A Shattered Wife

by Diana Salyers

  Michael had always been a welcome visitor at their home. His naturally easy-going, sunny disposition brought a smile to everyone he knew and, unknown to Martha, a glow to her face. Since Bill’s accident, Michael was the only one in their circle of friends that came near them and he came only when requested.

  "I’ll have Michael come tomorrow and plow up that piece of ground on the other side of the house." Bill’s voice contained a note of finality.

  Martha could remember happier times, a hundred years ago, when Michael and Bill laughed and talked for hours over coffee and cake. On the few occasions since Bill’s accident that Michael came to help, he looked grim and worked fast, eager to get away. She missed his hearty laughter and quick wit. When he came now, he was as much as stranger as Bill had become and Martha would rather not see him at all than see him this way.

  "I don’t think we need even a small garden this year, much less two separate ones," she stated. "We can’t use that much food and William certainly doesn’t need or want it." Martha continued. Her guilt and embarrassment over not pleasing him earlier was subsiding.

  "I think you’d better plan for another garden anyway," Bill said, as though the decision had already been made. No further discussion would be tolerated.

  Martha rarely questioned Bill’s judgment and she hated arguments, but this time she knew he was wrong. "Bill, there’s no use. The groundhogs and rabbits eat most of it."

  The old man in the wheelchair made no response. A muscle twitched in his taut jaw and his hands tensed on the gun. Martha returned to her roses. The only logical reason for an additional garden would be to lure the animals in closer. She tried not to think about the destruction that lay ahead. He would be able to guard the other garden from the opposite end of the front porch. The animals would not be safe anywhere.

  The next morning, Michael came. Standing at the kitchen window, she watched his progress. The plows sank deep into the rich earth, turning it over, combing it with giant fingers. A flock of sparrows flew down to gobble up the unearthed worms and bugs. She remembered helping Michael tend a sick cow many years earlier. His kind voice and gentle but strong hands, exactly the opposite of Bill, had surprised and endeared him to her.

  Michael stopped the tractor for a moment and mopped sweat from his glistening face and neck with a red bandana. He pulled off his wet shirt, revealing a chest, back, and arms covered with hair. Looking like a bear, he drank water greedily from a plastic cup. Martha suddenly realized just how warm it had become. Walking through the living room, she stepped out onto the front porch and called to him. "Come in and I’ll make lemonade."

  Without a glance in her direction, the diesel engine rumbled into life and Michael Adkins went back to work.

  The garden plot was close to the house and without the tractor running she knew he had heard her. Self-pity and embarrassment at his reaction washed over her. She hurried back inside to the safety of her kitchen.

  Later, Bill wheeled through the kitchen and took his place directly in front of the large living room window that would allow him to watch Michael work. As he began cleaning his gun, he wondered about Michael and Martha. Feeling dazed, he paused in his task and aimed the slim rifle directly at the unsuspecting man on the tractor. What would happen if he were to accidentally pull the trigger? Just a quarter of an inch. Just three pounds of pressure and…

  "Bill!" Martha squealed in surprise. "What are you doing?"

  Lowering the gun quickly, Bill wiped the oily barrel with a soft white cloth. "I’m cleaning my gun," he answered calmly. He hadn't heard her come into the room and wondered how long she had been there.

  Martha could smell oil and cleaning fluid. She watched him suspiciously for a few moments as he worked. This solitude was really getting to her. Now she was imagining things. Why would Bill want to shoot Michael? He was interested in killing animals, not people.

  "I plowed our garden last year," Bill’s voice, unusually soft, crashed through her confused thoughts like a shotgun blast.

  Surprised at this statement, she said, "I know." No other words came to her.

  "Maybe you could get Michael to do some other things for you." His voice was still soft, almost teasing.

  "Like what?" Martha couldn’t think of other chores that needed to be done and it was better for all of them if Michael stayed away.

