Part 7 (2/2)

Five more pills taken, and the day came when Thom had scheduled his meeting with his father. We didn't make love that morning, though he woke up ready and Lord knows I was willing.

”Game day,” he said, like he was back in college and this was a morning after one of the first nineteen times we'd made love, all the times before he'd first hit me. Back then we were still busy being pretty for each other. I think even then I knew a day would come, a lost game, a failed test, when I would needle out the Thom I had seen at the diner. The one who had banded with Rose Mae to play a cruel trick on his own date.

One day he dropped an easy interception at a practice. Later, when he couldn't get my bra unhooked, I stepped away and turned to face him. I reached for it myself, saying in a sly voice, as thin and sharp as needles, ”It must be national fumble day,” and he backhanded me across his small dorm room.

He stared at me, shocked at himself. Rose Mae, banged loose, opened her b.l.o.o.d.y lips into something that was half grin and half snarl. ”Not the face, baby. What will the neighbors say?”

This morning, though, that Thom was far away, and I was done calling him. Thom suited up, khakis and a power tie, a navy sport coat pulled on over his starched white s.h.i.+rt. He left with his head set to a c.o.c.ky angle.

I was full of ants. I phoned Mrs. Fancy and canceled morning coffee, not fit for even her easy kind of company. At two, right when his meeting started, I pulled my secret stash of votives out from the bottom of my tampon box and lit one on the tub rim. I prayed for a long time, about fathers and justice, calling on Saint Joseph. I felt my prayer was heard, but the air stayed still, unmoved by saint breath. I was glad. Beckoned saints belonged with my mother in California, a place that I would never go, in a future I would not step toward. I put out the votive and prayed the rosary for good measure.

Only once through. I thought Thom might come home early, right after his meeting. I wanted to greet him at the door, off my knees and smiling. By three-thirty, I'd sprayed Lysol to cover the sulfur smell the match had left and put away my rosary, hoping this might be the last time I had to hide it.

He didn't come. I thought sure he'd at least call, but four P.M. P.M. came and went with no phone ringing. came and went with no phone ringing.

I started to feel a green and mossy sickness slow growing in the pit of me. I ran the vacuum over my already clean carpet and told myself no news was good news. I told myself he wanted to see my face when he came in, smelling like win, carrying sparkling wine and field daisies. At five, I went and got my green bottle of c.o.ke out of habit, though Lord knows I didn't need the caffeine. I drank it while I prepped scalloped potatoes and put pork chops in marinade and chopped up mushrooms and bell peppers and tomatoes for a salad.

Dinnertime came, and he still wasn't home. I quit hoping it had gone well.

I decided maybe it was good he'd stayed away. He was walking it off. He was making plans. He was getting a leg up on job hunting. In my opinion, leaving Grand Guns altogether would be fifty times better than a raise. I ate a piece of bread and opened another c.o.ke to settle my stomach. I walked from room to room like a restless spirit haunting my own house. Gretel followed me, pressing against my legs every time I paused, her eyebrows so worried that eventually I put her out in the back.

It was after eight when at last I heard his Bronco pull into our drive. I ran for the door, then stopped and went instead to the sofa. I perched myself on its edge, spine straight like a schoolgirl's. I held my warm c.o.ke in one hand, its base resting on my knee, and waited for Thom to come in and tell me if it was half-full or half-empty. The drapes were closed over the picture window. I sat myself as still as I could and listened for the sound of his keys jangling against the door.

He walked in like his whole body was made of springs. His eyes were too bright, as if he had fever. I found I was making myself be small, sinking and curling back into the cus.h.i.+ons. I thought, No No. We have promised to be different now We have promised to be different now. It had had been a promise, those shy declarations that we would try, exchanged over meat loaf. For the last six weeks, we'd treated those words as solemnly as the vows we'd recited in front of his father's Presbyterian minister. I tried not to think that those un-Catholic vows had been worthless, too, in G.o.d's eyes. been a promise, those shy declarations that we would try, exchanged over meat loaf. For the last six weeks, we'd treated those words as solemnly as the vows we'd recited in front of his father's Presbyterian minister. I tried not to think that those un-Catholic vows had been worthless, too, in G.o.d's eyes.

He stood still in the center of the parquet island.

”It's done,” he said.

”Good,” I said, neutral. ”Good for you. Are you hungry? I can have dinner on the table in half an hour, maybe less.”

”We compromised,” Thom said, never his favorite word; in his mouth right now it sounded downright filthy.

