A Shattered Wife

by Diana Salyers

  Frank quoted a price and she wrote the check. Then she hurried out of the store, glad to have that chore completed. As she drove toward home she found herself becoming more and more apprehensive. Home had become a prison, a place she wanted to escape from but yet a place she was eager to return to. She never dreamed her feelings could be so confused.

  Smiling at how pretty her roses looked in the sunshine, Martha parked the truck in the driveway and gathered her purse and the few odd and end purchases from the seat beside her. She would come back for the groceries. The shells were heavy.

  Bill was on the back porch, rubbing the smooth barrels of the shotgun with a soft cloth. His .22 was resting nearby, within easy reach. As Martha passed, she handed him the heavy red and white boxes of shells. Without a word, he broke open the breech and dropped a shell into each of the chambers. Snapping the gun closed, he pushed the safety off. All of this was done swiftly, expertly, born from years of practice.

  In the house, she hung the truck keys on a nail by the back door with the other household and equipment keys. She made it a point to always hang the keys there because she was terrified of losing them. Bill would be furious if that happened. Then she carried the groceries into the house, one bag at a time, feeling more exhausted with each trip.

  Just as she finished, Bill stopped her. "Watch this," he said. He shouldered the gun and fired both barrels in quick succession.

  The roar of the gun almost knocked Martha off her feet. An ounce of lead shot spun the groundhog backward and, instead of leaving one pea-sized hole, this ammunition left several tiny holes, more blood, and no doubt about the animal’s recovery.

  Within seconds, he reloaded, took aim and fired again.

  Martha hurried back into the kitchen to put away the groceries. But not before she heard the soft, satisfied chuckle as the sound of the gun died away. The deafening BOOM of the shotgun would soon become a familiar sound, she was sure of that.

  "Martha, mark that one on the chart."

  Disgusted, Martha found that her mark was not the first to mar the whiteness of today's box. Bill had already claimed two kills.

  CHAPTER 6

  Martha tried not to appear anxious on Father’s Day, but a storm was brewing. Thick, black clouds gathered in the sky like an angry mob and the humidity rose, making the air heavy. Even after her morning shower, she still felt sticky and hot. Dressed in bright yellow gingham, she lingered nervously near the living room window; the only window that afforded a view of the road.

  The dinner she prepared wasn’t elaborate, but it was one of her son’s favorites. Chicken fried steak, tender peas and carrots, potato salad and homemade rolls. A luscious chocolate cake covered with a glass dome would top off the meal. He was later than anticipated, so Martha paced the floor and waited.

  Bill was furious when she insisted that they wait until William arrived before eating. As far as he was concerned, the whole visit was a joke. He didn’t give a damn whether William showed up or not but he loved watching Martha pace. It served her right for turning his son into a wimp.

  It was late afternoon by the time William arrived, wearing a well-made suit that made him look like a successful banker. His face had a soft, almost feminine shape but behind the thick glasses, the blue eyes were his father’s. His wavy, almost curly auburn hair took Martha back many years to when Bill was a young man.

  Watching him stride toward the house, Martha wanted to rush outside to meet him. Instead, she smoothed her apron and watched as he stepped onto the back porch. She swung open the screen door and greeted him with open arms.

  William felt himself being drawn reluctantly into her embrace. "Mom, I’ve missed you." She smelled of vanilla or some other spice and her hair felt silky against his cheek. He thought she had aged drastically in the last few months.

  Tears kept Martha from answering but she nodded vigorously.

  The young man allowed her to hold him for a while, trying not to be impatient and telling himself that it would be over soon.

  Finally, Martha stepped back but did not release her son. "I’d almost given up on you. Dinner has been warmed over twice."

  "Sorry, I - " William began.

  "It’s about time you got here," Bill interrupted and wheeled himself to the place he had occupied at the head of the table for 40 years. "Now maybe we can get something to eat."

  William smiled weakly. His easy-going personality and gentle disposition had won him many friends and served him well in business, but he would never have the respect of his father. Years ago he had given up trying to please this strong, independent man. "Hi, Dad. Happy Father’s Day."

