Trace the Dead Eye

by Steven D. Bennett

CHAPTER 5

  FIVE MINUTES BEFORE

  I stood over my wife in shocked surprise. She lay on the bathroom floor of our home, holding her face as tears seeped through her fingers to drip on the carpet. I wondered inanely what she was doing down there, but the trembling of my arms and the stinging in my right hand were a painful reminder. Overcome by a surge of anger, I'd hit her with the back of my hand and she'd fallen and now we were both too stunned to move or speak.

  Foolish thoughts came into my mind: all the hours I'd spent on the tennis courts perfecting my backhand; relief that Tina hadn't hit her head on the toilet or tub; stupid pride that I had been able to hold back at the point of contact to keep the force of the slap in check; all the other times I’d been on the brink of hitting her--all the other times she had deserved it--but had restrained myself. Until now.

  Thoughts less foolish followed; of police, lawyers, jail, anger management classes. Amazing how a simple action could change the path of your life, no matter how you might diminish that action in your mind and hoped others would do the same. But there was no time for regret or wishing what might have been or what might soon be, there was only blocking out the now and moving on to any possible future we had together. Still, I couldn’t help wondering how Tina and I had come so far and endured so much to be so close to the end...

  ..when only...

  ...five minutes before she had brushed by, shoving me with her elbow as I stood blocking the bathroom door. Too angry to express anything but hatred, she turned to the sink, teeth clenched.

  "Get out of here!" She grabbed everything she could from the counter and threw them at me one by one as I let them fly by without moving until the counter was empty and there was nothing left to throw and nothing left for her to do except take two steps forward and slap me in the face as hard as she could as I stood stunned until she did it again and I felt the sting of anger and drew back my arm...

  ...and five minutes before that, arguing in the bedroom about money and sex and no relationship because I was never home and I didn't need her or sex anyway since I was out all night doing God knew what with God knew who...

  ...and five minutes before, coming into the bedroom and seeing her sitting in bed reading a book about English gardens, feeling the tender warmth of love which still existed between us after so long, until she looked up with an expression that changed from annoyance to anger to the cold hatred which still existed between us after so long...

  ...and five minutes before, tucking Tyler into his bed, feeling those chubby arms around my neck after waking him by walking clumsily down the dark hall. Perhaps, at this young age, he had already made himself into a light sleeper in case dad came home. Opening his door and seeing him awake and holding him tight, then pulling the covers to his chin and calming his fears of the night...everything would be fine and dad would always be there, sealed like a promise with a goodnight kiss to his forehead before closing the door to all but a sliver of light...

  ...and five minutes before...giving the car door a push and letting it shut behind me as I stumbled, aching, up to the house, trying to leave any thoughts or memories or tastes or smells back with the stains on the driveway or on the bed before that...trying to shake off the night quickly on the too short walk to the house and my family.

  ...and five minutes before...and five minutes before...and five and five and five...a whole handful of fives, one for each finger...holding another, head dulled by the taste of alcohol and shame of sobriety, bucking like a bull as the peak of our passion drove us to a frenzy, then more dullness as it ended and we lay in each other's arms on the bed with eyes closed, holding tight while thinking of others who might love us for five minutes or more.

  Then, ending the embarrassed embrace and stopping the backwards movement of the clock—pushing the hands in the right direction—forward--in a mad rush to the end.

  Five minutes later...in the shower...

  ...and five minutes later...drying off, getting dressed....

  ...and five minutes later...back to the bedroom to find her asleep, or pretending....

  ...and five minutes later...leaving her house and heading for home....

  ...and five minutes later...five minutes later...another handful of fives...pulling up to the curb, knowing as I turned off the motor and rubbed my face that my day had yet to begin.

  Five minutes later opening the door slowly, hoping against hope that everyone would be asleep in the house, then seeing lights and knowing otherwise.

  Five minutes later running water under my son's toothbrush in the front bathroom as mine was elsewhere, trying to quietly scrape the dead taste from my mouth.

