Part 4 (1/2)

He looked up at the mishmash of clouds sprawled indiscriminately across the fading aqua blue sky. There was no break in the frigid temperatures forecast for tomorrow; only more of the same iciness.

”Was that your mother on the phone?”

Homer sighed as he turned to see his wife, Sandra, staring at him.

”Yes,” his answer came short and quick.

”What'd she want?”

”She just wanted to see how I was doing,” he answered impatiently as he continued to stare at her.

”What's wrong?” she asked frowning.

”I know you're not planning on leaving the house with that top on.”

Sandra looked down at the V-neck blouse she had on. It stopped three inches from her neck, barely revealing the edges of her collarbone. She frowned. ”What's wrong with this s.h.i.+rt?”

”Well, for one thing, your chest is all out.”

”No, it's not,” she said softly. ”You can't see anything.”

His eyes grew big. ”Oh, I can see plenty!” he said. ”And ain't n.o.body got time for that.”

”Whatever,” she mumbled under her breath as she walked out of the bedroom and sat down on the couch.

She tried to justify his comments by telling herself that he only said those things because he cared about how she looked. But a feeling of weariness had been festering in her. It was mentally exhausting to keep rationalizing his controlling ways by placing them under the guise of care and concern. She was supposed to be his wife, not his child.

She turned on the television just in time for the five o'clock news. The anchorman was talking about the payroll tax hike that went into effect in January, and how it had caused an estimated reduction in the average American worker's paycheck by almost $100 per month.

”Man,” she mumbled. ”Pretty soon n.o.body's gonna have any money but the rich!”

Homer had followed her into the living room. Although their immaculate ranch-style house was the smallest of the four houses on the cul-de-sac, it was large enough for the two of them.

There was a short foyer upon entering the house which led into a small living room on the right and a hallway on the left. The hallway led to a medium-size bathroom and one bedroom on one side, followed by another larger bedroom on the other side.

The small eat-in kitchen right off the living room had a door that led to a dark and seldom-used bas.e.m.e.nt. Sandra didn't like the bas.e.m.e.nt and never went down there. ”It has a dark vibe,” she'd said.

Homer was the only one who went into the bas.e.m.e.nt, and he did so whenever he had loads of stained clothing that needed to be washed. He'd throw the dirty clothing into an old was.h.i.+ng machine that he had placed beneath one of the two bas.e.m.e.nt windows. Yellowed sheets of newspaper covered the bottom half of one of the windows, and Homer had spent many days standing there watching as his neighbor, Tia, and her daughter, had come and gone.

”We're doing all right,” Homer said, bending down to rearrange the magazines on the coffee table. ”I have my accounting job, and that's more than enough.”

”I know we're supposed to be middle income,” Sandra said, ”but sometimes . . .”

Homer stood up. ”Sometimes what?”

Sandra rubbed her ear nervously. ”Nothing,” she said.

”No, what were you going to say?” he asked defensively.

”I'm just saying,” Sandra chose her words slowly, ”that if I got a job . . .”

Homer waved his hand as if he were backhanding a pesky insect. ”Don't start,” he said.

”I'm not,” Sandra said meekly. ”I'm just saying.”

”Not feeling like we're middle income doesn't have anything to do with you getting a job,” Homer said. ”The reason it doesn't feel like we're middle income is because that cla.s.sification is quickly becoming the low income just like they've been predicting in the news.”

”Yeah, well, this is Obama's second term,” Sandra said with a sigh of defeat, ”so I hope something changes.”

She continued watching the news as the anchorman began reporting on a follow-up story about three young girls who had been missing.

”The three teenage girls who had been kidnapped eleven years ago,” the anchorman said, ”were finally found when one of the girls was heard kicking and screaming at the back door of the house where they were being held captive for more than eleven years.”

”That's a shame,” Sandra said shaking her head.

Homer rubbed his head in frustration. ”Yeah, but that was nine months ago.”

She stared at him strangely. ”It just doesn't make sense,” she continued.

”What don't make sense is that they're still talking about it,” he said as he got up and went into the kitchen.

She looked his way again and frowned. ”That's kind of insensitive, isn't it?”

Ignoring her question, he hollered over his shoulder, ”When are you going to the store? I'm hungry, and sitting on that couch listening to the news is taking up too much of your time.”

”I'm getting ready to go right now,” she said. A smirk came to her face as she realized she still had on the blouse that he'd strongly insinuated she change. As she put on her coat, she felt like a child rebelling against a parent, but the realization that she was putting herself in the category of a child made her upset all over again.

She finished b.u.t.toning her coat. ”It's making me depressed too,” she said in reference to the news about the kidnapped girls. She and Homer had only been married for two years, and Sandra was glad they didn't have any children. ”Kids just ain't safe nowhere,” she mumbled to herself as she picked up her purse.

”Yeah, well, don't take too long,” Homer said as Sandra closed the door behind her. He watched from the window until she had pulled out of the driveway. Then he grabbed his laptop and went into the bedroom.

Chapter Eight.

Thank G.o.d for Wednesday night services, Lorenzo thought as Tia slammed the door behind her. He began his nightly routine of channel surfing until the soft voice of an elderly woman caught his attention. He turned up the volume and listened as she spoke about the hopelessness that so many people were feeling.

”We have an enemy in this world,” she said, ”and his name is Satan. Some of you may feel like no one loves you, some of you feel empty inside, and that emptiness is slowly killing you, and you feel like you're already dead so you think you might just as well give up because you just . . . can't . . . take . . . it . . . anymore.

”Then,” she continued, ”the enemy tries to make you believe that it would be best for everybody-especially you-if you just made yourself disappear. Just ended it all.” She looked straight into the camera, and Lorenzo gripped the remote control.

”But don't you do it.” She continued staring at him. ”Don't you believe it. I know the pain you're in, and G.o.d knows . . .”

Lorenzo turned off the TV. n.o.body knows the pain I'm in. He stared straight-ahead at the brown stucco wall. For years, he had yearned to tell his parents what had happened to him. Yet the story had remained untold. Now, after the unpleasant response he'd received from them, he'd decided he was not going to tell another soul what had happened. He wasn't even sure why he'd told them in the first place. Had he still felt the need for his parents' affirmation that he'd done nothing wrong?

Moisture began to acc.u.mulate in his eyes. He had hoped that by telling them, his burden would be released; that they would put their arms around him and tell him how sorry they were and how much they still loved him. Instead, he'd gotten just the opposite.