Breaking Clean

by Judy Blunt

  At some point in the next half hour, I rinsed my glass and placed it on the drainboard, then stepped into the porch and locked the porch door, jamming the hook firmly into the eye. Hardly a cold-weather door, it was held shut by a long spring instead of a doorknob latch. Wind sucking around the corners of the house set it tap-tap-tapping against the jamb, a sound as irritating as a leaky faucet. I stood looking east through the storm window, toward the county road. The wind had dropped and steadied, rippling evenly through the dried weeds along our lane. Dad had left early, hadn't said when or if he'd be home for supper, or maybe he had and I'd forgotten. Working cattle somewhere. They were weaning calves down at John's place, too. He'd be tied up for days. I leaned against the door, testing the strength of the hook-and-eye latch, the tenderness of my swollen wrist. A pain rose in my chest, a familiar tightness in my throat that threatened to choke me. I stared down at my hands, the broad heft of them. How coarse my left hand looked, how out of place the arc of diamonds that graced the third finger. Sturdy, powerful hands. The fist seemed to form itself. In one smooth move, I stepped back and sent it smashing through the glass.

  I made a good job of the window. I swung until only jagged shards stuck up from the glazing, then pounded at those with the side of my hand to knock them out. Once it was started, I saw it through, every punch a jolt of electricity that charged the next blow and the next. When it was over I stood still for a while, trying to sort one version of reality from another, as though I had turned a corner and come upon a terrible wreck only to recognize myself amid the blood and broken glass. Shattered glass covered the concrete step outside the door, the sash beaten clean except for a few smeared nubs stuck in the glazing. Trails and streams of blood ran down the white painted wood on both sides. My left hand bore a maze of shallow crisscross cuts that spoke of not one but many trips through the window, the side of my fist minced by repeated blows against the frame. In the jumble of superficial slices and gouges, only two or three deep gashes bled freely. My palm was virtually untouched, the ring undamaged. In the end, I felt a surprising sense of calm, almost relief. There would be no hiding this one.

  Holding my hand open and flat had slowed the bleeding considerably, but when I flexed it rapidly into a fist, thin jets of blood shot from the two deepest cuts. Using my hand as a spray gun, I painted the door, inside and out. I made little puddles on the concrete. Inside the house, I marked territory like a tomcat, this doorway, that wall, the mirror over the sink, my elbow dripping a trail of red drops as I ran from room to room, giddy with my absolute badness and the feeling of being intently, acutely alive. To say I felt no pain would be misleading in one sense, for while I felt no actual pain in my hand, I also didn't feel the slightest bit drunk. So intent was I on this job of losing blood that when the dog gave a short bark to announce a strange vehicle, I literally leaped into the air with a stifled scream.

  By the time I'd grabbed a towel to wrap my hand, a young man stood on the sidewalk halfway to the door, one arm frozen in the act of taking his hat off, his face hanging like a bleached bedsheet on a still day. His wide eyes riveted on the mess in front of the door, then moved slowly up the looping river of red that appeared to pour over the edge of the sash. When he reached the still-intact upper pane and saw my face peering out, his reaction was no less intense than mine had been a minute before. He jumped like he'd been goosed. Gripping his hat in both hands, he opened his mouth twice before he got words to come out.

  "Is everything okay here?" God knows what he thought had happened, but he didn't move any closer to the door. He still hadn't blinked that I could see.

  I pushed the door open and stepped partway out, keeping my "bad" hand hidden, and gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. Had the visitor been one of our neighbors, he or she would have walked straight in and taken over. But this young cowboy worked as a laborer for a distant ranch and was obviously uncertain of what was expected of him. I could buffalo him into believing everything was under control, and he'd be on his way.

  I assured him that I was just fine, had a little accident, nothing too bad. He asked if I needed a ride to town, and I smiled some more. No, no. Someone's on the way to get me now, no big deal. I remained blocking the doorway, made no effort to extend the conversation or invite him in, and in the language of the country he was effectively dismissed. He understood, but he hesitated, unwilling to take my word in the face of all that blood. Oh, God, a real cowboy. My mind raced, searching for some gesture that would allow him to feel useful.

  "There is one thing you might do, if you would," I offered, pausing as if afraid to ask such a favor of a mere acquaintance. "I left my colt in the lot beside the barn. Could you turn him out so he can get to water?"

  He drew himself up and slapped the wide hat onto his head, absolutely no problem, he would see to the horse, horses were something he knew. His pickup churned dirt all the way to the barn. As soon as he was safely out of sight, I grabbed the phone and called John's place, sending his stepmother on a dithering run to get him out of the corral where the men were sorting cattle. The visiting cowboy was only a few minutes up the road when John's big blue four-wheel-drive slid to a stop in front of the house. He said little as he handed me over the pile of broken glass and into the pickup for the ride to town. He said less as we drove. I flexed my hand once, spraying the dashboard with a dainty mist of blood, but he was not amused.

