A Shattered Wife (9 page)

"I mean, did she seem -" Paul shrugged while
searching for the right word. "- strange?"

Katie paused, her sea-green eyes narrowing for a moment in
concentration. "The woman looked tired and a bit confused, but not
strange," she said. "You scared her half to death."

Paul’s disappointment in her answer showed.

"Paul, I’m a psychologist, not a mind reader. To make a
real decision about her state of mind, I’d have to give her some tests - at
least talk to her for a little while."

"Will you?"

"What?"

"When we go out there next week, will you talk to her?
See if you can find anything wrong, something I’m missing?" Paul turned on
the pleading, little boy look that almost always got him what he wanted,
especially with women.

Katie laughed and touched her finger to his lips. "Okay.
But don’t expect too much. She’s probably just a very tired woman under a lot
of stress."

***

Bill sat on the porch, thinking. Why should he suffer
through an operation that may or may not free him from the wheelchair? He had
often wanted to see the animals he killed at a closer range and sometimes, when
his bullet didn’t quite do the trick, they needed a sharp blow to the head to
finish them off. Other than that, he was reasonably content.

An idea crossed his mind and he smiled to himself. Why
hadn’t he thought of it before? He had two perfectly good legs: Martha, his
faithful wife.

Bill shifted impatiently as Martha brought the groceries in
out of the hot sun and hung the truck keys on the nail by the back door He had
completely made up his mind. No more doctors, no surgery.

And later that afternoon, he got his first opportunity to "walk".

His next kill was a good, clean one and he wanted to see the
results. "Martha!"

"I’ll mark it down," she answered wearily from
behind the screen door.

"No! Come here," he commanded.

Reluctantly, she stepped onto the porch.

"Just at the end of the driveway, to your right, is a
groundhog. I just shot it," Bill told her, indicating the general
direction with a nod of his head.

Martha waited; hand on the door, not understanding.

"I want to see it."

Comprehension dawned on her and she looked as though she had
been slapped. "What!"

"I want to see it," Bill repeated. "Go get
it."

Martha shook her head slowly from side to side. She had to
be dreaming, or hallucinating, or something.

"Now!" Bill shouted. The sharp bark in his voice
snapped her into action.

As if in a dream, she hurried off the porch and down the
driveway. Her legs and arms felt like lead. With little difficulty, she found
the young animal curled in a tight ball, black paws cupping his large head, as
though asleep. Its eyes were squeezed shut and the strong white front teeth
were bared in a grimace of death. Several BB - sized holes marred the beautiful
pelt. Kneeling, she touched the dead animal. It was still warm. The groundhog
was not heavy, no more than 10 pounds, but Martha had to force herself to pick
it up. She felt queasy, and wanted only to drop the dead thing and get away.

She laid the animal on the porch at Bill’s feet. Inside, she
was screaming that she would die before she ever performed that task again.
Putting her hands in her apron pockets, she felt the jagged piece of glass from
the saucer still hidden there.

"That’s the end of those babies," Bill announced
as he wheeled into the kitchen and dropped an empty shell box into the trash
can.

"Didn’t I get shells when I went to town the other day?"
Martha asked, wondering if he had forgotten. Without answering her, he turned
and went into the living room. His gun-cleaning kit lay on a small table, ready
for use. He broke the gun down and began working on it with a soft rag.

Martha shrugged and continued preparing lunch. The fact that
Bill had not answered her came as no surprise. He rarely spoke to her at all
anymore, and when he did, the look on his face and his tone of voice indicated
that he was miles away. His personal habits were deteriorating rapidly, as
well. He wore the same clothes all the time and only bathed when Paul was due
to visit. He looked shabby and neglectful, like an old drunk.

When he came through the kitchen again, he was carrying two
guns. One was his shotgun, and the other was a big, deadly looking rifle. "The
shells you picked up the other day were for this gun," he told her,
caressing the metal trigger.

Even with her limited knowledge of firearms, Martha could
tell that this was a far more powerful weapon than either the .22 or the
shotgun. It was huge and angry-looking and boasted sophisticated telescopic
sights mounted securely to the top. "Is that an elephant gun?"