”That's wonderful,” I said, hating the fake of it, the forced chirp I heard. Here I was again treading careful with my husband, and I made myself stop bright-siding before I found myself dancing, as eager to please as an organ-grinder's monkey. It was fine. He was tense, but a talk with his daddy was always a challenge.

”You did a hard thing, and I'm proud,” I said, and that was true.

”Here's what he he decided,” Thom said, and I didn't like how he pushed down hard on the word decided,” Thom said, and I didn't like how he pushed down hard on the word he he, like Thom himself hadn't gotten a say. ”He says, when you get pregnant, then my salary moves up halfway toward what I want. After the baby, we get the other half,” Thomas said. ”That seems fair, right?” he said, not like he was asking really, but as if he was ordering me to sh.o.r.e him up. says, when you get pregnant, then my salary moves up halfway toward what I want. After the baby, we get the other half,” Thomas said. ”That seems fair, right?” he said, not like he was asking really, but as if he was ordering me to sh.o.r.e him up.

”That seems perfectly fair,” I said, although it didn't sound so much fair as it sounded like Joe Grandee demanding to stand in our bedroom with a metronome, setting the beat while we made him a grandchild. Thom seemed to know anyway, like he could hear the thoughts under my words. He looked at me with his eyebrows beetling down and his mouth set so firm, it was a lipless slash. I saw his pulse in his temple and the curl of his hands, and for the first time since summer I felt a trickle of scared dribbling down my spine. It pa.s.sed a bright drop of Rose Mae's excitement, going the other way on the same path.

”I've got me one bad-a.s.s headache. Can you keep it down in here if I go back to sleep?” Thom said.

I could see how on the fence he was. We'd been here before, and I could push him either way. I felt Rose unfolding, creamy and pleased and ready for her boy, the one I loved, the one she'd love to shoot. I knew what to say. Sure, sugar, have your nap, but then can you run retrieve your b.a.l.l.s from out of your daddy's pocket? You'll need at least one if you're gonna give me that big money baby. Sure, sugar, have your nap, but then can you run retrieve your b.a.l.l.s from out of your daddy's pocket? You'll need at least one if you're gonna give me that big money baby.

That would tip him over, surely. I could see how bad he wanted me to say it. It would be permission. More than that. It would be an invitation. Rose Mae wanted it as well, to step out of dreams about Jim in the green woods and be present, wanted me to push him so he'd push back. She wanted me to admit I knew the silent, secret thing she'd planned.

He waited and I waited.

I didn't say it. I didn't want it. I thought, This is my last chance, if I want to be Ro Grandee. This is my last chance, if I want to be Ro Grandee. I thought of how sweet Thom could be with his brother's roly-poly boys, and I wanted the last six weeks to keep going on forever. I kept my mouth shut and nodded. I thought of how sweet Thom could be with his brother's roly-poly boys, and I wanted the last six weeks to keep going on forever. I kept my mouth shut and nodded.

Still he didn't move. He stayed on the parquet square. His hands were at his sides, but his fingers stayed slightly curled, yearning to be fists.

”I'll keep it so quiet for you,” I said, and my voice came out sweet, barely above a whisper. My heart had to work, beating hard to make my scant and shallow breath be enough to go around. He didn't move, and my body released a clammy, instant sweat. Thom stared at me, and I waited, slick and trembling. Finally he nodded.

”Okay, then,” he said. It came out sounding defeated, but I heard it as permission to exhale. ”I just need quiet.”

I nodded, dead silent, and he turned to go. The moment I saw the back of his blond head, my spine became a noodle. I felt like I'd been through a siege and the last forty seconds had taken a solid hour. My fingers were made of jam and string; I thought I might drop my half-full c.o.ke. I picked it up off my knee and set it on the end table beside me. My hands were shaking, and I misjudged the distance. I heard the overloud clack of gla.s.s bottle on the wood. We both did. It went off like a gunshot in the silent room.

Thom turned back to me instantly, a fast wolfy wheel-around. He thought I'd meant to bang the table, and I saw the ugly relief spreading across his face. He came at me with total purpose. He came so fast.

Adrenaline dumped into my blood. I leapt off the sofa and took off, the c.o.ke bottle still clutched in my hand. I hadn't made it three feet before he reached out and tangled his fingers deep into my long hair. He dug his hand in close to the scalp, then fisted it. He yanked me through the air back toward him, and I felt and heard the rip of a thousand different hairs tearing loose at the roots. I think I screamed.