  Bill filled his plate and began to eat without replying. It was clear that his only interest was dinner.

  Martha caught a wink and an indifferent shrug from her son, letting her know that he understood, and then they joined Bill at the table, a family again.

  "This is really great, mom," William said, more to break the lingering silence than anything else. It was almost as if his parents had forgotten how to talk.

  "It would have tasted better two hours ago," Bill grumbled.

  "I said I was sorry," William put in quickly, hating that the words came out as a whine.

  The remainder of the meal was punctuated only by the ticking grandfather clock and the scraping of silverware against the dishes. It seemed like hours before anyone spoke again and, surprisingly, it was Bill.

  "I have something I want to show you," Bill said, his tone deceptively friendly.

  "Sure, Dad, what is it?"

  Bill wheeled around the table with ease to the back door which, when open, partially hid his chart. He closed the door carefully as if unveiling a masterpiece.

  William shot a questioning look at his mother and then sauntered over to his dad.

  "What do you think?" Bill asked.

  "I’m not sure what it is," William replied truthfully.

  "Damn!" Bill exploded, causing both mother and son to jump. "It’s my extermination chart."

  As he began to explain the chart and its usefulness to his son, his voice changed. He began to talk slowly, as though William were an imbecilic child.

  Martha watched from her place at the table. Her prayers that William would not have to see the ugly red and black slashes on the chart had not been answered.

  William knew better than to discuss the worthlessness of such a project with his father so he said little, nodding as though he understood. He did not understand; nor would he ever see the insane need to destroy wildlife.

  "So, I’ve got a good record of my kills for this month. Pretty good work for a man in a wheelchair, I’d say," Bill concluded, his voice full of pride.

  William stopped nodding, not really knowing what was expected of him.

  "Can you do as well?"

  "No, Dad. You know I couldn’t. Besides, I have no desire to shoot animals, even if they were plentiful where I live. They are not." They had had this conversation before and William knew his part well.

  "Desire! Ha! You’re just plain chicken-shit!" Bill’s mirthless laughter boomed through the kitchen.

  Ignoring the invitation to argue, William returned to his place at the table. "Can I have some of that cake, Mom?"

  As Bill came back to the table, Martha scurried to get cake for the two men. The atmosphere in the kitchen was charged with tension, punctuated by the distant thunder that rumbled like a lion’s roar.

  Attacking his cake with relish, William searched his father’s face from beneath lowered lashes. He saw an old man, full of pain and anger, but there was something in that face he had never seen before. Worry creased his forehead as he tried to decide what it was.

  "We’ve been working hard on that chart," Bill said suddenly, as though he had been having a conversation all along in his head. "Your mother helps me, too."

  Avoiding her son’s eyes, Martha stared at her empty plate.

  Sensing her unease, William changed the subject. "The kids are doing great." />
  Martha looked at him then, a gentle smile curving her lips. "I miss them."

  "Yeah, I shoot ‘em and she marks ‘em down. We’re a pretty good team. I’ll bet you and what’s-her-name couldn’t do that."

  "I’m not interested, Dad," William said, his boldness surprising all of them.

  Martha froze.

  "What?" Bill demanded, his fork paused halfway to his mouth.

  William swallowed hard, wishing he could control his shaking. "I said, I’m not interested."

  "Of course, I forgot. Important business ‘men’ don’t have time for sporting games like us old farmers." Bill’s voice was thick with sarcasm.

  Knowing they were headed for an argument, Martha timidly touched her husband’s arm. "Bill…"

  He ignored her. "I don’t imagine you have time for anything that real men do. How’d you get those two kids, son. Did you have to hire a real man for that?"

  Under the table, William clenched his fists. It wasn’t the first time in his life he wanted to hit his father. It was too late now. Could you punch out an old man in a wheelchair and still look at yourself in the mirror? His second impulse was to get up and walk out; run away again.