  Without taking his eyes off the man and the tractor, Bill said, "After yesterday, I thought you’d probably like to replace me with a new stud." Then he burst into an evil, nasty laughter that sounded harsh in the quiet room.

  Martha glared at his back. She wanted to jerk him around and slap his face. Instead, she ran from the room, Bill’s laughter still echoing through the house.

  Well into the afternoon Martha lay across her small bed. The pink roses on the wallpaper, which were normally calming, swayed dizzily and made her head hurt. Again and again she pictured Bill at the window, aiming his gun at Michael on the tractor. Had it been real or had she imagined it? And why had he made that nasty remark? With her thoughts in turmoil, she finally gave up. The best thing she could do would be to keep Michael, and anyone else that might arouse Bill’s animosity, away. She sighed and went to make supper.

  Later, while she was doing the dishes, the phone rang. Surprisingly, it was Will, and his call cheered her immensely. As soon as they hung up, she went to the back porch where Bill was watching for something to shoot. His disgusting behavior earlier in the day was not forgotten, but Martha was excited.

  "That was William on the phone," Martha announced, coming out onto the back porch. "He’s coming to see us on Father’s Day."

  Bill made no reply. He was interested in something slithering through the bushes near the end of the driveway.

  "So?" Bill grunted.

  At least he was listening.

  She simply stood there, until finally he said, "I’m surprised that Mr. Big Important Businessman has time for his country bumpkin parents,"

  Martha’s shoulder sagged visibly, even though she had expected his reaction. Somewhere in her mind she had hoped that Bill’s paralysis might somehow bring father and son closer together. She suddenly felt very tired. Would it ever end? Would he ever forgive William for not conforming to his standards?

  "Is he bringing those screaming brats with him?" Bill asked after a few moments.

  "If you’re talking about your grandchildren, no. He’s on a business trip and they won’t be with him," Martha said sharply.

  Part of her anger was directed at William, too. She knew that this visit from him was just to ease his own conscience; just a detour on his way back to Cleveland. The tense situation between the two men was not all Bill’s fault. William could try to be a little more understanding. When had all her dreams of a loving family fallen apart?

  The gun cracked loudly.

  Standing on the porch with a warm, summer-like breeze fluttering her dress, she saw Bill grin happily after taking down another groundhog. Not for the first time, she wondered if this was the beginning of the end for Bill, an end that was growing closer every day.

  CHAPTER 5

  Martha washed and dried her hands, rinsing away the garden dirt, then went through the house to the front porch to admire her work. Even though this second garden had been forced upon her, she took great pride in it. Most of the planting was complete. The rows were neat and straight, and weeds were almost nonexistent. Young, healthy cabbage and green pepper plants were flanked by rows of tender peas, which were beginning to bloom. Rapidly sprouting beans and corn made up the rest.

  Bill fired the gun.

  The sound rocketed through Martha’s brain, shredding the peaceful afternoon. She closed her eyes and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. Lately, every time she heard that gun she wanted to scream.

  Restless, she went back inside. Spring cleaning was an impossible habit to break. Every year she told herself that the heavy duty cleaning was unnecessary and every year she spent a week cleaning a house that wasn’
t dirty. This year was no exception. Crisp, clean curtains hung at shining, mirror-like windows and the faint, pleasant scent of pine and lemon only added to the fresh atmosphere.

  Wandering aimlessly from one scrubbed, polished room to another, she tried to ignore the gun, which had barked twice more now. With the days growing longer and warmer, what could she do now to keep busy? The garden would need little or no care for a while. The house was spotless and would stay that way and there wasn’t much more she could do to her roses. She found herself standing just inside the back door.

  Bill sat patiently on the porch, his rifle poised for battle. Unlike Martha, he had plenty of activities to keep him busy. Besides cleaning his guns every day, he was their self-appointed exterminator. He patrolled from the back porch in the afternoons, taking animals from the driveway and surrounding areas. His mornings were spent on the front porch with its clear view of the road and additional garden plot. He shot squirrels, rabbits, groundhogs and sometimes even birds. It was not unusual for him to fire his gun a dozen times a day. And he rarely, if ever, missed. His face no longer broke into that cold, evil smile after he killed an animal, though. It had been replaced with a soft, satisfied chuckle; almost as though congratulating himself. The sound of it chilled Martha to the bone.

