A Tortured Soul

by L. A. Detwiler

  Richard would be furious if he knew I did a man’s job. It makes him feel emasculated when I repair things around here. He does the fixing. He has very clearly defined jobs and roles in the household, as do I. I need to leave them be. I stare at the door, thinking. He’s gone. I don’t need to leave them be, do I? Maybe I can’t fix the bigger things just yet, can’t solve all the problems I have. But I can fix a flawed handle. Should I? Should I do it?

  It seems so senseless to worry about something so trivial. Still, I let my mind crawl over the thought for some time, wavering back and forth over what to do. Finally, I decide to give in. I grab my keys and purse from the counter, in their familiar spot. I head out the screen door and let it slam shut. We never lock the door. There’s no need. But I pause, turning to stare at the house. I think today I should lock it. Just to be safe. I should probably lock the door. Yes, yes. I need to.

  I lock the door after struggling to turn the key. It’s been so long since I’ve had to do this. Have I ever? I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve gone into town by myself. Two years? Three? Even last year, when Richard disappeared for four days, I wasn’t brave enough to go. I was too afraid. I must be a fool. I must be losing it. Maybe it’s all the blood loss or the grief. I don’t know, but there’s no turning back now. My mind is set on it. I’m going to do it.

  Maybe I should check the garage first. Maybe some of the tools I need are out there. Richard doesn’t like it when I go in his garage. Maybe I shouldn’t go in. I twiddle my fingers in anxiety. He wouldn’t be happy at all. But he’s not here, I remind myself. I could just take a quick peek around, see if there’s anything in there that could be of use.

  I head down to the garage, my hand freezing on the doorknob. I take a deep breath. It’s all okay. It’s not a big deal, I remind myself. It’s going to be fine. Just a garage. That’s all. I’m just getting some tools. It’s not like it’s a crime.

  I walk into the garage, the smell of oil and gasoline overpowering me. I glance around the shop, dirty yet somehow orderly, too. Richard likes order. I saunter over to the toolbox in the corner. I have no clue where to even start. I’ve never searched through his things. Richard never lets me in here. I start pulling open some drawers, glancing at all sorts of tools. I don’t know my way around the toolbox or even where to begin. Still, I can’t stop myself from glancing through them. What am I even looking for? I don’t know. My breathing is ragged.

  Focus, Crystal. You can do this.

  I open drawer after drawer, looking at all sorts of sockets and wrenches, screwdrivers and other parts. I come to the bottom drawer and peel it open. I freeze when I look down and see it. I stare, wondering if I should look in the envelope. Unmarked, stuffed in the bottom under some tools, it sits, begging to be opened. My hand gingerly reaches inside, touching the wrinkled paper envelope. I pull it out and peer inside.

  Wads of green bills sit inside, crisp and untouched. My eyes widen. More money than I’ve seen flow through our house, sitting right here, piled away under tools. What is he doing with all this? And more importantly, where did it come from?

  A moment of indecision. What to do with it? I think about shoving it in my pocket, taking it inside. It could help me. It could solve a lot of problems, couldn’t it? It could open doors I thought could never open.

  It might be a partial ticket out of here. Couldn’t it? Couldn’t it help me? For the first time, I see something creeping in, something I usually stomp down.

  Hope, relentlessly resurrecting itself once more.

  Money can’t solve everything. But it could be a start.

  I know it’s a risky move. There are still so many other variables to consider. I have things to get ready, things to finish, before I even let myself dream of the possibility. And who knows how much time I have to work with? There’s no way I could pull it off before he comes—could I?

  And what would I do with the freedom? With the escape? Wouldn’t he eventually find me? And then what would happen to me? It’s all so mind-boggling. It feels like a bad crime novel, but one where the plans don’t work out perfectly. This is more than just buying a train ticket and some hair dye. This would be forever, and I don’t know if I’m brave enough.

  Am I?

  I stare at the money, the crisp paper feeling uncannily warm between my fingers as if it really is igniting something within. It quickly sizzles though, marred by reality and a lifetime of harshness.

