by Harry Kraus
He stood just enough to see over the bush again. Lena was stretched out on the couch reading a dimestore romance with a couple clutched in a tangle of desire on the cover. From his vantage point, he could almost make out the title. She wore only a short summer nightie and had her hair up in a thick, blue towel. He squinted at her flimsy top which was buttoned only partway above her slender waist.
John ducked down again, his heart racing, his conscience screaming. Whatever stupid curiosity had brought him this far had to be controlled. He couldn’t just knock on the door and ask her how she was doing. And the more he looked at the size of the truck in the driveway, the more he could imagine the gorilla that must drive it. Claire hadn’t really mentioned what he was like, but no one would be happy to see a man peeking through the window at his wife. No, he needed to retreat to a safe spot to watch until he returned, or just get out of there to the safety of his car so he could get back to Stoney Creek. Life was too short to be pulverized for being a Peeping Tom.
He dashed back across the yard in full retreat, not bothering to avoid the sticks which snapped under his feet and set off the braying of the hounds. He prayed they were chained or behind a fence somewhere out of reach. He slowed only when he’d reached the mailbox again, covering the one hundred meters faster than he’d run since college. This is insane! He chided himself. The love of that woman has finally driven me to the brink and beyond.
He sped up again to jump the driver’s door. He landed in his convertible with his foot squarely on the ring box on the center console.
He slid into his seat and picked up the felt box whose lid was now twisted at an odd angle and flattened by the impact. He felt like cursing. This was supposed to be a night for celebrating. Instead, he’d spent the night alone, fantasizing about what might have been, fighting off voyeuristic urges, and smashing Claire’s ring box. It snapped open at an odd angle. In the dim light, the setting appeared unscathed.
He wanted to laugh, even cry, but at the moment, he just felt a little stupid. He took a deep breath and switched his ignition far enough to run his CD player. There, in the stillness of the little logging road, he answered the symphony of insects with the quiet music of the opera.
He tilted his head back to still his racing heart and lost himself in the anguish of the song.
L’amore ésvanito. Love is gone.
Il mio cuore non canterá mai piú. My heart will never sing again.
Non tenere stretto l’amore. Don’t hold tight to love.
Se lo lasci libero, tornerá da te. It will return if you only set it free.
John took a deep breath and let the music transform him, letting the emotion of the music nudge his soul to the edges of human emotion, from anguish to love and back again.
He listened with his eyes closed, aware of only the song. As he listened, he shut the little box in his hand and gripped it as he began to sing.
Lascia libero l’amore. Let love go.
Cosí prenderá le ali e tornerá. Give it wings so it will return.
Lasciolo in libertá. Give it freedom.
Dagli il volo. Give it flight.
John’s heart thrilled. His grip tightened on the little box, as tears could not be held back behind his eyelids. Emotion was leading.
He started the car, still clutching the box, and slowly backed onto Briary Branch Road, intending to leave. Then he paused, accepting the message of the music.
He’d wanted to reclaim Claire as his own. Love had driven him to spend countless hours helping with Wally, to move to a small town, which meant spending more of his work week on the road. He loved her. He wanted her. But he’d lost her. She wasn’t going anywhere close to that genetics clinic anytime soon. And as far as John was concerned, that meant the ring wouldn’t be hers until she did.
Claire was like a beautiful dream. But the dream was fading with the reality of the approaching dawn. The music swelled. His emotions rose with each gripping phrase, until he was experiencing each note, his soul buoyed and crashing with every rise and fall of the melody. The words were not just those of the wail of a man’s lost love. They were John’s words, the song speaking to him, a song played on the strings of his own life, a song of tragedy and sorrow.
L’amata mia é andata via. My lover is gone.
Lascia libero l’amore. Cosí prenderá le ali e tornerá. Lasciolo in libertá. Dagli il volo. Let love go. Give it wings so it will return. Give it freedom. Give it flight.
