A Shattered Wife (6 page)

Slipping on her comfortable quilted robe, she padded
barefoot down the hall. She found him at the kitchen table working on a large
piece of poster paper with red and black markers. There was no indication that
he noticed her arrival so she poured a cup of coffee for herself. Curious, she
stepped closer and peered over his shoulder. He was adding the final touches to
what looked like an enlarged calendar for June and July.

"What are you doing?" she asked, half smiling but
almost afraid of his answer.

"Making a chart," he answered, without pausing in
his work or looking up.

"What on earth for?" Martha asked and sat down
across from him.

"I’m calling it my extermination chart."

Martha’s half-smile faded. Her heart began to hammer and her
stomach turned somersaults. She could see that pictures of animals, birds,
deer, and rabbits had been cut from a magazine, posted at various points on the
chart and marked with a deep red X. Little, red ovals simulated drops of blood.
She quickly looked away and traced a scar on the wooden table with her index
finger.

"Whenever I exterminate a critter, we’ll mark it on the
chart. It’s good to keep track of these things." Bill held the chart at
arm’s length to admire his work. "Come and take a look."

The last thing Martha wanted to do was look. She wanted to
get away from Bill and his chart as fast as she could but he had not made a
request; it was a command. On shaking legs she came around the table and looked
at his creation. Each day of the month was placed in a fairly large box. The
lines were straight and the numbers had been printed perfectly. It looked
precise and intense.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"You’ve spent a lot of time on that," Martha
answered, trying to conceal the disgust that had crept into her voice.

"I got the idea for it a few days ago. I couldn’t
sleep, so I got up early and started on it. Now, get me a hammer. I’ll hang it
right here by the back door."

Martha did as she was told, then watched in stunned silence
as he nailed the large chart to the wall.

"There’s plenty of room to keep track of all the pests
that I get rid of. It’s hard to tell what I’ll get a shot at."

"But why…"

"Why keep track?" Bill cut in. "When that
pansy son of yours comes back here, I’ll show him what a real hunter can do.
Even in a wheelchair, I’m more of a man than he will ever be."

Martha shook her head. "No, I mean why kill them?"
Her voice sounded faint and weak as she asked the useless question.

"They’re pests – especially the groundhogs. They leave
deep holes in the ground, damaging my land. Woman, I’m in this chair because of
those damned groundhogs. Besides that, they’re eating up your garden. It’s my
duty to protect us and our property. I’d think you would be happy about that."
Lecture finished, Bill moved back from the wall, still admiring his chart.

Martha could stand no more. She turned and fled to the
bedroom, coffee forgotten, and stayed there until she heard him leave the
kitchen. Of course the animals were eating the garden - that was the only
reason it had been planted. Every time Martha passed the chart on the wall, she
could feel its presence, like a living entity, mocking her. Soon it would be
filled with marks representing dead animals.

***

"I want you to go to Roanoke today," Bill told
Martha at breakfast the next morning. Every time he looked at the chart on the
wall, he smiled proudly.

A little time away from Bill, his chart and his bizarre
behavior was a welcome thought. She wished that she could take her time, window
shop, look at the new rose bushes at the nursery, and leaf through some
magazines at the library. Unfortunately, her weekly shopping trip was the only
time she left Bill alone, and it made her nervous to do so. Usually, she
hurried with her shopping and returned home as soon as possible.

"I don’t usually go until Thursday," she said,
wondering what he needed that couldn’t wait until then.

"So, you’ll go today instead," he snapped
impatiently, as if talking to a child. Martha returned to her breakfast, not
even tasting what she ate. "I want you to go Hunter’s Gun Store and get me
3 boxes of Number 4, 12-gauge shotgun shells." He said, pushing away from
the table.

"Why?"

He retrieved his gun cleaning kit and the double-barreled,
12-gauge shotgun from the gun cabinet in the hall before answering. "Do I
ask you why you buy eggs and milk?"

