When Horses Had Wings

by Diana Estill

  Anthony climbed in the seat next to me and, without warning, kissed me. My skin felt prickly all over. My lower half quivered. I wondered how far he thought we could carry this. We were sitting in a parked car, in plain view, even if the area was poorly lit. Surely he didn’t expect me to do anything right there in the Winn-Dixie parking lot.

  I had to leave soon. If I didn’t, Kenny would start out looking for me. I didn’t want him or some straggling patron to find me there, in a compromised position. “I don’t know if now’s the best time for this,” I cautioned.

  Anthony fondled my nipples through my shirt. “Feels to me like it is.” His hands trailed up to the hollow of my neck, the pads of his fingers smooth and promising. “God, Renee. You’re beautiful. If that crazy husband of yours won’t take care of you, I will.”

  Before I knew it, he’d slipped one hand inside my panties. I thought I’d let it linger there for only a minute. One quick, forbidden touch. But something went wrong. He found that spring release button of mine, the one that instantly converts my legs into a Y.

  “I better start the engine,” I said, realizing we were going to suffocate if I didn’t turn on some air.

  “I hate to tell ya’ but your engine’s been running for a while,” Anthony observed.

  I’d gone mad with lust, aroused beyond hope of return. I couldn’t help it. Like those black holes I’d learned about from watching public television, I wanted to draw in everything around me, drink in the darkness, and absorb all the energy.

  Anthony pleaded, “Oh God, Renee. Don’t make me wait any longer.”

  So I didn’t.

  TWENTY-TWO

  My bedroom didn’t look the same after my night with Anthony. I wanted to deny ownership of that squalid space, reject my connection to it—to Kenny. Staring at our double bed, I tried to remember when, if ever, I’d felt loved by the man I’d married. It seemed as though I’d used up the bulk of Kenny’s affections before I’d made it out of the backseat of his car. Because of that, I’d been compelled to do unspeakable things in the front seat of my own.

  Would Kenny detect the scent of another man in my hair or on my skin? I sniffed the air. Smelled like I’d been swimming in someone’s frog pond. He’d know I’d become a parking lot whore for sure if he came home before I bathed.

  Glimpsing the rifle against the bedroom’s far wall, I thought to hide it. But Kenny would notice it missing right away, I suspected. If nothing else, though, I could empty it. Too bad I didn’t know how.

  I’d rather be dead, anyway, than to have sex with Kenny again. My body felt sacred, for the first time, because someone who loved me had entered it. I couldn’t keep swallowing vinegar after I’d tasted wine.

  Anthony’s touch had awakened every part of me. He was the man I should have been with all along, a lover who knew how to make me feel desired. In his arms I felt sexy, even attractive. How had I let Kenny convince me that no one else would ever want me, that he was the only man charitable enough to have sex with me? His bad magic act would no longer work; I’d seen how the stunt was performed.

  I noted the time on the bedroom wall clock, a Budweiser sign Kenny had found in someone’s trash. Ten past ten. He’d return home any moment, if only to bring Sean inside and then leave again. I raced to the bathroom and turned on the tub faucet, hoping to rinse away my foreign smells—and maybe a little guilt.

  “Adulterer!” my conscience shouted. That was what I’d become, regardless of my intentions. But I didn’t have time to listen to my moral half; I had to concentrate on saving my skin.

  Kicked back in the bathtub, my head reclined against the cold porcelain ridge, I savored the details of my evening escapade. The soaked washcloth I layered on top of my breasts soothed me with its liquid warmth. I recalled the tranquilizing wetness of Anthony’s lips, the satiny hairs of his beard, and the tickle I’d felt when his face brushed against mine. He’d moved, slow and gentle, held me as if we’d had all night instead of a few stolen moments. I wanted to be with him, to make love to him for the rest of my life—however brief a time that might be. I didn’t care about the consequences. If I died at that very instant, at least I’d die knowing what love felt like.

  After I’d finished

  bathing and regained some of my composure, Kenny stumbled into the house. He entered the living room, seriously looped, carrying Sean, who was groggy but not quite asleep. Without a word, Kenny passed Sean off to me. And then, as if he’d suddenly been struck dead, he crashed, fully clothed, onto our bed.

