A Shattered Wife (5 page)

In the kitchen he turned and ordered Martha to her knees in
front of him.

"Come on, baby. You know what I want," he said,
unzipping his trousers with shaking fingers.

She knew what he wanted and the thought of it revolted her. "Bill,
I can’t…"

"Do it!"

Thirty minutes later, a red-faced Martha was pushed away.
She had done everything he requested, but it was useless. He was impotent, and
there was nothing either of them could do about it. Still, there was that
ridiculous guilt that hung over her like a cloud as she hurried back outside
and rushed to the peace of her roses.

Bill followed a few minutes later. "I think we should
expand our garden space this year," he said, his voice hard and cold
again.

Martha glanced up at him, not surprised to see the angry
scowl on his face. When he made no further comment, she stood up and stretched.
Too embarrassed to face him, she studied the plot of ground that had fed them
for so many years. The rich earth stood ready. It had been plowed and disked
and straight rows had been neatly arranged by Michael Adkins.

Bill and Michael had known each other since childhood, and
their friendship had only grown deeper and stronger over the years. It was the
country way. They shared equipment, farming know-how and a sympathetic ear when
needed. More than once they celebrated the birth of a calf or the sale of a
steer with bottles of scotch.

Michael had always been a welcome visitor at their home. His
naturally easy-going, sunny disposition brought a smile to everyone he knew
and, unknown to Martha, a glow to her face. Since Bill’s accident, Michael was
the only one in their circle of friends that came near them and he came only
when requested.

"I’ll have Michael come tomorrow and plow up that piece
of ground on the other side of the house." Bill’s voice contained a note
of finality.

Martha could remember happier times, a hundred years ago,
when Michael and Bill laughed and talked for hours over coffee and cake. On the
few occasions since Bill’s accident that Michael came to help, he looked grim
and worked fast, eager to get away. She missed his hearty laughter and quick
wit. When he came now, he was as much as stranger as Bill had become and Martha
would rather not see him at all than see him this way.

"I don’t think we need even a small garden this year,
much less two separate ones," she stated. "We can’t use that much
food and William certainly doesn’t need or want it." Martha continued.
Her guilt and embarrassment over not pleasing him earlier was subsiding.

"I think you’d better plan for another garden anyway,"
Bill said, as though the decision had already been made. No further discussion
would be tolerated.

Martha rarely questioned Bill’s judgment and she hated
arguments, but this time she knew he was wrong. "Bill, there’s no use. The
groundhogs and rabbits eat most of it."

The old man in the wheelchair made no response. A muscle
twitched in his taut jaw and his hands tensed on the gun. Martha returned to
her roses. The only logical reason for an additional garden would be to lure
the animals in closer. She tried not to think about the destruction that lay
ahead. He would be able to guard the other garden from the opposite end of the
front porch. The animals would not be safe anywhere.

The next morning, Michael came. Standing at the kitchen
window, she watched his progress. The plows sank deep into the rich earth,
turning it over, combing it with giant fingers. A flock of sparrows flew down
to gobble up the unearthed worms and bugs. She remembered helping Michael tend
a sick cow many years earlier. His kind voice and gentle but strong hands,
exactly the opposite of Bill, had surprised and endeared him to her.

Michael stopped the tractor for a moment and mopped sweat
from his glistening face and neck with a red bandana. He pulled off his wet
shirt, revealing a chest, back, and arms covered with hair. Looking like a
bear, he drank water greedily from a plastic cup. Martha suddenly realized just
how warm it had become. Walking through the living room, she stepped out onto
the front porch and called to him. "Come in and I’ll make lemonade."

Without a glance in her direction, the diesel engine rumbled
into life and Michael Adkins went back to work.

The garden plot was close to the house and without the
tractor running she knew he had heard her. Self-pity and embarrassment at his
reaction washed over her. She hurried back inside to the safety of her kitchen.