Martha shook her head, trying not to look at him and this
big gun that he was carefully taking apart.

"Then don’t ask stupid questions."

"I’d better write down what you want," Martha
said, rising from the table.

"You don’t have to write it down. I’m calling Frank at
the gun store as soon as it opens and I’ll tell him what I want." His tone
was still impatient, but he was caressing the gun gently with a soft, white
cloth.

Martha kept her eyes on her plate until Bill finished his
labor of love and went outside. After writing a hurried shopping list, she
dressed and left for town.

Martha had never actually been inside the gun store before.
As she pushed open the heavy door, a little bell tinkled to announce her
arrival. The walls of the store were lined with more guns than she had ever
seen in her life, and the rows of shelves in the center of the small, dingy
room contained necessary accessories. The smell of oil and some other scent
that Martha remembered but could not place permeated the atmosphere. There were
only a few customers, all of them men, and she could tell by the abrupt halt in
conversation and badly concealed smiles that she had interrupted them. She knew
most of the customers but not one of them made a friendly gesture.

The short, bald man, a few years younger than Bill smiled
tentatively at her and said, "Can I help you?"

Martha knew her face was red, she could feel her ears
burning. She took a deep breath and in a shaking voice said, "I came to
pick up Mr. Landry’s order for…uh…bullets…or shells."

He reached under the counter, took out a package and handed
it to her.

"How much do I owe?" Martha’s throat was so dry
she could barely speak.

Frank quoted a price and she wrote the check. Then she
hurried out of the store, glad to have that chore completed. As she drove
toward home she found herself becoming more and more apprehensive. Home had
become a prison, a place she wanted to escape from but yet a place she was
eager to return to. She never dreamed her feelings could be so confused.

Smiling at how pretty her roses looked in the sunshine,
Martha parked the truck in the driveway and gathered her purse and the few odd
and end purchases from the seat beside her. She would come back for the
groceries. The shells were heavy.

Bill was on the back porch, rubbing the smooth barrels of
the shotgun with a soft cloth. His .22 was resting nearby, within easy reach.
As Martha passed, she handed him the heavy red and white boxes of shells.
Without a word, he broke open the breech and dropped a shell into each of the
chambers. Snapping the gun closed, he pushed the safety off. All of this was
done swiftly, expertly, born from years of practice.

In the house, she hung the truck keys on a nail by the back
door with the other household and equipment keys. She made it a point to always
hang the keys there because she was terrified of losing them. Bill would be
furious if that happened. Then she carried the groceries into the house, one
bag at a time, feeling more exhausted with each trip.

Just as she finished, Bill stopped her. "Watch this,"
he said. He shouldered the gun and fired both barrels in quick succession.

The roar of the gun almost knocked Martha off her feet. An
ounce of lead shot spun the groundhog backward and, instead of leaving one
pea-sized hole, this ammunition left several tiny holes, more blood, and no
doubt about the animal’s recovery.

Within seconds, he reloaded, took aim and fired again.

Martha hurried back into the kitchen to put away the
groceries. But not before she heard the soft, satisfied chuckle as the sound of
the gun died away. The deafening BOOM of the shotgun would soon become a
familiar sound, she was sure of that.

"Martha, mark that one on the chart."

Disgusted, Martha found that her mark was not the first to
mar the whiteness of today's box. Bill had already claimed two kills.

Martha tried not to appear anxious on Father’s Day, but a
storm was brewing. Thick, black clouds gathered in the sky like an angry mob
and the humidity rose, making the air heavy. Even after her morning shower, she
still felt sticky and hot. Dressed in bright yellow gingham, she lingered
nervously near the living room window; the only window that afforded a view of
the road.

The dinner she prepared wasn’t elaborate, but it was one of
her son’s favorites. Chicken fried steak, tender peas and carrots, potato salad
and homemade rolls. A luscious chocolate cake covered with a glass dome would
top off the meal. He was later than anticipated, so Martha paced the floor and
waited.