Bill laughed sharply and returned to his examination of the
big rifle. This was the gun he had been using the day of his accident, but as
far as he could tell it was in fine shape. "It’s called a thirty-aught
six. When the shell enters its target, it leaves only a small hole, but once
inside it explodes…" Bill snapped a fully loaded clip into the gun and
then removed the protective leather cap covering the lens, "…really
tearing them to pieces. You know, more of a show!"

She turned away, disgusted, and stared blindly at a recipe
book. What could be fun about any of this?

He ignored her and butted the gun against his right
shoulder, lowered it, and shouldered it again quickly. "Good balance,"
he murmured to himself. He was glad that it hadn’t been damaged in the fall.

He wheeled out the door, and in a matter of minutes, he was
‘having fun.’ When fired, the powerful recoil jarred his shoulder and
momentarily obstructed his view. After the explosion subsided, his wild
laughter pierced Martha’s thoughts.

"Mark one down for today!"

She obeyed, sighing. The chart was becoming crowded with
slim straight marks (hers) and broad, slightly wavy slashes (Bill’s), each
indicating a dead animal. She had a strange impulse to make crosses out of each
of them.

Twenty minutes later, she heard him calling her name. She
moved reluctantly to the back porch, where he sat with his trio of weapons.

"Hunker down here so that your eyes are level with mine
and look out across the driveway," he told her.

Martha began to shake. What now? Was he going to make her
retrieve another dead animal? Or worse, perform that useless revolting sex act?

"Dammit, I’m not going to hurt you! Now quit shaking
like a leaf and bend down here."

She obeyed quickly, her knees aching, and searched - out
across the curve of the driveway, her flowerbeds and the garden. Further out,
through the trees, she could barely make out the roof of one of the older barns
perched on the hillside. Nothing out of the ordinary. What did he mean?

"What do you see?"

She shrugged. "My rosebushes? The garden? That’s about
all."

"Correct. Your goddamn flowers are blocking my view of
the driveway. I want them cut down."

She stood up quickly, her mouth dropping open. "Cut
down?"

"You heard me. I want them out of the way. They block
my view."

"But it’s taken me years to get them just right! I’ve
worked so hard…" Martha protested. Bill brought the cold rifle barrel
gently against her left leg, just below the knee, and tapped twice. His voice
grew low and dangerous. "Cut them down."

She obeyed, as always. Using razor-sharp hedge trimmers, she
began angrily hacking at her beautiful rosebushes – her substitute
grandchildren. The healthy bushes fell at her feet and as their fragrant
blossoms blanketed the ground, she wept openly. She hated Bill for his
outlandish demands, and hated herself for giving in to him. Frustrated tears
coursed down her wrinkled cheeks and kept her from seeing the smile on Bill’s
face as he watched her through the scope of his rifle.

Panting from overexertion, Martha went into the kitchen and
drank two large glasses of water. She used a paper towel to wipe the sweat,
dirt and tears from her face.

She wondered if Bill had given any thought to the small ray
of hope that Paul offered. If he did, he hadn’t mentioned anything to her. All
that interested him was using his guns to kill poor defenseless animals. Her
life was caught in a dark area between fear and pity, and the situation as it
stood was hopeless. All she could do was keep her mouth shut, stay out of
Bill’s way, and do as she was told. She was so weary of the struggle, but
sooner or later this nightmare had to end.

Sudden exhaustion swept over her, making her mind fuzzy. She
sat at the table and picked up the small white bottle of pills and looked at it
longingly. How easy it would be to take a handful of the red and black capsules
and never wake up.

By that evening, Martha could tell which gun Bill was using
by the sound it made. The .22 emitted a sharp crack, and the shotgun had a more
powerful roar, but the 30.06 made a completely different sound all together.
Its explosion shrieked through her ears and ricocheted between the protective
mountains that flanked their valley.