  Five minutes later hearing a voice calling out gently as I walked down the hallway. My son, still awake, calling out.

  "Dad. Dad, is that you?"

  I opened the door, already cracked a sliver, and peered into his darkened room. "Yes. Yes, it's me."

  "You didn't kiss me."

  I felt for the switch, thought better, stepped on a stuffed animal and thought better again. I flipped the switch and lit the room.

  Tyler was sitting up in bed, his eyes squinting painfully at me through the brightness. I squinted back, head throbbing, and tried not to fall over as I picked up the animal under my foot. I carried it to his bed.

  "My teddy," he said, stretching out his arms and hugging it tight. I sat down beside him. "Are you just getting home?"

  "Yup."

  "Did you bring me anything?"

  My mind quickly inventoried my pockets. A ten-dollar bill, three quarters, a restaurant receipt in one. A bullet, pen, condom in the other. No gum, no candy, no toys.

  "Just me."

  "Awww."

  "Isn't that enough?"

  He hugged me along with his teddy. "I love you, dad."

  "I love you, too." I squeezed him, my face wet on his damp hair. He'd been sweating. "You're hot. Don't you feel good?"

  He shook his head. "I never have good dreams."

  I looked into his five-year-old face, one that never had good dreams. "How come?"

  "I always have bad dreams."

  "About what?"

  "I don't know," he said, closing his eyes, which made me think he did know, but maybe if he didn't think about them all the bad things would go away. I understood. I'd spent a lifetime doing the same. "But they scare me."

  I held him tight. "Never be afraid. I'm here."

  "I love you, dad."

  "I love you, too."

  He squeezed me tighter. "I'm never going to let you go."

  I swallowed hard. "I'll never let you go, either."

  For a moment that's all we did. Then he spoke. "Do you have to work tonight?"

  "Yeah, dad's got to work tonight."

  "I don't want you to leave."

  "Dad's got to make money."

  "Don't go, dad."

  "I'll be back."

  "I'm afraid."

  "Of what?"

  "That you won't come back."

  "I will, always."

  "Don't go."

  "I won't be long."

  "Will you get me something?"

  I smiled. "You know I will."

  "What will you get me?"

  "What do you want?"

  He thought. "I don't know."

  "I'll find something, just for you. Time for bed."

  "Dad, don't go."

  He put his arms around me, trying to encircle my body. How I wished they could. How I wished I didn't have to go, ever. How I wished at that moment I could be his size again, his age again, to never leave but to be five forever and to play with my boy forever and laugh again and to love the stupid important things of life again and to run together through the summer days and never have to worry about sex or money or clients or wives and be able to sleep through a whole night without bad dreams...

  "Don't go, dad."

  I had to pry his arms away and give him the promise of treats and the hope of love and family and togetherness before b
eing able to rise. A kiss on the cheek, a tousle of the hair, a lie on the lips and a closing of the door, leaving the innocent in darkness.

  And five minutes later, opening another door to the first love of my life. On the bed with her book, Tina looked so young, so fresh. There were the beginnings of lines in her forehead, the same under her eyes, but the time that had brought them was time we had shared together and it only added to her beauty. I wanted to jump in bed next to her and hold her and say, "Look, we were different once, long before today. We were in love and lived every day better than the last because we had each other and a whole lifetime of experiences ahead. Let's go back. Let's forgive and forget and bury the past and start at the beginning. I'll erase what's inbetween and cleanse my heart of the rest. You?"

  But then she looked up at me and her face aged in an instant and I knew the beginning was long gone.

  "I'm glad you decided to show up for a few minutes."

  My stomach and jaw muscles tightened. "I'm here every night."

  "Oh, yes, you stop by inbetween bars. I can smell you from here. I suppose you're going out again."

  "I need to."

  "Heaven forbid one of your needs goes unmet."

  "It's what I do. It's what pays the bills. You knew that when you married me."

