A Shattered Wife (7 page)

Attacking his cake with relish, William searched his
father’s face from beneath lowered lashes. He saw an old man, full of pain and
anger, but there was something in that face he had never seen before. Worry
creased his forehead as he tried to decide what it was.

"We’ve been working hard on that chart," Bill said
suddenly, as though he had been having a conversation all along in his head. "Your
mother helps me, too."

Avoiding her son’s eyes, Martha stared at her empty plate.

Sensing her unease, William changed the subject. "The
kids are doing great."

Martha looked at him then, a gentle smile curving her lips. "I
miss them."

"Yeah, I shoot ‘em and she marks ‘em down. We’re a
pretty good team. I’ll bet you and what’s-her-name couldn’t do that."

"I’m not interested, Dad," William said, his
boldness surprising all of them.

Martha froze.

"What?" Bill demanded, his fork paused halfway to
his mouth.

William swallowed hard, wishing he could control his
shaking. "I said, I’m not interested."

"Of course, I forgot. Important business ‘men’ don’t
have time for sporting games like us old farmers." Bill’s voice was thick
with sarcasm.

Knowing they were headed for an argument, Martha timidly
touched her husband’s arm. "Bill…"

He ignored her. "I don’t imagine you have time for
anything that real men do. How’d you get those two kids, son. Did you have to
hire a real man for that?"

Under the table, William clenched his fists. It wasn’t the
first time in his life he wanted to hit his father. It was too late now. Could
you punch out an old man in a wheelchair and still look at yourself in the
mirror? His second impulse was to get up and walk out; run away again.

Martha stared helplessly at her son. Once Bill got started
on something he was like a dog with a bone.

Thunder rumbled again, closer.

"Dad," William struggled desperately to control
his shaking voice. "I just don’t believe in killing wild animals for
sport. Now, if I had to kill them to feed my family, it would be different."

"You’re afraid! That’s the real reason." Bill’s
voice was loud, louder than necessary. "Coward! Chicken!"

William stood up. There was nothing else for him to do but
run. It wouldn’t be the first time. He headed for the door.

Helplessly, hopelessly lost, Martha crossed to the sink.
Huge tears ran down her cheeks as lightning flashed, thunder rolled and the
first fat raindrops plopped onto the window. Cackling hysterically, Bill
continued to shout names at his son’s back. His face turned purple from the
exertion. Turning to leave the table with a quick, jerky movement, Bill flipped
the wheelchair over. He landed with a sickening thud, face down on the shiny
linoleum floor.

William’s hand was on the door when he heard the crash.

"Oh, my God! Bill, are you hurt?" Martha wailed as
she rushed to his side, tugging uselessly at one arm that she could barely
lift.

"No, dammit! Get your hands off me!" Bill slapped
her roughly away. Using the table leg he pulled himself to an awkward sitting
position. His shirt was soaked with sweat and he gasped for breath.

"Here, Dad…" William righted the wheelchair, which
looked like a wounded mechanical bull, and reached for his father. He had never
seen Bill make a clumsy move in his life, much less fall down. The accident had
aged his father many more years than indicated by his face and body, and
William was afraid.

Suddenly, his slender arm was trapped in Bill’s strong
fingers and the tender inside of his wrist exposed. From nowhere, a small but
dangerously sharp knife reflected the overhead light.

William was momentarily paralyzed.

Martha gathered her apron into a knot, nervously smoothed it
and then repeated the process again as she knelt beside the two men.

Holding the knife skillfully, Bill pressed the point against
the skin on his son’s wrist. "I said keep your hands off me," he
hissed.

"Bill we were only trying…" Martha’s voice was
only a trembling whisper.

"I know what you were doing, but I don’t need you or
your pussy son’s help." While Bill talked, his angry gaze stayed on
William’s face. He exerted almost imperceptible pressure and the knife pierced
the skin. A narrow, red ribbon of blood eased down William’s wrist to gather on
his shirt sleeve.