"Boy, you should have seen the last one I got today,"
Bill said, as if there were a dozen people seated at their dinner table. He
looked around, avoiding Martha’s curious stare. The extent of his instability
was becoming more apparent every day. She began to wonder how long it would be
before she joined him.

"He was a big, fat sonofabitch and he had his eye on
one of Martha’s cabbages. I guess he was too interested in it to notice me,"
he continued. Martha rose from the table. She didn’t want to watch this
spectacle.

An iron hand, fingers biting into the paper-thin skin of her
forearm, stopped her short. "Wait! I want you to hear this, too," he
commanded.

She looked around at their invisible dinner guests and sank
wearily back into her chair.

"I got him centered in my crosshairs, and KA-POW! Right
between the eyes!" Bill took careful aim with his imaginary rifle and shot
the punch bowl on the top shelf of the china cabinet. He laughed loudly at his
victory. Martha tried not to cry. "I never saw so much blood in all my
life. That devil was trying to get away even with half its insides hanging out,
so I hit him again. KA-POW!"

Unable to hold back her tears any longer, Martha fled from
the table and sought out the temporary sanctuary of their bedroom. Still, she
was unable to shut out the sounds of Bill’s wild, cackling laughter.

A day or so later, she was given another glimpse of Bill’s
fading grasp on reality. It was nearly dark, and she was curled up on the sofa
in her bathrobe and slippers, reading a book, when he wheeled into the living
room and began to watch her with secretive, sidelong glances. He had made
several kills that day and should have been pleased with himself, but something
seemed to be nagging at him.

"The animals are making my job harder and harder, you
know. Being more evasive."

She continued to look at her book, but she wasn’t reading.
Of course they were being evasive, she thought, but remained silent.

After another long while, he said, "Did you say
something?"

Martha shook her head, giving him a quick, wary glance.

"I thought I heard something." He watched her
closely for a reaction.

"What?" she asked cautiously, clutching her book
tightly, as if for support.

He shrugged his broad shoulders and returned his gaze to the
window. "Voices."

Her breath caught in her throat. What voices? What did they
sound like? What did they say? The questions swirled in her mind and formed in
her throat, but stuck there. She dropped the book into her lap and put her
hands down to hide their trembling.

"I don’t know. I’ve missed a lot of shots these last
few days, and I’m sure it’s my eyes," he complained. He studied the
tranquil scene outside the window. "Maybe my hearing is going, too."

Or your mind, Martha thought. This was getting ridiculous. "Perhaps
you should go in for a few tests. I’m sure Paul would be glad to help."
Her voice was soft, timid, and she waited for his usual outburst of anger and
abuse.

Much to her surprise, he shrugged again and sighed heavily. "No
use worrying about it. I’m an old man. I won’t need my eyes or ears much
longer, anyway." As he rolled past her, he reached to give her shoulder a
gentle pat.

Martha’s heart melted. Everything he had done to her was
suddenly forgotten. Somewhere, behind that strong, foreboding, never-say-die
exterior lay a powerfully independent but very sick man.

She said the name over and over to herself: "Katie
Newsome. Katie Newsome." It sounded pretty good. Glancing quickly at her
future husband as he drove his little Volkswagen through the peaceful
countryside, her heart skipped a beat. Paul was exactly what she had waited for
all these years; a good, kind, intelligent man, endowed with a great sense of
humor. More importantly, her independence and intelligence, of which she was
quite proud, in no way threatened his masculinity. He respected her and her
work; he was even interested in it. He had been well worth the wait.

Summer sun sparkled on the small diamond ring that decorated
her hand, catching her eye. She smiled, thinking that Paul had seemed like a
nervous schoolboy the previous evening. A strange, tense excitement began
building between them the moment he’d picked her up from her apartment, and by
the time they had finished supper it was so strong that normal conversation was
difficult. When it seemed that he couldn’t control himself any longer, Paul
blurted, "I was supposed to wait and do this tomorrow at the Landrys', but
I have to get it over with now."

"You sound like whatever you have to do is bitter
medicine," Katie replied. She had an idea of what the excitement was about
and decided not to make it too easy.