A Shattered Wife

by Diana Salyers

  Bill was half in and half out of his wheelchair, clinging to the edge of the bed for support and looking helpless when Martha found him. "I fell," he said sheepishly.

  With her hands under his arms, Martha lifted and tugged at his seemingly powerless body with no result. "I guess I’m not as strong as I used to be," she puffed as she brushed at strands of hair that had fallen across her face.

  Bill smiled weakly, but made no move to help himself.

  "I’m afraid I’ll hurt you," she said.

  "You aren’t hurting me," he told her as she tried to lift his legs and maneuver him into the chair. The sound of Milly’s mail truck chugging past the house on her return trip brought tears of frustration to Martha’s eyes. If she didn’t get out there now and flag Milly down, it was going to be too late.

  "Maybe if I push this way," Bill suggested, cutting into her thoughts.

  The truck zoomed past the house noisily, backfired once, and then the sound of its engine faded away. She would have to spend another night with Bill.

  Suddenly, the big man slipped into his chair with almost no assistance. "I’m sorry. I guess I was just totally paralyzed there for a minute," he said lamely.

  More tears of frustration formed in her eyes and slid down her cheeks. Crying was useless and she wiped at her face angrily. She must not let Bill see how frightened she was. Leaving the room, she consoled herself with the hope that Paul would get her message. But would he believe her, or just think that she was a hysterical woman? She realized, too late, that she should have had the note delivered to Katie.

  CHAPTER 17

  Martha decided that she would try to call Katie at work, and waited patiently for a chance to use the phone. It was late afternoon and her head and leg throbbed painfully. Going to the bathroom, she took two aspirin, then saw the bottle of sleeping pills sitting innocently in the medicine chest. She picked them up and looked at them, thinking that just a few days ago, she’d been ready to end it all. Now, she was scheming to keep her life.

  Peering out the bathroom window, she saw that Bill was dozing on the porch. The afternoon sun made his hair and beard shine lustrously. She tiptoed through the house, lifted the receiver and put it to her ear. Her heart almost stopped.

  "Something wrong?" Bill asked quietly from behind her.

  She whirled around, expecting to see the gun aimed at her again. "The phone is dead."

  "I know. I think some of your furry little friends chewed the outside wire in two. Here, I’ll show you." Leading the way outside, he showed her the two pieces of telephone line.

  The ends were cleanly cut, not jagged or chewed, but the look in his eyes told her not to argue.

  Martha went into the bedroom and closed the door firmly. As long as he stayed outside, she would be safe. As long as his mind was busy with other things. Somehow, she was able to nap for just a bit, and when she awoke it was beginning to get dark. A final plan occurred to her. As soon as it was completely dark and Bill was asleep, she would just leave. She wondered if anyone would believe her story. It was a chance she would just have to take.

  CHAPTER 18

  Martha woke with a start. The house was dark, and the sky was studded black velvet. Had she slept too long? A glance at the luminous clock face told her it was well after midnight. She lay perfectly still, listening. Silence, except for the faithful grandfather clock ticking away the night.

  She turned as quietly as possible onto her side and peered across the room. Brilliant moonlight illuminated Bill, huddled under his blankets in the big bed they’d once shared. She was surprised to see that he was breathing slowly and evenly, with the occasional soft murmur. He was usually wide awake, roaming the house.

  Carefully pushing herself onto her elbows, she stopped again to listen. The strange stillness worried her. Finally, she crawled out of bed, still fully clothed. The pain in her leg when she stood was almost unbearable. She bit her lip and tried to ignore it while putting on an extra sweater. Summer nights were often chilly in these hollows and she had no idea where she might be in the next few hours. She only knew that she couldn’t stay here.

  On tiptoe, she crossed the room and eased the door open, only wide enough for her to pass through. Avoiding the creaking floorboards in the hall that she knew so well, she crept through the kitchen and laundry room like a ghost. With trembling fingers, she felt in the darkness for the nail by the door where she kept the truck keys.

  It was empty.

  With fists pressed to her tired eyes, she decided that she must have left them in the truck. Continuing her silent journey, she slipped out the back door. Without realizing it, Martha had been holding her breath, and when she stepped outside she let it out gratefully. So far, so good.

  Now, all she had to do was get the truck away from the house before Bill woke up and tried to stop her. Hurrying through the almost eerie stillness, she knew that she would have to try to drive the truck without lights until she was out of sight.

  By the time she reached the truck, she was feeling more confident about her escape plans. Opening the door, she climbed behind the wheel. It felt solid and comforting in her hands. Automatically, she reached for the ignition.

  No keys.

  Frantically, she searched the seat, the floorboards, and the glove compartment. The keys were clearly not there. She sat very still, fighting panic, forcing herself to concentrate. Where had she put the keys the last time she drove the truck? It seemed like a century ago, but finally she remembered that she had definitely hung them on the nail by the door. Maybe they had fallen off.

