by Ryan Green
In the letters, she spoke at length about her previous attempts at leaving and the reasons that she believed that they had failed, placing the blame squarely on the fact that each attempt had been undertaken on the spur of the moment without any sort of planning. She did not want to have to rely on the kindness of her children for support as she tried to find her footing, and she had no idea what she would do with life outside of marriage. But she was finally finding the courage to take the final step and try. All that she wanted before fleeing the family forever was one last Christmas together. In her final letter, she wrote to her second son Billy:
Dear Bill, Renata and Trae,
Loretta, may be staying in town Friday night, so I'll have her mail this. I've been thinking of all you said Bill and I know you are right, I don't want to live the rest of my live with Dad, but I'm still trying to figure out how to start, what if I couldn't find a job for some time. You have to remember I've never had a job since I've been married, or before that either. I know I have to start somewhere. It would all be so much easier if it was just me, but I have three kids also by then. So if you want to do any checking by telephone go ahead and check and we can talk about it when you come. I've decided if I borrow from Mom, that I would have her send it to you. I'm still all very confused but like I said I do know I don't want to stay with Dad, but don't want him getting more than he deserves. Yet sometimes I feel God is telling me to be more patient. Right now, I'll just say do some checking and then it will help make my decision. I would like for Loretta to move with you after she turns 18. She wants to go to college, and she can get a job too. I don't think San Antonio is the place for her.
Little Gene and Wilma are back together, but they want to try it out and try to come get Barbara. I'm sure enjoying Barbara, she is a sweet lovable, polite little girl. She is a good girl and we all love her and enjoy her so much. She always has us laughing.
I'm so proud of Trae. The last time you came, Dad wanted to know how come you didn't stay long enough to see him too.
Now that L. Gene and Wilma are back together I wish they could move from San Antonio. Barbara needs both her parents. They both been through so much I hope it works out. I love them both. Wilma wrote me a letter telling me she loves L. Gene very much, and she must, she went back to him, and I'm sure she has been hurt deeply. I want to see all my children happy.
I've remembered a lot what you said Bill, I am a prisoner here and the kids too. I know when I get out, I might need help, Dad has had me like a prisoner, that the freedom might be hard for me to take, yet I know it would be great, having my children visit me anytime, having a telephone, going shopping if I want, going to church. Every time I think of freedom I want out as soon as possible. I don't want to put any burden on my children, and I think its best while or before I get out too old. I want out, but it’s the beginning, once I get a job and place than I can handle it with the mental support of my children I can do it. It was hard to talk in front of L. Gene. He had been having it so hard, and his problems were deeply in my mind. I felt sorry for him. I was so afraid what he might go back and do. You are lucky Bill, you have a very good wife, she had led you the right way, and that is toward God. She is very pretty, too. I've always thanked God for sending you a good wife, I'm thankful for Dennis too.
Give my darling Trae a lot of hugs and kisses for me. I love you all very much. Barbara gets bored if I take too long to write, so I hope I made sense in this letter. Hope Loretta can mail this Fri. or Sat., on her way home.
Love you very much.
Mom.
After a few weeks, Ronald quit his job at the convenience store, citing the low wages, long hours, and lack of respect as his reasons. But even the other staff recognised that he was not his usual self. For him to quit in a temper tantrum would have been entirely in character, but instead he just faded away in every aspect of his life. From the outside, it appeared as if he had given up entirely on everything. Everything in his life that he had once been passionate about and everyone who he had ever cared about in his own twisted way were forgotten in the light of this latest imagined betrayal. With no job to distract him, Ronald stayed in his room day and night drinking until the money began to run out. Any hope of regaining control seemed to be slipping through his fingers. When Becky brought up the subject of Christmas, he acquiesced almost without complaint. She placed an order with the Walmart in Russellville for gifts for the children using almost the last of the savings, which Ronald parted with without complaint. They bought and decorated a tree together, and Becky made some calls to bring all of her babies back under one roof for one last Christmas celebration together. Even Sheila was convinced to come back with the added security of her protective husband Dennis by her side. The stage was set for a heartwarming reunion of all of the people that Ronald's evil behaviour over the years had driven apart.