  Sean looked up at me, his eyes barely open. “Daddy lemme bartend. Why you didn’t go with us?”

  Bartend? I couldn’t wait to hear what he meant by that. In the morning, I’d be sure to ask. I tucked Sean into his single bed. With a tug, I pulled the chain on the light that hung where there should have been a headboard. Perfect, I thought. Kenny had said that illuminated beer sign would go well with our bedroom clock. The juke joint remnant displayed a team of galloping Clydesdale horses that probably preferred water to beer. Because Sean was afraid of the dark, we used the backlit advertisement for his night-light. For a second, I could have sworn those horses were sniggering at me.

  Sean blinked, still waiting for me to explain my evening absence. “Mommy had to shop and do a few things,” I cooed. I ran my fingers through his feathery blond hair. “Be a good boy and go to sleep.”

  I kissed Sean’s forehead and handed him the monkey Momma had made out of a pair of Daddy’s old socks. “Had to find some use for ‘em,” Momma had said when I’d marveled at her creativity. The chimp’s red mouth grinned fiendishly from where Daddy’s feet had once resided. Sean clutched the toy by its rosy bottom. It was odd, I considered, what could be made into a monkey’s butt.

  I slipped into bed and drew a sigh of relief. There’d be no fighting with Kenny that night. At a minimum, I was guaranteed a reprieve until morning. Maybe by sunrise I’d find the guts to do myself in. It was true; I was nothing but a whore, just like Kenny had always said. Tonight, I’d confirmed as much.

  “Nighty-night,” Sean whispered.

  “Night, Seany.”

  I left Kenny lying there on top the bedspread, thankful I didn’t have to feel his beer-bloated belly pressed against my back. What a pathetic sight. His plaid shirttail hung wrinkled over his flare-leg knit pants. He’d molded those sweaty feet of his into a pair of broken-down, fake-leather loafers. No socks, of course, because he refused to wear any.

  Kenny moaned, turning his face away from the drool that already had begun pooling on his pillow. He’d been too loaded to see anything other than a soft place to fall when he’d come home. For all I’d gained from it, his intoxication had an alarming downside. He’d been driving drunk with my child in the car, one more reason I needed to get away from him.

  Crickets hurled themselves against the window screen next to Sean’s bed. The bugs clamored like a church congregation beckoned to follow the light. Those serenading fools didn’t realize the glow they vigorously pursued was artificial and luring them closer toward death.

  I lay there speculating about insect behavior and gunshot wounds, entertaining thoughts like: How much would it hurt if a bullet pierced my skin? Would there be a mess? What if I didn’t die right away? How long would I suffer? Would the noise alert anyone?

  I breathed through my mouth, sucking in the stifling air, listening as my heart ticked like a stopwatch. Right then, I wanted to die.

  Or maybe I just wanted my fear of dying to end.

  What would Kenny say when someone found me? Would the police examine my body, find traces of Anthony, and link him to my suicide in some way? Would they think I’d been sexually assaulted? I had, but that had been two weeks earlier—by my own husband. Maybe Anthony would confess we’d had an affair. If he did, would Kenny kill him? My loose ways, I hated to acknowledge, had placed more than my life at risk.

  In the corner next to the bed, I could see the rifle’s evil barrel silhouetted against the room’s sha
dowy walls. Kenny would likely use that gun to murder me, if I didn’t kill myself with it first. It was a matter of time, perhaps a limited amount. Tomorrow? Maybe next week? As soon as he found out about Anthony, I imagined. But right then, the sheets felt like they might suffocate me before Kenny had the chance to do me in. I kicked out from under the cotton layers and hiked my gauzy nightgown to my hips. A faint breeze cooled my bare legs. Nothing hotter than August in Texas, except maybe Hell. Best I could tell, I was lying in both.

  In the darkness, my head swooned with criminal thoughts. How many .22 shells did it take to kill a person? The chamber was full, I knew, because Kenny kept it that way. My palms itched; my hands trembled. If I positioned a pillow over his head, would it muffle the sound? Could I hide the blood? Would I awaken Sean?

  The rifle whispered to me, “Kill or be killed. Those are your choices. Shoot him first, and you’ll be saving several lives.” If I splattered his drunken brains while he slept, I could possibly call it self-defense. Only one story to tell: mine.