  In Malta, he dropped me off at the doctor's office. My mother arrived in time to watch as the doctor peered down his bifocals and ran his thumb over the Crosshatch of cuts, deciding on five that needed sewing. Her eyes were flat and unmoving, a dark gaze that held me pinned to the chair as the doctor tugged stitches into place. She smelled booze on me, I was sure. The story I prepared for the ride home made no mention of whiskey, nor did it explain the evidence written on my hand and on the walls of our home. I told her I had stumbled on my way through the porch. The dog flopped on J:he step and leaning against the door had kept it from pushing open when my hand hit the window

  I suppose it was she who cleaned up the glass and washed away the blood from the doors and floors and walls. I know I didn't. Dad offered no comment one way or the other, though he would have the chore of replacing the glass before snow flew I slid into bed that night craving sleep. In the end, I found my own violence that day less strange than the silence it met. The story I told was one of the most transparent lies I've ever passed. Yet it stands today, unchallenged, never mentioned.

  Late that spring I stood at the altar of the Little White Church and spoke the vows of silent partnership. The groom was nearly thirty, tall and slim, his solemn, sun-darkened face circled by the pale stripe of a recent haircut. He stood frozen by all those eyes, like a deer chased into a clearing, and I found the tremor in his fingertips oddly comforting as he turned to face me. We joined hands, callus to callus, in the presence of friends and neighbors, the sun through the stained-glass windows linking us all in a slow kaleidoscope of color, emerald-green softening to amber, purple bleeding out from red and royal blue.

  In the vestibule, waiting for the march to begin, my father had looked at me, straight into my face for what I felt to be the first time in years. "Are you sure about this, Sis?" he asked, his voice cracking, his chin going soft with emotion. Any butterflies I felt died in the punch of heat that rose and spread outward through my chest, a heat so pure it numbed where it touched. I was conscious of my lips lifting in a stiff smile, my scarred fist gripping the wad of Tropicana roses and baby's breath, the way words and images battered at my skull like swallows trapped in an attic. There had never been questions. No questions for the fifteen-year-old daughter dating a twenty-seven-year-old man, no comment when we became engaged a year and a half later. He spoke as the man I had promised to marry moved to the right of the altar braced by trios of groomsmen and bridesmaids. Was I sure about this? In the pews, all eyes shifted to the doorway searching a four-beat pause for the first long strains of the wedding march, their signal to
rise, our signal to walk.

  I wonder now how I sounded as I answered, my whisper rising to be heard over the opening chords. "Don't you think it's a little late to worry about that?" His gaze faltered and drew inward. We turned together and stepped through the archway on a path of strewn petals. I had learned to waltz balanced on the tops of his boots, clinging to a belt loop with one hand, the other stretched impossibly high to meet his own. There would be no stumbling now. On the walk down the aisle, our feet moved easily in time with the music.

  Learning the Ropes

  Judy — we don't buy frozen juice and vegetables.

  Too expensive. Rose.

  I read the note twice, then propped it back on the saltshaker and looked around the kitchen. The floor had been swept, the dishes put away, the counters wiped. The rug I kept in the kitchen doorway had been spread on the floor in front of the sink. I tracked across the worn tile to retrieve it, then pulled off my boots and drew a shallow, steady breath. I'd left to go riding shortly after lunch. Probably ten minutes out the door when she showed up, I thought. I knew when she left. I'd seen the tail of dust rising behind her old car as I eased my horse down the ridge toward the barn. Peeling off my sweaty socks, I draped them over my boots and padded barefoot through the gloom, snapping up window shades, jerking back curtains to let in the late-afternoon light. The curtain rule had been one of my first: We keep the shades pulled so the sun won't fade the carpet, ruin the furniture, heat up the house. ... I wandered back to the kitchen to see what "we" were fixing for supper. The stove gleamed from a recent scrubbing, and beside it a roll of round steak defrosted into a pie plate. I tested it with one finger, pressing until blood wicked through the seams of the butcher paper, then wiped my finger across the range top. A jagged streak of mud and meat juice rose against the white enamel then flash-dried to a dull brown in the August heat.

  The stove had been warm to the touch, the air still perfumed with garlic, when I moved to the Loving U Ranch the first week in June. John's stepmother, Rose, and his father, Frank, had surprised us the week we married with their decision to turn over the main ranch buildings to us, while they set up housekeeping ten miles from headquarters. It was time, Frank reasoned, for them to get away from the grind of chores and hired men. A newer ranch house, vacant since they acquired more land in 1970, took little preparation to ready for occupation, and they had moved the bulk of their belongings over while John and I were on our honeymoon. The main ranch house, which John and I took over, stood at the base of one steep hill facing south to another, with the bunkhouse, outbuildings and corrals taking up the flat ground at the bottom of the pocket. Driving down the lane toward our ranch felt like aiming at the ends of the earth—nothing but hardpan and the suggestion of pines in the distance—when suddenly you popped over a steep hill and the ranch buildings spread out below, cradled in a bend of Fourchette Creek.

  Recently removed from this hub of activity, Rose fought the boredom of her new, quiet life by gradually relinquishing her house, her kitchen and her role in bits and pieces. Within days of our return, I would discover that in all these thousands of acres, there existed one oasis, one room that my inlaws and the hired men could not enter with a perfunctory rap, and that was our bedroom. Even Rose drew the line at that threshold.

