Downfall

Downfall 

She looked out the front window of her shop at the crunchy, brown grass and watched the dust from the driveway stir in the slight breeze. It hadn't rained in months. The dogs laid on the driveway and swatted at flies with their dirty tails. She wondered when Charles would come home from the Amish auction in Dunnin. 

She loved Saturdays. Those were her days. Charles was away most of the day and she could work in her shop without having to worry about whether or not something she did or said would set him off. She went back to sanding the vintage cutting board table she'd been working on. The smell of the shop made her relax. Whenever the dust had settled, and she removed her mask, she'd take a deep breath and inhale its scent—varnish, sawdust, paint, and oils—it was better than flowers to her. In fact, she'd named it The Wood Garden. Charles often bought items from estate auctions for her to repair and sell. In the Winter, he'd sometimes let her go with him to pick out what she wanted. She loved looking at the carved bureaus and chairs, running her hands over their roses and leaves and fleur-de-lis. They calmed her. They belonged to a simpler time. She'd spend hours in her shop, working on old clocks and furniture. It was in a bright red barn that could be seen from all the fields nearby. It brought her a sense of pride that she'd never felt for anything in her life. It was her sanctuary. 

Just as she turned the sander off to change the disc, she heard the dogs barking. She knew that meant Charles was just up the road, coming over the hill. She sighed, unplugged the sander, and hung up her coveralls. As she closed the door, she realized her hands were shaking. She knew it wasn't from sanding. She clenched and unclenched her fists as hard as she could to make them stop. When his filthy, rust-red pickup truck pulled into the driveway, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was always how she prepared herself.

She ran to the house and kicked her shoes into a corner. The whole house smelled like garlic bread. She retreated to the kitchen to check on the bread and to hide from Charles. She could see the front door from the kitchen. She liked to watch him when he came home, so she could determine what kind of mood he was in. 

Charles was a giant of a man—six foot seven and well over 350 pounds—some muscle still, but mostly fat that had been there so long, it couldn't even remember it had once been muscle. He threw the door open and kicked his boots on the front step to shake off some of the dust. “Daisy! Get out here and help me unload the truck!”

She came around the corner of the kitchen. “I'm coming. I was just checking on the bread. I'm glad you're home.” He seemed to appreciate these little lies, so she'd become accustomed to slipping them in here and there. 

But, he ignored her and went back out the door. 

Daisy slipped her faded flip-flops on and tied her dark auburn hair into a messy ponytail as she ran down the steps to the truck. She stood on her tip-toes to see inside the truck bed. There were tons of melons, peaches, red and green peppers, radishes and beets, and geraniums, bleeding hearts, begonias. A bushel of deep crimson apples in the corner of the truck bed caught her eye. They were just starting to show small, brown bruises. She was surprised they looked so good after a summer without rain. Not as good as in past summers, though. The drought was affecting the Amish too. That was probably what had put Charles in a bad mood. 

He handed her two small, cardboard boxes of peaches, stamped with the radish logo and Yoder Farms printed around it in scarlet. She headed toward the walk-in cooler in the back barn. They owned a very small cattle farm. The farm was a lot bigger when Charles's father and grandfather were alive. But they died in their late fifties. Charles's two older brothers died in their fifties as well. Heart attacks. That only left Charles to run the farm by himself. So, he'd sold most of the cattle and supplemented their income with produce and flowers from Amish auctions. 

She set the peaches down in the cooler and headed back for more. The two dogs ran in front of her, begging for attention. She gave a half- hearted pat on both their heads. It was just too hot. Despite the drought, the humidity was so high, she could barely breathe. It was like walking through water. She looked into the back of the truck. He'd already brought all the flowers into the greenhouse. She grabbed the stained, poppy-red wheelbarrow and loaded up as many melons as she could and hauled them to the barn. By the time she got there, she was panting from the heat. Charles came in, carrying huge crates of vegetables. He eased past her and placed them carefully on the cooler shelves. Daisy knew she'd be selling them at the Farmers' Market on Tuesday. 

“Looks like the Amish aren't doing too well in the drought either.” She hefted a particularly huge watermelon onto a lower shelf. 

“Not as bad as everyone else, though. They know what they're doing. It was packed today.” Charles wiped sweat off his face. Even in the cooler, with the door shut, it took forever for sweat to dry. They'd barely cooled down before they had to go back out into unforgiving sun. 

On the way back to the house she said, “I made spaghetti with garlic bread for supper. Homemade bread, homemade sauce.” She glanced up at him and smiled. His head was down and sweat dripped from his upper lip. 

“Sounds good. I gotta get out of these clothes first. Too hot.” He wiped at his forehead again and tugged at the sweat-stained neck of his worn t-shirt. 