  "You never worked this many nights before. Every night you're gone."

  "The client wants her husband's every move monitored," I said honestly, editing the rest. "Which means every day and night, which means good, steady money."

  "Which I never see."

  "Which doesn't mean it isn't there," I said. "Look, you handle the checkbook, you should know--"

  "How can I do anything when you don't get paid for weeks at a time?" She shut her book and threw it on the floor. "Do you know how many bills I have to juggle because of that? No, you don't, and you don't care."

  I stood there helplessly, waiting for a break. None came.

  "If you asked me one time what our budget for the month looked like I'd fall over dead."

  "What's our budget for the month look like?"

  "You think it's easy getting late notices with each bill?”

  "Easy getting them or easy paying them?"

  "I can never count on how much money you'll make..."

  "You knew that when..." I started to say with hands outstretched. I suddenly realized I had already said the words and done the action. I dropped my hands. "Maybe you shouldn't have married me."

  "There's no shouldn't's about it," she continued, and I turned away. "Don't you walk away from me," were the last words I heard before shutting the bathroom door.

  I found myself shaking my head as I glanced in the mirror. Some people, I thought, confiding to myself with a smirk, never change. I squinted and looked closer. One of us was changing. It wasn’t me, and the aging face in the mirror agreed. Pale, stubble, dark circles under the eyes. It had been a long day, and a long night. And it wasn't over. I thought about the night I had already had with Brenda Hewitt. I found my reflection grinning like the idiot he was.

  The door opened and hit the wall. Tina stood with hands clenched fiercely and saw the grin before it left my face. "You think everything's a damn joke."

  "Not everything."

  "If you cared about anybody but yourself..."

  "This again."

  "If you ever dealt with any problems it wouldn't be 'this again'."

  "No, it would be something else--again."

  "You never listen."

  "Never listen!" I said, throwing my hands in the air. "I've got it memorized. 'You're never here, you don't make enough money, you're a lousy father and worse husband...and you're ugly.' That about cover it?"

  "Be glib," she said through her teeth, "but do it somewhere else." She pushed by me with her elbow and walked to the sink.

  "I'll be gone in a few minutes," I said, opening a drawer and rummaging through it for no reason. "I need a few things first."

  "No, get out. Now!"

  I looked at her without interest. She grabbed the soap dish and threw it at me. It hit my left shoulder and fell on the scale on the floor. No weight. I sneered as she picked up the tissue box and hurled it, then a bag of potpourri, then a vase with a silk rose I'd given her in better days, better bathrooms. I flinched but held my ground when she threw that and it hit the wall and fell to the carpet without breaking. She started to storm out of the room and suddenly turned and slapped me in the face. Then she slapped me again.

  The first one was a shock. The second brought nothing but rage. I cocked my right elbow over my left shoulder and brought the back of my hand across her face like the crack of a whip. Her head snapped backwards and she seemed to rise off of her feet in slow motion as her body followed the momentum of the blow. In that slowness my thoughts were lightning fast:

  Her neck's broken.

  She'll hit her head on the counter.

  She'll die.

  She’ll hit her head on the toilet.

  She’s not insured.

  She’ll hit her head on the tub.

  I'll go to jail.

  Tyler...

  But her body fell straight back and down and she landed harmlessly on the padded carpet.

  I looked at her, then at my hand. It stung. It would leave a mark. There would be no hiding.

  She cried for a few seconds, then stopped suddenly and glared up at me. “This time you've gone too far."

  I thought of lies, excuses, apologies. None would save me in her eyes. I thought of reasons, justifications, defenses. All would save me in mine.

  Without either, I hop-stepped over her and walked out, stopping outside Tyler’s bedroom long enough to hear his deep breaths. Satisfied of his sleep, I went down the hall to the front door and out of the house, locking the door behind me.

  Five minutes later found me driving through the dark streets and wondering what it was I had gone home for in the first place.