  Even if I did find a way to make the money work, to get out of here, it’s dangerous. What is the money from? I don’t know what Richard’s been up to, but I don’t want wrapped up in this. He’d never let me get away with this, whatever it is. After a long moment, the feeling of hope settles right back where it belongs, right where it always goes to hide when the reality of my situation sinks in. I sigh, tucking the envelope back as a new question surfaces.

  Who is my husband? And what is he really doing in the garage? They’re questions I should’ve been asking for years but am only now starting to.

  I decide that whatever I need, I’ll find at the hardware store. I have to get out of here. I can’t be spotted in here. I’m walking out toward the front door when I stop again. My stomach plummets once more. There, in the inside corner of Richard’s office, sits an unassuming yet familiar hammer. The handle is worn and dirty, decades of use wearing on the unsuspecting tool. It lays underneath a shoddy table, out of view.

  But, by the head of the hammer, blood pools. Bright and oozing, the puddle spreads on the floor. This is bad. This is really bad. I stand for a moment, trying to calm myself. It’s fine. Richard obviously just hit his hand. Maybe he just hurt himself. That would explain it. But that’s a good bit of blood. A hit hand wouldn’t explain that away. I stand for a long moment, wondering what I should do. Should I leave it be? Or should I clean it up? This doesn’t feel right at all. He wouldn’t be happy with that mess, though. Richard never liked a mess, after all. He wouldn’t just leave a bloody puddle in his garage, his prized possession.

  After a long moment, I decide that I must take care of it. He can’t come here and find the garage like this. Things will be so much worse for me if he does. Thus, I trudge to the house, digging out the bleach and the bucket, taking a deep breath once more. I can do this. I can take care of this, I reassure myself. I utilize the next half hour to tenaciously scrub the floor, getting rid of the congealed puddle. I assure myself it’s fine even though I know deep down it isn’t.

  After the blood is gone, I decide to stow the hammer in the toolbox. I put it in the bottom drawer, right on top of the envelope of cash. Would Richard be able to tell I was in there? I don’t know. But there are bigger issues right now.

  Maybe the true danger is just beginning.

  I refocus, drawing my attention back to the screen door as I take the bucket and rag inside to rinse out. The screen door still needs fixed. I’m shaken from the discovery in the garage, both discoveries, but I settle myself down. It’s okay. It’s all okay. One thing at a time.

  I decide that I do need to head to the hardware store to get some tools. They’ll be able to help me, and I’d rather have new ones. I don’t want to go back in the garage unless I absolutely have to, I think with a chill. I relock the door, head outside, and hop into the truck. Richard, of course, always takes the red truck out of town when he leaves. It’s his favorite. The blue one is still here, though. I will myself to remember how to drive. Sometimes Richard has me drive him to the liquor store when he doesn’t want to. But it’s been a while. He typically only lets me drive at night when no one will see him being driven around. After all, he says, it doesn’t do for a man to be driven around like some fairy by a woman.

  I back down the lane, pointing the truck for town. I feel a little bit excited. I’m all by myself, and it feels good. Still, the farther I get from the house, the more my nerves creep in. Can I really leave? It feels unnatural to be this far away. I feel so out of control, which is ridiculous. I’ve never been in contro
l, have I? Nonetheless, out here, I can’t watch things. I can’t keep an eye on how it’s all playing out. I can’t watch for him. I don’t like the idea of returning home and being surprised. What would he do to me? Would I be able to play it cool? I don’t know.

  I follow the familiar route to town, looking at the trees surrounding the lane. It’s been so long since I’ve been out. The last time I was out like this—my hand goes to my belly. Tears threaten to cascade down, but I stop them.

  ‘Stop it,’ I shout to myself, slamming a hand on the steering wheel. ‘Breathe. Don’t think about it. Just don’t think about it. Breathe.’

  I inhale and exhale slowly, feeling the weight of the air drifting out of my lungs. I bite my lip, trying to calm myself. As I come to a Stop sign at the end of the lane, I reach for the knob on the radio, turning it up. The familiar rock band comes on, the one Richard loves. I turn the music off. I’d rather listen to silence than that song. It takes me back to a dark place, bad memories assaulting me. I shake my head. That won’t do either. What will do these days? I don’t like who I’m becoming or what life is becoming. The eggshells I’m precariously trying to walk on now feel even more delicate than when Richard was home.