John mouthed each word as his hand weighed the little ring box. He glanced at the crimped box, a metaphor of his ruined relationship with Claire. The felt was soiled from mud, the top unhinged and dented. This ring was for Claire McCall, intended for no one else. “Let love go,” he sang.
Then, with the swiftness of a dove flushed from its roost, he launched the box from his hand into the dark thicket. He watched it fly in a high graceful arc, then lost it in the trees. He would not be bound by love. He would let Claire go.
John depressed the accelerator, and let the music guide him home.
Lena turned her attention away from the novel in her hand to listen to old Jeb, Billy Ray’s best bear bagger. She didn’t even know what kind of dog he was. She only knew if Billy Ray cared for her half as much as he did that dog, then everything would be all right. Old Jeb treed six bears for Billy Ray last fall, three times what he was allowed to take, but he’d gone right on hunting, leaving long before sunup with his new pickup and his little satellite dish tracker and heading up the logging road somewhere below Blue Knob. There, he’d fix up old Jeb with a transmitter on his collar and let him go with the rest of the nameless hounds. Then, Billy Ray would sit in his truck and drink his favorite beverage until the dogs stopped moving. Lena heard that even old three-adjective Eddie had killed one last year. And if he could do it, there couldn’t be much in the way of brain cells required.
Old Jeb brayed again and made the fine hairs stand up on the back of her neck. She didn’t like it out in the country so far, alone at night. Every time old Jeb would bark, she imagined some large animal on the prowl, or worse. She knew it wasn’t rational to worry so. But she’d seen enough of the big bad world on Oprah to know that she wasn’t the only woman in the world with justified fears of men.
And so she retreated back into her fantasy life after Jeb settled down, whatever rabbit or possum smell he’d remarked about having drifted on by. She looked at her nightgown. She’d worn the short one, planning for a little romance once William Raymond returned from the office. Once she’d even let it slip, telling Billy Ray how he was finally home from his hospital rounds and where would she put all the flowers he was constantly bringing her? He’d looked at her funny and said he wanted to play doctor all right. She’d giggled and taken him in her arms.
But she’d seen less and less of Billy Ray lately. And more and more of William Raymond. It seemed so much nicer when Billy was gone. Oh, he was perfectly fine when he was sober—a perfect . . . well as perfect a gentleman as any man living in the shadow of Blue Knob could be. But when Billy Ray was drinking, he was a different cowboy.
And so tonight, she turned her attention from Jeb’s barking to the novel in her hand, and played the game that made her life tolerable. She’d played it so well lately, and so often, she was having a little trouble separating the two. She looked down at the novel in her hand. I’m sure all the doctors’ wives will be raving over this at the next book club. But I suppose William won’t let me go. He’s always insisting on taking me off to the country club for dinner.
She fluffed the pillow beneath her swollen ankle. If I had just stuck to my guns and refused to go to the Alps skiing, I wouldn’t have to be sitting here alone while my friends are at the club.
Lena read until eleven, and then started dreading Billy Ray’s return. The later he came in, the more time he’d have had to drink.
She brushed out the tangles in her hair, then hopped to their squeaky double bed and collapsed into a fitful sleep.
In the
early hours of the morning, she heard thumping on the front door. It was a playful rhythm. “Knock, knock-knock, knock-knock . . . knock-knock.”
Billy Ray must have lost his keys again. Well, he’s out of his mind if he thinks I’m going to hop out there in front of Eddie dressed like this. He’ll just have to figure out I’ve left the back door unlocked for him as usual.
The thumping stopped, and she listened for a while, drifting back to the edge of wakefulness and slumber. Billy Ray must have gone to the back door. At least he’s trying to be quiet. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing herself to rest, concentrating on her fantasy world where life was easy. Sleep rescued her as she dreamed of William coming home . . .