  Martha stared helplessly at her son. Once Bill got started on something he was like a dog with a bone.

  Thunder rumbled again, closer.

  "Dad," William struggled desperately to control his shaking voice. "I just don’t believe in killing wild animals for sport. Now, if I had to kill them to feed my family, it would be different."

  "You’re afraid! That’s the real reason." Bill’s voice was loud, louder than necessary. "Coward! Chicken!"

  William stood up. There was nothing else for him to do but run. It wouldn’t be the first time. He headed for the door.

  Helplessly, hopelessly lost, Martha crossed to the sink. Huge tears ran down her cheeks as lightning flashed, thunder rolled and the first fat raindrops plopped onto the window. Cackling hysterically, Bill continued to shout names at his son’s back. His face turned purple from the exertion. Turning to leave the table with a quick, jerky movement, Bill flipped the wheelchair over. He landed with a sickening thud, face down on the shiny linoleum floor.

  William’s hand was on the door when he heard the crash.

  "Oh, my God! Bill, are you hurt?" Martha wailed as she rushed to his side, tugging uselessly at one arm that she could barely lift.

  "No, dammit! Get your hands off me!" Bill slapped her roughly away. Using the table leg he pulled himself to an awkward sitting position. His shirt was soaked with sweat and he gasped for breath.

  "Here, Dad…" William righted the wheelchair, which looked like a wounded mechanical bull, and reached for his father. He had never seen Bill make a clumsy move in his life, much less fall down. The accident had aged his father many more years than indicated by his face and body, and William was afraid.

  Suddenly, his slender arm was trapped in Bill’s strong fingers and the tender inside of his wrist exposed. From nowhere, a small but dangerously sharp knife reflected the overhead light.

  William was momentarily paralyzed.

  Martha gathered her apron into a knot, nervously smoothed it and then repeated the process again as she knelt beside the two men.

  Holding the knife skillfully, Bill pressed the point against the skin on his son’s wrist. "I said keep your hands off me," he hissed.

  "Bill we were only trying…" Martha’s voice was only a trembling whisper.

  "I know what you were doing, but I don’t need you or your pussy son’s help." While Bill talked, his angry gaze stayed on William’s face. He exerted almost imperceptible pressure and the knife pierced the skin. A narrow, red ribbon of blood eased down William’s wrist to gather on his shirt sleeve.

  William exhaled slowly, his incredulous gaze moving from his father’s face to his wrist. The knife was not painful but his father’s grip was cutting off the circulation to his hand. "You don’t have to use that on me, Dad. If you don’t want any help…"

  "Not only do I not WANT your help, I don’t NEED your help," Bill laughed, not quite as loud as before; their faces were only inches apart.

  Some instinct told William to keep his father talking.

  "Would you really use it on me?"

  Bill nodded slowly and his hand remained steady. "You’re damn right." The glittering gunslinger eyes burned feverishly.

  "Bill?" Martha croaked.

  "Have you always hated me?"

  "Not until I realized you were going to be nothing but a pansy bookworm."

  "I can’t help what I am," William said slowly, his voice shaking.

  Martha began to cry softly.

  "When I took you hunting, you couldn’t kill a deer. When you got older you went off to college. When you graduated, you couldn’t live here with us." Bill was perspiring heavily. His chest and back were soaked.

  "You always told me that a man stands up for what he believes in. There is nothing for me here. I had to go my own way."

  As they talked, William felt the fear draining from him. He looked squarely at his father. Man to man. "I was right. There is nothing for me here." The way to handle a bully was to face him down. William had lots of practice with bullies. His father would understand that.

  "Look at you. You won’t even fight now. You’re a coward; a mealy-mouth coward!" Bill shouted savagely. More droplets of sweat formed on his nose and upper lip, but he held the knife steady.

  William’s legs were cramping because of his crouched position, but he did not move. He glared back at the old man for the first time in his life. "I made a life for myself. You’re just jealous because I don’t need YOU anymore."