  There had to be some way out of this situation without a loss of life, though I couldn’t think of such a solution. If I remained with Kenny and never saw Anthony again, I’d be as good as dead. Stuck in this marriage, my spirit would wither to nothing. I’d be little more than an empty carcass. And if I left, Kenny would turn me into a bullet-ridden one.

  “Go ahead. Do it now,” the rifle whispered. “Do it now, while you’ve got the chance. If you don’t, he will.”

  “No,” I silently replied. “Not tonight.”

  I needed more time to entertain all the possible outcomes. All I wanted to think about right then was Anthony and the rhapsody I’d experienced in his arms.

  ~

  By sunup, I’d made a decision. I’d follow through, right after I carried Sean to Momma’s apartment. I didn’t want my child to see the bloody remains of a marriage that had gone fatally south. Already he’d been exposed to enough. Where I’d find the strength to pull that trigger, I didn’t know. But somehow, I reassured myself, I’d do it—because I had to.

  I didn’t want to take my own life. And I didn’t want to wait and wonder when Kenny might aim for me or Anthony, something I knew would happen soon unless I took immediate action. I couldn’t hold Kenny off forever. He’d be demanding sex or raping me to get it any day now.

  Though I hadn’t yet figured out how it would unfold, change was coming because I’d decided to take action. I didn’t know how I’d avoid being tried for murder. But I had a pair of those cotton gloves from Keslo Electronics, and I thought they’d work into my plot pretty well. No fingerprints, at least. Fuelled by my instincts for self-preservation, I set my scheme into motion.

  When Kenny finally awakened, I said, “I’m taking Sean over to Momma’s for a while. Got to return her cookie platter.” Before he could say a word, I added, “Besides, ever since she started working at the Get-N-Go, she hardly ever has a chance to see him.”

  Kenny rubbed his eyes. “Don’t talk so goddamn loud. I ain’t in Mex-i-co.” He shucked out of the shirt and pants he’d perspired in all night and raked his knobby fingers at his bare crotch. “You coming straight back?”

  “No. I’m going to stay a while and visit.”

  “Be back by lunch. And bring me a Belt Buster, with mayonnaise, and some fries, too.” Freeing his wallet from the crumpled heap at his feet, he pitched me a ten-dollar bill. “Get whatever you want.”

  The Dairy Queen was a block from Momma’s apartment. Kenny couldn’t drive past it without suffering a sudden hunger urge. It only seemed right that the DQ folks would prepare Kenny’s last meal. I wondered if I could get him some arsenic to go with those taters.

  “Sean’s staying at Momma’s for the night. I’m picking him up tomorrow morning.” I knew that would put Kenny in a good mood, as he’d interpret that to mean he’d be getting more than a burger this afternoon.

  Kenny kept clawing at himself. I felt like telling him if he’d put on some underwear once in a while, he might get over that jock itch. But soon enough he’d find himself beyond scratching at anything.

  “Got something planned?” he asked, a sly smile spreading toward one ear.

  I knew what he meant, and I surely did. But it wasn’t what he had in mind. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Mee-maw, Mee-Maw,” Sean recited. He might have been the only person in the world who looked forward to Momma’s cooking. Sean thought fried bologna and spam sandwiches, cheese puffs, and cream sodas were nothing short of gourmet.

  “Yes, we’re going to Mee-Maw’s,” I said. I stuffed the ten in my purse.

  By the time I loaded the car with Momma’s platter, my bag, and a few of Sean’s toys, I’d begun to feel sorry for ever being born. I pulled my car onto Hawk Creek Road and steered blindly toward White Rock. For some reason, I thought of Granny Henderson. “God puts us all here for a reason,” she liked to say. If that was true, what was my purpose? Must not have been much.

  Sean bounced in the front seat next to me, excited by this spontaneous outing. Nearing a stop sign, I automatically braced his soft middle with the backside of my arm. That was when it dawned on me; perhaps Sean was my purpose. Simply bringing him into the world and encouraging him to be different from Kenny might be all that I’d been sent here to do. But seeing as how Sean was already bartending at age four, I appeared destined for failure.

  Unless something changed drastically, Sean had little hope of becoming anything but a lazy, beer-guzzling, wife-beating, no-count. He would have been better off having no father at all than having Kenny for a daddy.