William exhaled slowly, his incredulous gaze moving from his
father’s face to his wrist. The knife was not painful but his father’s grip was
cutting off the circulation to his hand. "You don’t have to use that on
me, Dad. If you don’t want any help…"

"Not only do I not WANT your help, I don’t NEED your
help," Bill laughed, not quite as loud as before; their faces were only
inches apart.

Some instinct told William to keep his father talking.

"Would you really use it on me?"

Bill nodded slowly and his hand remained steady. "You’re
damn right." The glittering gunslinger eyes burned feverishly.

"Bill?" Martha croaked.

"Have you always hated me?"

"Not until I realized you were going to be nothing but
a pansy bookworm."

"I can’t help what I am," William said slowly, his
voice shaking.

Martha began to cry softly.

"When I took you hunting, you couldn’t kill a deer.
When you got older you went off to college. When you graduated, you couldn’t
live here with us." Bill was perspiring heavily. His chest and back were
soaked.

"You always told me that a man stands up for what he
believes in. There is nothing for me here. I had to go my own way."

As they talked, William felt the fear draining from him. He
looked squarely at his father. Man to man. "I was right. There is nothing
for me here." The way to handle a bully was to face him down. William had
lots of practice with bullies. His father would understand that.

"Look at you. You won’t even fight now. You’re a
coward; a mealy-mouth coward!" Bill shouted savagely. More droplets of
sweat formed on his nose and upper lip, but he held the knife steady.

William’s legs were cramping because of his crouched
position, but he did not move. He glared back at the old man for the first time
in his life. "I made a life for myself. You’re just jealous because I
don’t need YOU anymore."

"You have two good legs. Don’t try to rationalize and
talk down to me. I hate you! I wish you were stuck in that chair!" Bill’s
voice rose higher in pitch and volume. It filled the whole house and caused
Martha to shink back.

"Bill!" She shrieked. There had been tension
between the two men before but never had it escalated to this dangerous level.

"Take a good look at your son, Martha. He’s too scared
to fight back. A son of mine would fight for his life. You should be ashamed…"

William’s free hand darted forward like a snake, snatching
the knife out of his father’s grasp and, in an instant, the tables were turned.
The knife made a sharp, snapping sound as he drove it forcefully into the floor
between Bill’s legs, uncomfortably close to his thigh. The grip on his wrist
loosened immediately and he flexed the fingers of his now free hand. Bill
stared in disbelief at the knife imprisoned in the floor; its carved handle
clasped tightly in his son’s hand.

"Now, let’s see who is a coward. I’ve got the knife and
you have nothing to hide behind. Not your wheelchair or some big, powerful gun."
William’s voice shook with anger.

Lightning zigzagged across the almost black sky, thunder
rolled and rain pelted furiously against the house. They were actors in a
horror movie during the climactic scene. William drew the knife from the floor
with ease, leaving an ugly scar in the linoleum. He jabbed it into the floor
again, a little higher, a little closer to Bill’s body.

Bill exhaled, stunned.

"Am I a coward now? Yes, because only a coward would
attack a crippled old man in a wheelchair!"

William jerked the knife free from the floor, stood up and
hurled it across the room toward the sink. His voice was full of disgust. "And
only a coward shoots innocent animals just to watch them die."

Bill felt the room swirling, going black. He gave in and
collapsed on the floor.

It took both Martha and William to get the big man in his
chair and then wheel him to the bed. He seemed to be fighting their efforts,
even in his unconscious state. For several minutes, Martha was unable to decide
what to do. Her first impulse was to call Paul. What would she say? The words
were whirling around in her head like a windmill. She was almost sure he was
dying…or dead.

She was standing by the bed, dialing the number on the phone
when Bill regained consciousness. "Don’t call that doctor. I’ll kill him
if he comes here."

Martha obediently terminated the call.

"Now, get out of here!" Bill shouted weakly.

Even from his bed he was in charge again, and he got
results. Martha retreated to kitchen where William was standing, shaking with
rage or fear or both. Martha wept softly into her apron and William was almost
afraid to speak.

"I’m sorry," she finally sobbed.

"Sorry? Why are you sorry? What is happening to him?"
William asked in an incredulous whisper. They had had confrontations before,
but it had never gotten so violent.