Alone in his dark room, Ronald had meticulously laid a very different set of plans.
Part 3: Open Warfare
Ronald drew in a breath of the stale, sickly sweet air and let his sticky eyes open onto the total darkness of his room. Out of possessive habit, he let his hand fall on the empty dip in the mattress beside him. It was cold, but even the dampness of her sweat had dried out under the constant assault of the storage heaters. If it weren't for that dip, you would never have known that she had been there at all. Becky had moved in with the kids a few weeks back, in that snide and casual way that women stab you in the back. She hadn't even said a word to him, just set up a little cot in their room and started locking the door at night. One of them had a fever one night, that was her excuse to start with, then it turned into habit and god knows, Becky was a creature of habit. Even after a lifetime together, Ronald hadn't been able to break her of some of them. She still wiped the dishes wrong and left them all smeared. Such a simple thing to understand; something half-cleaned is still dirty. But she just wouldn't wrap her head around it. She still couldn't be convinced to pick up after her spoiled self. He could see her bits and pieces littering the dresser even now. She wouldn't put things back where they belonged no matter how many times he showed her exactly how he wanted it done. She couldn't be that stupid, so he had to come up with his own excuses for her, bad habits or bad breeding.
It was going to be a relief not to make excuses for her anymore. It was going to ease Ronald's mind considerably not having to manufacture a daily list of reasons that his wife wasn't a disobedient, backstabbing traitor to the family. Ronald didn't like lying. Not from other people and certainly not from himself. He could lie when he needed to, when it was required for the mission or to protect his property, but it always left the world feeling jagged-edged and fuzzy. He had to hold that lie in his head all day long every day until everyone forgot about it, and every moment that he did was like torture. The world was the way that the world was. Confusing matters just made Ronald feel even less in control of it than he already did. Lying was just another way to oil his grip on things, and it made him queasy to think of the number of times that he had lied for his precious little wife. Lied to other people in talking about how good she was and lied to himself in making excuses for the horrible truth that she just didn't give a good goddamn about him and the family.
Ronald stretched out on the stale sheets, then an insistent pressure from his gut forced him to get up. Back in the old days, he would have been up like a shot, scrubbed and shaved and dressed before the sun was even peeking over the horizon, but now things were different. He was slowing down as the ache in his bones started to make getting up a chore. Even without the promise of pain, he was finding it hard to think of a reason that getting out of bed was worthwhile. His bladder gave another twinge, just to remind him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and nearly slipped on the beer bottles lying scattered all around. Fury sparked instantly. Why the hell hadn't Becky cleaned this mess up? Then just as quickly, his iron control clamped down on that rage. She hadn't cleaned it up because she wasn't welcome in this room anymore. He
wouldn't want a traitor in his bed. He picked his way carefully past the bottles and overflowing ashtrays and unlocked the door as gently as he could, bracing himself for the impending headache. When he pulled the door open, the pain didn't come. The hateful light of day wasn't streaming in through the patio doors to blind him and set his hangover screaming. Outside it was still blessedly dark.
A crooked smile appeared deep inside the thicket of Ronald's wild beard as he stepped out into the yard. This far from city lights, he could look up and see all the stars in the sky, every one of them locked in position in relation to one another, every one of them drifting around the sky in a perfectly predictable rotation. He drew in a deep breath of the freezing air and let it out in a huff of steam. Even if he had forgotten what day it was, some part of him remembered what it was like to wake up ready for a mission. Some part of him beyond his rational mind must have known that he needed this today, so he said a quiet prayer of thanks as he wandered over to the outhouse, carefully weaving around the new cesspit that the kids had been set to digging last month before the ground froze up. He had never had trouble sleeping the night before a new mission. He had always been able to trust in his body to haul him awake in plenty of time. It was nice to know that no matter how much some things changed, he could still rely on one person in this world to look out for him.