  I changed out of my riding clothes, then sat on the edge of the unmade bed, groping in the dusky light for a cleaner pair of jeans. One low east window faced the bunkhouse, the other looked out to the road, right where vehicles popped over the hill on their way to the barnyard. I raised the bedroom shades only when I was cleaning the room, changing sheets. The rest of the time they were pulled tight to the sill. The room stayed cool in the muted light, the muzzy outlines of bed and dresser, lamp and mirror soft as welcoming arms.

  Flopping back on the bed, I zipped my jeans and rested a moment, the muscles in my back and neck softening against the loose blankets. So much easier to think my way through supper than get up and start it. What would it be tonight? Frank went home to Rose around six, so the evening meal was as close to private as John and I ever got. Just two hired men and us. If John came in first, I would get a hug, maybe a quick kiss before the hired men trailed in to wash up. If they all came in together, it would be business as usual. John would ask the men what they'd seen that day, what they'd gotten done, any trouble with machinery. Fried meat. Boiled potatoes. Canned beans. I worked my way down the list, counting with slow blinks. I could make Jell-O, set it up with ice cubes. Maybe biscuits. My eyelids shot open and I sat up so fast a gray fog roared through my head. Bent over my knees, I waited as flashes of color gradually gave way to vision, then peered at my watch. Half an hour lost. I worked my neck and shoulders, driving off the last of the dizziness. Forcing myself to rise, I stretched against the ache in my hips and knees.

  Our honeymoon had ended just as haying season began, and John arrived home to a relentless grind of fourteen-hour days and seven-day weeks. The men left for the hayfields at dawn, returning for lunch and again for the evening meal. After supper, after the cows were milked and the barn chores done, John started on the shop work, tuning and tinkering and welding on one of the fleet of hard-used balers, swathers and tractors. Something was always breaking down, it seemed. On my own, I walked the rooms, planning furniture and decorations, filled with a sense of adventure. The house had been hauled to its site decades before, the original structure still visible under a layer of tacked-on additions. In the kitchen, I looked through two sets of windows to see outside, the old ones separated from more recent ones by the width of a porch to the south, a washroom to the east. A wide metal floor grate lay in the doorway between the kitchen and the tiny living room, and the propane gas furnace beneath it provided heat for the entire house. Narrow stairs led to a pair of barely insulated upstairs rooms whose only nod to electrical power was lone bare bulbs with pull strings that swung from the ceiling.

  If my contribution to the household had been small—an old black-and-white television, end tables, a few dishes and some cleaning supplies—John's was nonexistent. Moving from home to college to Army, he had acquired little in the way of household goods. We were starting out new. I unpacked wedding gifts and arranged them in cupboards and closets, towels and linens here, mixing bowls there, then sketched out meals for the first day. I felt scared, not a bad sort of scared but the kind that makes you alert, challenged. At eighteen, I was neither stupid nor totally naive. I had a lot to learn. The first few days, I elbowed through the unfurnished space of my new house, learning as I went along.

  In the kitchen only the table had survived the moving purge—too large for Rose's new house and necessary for feeding the crew. From an outbuilding, Frank called up half a dozen chairs from retirement. I scrubbed away a decade of bird droppings and polished the chrome frames. The backs were original yellow, the seats covered with thick brown vinyl. I replaced the layers of peeling tape that held the stuffing inside. Since his move to the ranch, John had slept in a small spare bedroom rather than share the bunkhouse, and they left behind his double bed, a forties-era masterpiece of blond veneer complete with original wire springs and packed-cotton mattress.

  At six feet four inches, John had to sleep crosswise or his feet hung over the end, and our nights passed fitfully until we gradually grew accustomed to the toss and turn of a bedmate, the bedsprings announcing the most innocent shift of weight with bawdy shrieks and groans. Still, the bed was the softest piece of furniture in the house and the only place to sit, aside from the kitchen chairs. John emptied half the matching four-dresser and vanity and I fit about half my things into the cleared space. The leftover items we stacked on the floor of the closet or stowed in boxes against the wall. Arranging the living room went more quickly. I set my end table in one corner, balanced my third-hand television on top, and that was that.

  Within a few days of settling I managed to break the bed all by myself. I had spent the morning in a whirlwind of activity, had lunch on the table at noon sharp and cleaned the
kitchen until it shone. With hours to fill until supper, I grabbed a novel and like a small child let out to play, I dashed to our room to read. I had changed linens that morning, pulling the gold velour spread taut over the crisp fragrance of sun-dried sheets, and with mindless exuberance I launched into the air over the bed and dropped straight down onto my stomach.

  The result sounded like a two-car collision, a screech as the frame separated, then a crash as the mattress and springs hit the floor in a litter of broken slats. Horrified, I stripped off the bedding and assessed the damage. The slats were just boards spaced under the springs to keep them from sagging to the floor; those were easily replaced. But the angle iron frame that held it all up had broken at the corner welds.