme of things. How many weekends had he left for a bender, only to come home two or three nights tops, demanding dinner on the table and inspecting the house to see if it was clean? Or how about the time last year when he owed Blinky McMann four hundred bucks for a brake job gone bad, supposedly, and had left for four days? No one will be worried about Richard Connor, that is for sure. And I shouldn’t be either. He might be missed only because he is always causing such a scene in the town—and also because he is the cheapest garage in Forkhill. But no one will blink an eye. No one will worry.