Despite the cold stabbing further up his legs, he still let the dog out of his house and tossed a handful of feed to the still drowsy chickens in the snake pit before heading back inside to get dressed. The dog was the only one who he never felt any anger towards. In their own way, dogs were perfectly predictable. Once you had put the time into training them, you could rely on them to go on doing as they were told for the rest of their lives. You didn't have to worry about them snapping at your fingers when you tried to feed and shelter them. You didn't have to worry about them tearing your throat out while you were sleeping. You didn't have to worry about them sneaking around making plans with other dogs to run away. If they did any of that, then man would have done away with the whole species, stopped inviting them into their homes.
If only they had been so wise about women.
Ronald squatted awkwardly, hips complaining all the while, to give the dog a pat on the head as it passed. Then he went off to prepare for today's mission. The dog knew better than to bark. It had learned how vital silence was. It bounded around the yard joyfully in the starlight until Ronald sent it back to its doghouse with a snap of his fingers, flipped the latch, and then drove off into town before the rest of the family had even begun to stir.
Ronald could feel the tension building in his gut as he drove. Not the anxiety that plagued lesser men, but that horrible churning of adrenaline and excitement that only a soldier truly knows. The rich and intoxicating brew that lets you move, think, and kill while bullets fly all around you. With nothing to distract him, he turned inwards and drove in silence amidst the storm of his thoughts. In Russellville, he went through the motions in the Walmart, handing over the money that was meant to last them until he could find a new job in exchange for a shiny new .22 calibre pistol and a box of ammunition. The drive home flashed by just as quickly, and all too suddenly he was driving up the red clay track to Mockingbird Hill once more. Running through his plan, backwards and forwards until he was certain that every moment of the timing was right. He parked the car to one side so that his visitors would have plenty of room, then he stalked slowly across to the sliding doors and checked inside for anything resembling a surprise. Becky remained predictable in her mediocrity. She was huddled at the kitchen table staring off into space. The kids were off to school by now, and while that particular clock was ticking, it was ticking very slowly. He had all day to do his work and very little work to do. He backed away carefully and went to check on the yard.
The dog was still stowed away safely, and the tarpaulin-covered cesspit hadn't been disturbed by the damned kids fooling around. His tools were all bundled up in oilcloth by the latest junker that he had been stripping for scrap and spare parts. Everything of value had been peeled off of the old car and sold off to fund this Christmas foolishness that Becky insisted on indulging in. The sweat of his brow and the ache of his muscles had earned that money, and every time he spent a penny of it, he knew she was sitting there in that kitchen disapproving. How was it selfish for a man to spend his own money? How was it selfish for a man to expect his own wife to be obedient? How was it selfish to not want your children growing up into spoiled little brats like the hippie spawn that he saw milling around in town, knocking over cans of soup and giggling when he had to clear them away? The whole world might be sighing and tutting at Ronald, but he knew that he was in the right. He knew that in time they would all come to realise it, too. He lifted the crowbar out of the pack and hefted its rusted weight in his hands. He could feel his joints creaking, but he still had all of his strength. He wouldn't wither like some old men did. He was still a man of action. He still had the time to do what he needed to do before he was too old to do it. He considered the crowbar, then he considered the pistol tucked into his belt. He still had plenty of time.