  Trembling from head to foot, the pain in her leg a dull, throbbing ache, she returned to the house and quietly opened the back door. Again, her hand fumbled along the wall in the darkness for the nail that held the keys. She hardly noticed the pain when the empty nail scraped her fingers. Running her hand down the wall, she knelt and searched the floor in darkness. The result was the same – no keys.

  Martha thought she heard movement somewhere in the house. Heart hammering in her chest, barely breathing, she froze, listening. She could not hear a sound, not a bird or even a bug. Closing her eyes, she tried once more to concentrate. Where could those keys be? And then suddenly, it dawned on her.

  Bill had them.

  It had been so long since he’d had any use for them that it hadn’t occurred to her that he would even notice them. They were probably in his pocket, or hidden somewhere to keep her from using the truck to get away. What should she do now? It was doubtful that her leg would hold out, but she could try to walk. What if she did make it to the neighbors? They would be in bed, asleep. What would she tell them? That Bill was sick? That she needed a doctor? After several agonizing minutes, she decided to try to find the truck keys.

  Back in the bedroom, she stood in the doorway for long, silent minutes to make sure Bill was still asleep. He stirred slightly, but the deep even breathing continued, punctuated once in a while by a soft snore. Satisfied, she crept to his bed on all fours.

  The most likely place to search for his keys would be his pants pocket. She found his pants hanging from one handle of his wheelchair. Still on her knees, she searched through the pockets, taking care to stay quiet. They were all empty. Frantically, she searched a second and third time, turning all of them inside out. At last she sat back on her heels, rubbed her tired, burning eyes, and thought carefully about where to look next.

  "Looking for something?" Bill’s voice came out of the semi-darkness so close to her ear that she let out a muffled scream.

  "No! I was just…."

  "Praying? You looked like you were praying," he said helpfully.

  Martha swallowed hard and shook her head.

  "Were you perhaps looking for these?" He dangled the keys tantalizingly close to her face. They glittered in the moonlight.

  She stared at them for a few seconds in silence and then said, "I wanted to make sure I hadn’t left them in the truck."

  "You weren’t going anywhere, were you?"
His eyes were shining brightly – feverish, almost – and the beginnings of a smile curled his lips.

  "No."

  "Then I’ll just keep them for you until morning. They’ll be safe with me." He jingled them gently and laughed.

  The keys were just inches away from her face. She had to have them. She had to get away. In a purely instinctive reaction, her hand shot out and snatched at the keys.

  Bill was startled at the sudden move, but he was alert and just as quick. His iron grip on the ring left no room for slippage and he easily captured and held her small wrists with his other powerful hand.

  Tears streaming down her face, whimpering softly, she struggled to free herself. The keys to her freedom were locked in one of his huge hands, and she was being held by his other. Still, she would not give in, and Bill’s laughter at her futile attempts only made her struggle harder.

  Suddenly, he froze. "What the hell?" He pushed Martha away and sat up, still holding the keys.

  She scrambled to the other side of the room, then looked at him. His head was cocked to the side, as if he were listening. She heard nothing, though, except her own ragged breath.

  He swung himself quickly into his wheelchair and then started through the hall. Martha followed, hanging back a little. In the kitchen Bill stopped and listened intently. "Sounds like it’s coming from out back," he said, and without hesitation wheeled himself in that direction. He paused only briefly before jerking the door open. Together, they peered outside.

  Nothing.

  The porch, the yard, the driveway were filled with nothing more than pearly white moonlight. All was quiet.

  "What the hell?" Bill muttered again and pushed his way outside.

  "What? There’s nothing there. Bill!"

  He was about halfway across the porch, but then he stopped and began to wheel backwards with one hand. His other began slapping wildly at his chest and legs. Martha stood at the door, too mesmerized to react. The look of terror on his face was heart-stopping. What was he doing? What was he fighting? Whatever it was, he fought it desperately, screaming and slapping at himself, closer and closer to his face. The wheelchair careened into her small rocker and tipped it. It crashed against the porch rail.

  Her first instinct was to go to him. She even took a tentative step in his direction, but then stopped. She had no idea what was going on. At a loss, she thought to call for help, but then remembered that the phone didn’t work.

  Finally, she forced herself to move and ran to him, but almost immediately he slapped her away in his frenzy. His screeching hurt her ears. As she retreated slightly, her hand touched the cold barrel of the 30.06 that was resting in the corner, not far from the door. Picking up the heavy gun, she wondered if she should give it to him. Would he feel protected that way? What if he shot her again, instead? Was he pretending?

  A word interrupted her thoughts. "Help!" His voice was strangled. She couldn’t understand him, but thought she heard the word ‘animals’ along with his gibberish.