Sharp neck pain compelled her back into consciousness, suddenly aware of the weight of someone smashing her head into her pillow. She tried to scream. I can’t breathe! Facedown, she gasped for air as her head was snapped back by a hand in her hair. That’s when she took in her first scent of him, the stale stench of whiskey, an unmistakable Billy-Ray trademark. She screamed, “I’m sorry I didn’t come to the door. I didn’t want Eddie to see me like—” Her head slammed forward again, this time knocking the headboard.
For the next moments, Lena fled into a world where little girls are never mistreated by their fathers, where flowers grow, and rain, when it comes, is always gentle and soft. It was the imaginary world where William Raymond protected her from harm and caressed her cheek when she cried.
Her own scream jolted her back to reality. The weight lifted. And he was off, finished with his need for control. She glanced at the full-length mirror by the bed. The only image she had was a reflection of him dressing to leave. He looked back at her, illuminated only by the moonlight through the window. He was wearing a mask! Not like a bandit, but more like the ones she’d seen doctors wear on TV or at her dentist’s office. She dropped her head back on the pillow and began to sob. Was this some kind of a sick game for him, a drunken version of his idea of playing doctor?
Was he just seeking revenge because she’d refused him his quick fix before he left for the bowling alley?
She listened as he stumbled away, leaving her alone and confused. Billy Ray was back. And she was done with William Raymond. This was too bad to even pretend away. There, in the quietness, she vowed her revenge. Billy Ray had crossed the line. He’d never forced himself on her before; the marriage act had always been his selfish way of making things right. But now he’d ruined that.
So now, she vowed to make him pay.
And that’s when the heaving anguish in her soul began to fuel a plan for freedom.
What he’d done exactly didn’t scare him until he’d turned off the music and his head began to clear. Oh, God, he prayed, what have I done?
He’d been lost in the emotion of the opera, lost in the moment. The hour was late. The time had vanished in his search to soothe his loss. He began a frantic search for clues that it was all a nightmare. Claire’s ring. I’ve got to find the ring. John’s hands searched the crevices beside his seat where he’d hidden it earlier. “Let this be a dream. Let me wake up,” he mumbled.
But it was no dream. He’d thrown away the ring in a fit of despair, driven by the music and his disappointment of the day. He shook his head and tried to formulate a plan.
He had no choice. He’d have to go back and get it. He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. He was already back in Stoney Creek. He shook his head and reminded himself of the advice he’d heard from his father a hundred times. “Wait long enough past each mistake to laugh, and then you’ll have the perspective to act without reacting.”
I’ll bet my father never threw a three-thousand-dollar engagement ring into the woods. He turned left into the small parking lot in front of his duplex. He could imagine the howls at the next Cerelli family gathering when he told them about this. He wished his mother had never dragged him off to the opera as a child. Maybe then he would have kept his head. Maybe if he called his father, he’d feel bad enough about passing along his impulsive Italian personality to help him out, maybe even float him a loan for another ring.
He limped from his car, more from pain in his heart than any pain in his feet. He entered the front door wondering if those stupid metal detectors he’d seen back at Leonard’s Hardware could ever help him find the ring. As if I wouldn’t get attacked by that monster dog if I went out there anyway.
He trudged to the refrigerator where he stared at the meager offerings. The last thing—in fact the only thing—he’d had since a bowl of Captain Crunch cereal yesterday morning was two double malt specials at Fisher’s Cafe. He needed a justification for his rash behavior. If he couldn’t blame his Italian heritage, maybe he could opt for caloric deficiency. It wasn’t working. He looked at the clock. It was too late to eat, and too late to call his parents for advice. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear his father laugh at him tonight anyway.
He let the refrigerator door drift shut, then pushed it tight to seal it. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. How could I have thrown away the ring? Now even if things would change with Claire, and even if he knew the time was right for a second proposal, she would never believe he was sincere if he didn’t have a ring.
He thought back to comments Claire had made over the prior weeks since his move to Stoney Creek. She’d talked in playful jest, but often enough to make it clear. She wanted that ring. It seemed to John she needed that specific ring, as if by having the same ring, she could erase all the horror that had intervened since he’d given it to her the first time.
