20

At ten Cary turned on the television to watch the news, hoping for mention of Arlette’s murder. An ad informing her she could get everything she needed for her party at their store reminded her of a party Arlette had.

Mitch drank too much and she drove home, only because Arlette had managed to get the keys and give them to her. It was raining hard, and when he got out of the car he stumbled and fell in a puddle. She tried to help him up, but he swore at her and pushed her away. In the house, she took his coat and hung it over the shower rod. When she left the bathroom, he was waiting. Tangling his fist in her hair, he smashed her head against the wall. She fought for breath as her mind struggled with how she could be lying on her back staring at the ceiling. Both hands at the neck of her dress, he ripped it, tearing off buttons. “Looking sexy, flirting with that jerk. You think I’m blind?”

“No. Mitch—”

“Don’t play dumb with me. You think I didn’t see what you were up to?” He kicked her in the ribs and the temple, and then stomped out.

Pain seized her chest, so severe she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. For twenty minutes or more, she lay on the gray carpet without moving. She rolled onto her side, brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. Mouth open like a fish out of water, she stared at the footstool her in-laws had given her. It matched the chair, covered in dark burgundy plush, the legs were dark wood and curved out.

The following day, when she’d gone to Sylvia’s, Arlette zeroed in on her. “You’re moving like the walking wounded. Mitch hit you again?”

Walking wounded, that’s what she was. “You know me. Clumsy. I was taking laundry down to the basement and fell. All the way down.”

Arlette just shook her head. “When are you going to leave that son of a bitch?”

“I’m all right, really, just a little sore.” The heat of shame flashed over her.

“He’s never going to stop until he kills you.”

Cary hadn’t quite figured out the pattern, but she could count on Mitch for at least one vicious rage per month. She learned to tiptoe around, make herself scarce, swallow fast when he hit her to stop nausea from flooding her throat, pretend she was asleep so he’d roll over and leave her alone, and worst of all, she learned to pretend she didn’t hate the man she’d promised to love, honor, and cherish.

When her neighbor Peg had mentioned her husband got so mad he said he’d kill her, Cary had looked at Peg with horror and a shameful worm of happiness. She wasn’t alone. Then Peg had gone on to say it was before the election and she had threatened if he didn’t stop telling some silly joke, she’d go out and vote for Arnold Schwarzenegger. He’d said if she did that, he’d not only divorce her, he’d have to kill her. Cary hated herself for the disappointment that came over her. A threat of being killed was very real to her, only a joke for Peg.

Mitch was clever about hitting and damaging only parts of her anatomy covered by clothing. She wove a cloak of shame wrapped so tightly around her she couldn’t get it off, and, she finally realized, no one else could get past it. Her life wasn’t so bad, really, she’d told herself. Most of the time it was okay. She had only to read the paper to know a lot of people in the world were far less fortunate than she was. She didn’t have to sleep on the street, she didn’t have to beg for food, she didn’t have to wear filthy, smelly rags. She just had to understand Mitch better, find a way to deal with him.

He wanted her to have a baby. Terror of getting pregnant had started small acts of rebellion. What he was doing to her, he could do to a baby, a tiny, helpless baby that she’d brought into the world. She told him she’d stopped taking birth control pills, she didn’t know why she didn’t get pregnant, but secretly she still took them faithfully.

She bought books. Mitch didn’t like her to read. If he found her relaxed on the couch with a book in her hands, he’d yell. “Lying around all day reading while I’m out in the trenches.” She learned to read when he was gone, after she’d made the house spotless, done the grocery shopping and laundry, and planned the meals. Most of her books were from the library, but she had taken to easing out small amounts from the money he gave her for household expenses. With glee she’d sneak into the house, clutching a book to her chest, and hide it under the bed. She read at night when he was sleeping, while she folded laundry, waited for water to boil, chopped onions.

Mitch hated food with onions. When she left out onions, he complained the food was tasteless. He always criticized whatever she cooked. Too hot, not hot enough. Too cold, not cold enough. Not enough salt, too many onions. She tried different things, got cookbooks and used new recipes, but he didn’t like anything. Occasionally she would chop an onion very fine and throw it into whatever she was making.

There was no mention of Arlette on the news. Tears ran down Cary’s face. Arlette beaten to death. Mitch? To make her tell him where Cary was? Arlette must have suffered so much pain. All because she helped Cary get away.

Had Arlette told him what he wanted? If she had, Mitch would be coming for her.