He made a point of making a noise as he entered the house this time, keeping the crowbar hanging behind his leg, out of sight, just in case Becky was suddenly overcome with the urge to leap up and greet him. He was just stalking through to his room when he saw little Barbara's door swing open. Gene Junior stepped out backwards, still keeping his eye on the little girl to make sure she stayed settled in her nap. He jumped when he spotted his father. He was ruining it. He wasn't supposed to be here yet. He was ruining it. Ronald must have walked right past his car without even thinking about it twice. That worthless son of a bitch. That boy was the worst thing that ever slithered out of his worthless mother. Ronald still had his suspicions about who had turned him in back in New Mexico. He had never pegged Becky as having the guts, even if she was the one who caught hell for it at the time. Little Gene was the prime suspect after her. He had always been a source of trouble. His mother had been useless but at least obedient before that brat came along. Ronald wished that the boy had never been born. That boy was the biggest mistake he had ever made in his entire life. His grip on the crowbar tightened. Gene opened his mouth to spit out some new poisonous lie, but he only got as far as, ‘Dad?' before Ronald swung.
It hit the boy right in the centre of his forehead. Gene staggered, cross-eyed as if he were trying to see where the crowbar had hit him. Ronald slammed it down again and again. The boy fell to his knees against one of the chairs, mouth hanging open like some kind of moron, eyes out of focus. Ronald sneered at the boy's weakness as the runt gasped and drooled. He brought the crowbar down on Gene's face once more, popping his nose with a gristly splatter and knocking the boy out cold. Gene hefted the crowbar and gave the boy one last whack across the skull for good measure, just to be sure. It jarred right up the length of his arm.
His own head was spinning. The adrenaline rush that would have carried him through the whole mission smoothly was all but spent, and he was gasping for breath after just one target was down. He tried to realign his plans and in a blissful moment realised that this made everything so much easier. Gene Junior was the random element in all of this. He could have shown up at just the wrong moment and made things much more difficult. It might have startled him, but there was no way that this could have gone better. Ronald looked down at his son, leaking blood from his nose and his ears onto the flea-market rug that covered half the room, and gave him the first smile that the boy had earned since he was a day old. He stomped firmly on the boy's midsection to make certain that he wasn't going to pop up unexpectedly again. Air was driven out of Gene's body in a bubbling red stream, and he made a noise that might have been a groan but that Ronald hoped was a death rattle. That boy had this coming to him since a long time ago, but he had always been up front about his hatred of his father, and Ronald could respect him for that.
The noise had disturbed Becky from her spot
in the kitchen. If Ronald had known that committing bloody murder in the room next door was all it took to get Becky moving, he would have started doing it years ago. It wasn't like they had a shortage of kids to beat to death. He repositioned himself by the door to the kitchen, briskly striding around the carnage that he had wrought without a glance back. This was better than he could have dreamed. At the end of the day, Gene was the first man she had betrayed him for. The first one who had made her disregard her husband's wishes. It was kind of poetic that she would see that boy broken, pathetic, and drooling on the floor before death came to her. She let out a gasp when she stepped into the room, and then she froze. Just like Ronald had always known that she would. She was weak. From the top of her hair to the tips of her toes. Ronald's first blow could have landed anywhere he chose. She was so lost in her own world of panic he could have walked right up to her face and started swinging away, but that wasn't the plan.
He hit her across the shoulders and she tumbled to the ground in a heap. She was the first to betray him. The rest had just been following her lead. They were all traitors, but she was the one who had led them astray. She was the one who they trusted and the one who had betrayed all of them, too, when she turned them against him. He rained blows down on her. Somehow she found her voice after all these years of silence, screeching each time the crowbar bounced off of her back. He felt a rib or two give way, but it wasn't enough. She had to hurt like he hurt. She had to feel what he felt. She had to know what it was like to be torn apart by the one person who you were meant to be able to trust the most. He stopped his flurry of blows for a long moment to draw a breath, then he flipped the crowbar over in his hand so that the jagged teeth were now raised up. He looked down at the expanse of her floral print dress like an artist looks at a canvas, then he started painting red flowers of his own. He watched them blossom as the bitch wailed and wailed. The noises stopped being human after the first dozen hunks of meat were torn loose from her. It turned into a guttural grunting noise like some hulking beast trying to haul itself out of the sea. It was a mercy killing. By the time that he stopped swinging, there could be no denying that it was a mercy killing.