  In one fluid, practiced movement, Bill butted the gun to his shoulder, aimed and fired.

  Through the screen door, Martha heard his soft chuckle. The young, long eared rabbit died between two cabbage plants with a tiny hole in its head. Limp forelegs crossed its chest as if to ward off the oncoming missile and its open eyes stared sightlessly at the blue sky. Stomach leaping, she looked away.

  Bill’s soft, satisfied chuckle ended in a dark, angry scowl, which Martha recognized immediately. She knew that he was listening for something, he did that a lot these days, but she could not imagine what he heard. Holding her breath, she listened, too, but noted only a warm summer breeze rustling through leaves on the trees. Where were the purple martins that visited the feeders and chirped noisily?

  Martha mentally listed other subtle changes in his behavior over the past few weeks. He smoked almost constantly, he seemed to withdraw into himself more every day and he slept less and less. Several times during the night she would awaken and see him propped up on pillows on his bed, cigarette glowing in the dark. Despite these changes and in spite of the wheelchair, he looked stronger and healthier than ever.

  She knew that her husband was clever enough to hide any symptoms he wished to remain unnoticed, especially from Paul. Only someone that lived with him every day could see his gradual downfall.

  Summoning her courage, she joined her husband on the porch.

  "Did you say something when you were standing in the doorway spying on me?" he asked gruffly. He had raised the binoculars to his eyes, all signs of intent listening gone.

  "No." Martha wasn't really surprised that he knew she was there. "Why?"

  "No reason," Bill murmured and retreated into his own thoughts.

  Despair washed over Martha. She was sure Bill was losing his mind and knew that very soon she was going to have to have a talk with Paul. Getting the doctor alone to talk to him in private would be a difficult task, and she might have to resort to making an appointment to see him in his office. Either way, Bill must never suspect she was talking to anyone about his behavior. She didn’t like to think about what his reaction would be.

  A few days later, Martha woke up to find the sun barely streaking the sky with pink and gold, and a few birds could be heard chirping their morning song. Her bedside clock showed 6 a.m. She sat up, stretched her arthritic limbs and then noticed that Bill’s bed was empty. At the same moment, she heard whistling in the kitchen and the smell of perking coffee teased her nose. She stretched her sore joints again lazily and for a minute it seemed like time had flown backwards. Back to when Bill was a complete man in body and mind. How she longed for it to be true.

  Slipping on her comfortable quilted robe, she padded barefoot down the hall. She found him at the kitchen table working on a large piece of poster paper with red and black markers. There was no indication that he noticed her arrival so she poured a cup of coffee for herself. Curious, she stepped closer and peered over his shoulder. He was adding the final touches to what looked like an enlarged calendar for June and July.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, half smiling but almost afraid of his answer.

  "Making a chart," he answered, without pausing in his work or looking up.

  "What on earth for?" Martha asked and sat down across from him.

  "I’m calling it my extermination chart."

  Martha’s half-smile faded. Her heart began to hammer and her stomach turned somersaults. She could see that pictures of animals, birds, deer, and rabbits had been cut from a magazine, posted at various points on the chart and marked with a deep red X. Little, red ovals simulated drops of blood. She quickly looked away and traced a scar on the wooden table with her index finger.

  "Whenever I exterminate a critter, we’ll mark it on the chart. It’s good to keep track of these things." Bill held the chart at arm’s length to admire his work. "Come and take a look."

  The last thing Martha wanted to do was look. She wanted to get away from Bill and his chart as fast as she could but he had not made a request; it was a command. On shaking legs she came around the table and looked at his creation. Each day of the month was placed in a fairly large box. The lines were straight and the numbers had been printed perfectly. It looked precise and intense.