He’d just have to figure out a way to get it back. Monster dog or no monster dog. He’d just have to get a flashlight and look. Or wait for daylight and risk meeting the gorilla with the red truck face to face. He prepared for sleep and hoped for a revelation.
Maybe things would seem better in the morning. He was too tired to face returning to Briary Branch Road before then anyway. He set his alarm to sound with the arrival of the sun and then collapsed, praying for a solution, some light that would offer some hope for a reasonable conclusion to his misery.
Lena lay staring at the mirror beside the bed, studying her dim reflection looking back at her. When she finally slept, there were no dreams of bliss and beauty to embrace her. Her dreams were alive with pain, sensations of suffocation, and deep tearing angst that offered no respite from reality.
She opened her eyes at sometime past sunrise, suddenly aware and amazed that she’d been able to sleep at all. Methodically, she rehearsed her plan, hoping it wouldn’t be too late to follow through. She extended her hand behind her, slowly sliding it in Billy Ray’s direction. She met only cool sheets. He hadn’t dared to return to their bed. She held still and concentrated on the noise coming from the other room. Billy Ray was snoring peacefully. She moved slowly so as not to awake the pain in her ankle, and not to awaken Billy Ray.
She winced at the squeaking of the bed, and slowly turned her head from side to side, accessing a new agony at the base of her skull. She glanced back at the bed to see the scarlet stain she’d left behind, then touched herself to discover the source of yet another ache. She slipped on a pair of jeans, holding her breath as she pulled them across her still-swollen ankle. Then, she held first the bedposts, then the dresser, and then the door frame to assist her to the den where her husband had passed out, fully clothed, on the couch. She lifted her crutches from the floor and worked her way to the kitchen to retrieve the keys to the large oak gun cabinet in the den. With trembling hands, and a resolve to be free, she unlocked the cabinet and selected the only weapon she’d ever fired, a Rem-ington semi-automatic twelve-gauge shotgun. Running away would have been a whole lot cleaner, but she knew he’d come for her. And after last night, she knew there was only one answer. His warning echoed in her mind: Don’t you leave, baby. I’ll find you.
And so she hoisted the weapon into her arms, and realizing she couldn’t hold the shotgun and the crutches together, she quietly laid the crutche
s aside and limped back to the couch using the gun for a cane. Then she steadied the gun against her shoulder and shoved the other end up under Billy Ray’s chin. As she did, the rage within her bubbled up again and she paused for a moment to jab the barrel deeper into his neck.
His Adam’s apple bobbed up against the cold steel shaft, and he began to awaken with a gurgled snort.
“Good-bye, Billy Ray,” she whispered.
Her index finger flexed. He opened his eyes to meet hers just as she depressed the trigger. The look of terror made it all worthwhile.
Chapter Eight
Claire stood silently watching her mother at the kitchen table reading her Bible. Even with the relaxed look of contentment on her face, Della looked older than Claire had remembered. The years with Wally were taking a toll. The early years of alcohol had been tough, the later years with Huntington’s even tougher.
Claire hesitated to speak. She knew the importance of this time alone for her mother. If anyone modeled the need for silence and solitude within a frenzied life, it was she. But when Della looked up, she nodded for her daughter to join her.
She didn’t speak, only returned to the passage in front of her, a passage yellowed with a highlighter and punctuated with notes in the margin. Claire poured a cup of coffee and sat across the linoleum-topped table from her mother.
Summer Saturday mornings were made for an extra cup of coffee enjoyed with the morning paper, a chance to wash the car, mow the lawn, or read a favorite mystery. Other grandmothers were out early to watch the children play soccer on a dew-laden field or off to Ruritan Park to watch a grandson in a Little League tournament. But that was not the life meted out to Della McCall. Every day for her was much the same. Wally came first.