Bill was furious when she insisted that they wait until
William arrived before eating. As far as he was concerned, the whole visit was
a joke. He didn’t give a damn whether William showed up or not but he loved
watching Martha pace. It served her right for turning his son into a wimp.

It was late afternoon by the time William arrived, wearing a
well-made suit that made him look like a successful banker. His face had a
soft, almost feminine shape but behind the thick glasses, the blue eyes were
his father’s. His wavy, almost curly auburn hair took Martha back many years to
when Bill was a young man.

Watching him stride toward the house, Martha wanted to rush
outside to meet him. Instead, she smoothed her apron and watched as he stepped
onto the back porch. She swung open the screen door and greeted him with open
arms.

William felt himself being drawn reluctantly into her
embrace. "Mom, I’ve missed you." She smelled of vanilla or some other
spice and her hair felt silky against his cheek. He thought she had aged
drastically in the last few months.

Tears kept Martha from answering but she nodded vigorously.

The young man allowed her to hold him for a while, trying
not to be impatient and telling himself that it would be over soon.

Finally, Martha stepped back but did not release her son. "I’d
almost given up on you. Dinner has been warmed over twice."

"Sorry, I - " William began.

"It’s about time you got here," Bill interrupted
and wheeled himself to the place he had occupied at the head of the table for
40 years. "Now maybe we can get something to eat."

William smiled weakly. His easy-going personality and gentle
disposition had won him many friends and served him well in business, but he
would never have the respect of his father. Years ago he had given up trying to
please this strong, independent man. "Hi, Dad. Happy Father’s Day."

Bill filled his plate and began to eat without replying. It
was clear that his only interest was dinner.

Martha caught a wink and an indifferent shrug from her son,
letting her know that he understood, and then they joined Bill at the table, a
family again.

"This is really great, mom," William said, more to
break the lingering silence than anything else. It was almost as if his parents
had forgotten how to talk.

"It would have tasted better two hours ago," Bill
grumbled.

"I said I was sorry," William put in quickly,
hating that the words came out as a whine.

The remainder of the meal was punctuated only by the ticking
grandfather clock and the scraping of silverware against the dishes. It seemed
like hours before anyone spoke again and, surprisingly, it was Bill.

"I have something I want to show you," Bill said,
his tone deceptively friendly.

"Sure, Dad, what is it?"

Bill wheeled around the table with ease to the back door
which, when open, partially hid his chart. He closed the door carefully as if
unveiling a masterpiece.

William shot a questioning look at his mother and then
sauntered over to his dad.

"What do you think?" Bill asked.

"I’m not sure what it is," William replied
truthfully.

"Damn!" Bill exploded, causing both mother and son
to jump. "It’s my extermination chart."

As he began to explain the chart and its usefulness to his son,
his voice changed. He began to talk slowly, as though William were an imbecilic
child.

Martha watched from her place at the table. Her prayers that
William would not have to see the ugly red and black slashes on the chart had
not been answered.

William knew better than to discuss the worthlessness of
such a project with his father so he said little, nodding as though he
understood. He did not understand; nor would he ever see the insane need to
destroy wildlife.

"So, I’ve got a good record of my kills for this month.
Pretty good work for a man in a wheelchair, I’d say," Bill concluded, his
voice full of pride.

William stopped nodding, not really knowing what was
expected of him.

"Can you do as well?"

"No, Dad. You know I couldn’t. Besides, I have no desire
to shoot animals, even if they were plentiful where I live. They are not."
They had had this conversation before and William knew his part well.

"Desire! Ha! You’re just plain chicken-shit!"
Bill’s mirthless laughter boomed through the kitchen.

Ignoring the invitation to argue, William returned to his
place at the table. "Can I have some of that cake, Mom?"

As Bill came back to the table, Martha scurried to get cake
for the two men. The atmosphere in the kitchen was charged with tension,
punctuated by the distant thunder that rumbled like a lion’s roar.