  A few moments later, I’m mercifully saved from the inner monologue rattling me as I pull into Pete’s Hardware. I put the truck in park, pulling the emergency brake on. I glance at my eyes in the rearview mirror. They are bloodshot, and the bags under my eyes really are noticeable. I haven’t thought this part through. What if people ask questions? True, I haven’t been in town for a while, but Pete knows me. Everyone knows me in this town. Everyone knows Richard. I’m not ready for the questions, the assumptions, the pitying eyes. I’m sure talk of the baby has swirled around. Sharon certainly couldn’t have kept it to herself, could she? I don’t want to deal with that. I just can’t. And what if people ask about Richard?

  Ridiculous, I remind myself. It hasn’t even been that long since he went missing. Not like anyone will notice. Sure, the bartenders will wonder why his familiar stool is empty, but that’s about it. No one will miss the town drunk, the town mischief maker, the town wreck. And even if they do, it’s not like he hasn’t done it before. Besides, it’s not like I know anything anyway, I remind myself.

  The pool of blood in the garage, though, comes floating back. I shudder at the thought, shirking it off. It’s all okay. It was nothing. Nothing at all.

  Still, it’s the fear that they’ll know about Gideon, that there will be pity in their eyes. I see it every time I walk into town. Their gazes fall upon me, and I know what they’re thinking. There she is. Crystal the weak. Crystal the abused. Crystal the powerless. I used to see it as a kid, and then, after I got married, I saw it even more. People like to stare and assume. But they don’t like to step in.

  I open the door to the truck, figuring I may as well go in before I lose my nerve. I just need to gather the needed items, pay for them, and get out. No one’s going to say anything. People know better. They’re afraid of Richard, after all, even if they won’t admit it. Wouldn’t do for it to get back to him that they’ve been talking. I lift my head with a little bit of confidence, but my eyes don’t leave the ground. Old habits die hard. I tell myself to stay calm, but my damn hands are shaking. There’s no stopping them. I hate this.

  The bells tinkle on the door as I wander into the foreign territory. In truth, I really don’t know what I’m looking for. The fluorescent lights reflect off the shiny linoleum in mesmerizing and disorienting patterns. It smells like rubber and oil simultaneously, and my nose turns. I’ll just snatch up a bit of everything that grabs my fancy.

  ‘Hi, Crystal. How are you?’ Pete asks when he sees me. He stands behind the counter, the lights from above shining off his bald head. He’s worked here for as long as I can remember, and I glance up to see the familiar smile. I don’t see the pity I’d feared. I just see Pete. I remind myself it will all be okay. No one’s going to ask anything.

  ‘Fine. I just need some items. Broken screen door,’ I mutter, grabbing a shopping basket as I march to the back of the store. My breathing increases. Why am I getting so stressed out? Why is it hard to breathe all of a sudden? I need to get it together. Going to the hardware store isn’t a crime, even if Richard would have me believe so.

  I nod in assurance at what, I don’t even know. I plod to the back of the store, looking at the bolts and screws, assessing what size I might need for the screen door. I try my hardest to walk the aisles of the small store serenely, reminding myself I need to stay calm as to not draw attention. I don’t want Pete telling him about this if he gets the chance. He won’t be happy to know I was out and about, buying this stuff. It won’t help my case, that’s for sure. He’ll be suspicious and question me about why I had come here.

  It’s innocent enough, though. What could Pete really tell? Of a housewife coming shopping for some tools and supplies to do some repairs? What’s the harm in that?

  Nothing to see here, thank you very much, I say internally, almost smiling at the words. I raise my head a bit more, taking in the sights of everything around me. Wire cutters and hammers and drills and all sorts of things I haven’t ever had a need to buy. This is a man’s world, but today, for just one moment, it is also mine. For a startling minute, I realize I like the feel of that.

  Maybe it is just that the metal and vices and piping have nothing to do with my domestic side, the side tied to the baby, the thought of which sends radiating pain from my heart outward. Perhaps I like being here, my hands feeling the wrenches and pliers with a craving to hold them, because it is so foreign to my world—and right now, I am certainly playing a foreign role.

