chapter 18 | house no. 7

August, 1993

The damned phone is ringing again.

John is due home today, and I’m relatively sure it’s him, so I answer.

“Hello?”

Such a loaded word, hello. All of my hopes and fears flow through the receiver with that single word.

“Hey, gorgeous, it’s me.”

Thank God.

“Hello, handsome.” I say. “Are you home?”

“Well, not yet . . . but I will be in about half an hour. Just gotta finish the paperwork, and I’ll be home.”

I’m happy and terrified at the same time. The bruises are still visible, eleven days after my nightmarish walk in the park.

“I was just heading up to bed,” I say.

“Music to my tired and lonely ears,” John replies. “I’ll meet you there.” I can hear the implication in his tone.

I say goodbye and trudge upstairs. John will want to make love. He always wants to make love after long trips. And I usually feel the same way. Except for today. Today I want nothing to do with that part of my body. I’m still bruised and torn and violated there. I want to forget that part of my body ever existed.

I wash, brush my teeth, and crawl into bed as quickly as I can, leaving his bedside light on, but turning mine off. I’m not tired at all, in fact my veins are pumped with adrenaline. I’m terrified that my own husband will want to have sex with me.

I stare at the ceiling, waiting for the familiar sounds of the door unlocking, the clink of the keys in the dish, the clunk of his suitcase on the kitchen floor, the thud of John’s flight boots on the boot rack. They all come, faster than I had imagined—faster than I’m ready for.

The light switch clicks and I hear his footsteps on the stairs.

What in the hell is wrong with me? He’s my husband, for God’s sake. I love him. I’m happy to see him. I want to be near him. So why am I hiding under our covers, trying not to hyperventilate?

I can hear his quiet, sock-muffled footsteps as he peeks into the kids’ rooms, pauses in each doorway to blow them a kiss. They’re dead to the world, of course. They don’t even know he is there, but he does it anyway. Such a good dad.

The bathroom door closes as he brushes his teeth, and then he’s walking toward my—our—room.

“Ellie?” he whispers, “you up?”

For a second I almost don’t answer. I don’t want to be awake. I want to just sleep and avoid talking to him.

“Hey,” I say.

The bed dips as he sits on it, and I peer up at him from beneath the covers.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says. “I’m home.”

I smile at him because he’s too sweet not to smile at. He smells of sweat, wool, and jet fuel. I love that smell. It’s a smell of going places, being somewhere other than my bizarre, multi-faceted, soul-sucking life.

“I’m glad you’re home,” I say.

He slips off his flight suit and lets it fall in a crumpled pile on the floor. His undershirt and long johns are out of place on this warm evening, but familiar to me—safe. He rubs his hair back, and what there is of it goes everywhere in little blonde spikes.

“How was your trip?” I ask.

“Long. . . .” He bends down to take off his socks. “Crazy. . . .” He shoots them into the laundry basket. “Odd.” He pulls his army green t-shirt off and tosses it after the socks like a basketball. Then he looks at me, and the corners of his lips quirk up. “But I’m home now. It’s good to be home.”

He leans over and kisses me—a chaste, night-time kiss, not a let’s-have-sex kiss. I almost sigh with relief.

“You must be tired,” I say.

“Yeah. Nine hours in the seat today. It was choppy, too. Storms over the prairies.”

He rolls down his long johns, and stands naked in the dim light. His six-pack has softened over the years, but he’s still beautiful. A small spark lights up somewhere in my middle, but I don’t listen to it. I don’t follow through because I don’t want that kind of love right now. Safe and quiet is what I need.

John turns off the light and rolls the bed sheets down. He flops onto the mattress like a man ready for a good night’s sleep. Somewhere outside the window a neighbor’s dog barks.

“How were things here?” John asks.

Violent. Scary. Awful.

“They were okay,” I say.

“Okay?”

Busy. Insane. Painful.

“Hey,” I say. “Did you know that your old Chief of Cadets was in town?”

Oh my God. I did not just say that! I cannot believe I just said that.

“No,” John says sleepily. “That man is an asshole.” He yawns a big, jaw-cracking yawn and absently reaches over to grab my hand. His fingers knead my knuckles.

“Yeah,” I whisper.

I stare at the dark ceiling and will him to make the connection. Will him to see the bruises and sense my pain and finally figure it out.

“Yeah, he really is.” I say, louder this time. “I think he could be dangerous.”

I hold my breath and wait for him to ask why. Why is he dangerous? Why do you think that?

But his fingers start twitching with the quick movements of someone falling asleep. His breathing slows and a soft snore slips from his lips. He didn’t hear me. Or if he did, he was too tired to care.

I lay there in the dark, slowly letting the night take me, holding my husband’s hand on our bed and hating myself. What have I become? I have become a puppet, a marionette that dances only when someone else plays my strings. Friends, my husband, the kids, the military, him . . . They all twitch my strings and I move. Go here, do that, without a thought for myself anymore.

I don’t remember how to think.

A tear trickles from the corner of my eye and sinks into my pillow. I let it go, let it do what it must. I’m not even in control of my own tears.

I want to make love to my husband. That’s what I want. I want him to make love to me. I want him to hold me and want me and take away all of this awful, scary hideousness that has become my life. I want him to possess me, and make me his, erasing away all traces of that monster, and reminding me of how I got to this place.

This is what I want.

“John?” I whisper as I squeeze his hand gently. “Are you still awake?”