  "You have two good legs. Don’t try to rationalize and talk down to me. I hate you! I wish you were stuck in that chair!" Bill’s voice rose higher in pitch and volume. It filled the whole house and caused Martha to shink back.

  "Bill!" She shrieked. There had been tension between the two men before but never had it escalated to this dangerous level.

  "Take a good look at your son, Martha. He’s too scared to fight back. A son of mine would fight for his life. You should be ashamed…"

  William’s free hand darted forward like a snake, snatching the knife out of his father’s grasp and, in an instant, the tables were turned. The knife made a sharp, snapping sound as he drove it forcefully into the floor between Bill’s legs, uncomfortably close to his thigh. The grip on his wrist loosened immediately and he flexed the fingers of his now free hand. Bill stared in disbelief at the knife imprisoned in the floor; its carved handle clasped tightly in his son’s hand.

  "Now, let’s see who is a coward. I’ve got the knife and you have nothing to hide behind. Not your wheelchair or some big, powerful gun." William’s voice shook with anger.

  Lightning zigzagged across the almost black sky, thunder rolled and rain pelted furiously against the house. They were actors in a horror movie during the climactic scene. William drew the knife from the floor with ease, leaving an ugly scar in the linoleum. He jabbed it into the floor again, a little higher, a little closer to Bill’s body.

  Bill exhaled, stunned.

  "Am I a coward now? Yes, because only a coward would attack a crippled old man in a wheelchair!"

  William jerked the knife free from the floor, stood up and hurled it across the room toward the sink. His voice was full of disgust. "And only a coward shoots innocent animals just to watch them die."

  Bill felt the room swirling, going black. He gave in and collapsed on the floor.

  It took both Martha and William to get the big man in his chair and then wheel him to the bed. He seemed to be fighting their efforts, even in his unconscious state. For several minutes, Martha was unable to decide what to do. Her first impulse was to call Paul. What would she say? The words were whirling around in her head like a windmill. She was almost sure he was dying…or dead.

  She was standing by the bed, dialing the number on the phone when Bill regained consciousness. "Don�
��t call that doctor. I’ll kill him if he comes here."

  Martha obediently terminated the call.

  "Now, get out of here!" Bill shouted weakly.

  Even from his bed he was in charge again, and he got results. Martha retreated to kitchen where William was standing, shaking with rage or fear or both. Martha wept softly into her apron and William was almost afraid to speak.

  "I’m sorry," she finally sobbed.

  "Sorry? Why are you sorry? What is happening to him?" William asked in an incredulous whisper. They had had confrontations before, but it had never gotten so violent.

  Martha shook her head and wiped her eyes with the bottom of her starched white apron. "I guess he’s worse than we thought." Her voice was also a whisper, barely heard above the storm outside.

  "Mom, he crazy," William blurted out. He hadn’t wanted to say it aloud, and the last word hung between them, almost tangible in the thick air.

  Martha shook her head and glanced nervously toward the bedroom, then back at her son. "No!" she said at last with a flash of defiance.

  "Yes, Mom. He’s crazy!"

  "No!" she said again, then turned away from him and began angrily scrubbing at the dishes in the sink.

  He caught her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. "He’s losing his mind. Things are only going to get worse."

  "He needs me."

  "No. He’ll drive you mad, too, or…" William released his mother’s face and both of them looked at the small blood-encrusted wound on his wrist where the knife had pierced the skin.

  "Or what?" Martha looked away quickly.

  "Or he’ll kill you," William finished lamely. The discussion was useless and he felt completely drained.

  The rain had stopped but the sky was still black as Martha watched her son prepare to leave. "I fixed you some sandwiches to eat on the way home," she said, offering him a small brown bag.

  "Come with me!" he whispered fiercely and then wondered why they were whispering. Bill had not emerged from his room or made a sound.

  "I can’t. I can’t leave him," Martha said, knowing at that moment that she was choosing between her husband and her son. About a hundred years ago in a hospital room she made a promise. She told Bill she would always be there. She meant it.