Later, Bill wheeled through the kitchen and took his place
directly in front of the large living room window that would allow him to watch
Michael work. As he began cleaning his gun, he wondered about Michael and
Martha. Feeling dazed, he paused in his task and aimed the slim rifle directly
at the unsuspecting man on the tractor. What would happen if he were to
accidentally pull the trigger? Just a quarter of an inch. Just three pounds of
pressure and…

"Bill!" Martha squealed in surprise. "What
are you doing?"

Lowering the gun quickly, Bill wiped the oily barrel with a
soft white cloth. "I’m cleaning my gun," he answered calmly. He hadn't
heard her come into the room and wondered how long she had been there.

Martha could smell oil and cleaning fluid. She watched him
suspiciously for a few moments as he worked. This solitude was really getting
to her. Now she was imagining things. Why would Bill want to shoot Michael? He
was interested in killing animals, not people.

"I plowed our garden last year," Bill’s voice,
unusually soft, crashed through her confused thoughts like a shotgun blast.

Surprised at this statement, she said, "I know." No
other words came to her.

"Maybe you could get Michael to do some other things
for you." His voice was still soft, almost teasing.

"Like what?" Martha couldn’t think of other
chores that needed to be done and it was better for all of them if Michael stayed
away.

Without taking his eyes off the man and the tractor, Bill
said, "After yesterday, I thought you’d probably like to replace me with a
new stud." Then he burst into an evil, nasty laughter that sounded harsh
in the quiet room.

Martha glared at his back. She wanted to jerk him around and
slap his face. Instead, she ran from the room, Bill’s laughter still echoing
through the house.

Well into the afternoon Martha lay across her small bed. The
pink roses on the wallpaper, which were normally calming, swayed dizzily and
made her head hurt. Again and again she pictured Bill at the window, aiming his
gun at Michael on the tractor. Had it been real or had she imagined it? And why
had he made that nasty remark? With her thoughts in turmoil, she finally gave
up. The best thing she could do would be to keep Michael, and anyone else that
might arouse Bill’s animosity, away. She sighed and went to make supper.

Later, while she was doing the dishes, the phone rang.
Surprisingly, it was Will, and his call cheered her immensely. As soon as they
hung up, she went to the back porch where Bill was watching for something to
shoot. His disgusting behavior earlier in the day was not forgotten, but Martha
was excited.

"That was William on the phone," Martha announced,
coming out onto the back porch. "He’s coming to see us on Father’s Day."

Bill made no reply. He was interested in something
slithering through the bushes near the end of the driveway.

"So?" Bill grunted.

At least he was listening.

She simply stood there, until finally he said, "I’m
surprised that Mr. Big Important Businessman has time for his country bumpkin
parents,"

Martha’s shoulder sagged visibly, even though she had
expected his reaction. Somewhere in her mind she had hoped that Bill’s
paralysis might somehow bring father and son closer together. She suddenly felt
very tired. Would it ever end? Would he ever forgive William for not conforming
to his standards?

"Is he bringing those screaming brats with him?"
Bill asked after a few moments.

"If you’re talking about your grandchildren, no. He’s
on a business trip and they won’t be with him," Martha said sharply.

Part of her anger was directed at William, too. She knew
that this visit from him was just to ease his own conscience; just a detour on
his way back to Cleveland. The tense situation between the two men was not all
Bill’s fault. William could try to be a little more understanding. When had all
her dreams of a loving family fallen apart?

The gun cracked loudly.

Standing on the porch with a warm, summer-like breeze
fluttering her dress, she saw Bill grin happily after taking down another
groundhog. Not for the first time, she wondered if this was the beginning of
the end for Bill, an end that was growing closer every day.

Martha washed and dried her hands, rinsing away the garden
dirt, then went through the house to the front porch to admire her work. Even
though this second garden had been forced upon her, she took great pride in it.
Most of the planting was complete. The rows were neat and straight, and weeds
were almost nonexistent. Young, healthy cabbage and green pepper plants were
flanked by rows of tender peas, which were beginning to bloom. Rapidly
sprouting beans and corn made up the rest.

Bill fired the gun.