My feet lost all purchase with the earth, and my body swung back toward the fist coming to smash into my back beside my spine. My back bowed like my body was trying to fold wrong-ways around the blow. The air pushed out of my lungs, out of my very blood. The world went dark red and I was spinning, dangling by my hair like a punching bag. His other hand came toward me again and again in fast, hard jabs, thumping into my hip, my side, my gut. He hit me so hard that the swing of my body away unbalanced him, and he had to step in closer. I felt my feet touch ground, but he still had half my weight and my scalp felt torn and I could hear my hair still tearing.

It was close to stopping then. I felt him s.h.i.+ft to stopping. But my hand was still curled around cool gla.s.s, and I was at Cadillac Ranch, looking for my mother, remembering how it felt to swing. The gla.s.s had s.h.i.+vered into something like a weapon. I smashed the green c.o.ke bottle into the middle of his face with all the force I had. His eyes widened and I saw surprise, then disbelief. Blood came out of his nostrils in two shocked jets. Then his eyes were animal eyes, and I couldn't see my husband at all.

He shook me by my hair, and I felt more skin and hair ripping from each other. I screamed, and he shook me and shook me, and inside I could hear all my bones jangling together. I lost my grip on the bottle as he hit me and kept hitting me until I lost time and myself and there was only him hitting me.

I think he threw me then. I hung in s.p.a.ce for one cool, unrippled moment, and then a wall rose up and stopped me hard and I slid down it.

I couldn't find up, but from sideways I saw how he ran at me and kicked out. I folded around the jackhammer of his foot. Something stabbed me in my side, as if his shoe had been tipped with a white hot blade. My chest was burning. I couldn't breathe. I heard my screams stop, and all I heard was whooping bird noises as I gulped at air and got nothing and whooped and got nothing. He kicked my shoulder, and my head snapped back into the wall again, and I was falling into some black and airless place where there was only someone small and lost, done playing, hurt, wanting her mother to come and get her.

Choose him, the gypsy had said. She had flipped the cards for me, and I had done it wrong. She was saying something else, something urgent, telling me to pray to Saint Cecilia, but all I could hear was Thom's voice saying, ”Dammit, Ro... Ro? Dammit.”

I couldn't answer either of them. I could only make that awful bird noise again, that whooping. I recognized the sound. It was the sound of me not breathing. Not breathing was a hazy place, and pain was a box of kittens who had curled up all around me. I could feel warm, furry pockets of them pressed into my ribs and back and hips and belly where his fists had touched. Still more nested in my hair and wrapped around one shoulder like a stole.

”Ro?” I heard him calling to me from far away. His hard voice had unraveled. He was ready to let his fingers drift gentle down over me, searching under my skin to see if my bones had cracks. He wanted to kiss the hurt places, and his eyes would be full of sorry.

I couldn't answer. I had no breath, even to say I hadn't pushed, that this day was on him, only him. I felt an airless coiling in the s.p.a.ce where there had been spent peace before. It was Rose Mae Lolley, saying they were my cards after all. She remembered crouching in the ditch at Wildcat Bluff. For a moment she had owned my hands, and if she'd had another second and a half to aim, we wouldn't be here now, not breathing. She raged at me for failing. I tried to hold myself still, to stay there in the woods and be Rose Mae, to do it over, to claim the cards as mine, to choose him and not me. I tried to stay. It went black anyway, and I was gone.

I woke up smelling antiseptic and the fermenting tang of yogurt.

”There you are,” a woman said. I knew the voice. Even more, I knew that strawberry-vanilla breath.

”I fell downstairs,” I said to the ER nurse I hated very most. The words came out creaky, automated.

I heard the cluck of her tongue, and I managed to slit one eye to see her lavender scrubs and her moistly sympathetic eyeb.a.l.l.s, too close to my face as she bent over me. I heard the tick and beep of some machine.

”You could have died, you know,” she said. ”He's getting worse. He's come pretty close to killing you before, but not this close. You should let me call the cops.”

I tried to nod, but it hurt too badly, so I said, ”Okay. Have them arrest the stairs.”

Her nostrils flared. ”This isn't what love feels like, Mrs. Grandee. One of your ribs snapped and stabbed you in the lung. It collapsed. Your shoulder's dislocated, and your scalp's a b.l.o.o.d.y mess. You married a set of stairs that's too d.a.m.n big and too d.a.m.n angry. Next time, he'll send you here in a zipper bag. The cops will come then, believe it, but it will be too late for you.”

”I know,” I said.

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