  But if I ended up in jail, then I’d never get to be with Anthony. And Sean might wind up with Neta Sue, the very person who’d raised Kenny. If that happened, it wouldn’t matter if Kenny were dead. Sean would still turn out exactly like him. And I’d have wasted my life for nothing. I’d sooner shoot myself than live to witness such a tragedy.

  Maybe suicide was the better option. I had to face the fact that I was never going to like Kenny, let alone love him. Not after all he’d done to me. I also knew I’d never again refuse Anthony. He’d become my addiction. I had to have him. I lived for that man. So where did any of that leave me? I wasn’t so crafty or slick that I could escape being caught. Even if I successfully managed to run away, eventually Kenny would find me. What if, when he did, he didn’t confine himself to firearms? What if he decided to take a crowbar to my face, instead? I imagined the crushing blows to my temples, the caved teeth, gaping flesh, and blinded eyes. Permanent disfigurement, to the point that no one would ever again want to look at me. No. Better to die on my own terms than on those.

  ~

  “Are you okay?” Momma asked. “You look a little pale.”

  “I’m fine. That time of the month, I guess.”

  Ricky sat at Momma’s kitchen table, repairing a portable radio. “On that note, I think I’ll leave,” he said. “Come on, Seany. Let’s me an’ you go back here. Us men don’t belong in that conversation.”

  I caught sight of an entertainment magazine Momma had left on her kitchen countertop. The front cover headlines announced a local tycoon had been accused of hiring someone to snuff out his wife. I leaned my elbows onto the bar counter and asked, “Momma, you ever thought about killing Daddy for what he done to you?” I said it just like that, like I’d asked her if she’d ever considered purchasing a wrinkle cream or shaving under her arms.

  “Why land alive, No! What would make you think such a thing, Renee? Do I look like a man-killer to you?”

  “Of course not. I just wondered if you ever got that mad at him, seein’ as how he shamed you like he did.”

  “Well…” Momma looked like she was straining to recall. “I suppose I did think about it once. Not seriously, I mean. I did wish him dead once or twice.” Momma studied my face. “Why? What’s Kenny done now?”

  “He’s been Kenny. I reckon that’s enough.”

  Momma shook her head and grinned. “He’s done one
thing right.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?” I couldn’t think of a single praiseworthy accomplishment he’d achieved.

  She pointed toward Ricky’s bedroom. “He produced that precious grandson of mine.”

  Momma acted like I’d had nothing to do with Sean’s birth. Nothing at all. “Hmph. Produced one life, destroyed another.”

  Momma screwed up her face as though she was struggling to decipher my comment. I didn’t waste any effort trying to explain. Later, my energies would be needed for a better use.

  ~

  The drive home from Momma’s gave me more time to assess my decision. Somewhere between the Dairy Queen and my driveway, I partially regained my senses. At a core level, I didn’t really want to murder Kenny. I simply didn’t want to live with him anymore.

  If Kenny aimed to shoot me, as he’d repeatedly blustered, then he’d better do it now, I decided. Because I’d reached that point where dying looked better than living like a hunted duck. Given the choice of staying with Kenny or being murdered by him, I planned to go down staring into the coward’s beady yellow eyes. He wouldn’t surprise me from behind, the chicken-shit way. I would face him, openly defy him, and tell him I was leaving. If it came to such an end, I would hold my neck stretched high and my chin proudly cocked forward, and I’d take those slugs one by one. Whether he shot me or let me go free, either way, there’d be an improvement.

  With the grace of a homecoming queen, I breezed through our living room. Kenny, partially clad in a pair of briefs and believing himself irresistible, joked, “Whadda you want first? That burger...or me?”

  I set the DQ bag on our coffee table and wandered, zombie-like, into the bedroom. I could hear Kenny fingering the paper food wrappers. If there’s a God in Heaven, maybe He’ll intervene now and let Kenny choke to death. No sooner had I thought this than I noticed Daddy’s Bible. It was sitting on top of a box filled with old photo albums Momma had given me months earlier. Suddenly, for reasons I couldn’t explain, I felt like praying—on the outside chance there might really be such a thing as Divine Intervention. I’d never seen any evidence of it, but I hadn’t exactly given up the idea.