  I’m not Crystal Connor, the subdued wife of Richard. Sure, it’s temporary. He’ll be showing up any day, any hour now. But for the moment, I can play the part. For now, I am free, my sweet innocence running wild into zones uncharted.

  Even though I know it’s wasteful, I make a rash decision. It’s foolish, truly, because I must be careful with money. There isn’t much left in the coffee can I robbed earlier, and I don’t want to touch that money from the toolbox without knowing what it’s from or if I might decide to use it later. I shove the thought of it aside. But I just can’t leave all of this behind. I need that feeling of all of the items in my hands. I fill my basket with item after item, glee filling my heart in an unsettling way as I consider the possibilities.

  What’s wrong with me? Lord, I need to get home. I need to open the Bible. I need to pray. But right now, prayer won’t soothe my soul. It’s the set of items that Pete scans and places in the bags that makes me inexplicably happy.

  ‘Fixing something?’ Pete asks.

  ‘Screen door. And a few other things that need taken apart around the house.’ I answer too quickly. Pete studies me, and I feel for a moment like maybe he knows more than he should.

  ‘Richard going to take care of it?’ Pete asks warily. I notice his eyes fall to my stomach, assessing it. I pull my sweater around me, shuddering under his look. My eyes return to the floor, and the confidence that surged a few moments ago disappears.

  I make a noncommittal noise that could be taken as a yes. I’ll let him take that as a yes. Pete halts our nonsensical dance around personal topics and totals my items. I hand over the cash, and then I take the bag of miscellaneous tools and items I barely know how to use. I guess I’ll have to learn. I need something to keep my mind off it all. Maybe I’ll just do some practice, first. I can’t screw this up. It would be such a disappointment to miss the mark on this.

  I carry my bag to the truck, my hand absentmindedly drawn to my stomach, the place where sweet Gideon was not so long ago. Tears well. I hate that Pete reminded me. I hate that wordlessly, he can remind me of what I’ll never, in truth, forget.

  Gideon’s gone. I’m empty. Things will never be right.

  This bag of tools can’t make it all okay. There’s no fixing what’s broken in the house. But I guess I have to try. That’s all I can do
is try to repair what I can. Loading the bags into the truck, my heart quickens. I feel the sudden need to get home. It’s like I’m being pulled there, like something is telling me to get there fast.

  He’s coming. I know it. And I’m not there. There will be no stopping him now. I need to get there and face up to what he’ll think I’ve done. I grit my teeth. I don’t know if I’m strong enough. Not after Gideon. Not after all I’ve lost. Can I really keep this up?

  I start the truck hurriedly. I don’t know what will be there when I get home. I don’t know if he’ll be there, waiting in the kitchen, his judgmental gaze perusing me. He’ll lean in close and tell me the news I’ve been terrified to hear for so long, the words that there’s no recovering from.

  I could end it all here, I consider. I could find the strength to hit the gas pedal, speed off into the distance, and never look back. But where would I go? How would I survive? And what would become of me?

  I can’t do it, I admit, as the truck points toward Peacot Drive. Maybe I’m not really that strong after all. My blood itches with a need to be there. I need to be there. Maybe it’s Gideon calling me there, pulling me there. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m not finished with my to-do list. Before I hit that gas pedal and leave town—which I’m still not certain I’ll do—I need to get so much in order. It makes my head spin. Am I smart enough to pull it off? Calm enough? Do I even have the resources? That’s a topic I’ll have to tackle later, if he doesn’t show up first. It’s probably a waste of time to dream about freedom, after all.

  I’m coming, I assure my son as I stamp the pedal down harder, heading back to my now self-afflicted imprisonment. I’ll do what I need to do. After all, maybe there’s still some fire left deep down if I’m just brave enough to find it. And maybe I can set things right, set things into motion where they should be. I’ll chase hope later, if I have time and the ability.

  I go home to begin the tasks I need to complete, the tools heavy in my hands, but not as heavy as the heart within me. It takes me a long while to get it all done. I’m inexperienced, after all, and even though I try to shove them aside, the tears creep in as I’m completing the job. I hate that I cry. I hate that weakness. But it’s to be expected, I suppose.