Martha shook her head and wiped her eyes with the bottom of
her starched white apron. "I guess he’s worse than we thought." Her
voice was also a whisper, barely heard above the storm outside.

"Mom, he crazy," William blurted out. He hadn’t
wanted to say it aloud, and the last word hung between them, almost tangible in
the thick air.

Martha shook her head and glanced nervously toward the
bedroom, then back at her son. "No!" she said at last with a flash of
defiance.

"Yes, Mom. He’s crazy!"

"No!" she said again, then turned away from him
and began angrily scrubbing at the dishes in the sink.

He caught her chin in his hand and forced her to look at
him. "He’s losing his mind. Things are only going to get worse."

"He needs me."

"No. He’ll drive you mad, too, or…" William
released his mother’s face and both of them looked at the small blood-encrusted
wound on his wrist where the knife had pierced the skin.

"Or what?" Martha looked away quickly.

"Or he’ll kill you," William finished lamely. The
discussion was useless and he felt completely drained.

The rain had stopped but the sky was still black as Martha
watched her son prepare to leave. "I fixed you some sandwiches to eat on
the way home," she said, offering him a small brown bag.

"Come with me!" he whispered fiercely and then
wondered why they were whispering. Bill had not emerged from his room or made a
sound.

"I can’t. I can’t leave him," Martha said, knowing
at that moment that she was choosing between her husband and her son. About a
hundred years ago in a hospital room she made a promise. She told Bill she
would always be there. She meant it.

Too soon for Martha, they were standing in the driveway
beside William’s car. "Is he asleep?" William asked and wondered if
his father could have faked the whole fainting episode.

Martha nodded.

"At least get someone out here to help you,"
William pleaded.

"We’ll see." Martha’s stand-by answer for "No."

Neither mother nor son heard the bedroom window slide open
six inches. Neither saw the end of a rifle barrel slide through, aimed at the
driveway.

"At least think about it." William kissed her
forehead and climbed into the car. In the darkness of the storm, his mother
looked like an abandoned child.

"Call when you get home."

"I will. Mom, if you need me…" The rest of the
sentence was implied but he knew that she would never call.

Darkness closed in quickly, bringing more rain as Martha
stumbled back inside. Flicking the light switch flooded the kitchen with
brilliance and the unexpected sight of Bill sitting at the table startled her.
She muffled her scream with the back of her hand. A mocking smile curled his
lips.

"You scared me," Martha said, embarrassed at her
own skittishness.

"Can’t a man come to his own kitchen to tell his son
goodbye?" Bill gave her an innocent look and then sipped his hot coffee.

"You’re too late. He’s gone." She said, eying him
suspiciously. He seemed to have recovered completely. Had he forgotten, blacked
out, not even realized what had happened?

"Too bad."

Martha busied herself with the dishes. After a few minutes
she asked, "Should you be up?" There were several other things she
wanted to say to him but they would have to wait until she was sure he was
responsible for his actions…and she was more in control of her own emotions.

"I feel fine now," Bill said absently and then
added. "It must have been all the excitement of having company for dinner."

Silence for a moment and then Bill moved closer to her. "I’ll
take that knife now."

So he hadn’t forgotten. Carefully, Martha pulled the thin
bladed knife out of the soapy water, rinsed and dried it. She handed it to him
without a word.

Snapping it into its case on his belt, Bill laughed softly. "You
have to be careful with things like this. Someone could get hurt."

The saucer Martha was washing slipped out of her hand,
struck the side of the sink and broke into several sharp, jagged pieces.

"I sure hope we don’t have to stop having visitors,"
Bill continued in that strange, soft voice. Martha gingerly picked out a long
piece of broken saucer and transferred it quietly to her apron pocket.

Paul got out of his car and stretched lazily. The Landry
house, with its slash of red brick chimney up the side, warmed his heart and he
ambled toward it thinking, not for the first time, that it would make a pretty
painting, peaceful and secluded. He crossed the wooden foot bridge to the yard
and bent to sniff Martha’s fragrant roses.