  "What do you think?" he asked.

  "You’ve spent a lot of time on that," Martha answered, trying to conceal the disgust that had crept into her voice.

  "I got the idea for it a few days ago. I couldn’t sleep, so I got up early and started on it. Now, get me a hammer. I’ll hang it right here by the back door."

  Martha did as she was told, then watched in stunned silence as he nailed the large chart to the wall.

  "There’s plenty of room to keep track of all the pests that I get rid of. It’s hard to tell what I’ll get a shot at."

  "But why…"

  "Why keep track?" Bill cut in. "When that pansy son of yours comes back here, I’ll show him what a real hunter can do. Even in a wheelchair, I’m more of a man than he will ever be."

  Martha shook her head. "No, I mean why kill them?" Her voice sounded faint and weak as she asked the useless question.

  "They’re pests – especially the groundhogs. They leave deep holes in the ground, damaging my land. Woman, I’m in this chair because of those damned groundhogs. Besides that, they’re eating up your garden. It’s my duty to protect us and our property. I’d think you would be happy about that." Lecture finished, Bill moved back from the wall, still admiring his chart.

  Martha could stand no more. She turned and fled to the bedroom, coffee forgotten, and stayed there until she heard him leave the kitchen. Of course the animals were eating the garden - that was the only reason it had been planted. Every time Martha passed the chart on the wall, she could feel its presence, like a living entity, mocking her. Soon it would be filled with marks representing dead animals.

  ***

  "I want you to go to Roanoke today," Bill told Martha at breakfast the next morning. Every time he looked at the chart on the wall, he smiled proudly.

  A little time away from Bill, his chart and his bizarre behavior was a welcome thought. She wished that she could take her time, window shop, look at the new rose bushes at the nursery, and leaf through some magazines at the library. Unfortunately, her weekly shopping trip was the only time she left Bill alone, and it made her nervous to do so. Usually, she hurried with her shopping and returned home as soon as possible.

  "I don’t usually go until Thursday," she said, wondering what he needed that couldn’t wait until then.

  "So, you’ll go today instead," he snapped impatiently, as if talking to a child. Martha returned to her breakfast, not even tasting what she ate. "I want you to go
Hunter’s Gun Store and get me 3 boxes of Number 4, 12-gauge shotgun shells." He said, pushing away from the table.

  "Why?"

  He retrieved his gun cleaning kit and the double-barreled, 12-gauge shotgun from the gun cabinet in the hall before answering. "Do I ask you why you buy eggs and milk?"

  Martha shook her head, trying not to look at him and this big gun that he was carefully taking apart.

  "Then don’t ask stupid questions."

  "I’d better write down what you want," Martha said, rising from the table.

  "You don’t have to write it down. I’m calling Frank at the gun store as soon as it opens and I’ll tell him what I want." His tone was still impatient, but he was caressing the gun gently with a soft, white cloth.

  Martha kept her eyes on her plate until Bill finished his labor of love and went outside. After writing a hurried shopping list, she dressed and left for town.

  Martha had never actually been inside the gun store before. As she pushed open the heavy door, a little bell tinkled to announce her arrival. The walls of the store were lined with more guns than she had ever seen in her life, and the rows of shelves in the center of the small, dingy room contained necessary accessories. The smell of oil and some other scent that Martha remembered but could not place permeated the atmosphere. There were only a few customers, all of them men, and she could tell by the abrupt halt in conversation and badly concealed smiles that she had interrupted them. She knew most of the customers but not one of them made a friendly gesture.

  The short, bald man, a few years younger than Bill smiled tentatively at her and said, "Can I help you?"

  Martha knew her face was red, she could feel her ears burning. She took a deep breath and in a shaking voice said, "I came to pick up Mr. Landry’s order for…uh…bullets…or shells."

  He reached under the counter, took out a package and handed it to her.

  "How much do I owe?" Martha’s throat was so dry she could barely speak.