“Hmm?” he’s not awake, but he answers.

I squeeze his hand again, and sit up on my elbow, looking at him in the light filtering through the window.

The movement rouses him even more.

“What’s up, gorgeous?” he asks, all sleep and slur.

“John, will you . . . will you make love to me?”

I’m suddenly shy. I shouldn’t have asked. I should have just let him sleep. Sleep was safe.

I feel, more than see, him smile.

“Beautiful, you don’t have to ask me twice.”

And when he holds me, gentle and sleepy-soft, for the briefest of moments, I remember why I wanted this life. Why I never questioned my belief that this was my path.

He gives of himself freely, loves me delicately, and his half . . . makes me whole.

He sleeps in the next morning.

I get up and he barely even moves. His blonde hair spikes on the pillow, his hands curled around the comforter. I know he is tired, and I imagine there’s some jet lag there too. He deserves some rest.

I feel better somehow, even though I ache in places I probably shouldn’t. I make coffee and dole out cereal and juice to kids. They giggle and laugh and ask if they can watch television. I nod, my mouth full of fresh coffee.

When they’re gone from the kitchen, I sit down at our little table, admiring the sun as it shines through our tiny kitchen windows. I feel more peaceful than I have in weeks—years, maybe. In one night, John has almost fixed what was broken. Or maybe I’ve fixed what was broken in me.

A timid knock at the door makes me jump. My coffee slops over my fingers and onto the table.

Who could be here this early on a summer morning? It can’t be more than eight o’clock . . . and I’m still in my flimsy nightgown and ratty housecoat. I’m not dressed for social calls.

I peek timidly around the corner, trying to see but not be seen.

It’s Jennifer. The cozy feeling evaporates, and my flimsy nightgown is all of the sudden too tight. I don’t want to see Jennifer. But she sees me and knows I am in here. I can’t ignore her . . . she’s the only friend I have.

I walk forward and open the door, enough to say hi, but not enough to let her in.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” she replies.

We stand in awkward silence.

“Did John get home?” she asks.

“Yeah, last night. He’s still sleeping.”

“Oh.”

More silence. Somewhere on the other side of the street a baby is crying. She looks toward it and then looks back.

“Ellen, I . . . I just wanted to tell you that I won’t talk about it if you don’t want me to.” Her eyes are big and shining with tears. I want to look away, but I don’t. “I just don’t want to lose your friendship over that.” One of the tears slips down her cheek.

I step outside the door and close it quietly. I don’t want John or the kids to hear her. I don’t want to hear her myself.

We sit down on the crumbling cement step. I flick a little flake of it off into the sad, wilted garden. The baby stops crying. A jogger runs by on the sidewalk. Jennifer brushes the tear away, but says nothing. The morning has that peaceful, not-quite-awake feel to it, externally anyway. Internally I’m anything but peaceful—my mind is whirring and spinning like a propeller.

“Jenn, I . . . I’m fine, okay?” I finally say to break the awkward silence, although I know I’m not fine. I’m a mess. Officer’s wives are not allowed to be a mess.

She turns and I feel her eyes searching, weighing my words.

“Are you sure?” she says.

No, I’m not sure. I’m a wreck. “Yeah. I’m sure,” I say.

I can see, quite clearly, that she isn’t convinced.

“Ellen, if you need to talk—about anything—I’m always here to listen,” she says. “Anything. The price of milk, the wart on your toe . . . the bruise on your shoulder . . .” She’s trying to lighten the situation, but it’s not working. Her tight smile shows that she knows it.

I wait because I have no answer to that.

“There are people other than me you could talk to—counselors, social workers—I could help . . .”

There is no fucking way I am going to talk to a complete stranger about this! The military owns this town. I am a little wife of a little pee-on officer with no power whatsoever, and I’m pretty damned sure that they would slam the door in my face if I accused one of their chosen few of rape. Not only in my face, but in my children’s faces. And then the rumour mill would take care of any shred of dignity I have left after being raped by said chosen one.

The military community does not take to tattle-tales. Tattle-tales find themselves ex-communicated, stepped-on, abandoned, and left to die in everything but the literal sense. And in my case . . . well, even I don’t know what Fielding is capable of. Left to die in the literal sense is a very real possibility.

“Jennifer, I am not going to talk to anyone about anything,” I say. She’s trying to help, I know she is, but this is not something that can be helped. “I’m going to drink my coffee, get up, go on with my life. . . . Nothing you can offer to me will make me change my story. My shoulder hit a wall, okay?”

I’ve given her a little in that statement. The veiled acknowledgement floats in the air between us. I wait until she’s looking into my eyes before I continue.

“Other than John, you are my best friend. Hell, you’re my only friend. And if I could tell anyone about things going on my life, it would be you. But. I. Hit. A. Wall. It happens. Bruises heal and then . . . and then in a few weeks there will be nothing to see. Nothing to help. Nothing.”

She stares at me silently as the dogs bark, my heart beats and the television blares in the house behind me. Her eyes give in, slowly, and she nods.

“You’re my best friend too,” she says. “Is there any of that coffee left?”

And in those few words, she has mended the rift between us. She has accepted my lies; accepted me in all my broken, simple, nobody-ness; accepted me, as I am, warts and all.

I smile. “I always have coffee for you.”

And when I get up, it’s as if another weight has lifted from my bruised and battered shoulders. One thing the military can never take away from me is a good friend.