The sound rocketed through Martha’s brain, shredding the
peaceful afternoon. She closed her eyes and pressed the back of her hand to her
mouth. Lately, every time she heard that gun she wanted to scream.

Restless, she went back inside. Spring cleaning was an
impossible habit to break. Every year she told herself that the heavy duty
cleaning was unnecessary and every year she spent a week cleaning a house that
wasn’t dirty. This year was no exception. Crisp, clean curtains hung at
shining, mirror-like windows and the faint, pleasant scent of pine and lemon
only added to the fresh atmosphere.

Wandering aimlessly from one scrubbed, polished room to
another, she tried to ignore the gun, which had barked twice more now. With the
days growing longer and warmer, what could she do now to keep busy? The garden
would need little or no care for a while. The house was spotless and would stay
that way and there wasn’t much more she could do to her roses. She found
herself standing just inside the back door.

Bill sat patiently on the porch, his rifle poised for
battle. Unlike Martha, he had plenty of activities to keep him busy. Besides
cleaning his guns every day, he was their self-appointed exterminator. He
patrolled from the back porch in the afternoons, taking animals from the
driveway and surrounding areas. His mornings were spent on the front porch
with its clear view of the road and additional garden plot. He shot squirrels,
rabbits, groundhogs and sometimes even birds. It was not unusual for him to
fire his gun a dozen times a day. And he rarely, if ever, missed. His face no
longer broke into that cold, evil smile after he killed an animal, though. It
had been replaced with a soft, satisfied chuckle; almost as though
congratulating himself. The sound of it chilled Martha to the bone.

In one fluid, practiced movement, Bill butted the gun to his
shoulder, aimed and fired.

Through the screen door, Martha heard his soft chuckle. The
young, long eared rabbit died between two cabbage plants with a tiny hole in
its head. Limp forelegs crossed its chest as if to ward off the oncoming
missile and its open eyes stared sightlessly at the blue sky. Stomach leaping,
she looked away.

Bill’s soft, satisfied chuckle ended in a dark, angry scowl,
which Martha recognized immediately. She knew that he was listening for
something, he did that a lot these days, but she could not imagine what he
heard. Holding her breath, she listened, too, but noted only a warm summer
breeze rustling through leaves on the trees. Where were the purple martins that
visited the feeders and chirped noisily?

Martha mentally listed other subtle changes in his behavior
over the past few weeks. He smoked almost constantly, he seemed to withdraw
into himself more every day and he slept less and less. Several times during
the night she would awaken and see him propped up on pillows on his bed,
cigarette glowing in the dark. Despite these changes and in spite of the
wheelchair, he looked stronger and healthier than ever.

She knew that her husband was clever enough to hide any
symptoms he wished to remain unnoticed, especially from Paul. Only someone that
lived with him every day could see his gradual downfall.

Summoning her courage, she joined her husband on the porch.

"Did you say something when you were standing in the
doorway spying on me?" he asked gruffly. He had raised the binoculars to
his eyes, all signs of intent listening gone.

"No." Martha wasn't really surprised that he knew
she was there. "Why?"

"No reason," Bill murmured and retreated into his
own thoughts.

Despair washed over Martha. She was sure Bill was losing his
mind and knew that very soon she was going to have to have a talk with Paul.
Getting the doctor alone to talk to him in private would be a difficult task,
and she might have to resort to making an appointment to see him in his office.
Either way, Bill must never suspect she was talking to anyone about his
behavior. She didn’t like to think about what his reaction would be.

A few days later, Martha woke up to find the sun barely
streaking the sky with pink and gold, and a few birds could be heard chirping
their morning song. Her bedside clock showed 6 a.m. She sat up, stretched her
arthritic limbs and then noticed that Bill’s bed was empty. At the same moment,
she heard whistling in the kitchen and the smell of perking coffee teased her
nose. She stretched her sore joints again lazily and for a minute it seemed
like time had flown backwards. Back to when Bill was a complete man in body and
mind. How she longed for it to be true.