  Seeing his gunslinger eyes roll wildly, she knew he wasn’t pretending. He needed her help. How, though? What could she do? He was clearly insane. She walked toward him again, holding the rifle.

  With her eyes on his, she lifted the rifle to her shoulder just like she’d seen him do it. It was heavier than she could've imagined, and lifting it took both hands and all of her strength. She had never fired a gun in her life, but had seen him do this so many times that it was ingrained in her mind. Looking through the scope, she saw that the crosshairs intersected in the center, dividing the site into wedges.

  She could see Bill’s face, but it seemed very far away. Struggling to hold the gun steady and still looking into his blue eyes – the beautiful but cruel gunslinger eyes that made her heart lurch – her index finger sought and found the curved trigger. It was cold and the steel edges were sharp.

  Bill’s mouth formed the words ‘help me’.

  She squeezed the trigger.

  The impact slammed his wheelchair against the side of the house, where it tipped, hit the wall, and righted itself. The unexpectedly powerful recoil of the rifle caused it to strike Martha on the cheek and propelled her backward into the laundry room with enough force to throw her down. Her head hit the washing machine, knocking her unconscious.

  EPILOGUE

  Martha sat alone on the far end of the back porch, looking contentedly at the familiar surrounding countryside. She loved all the seasons of the year, but fall was her favorite because it was the most beautiful. The trees were flaming oranges, yellows, and reds. Occasionally, the deep green of a pine slashed through the colors. She inhaled deeply and the fresh air smelled sweet – perhaps sweeter than it ever had before.

  It was still warm - much too warm for October – but she would not complain. Cold weather would come soon enough and her son would start badgering her again about how she could not live alone and how she should move to Cleveland to live with him. Well, she thought, he can badger all he wants. She was determined to keep her home for as long as possible. She was enjoying the solitude. Besides, she wasn’t alone.

  A fat red squirrel scampered up a nearby tree, working hard and fast to store food for winter. Rabbits played hide and seek among the now naked-looking rhododendrons and peonies that edged the driveway, and groundhogs rummaged through what was left of the summer garden. A scolding blue jay caught her attention, and she returned to her self-appointed task of crumbling bread and tossing it out into the yard for the birds. The mid-morning sun was growing warmer, so she took off her sweater and placed it across her lap. She felt peaceful, happy. Watching two birds fight over the last crumbs of bread, she smiled. "Don’t be so greedy," she said aloud. Her own voice sounded good to her ears.

  Hearing the sound of an approaching car, she looked up to see Paul Newsome’s old yellow VW putt-putting up the curved gravel driveway. Thank goodness. She had expected him earlier, and had started to worry just a little. Seeing Katie in the seat beside him brought another, brighter smile to her lips. They made a handsome couple, and their wedding on the front lawn had been a beautiful sight. Their love and devotion to each other was obvious; their happiness was contagious. She waved a greeting.

  Katie, in the front seat, waved back at her. "Did you ever see so many animals? She told me once that they ate right out of her hand, but I had no idea…." She left the sentence unfinished as they climbed out of the car. The animals didn’t seem to even notice.

  "I told you. It’s been like this since Bill died. They’re everywhere, and they don’t seem to even notice people." Paul’s eyes met hers and they both looked around cautiously. The animals met their gaze with curious stares but no fear.

  "It’s spooky," Katie said, and placed her hand in Paul’s. He nodded.

  "I was getting ready to start lunch," Martha said as they climbed the stairs. "Will you join me?"

  "Sure," Paul said, knowing that’s she’d really been waiting for their arrival.

  Either Paul or Katie made it a point to join her for lunch or dinner several times a week. They enjoyed her company and the pleasant, comfortable conversations. At first, Martha had been consumed with Bill’s death and was lost and adrift without him. The last couple of months, though, had brought about a great change in her. She seemed much more content, happy and at ease with herself and her world. This particular visit, however, was not a social one for Paul.

  "What’s the word?" Martha asked, looking at him with surprising directness just before they went inside.

  Paul shrugged, glanced quickly at Katie and then said, "Still no answers. We’ve been over the tests a thousand times. There’s absolutely no physical reason why you can’t walk."

  "Meaning that it’s all in my head."

  He nodded. "I guess so. Katie can tell you more about that than I can."

  Martha waved a hand. "No hurry. If it can’t be helped, it can’t be helped. I’m alive and I consider that to be pretty lucky."

  The couple exchanged relieved glances.r />
  "I might as well give you your vitamin shot now," Paul said as he rummaged through his bag and began to prepare a hypodermic.

  Martha’s easy, contented smile changed to a look of resignation. "Fine," she grumbled. "But let’s at least go inside." She turned and propelled her wheelchair through the front door.