Daisy noticed how old he was looking lately. He was twenty years older than she was. She'd married him because she had no family and he'd taken care of her. He was never cruel in the beginning. That didn't start until they'd been married a couple of years. It was slow at first—yelling at her for little things, starting fights when he was in a bad mood. Then, the fighting had turned into pushing. It wasn't long before that became hitting. And Daisy had no friends or family to turn to. He had isolated her, controlled her until she had nothing. Now, he was aging quickly. She didn't know how much longer he'd be around. That thought used to scare her. But, lately, it made her smile. She was tired of the beatings and the fighting. She was tired of living in fear. 

The dogs ran around them on their way to the house. Rosie, their Irish Setter, bumped into Charles's leg. He stumbled and kicked her hard out of his way. Rosie whimpered and ran toward the shop. “Stupid dog!”

“Oh! Charles! Why did you kick her? She's old! You're so mean!” Daisy regretted them the second the words were out. 

Charles reached out and smacked her cheek with the back of his hand. “She was in my way! You get in my way and I'll kick you too!”

Daisy ran to the house, crying. The bright pink mark of his hand was still there when they finally sat down to supper. They began eating in silence, Daisy barely picking at her bread. 

Halfway through his second plate of spaghetti, Charles looked up at her. “You selling a lot of antiques lately?”

She'd been dreading this conversation. “Well, it's been slow because of the drought, but business always picks up in the Fall.”

“Hmm,” Charles mumbled into his slice of garlic bread. He took an eternity to finish chewing, then stared out the window. “Prices are going up because of the drought. It cost me twice as much today.”

Daisy didn't know what she was supposed to say. “Maybe we can plant our own stuff next year.” 

“You know I don't have time for that. But, you could do it.” He had a mischievous look in his eyes that made Daisy wary. 

“But, my shop. I don't have a lot of free time either. Plus, I have to sell the produce we do get at the Farmers' Market.” Her words trailed off. She spoke the last sentence to her spaghetti. 

“You'd have plenty of time if you weren't in that worthless shop all the time. It costs me more than it makes!” He finished off his third beer. 

Daisy immediately went to the kitchen for another. She yelled from the other room, “You have no idea how much it makes! You've never even looked at my books. It does just fine,” she placed a napkin on the table and set the cold bottle of beer on it. “That piano I've been working on will sell for $1400!”

He took a long swig and stared at her until she looked down. “That's just one thing, one time. I can make more every week selling produce and flowers. And it's consistent!”

Daisy's head shot up, “You mean I can make more selling produce! Since when do you sell it?” Her whole body was on fire. 

Charles slammed his beer down, “Well, it is your job! My job is the farm and I work harder than you any day of the week!”

“My job is my shop, Charles! The produce was your idea!” Daisy realized she had shredded the slice of bread she'd been holding. She grabbed her napkin. 

Charles smiled his irritating, condescending smile. “I think you should take what you have in the barn and sell it online. We could turn that barn into a vegetable stand. Make more money.” He went back to eating, as if he hadn't noticed her sitting across from him, struggling for air. “Then, you don't have to go to the Farmers' Market anymore, since you hate it so much. 

Daisy's hands shook, not in the way they did when she was afraid. This was a new feeling. Anger. She stood slowly, crumpling her napkin in her clenched fist. 

Charles finally noticed her. “What's the matter with you, Woman? Sit down!” He spoke in his warning tone—something close to a yell, but not yet there. 

“For the last fifteen years, you've made my life miserable. The only thing that brings me peace is my business, and now you want to ruin that too? How dare you!” She spoke in a cold, even voice that refused to falter or back down. 

“Sit down and shut your mouth!” The sound was deafening. 

She stood still and strong. 

Charles threw his plate at her and leapt from his chair. He was across the table in seconds. Homemade tomato sauce that had taken Daisy hours to prepare was dripping down the wall onto the floor. It ran in streaks like blood, coagulating on the floor. He grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the wall. She could smell the tomatoes and feel wetness in her hair. She tried to scream, but he was squeezing so hard and everything seemed suddenly very dark. She started to give up and let go. Then, she thought of the carved roses on the cherrywood chairs she'd been restoring and the delicately etched vines on the 1914 piano, sitting in the shadows of the small barn. Her quiet wooden garden. She thought of Charles's huge, rough hands throwing them in his truck to sell after she was gone. Those were her things! She'd spent months sanding and polishing. He was determined to take her life, one way or another. 

Something dark and primal rose up in Daisy and took over. She watched her hands come up in front of his face, as if they were moving underwater. She focused on her chipped, pink nail polish and thought she needed to repaint them soon. This was all that was in her head as her nails jabbed deep into his small, green eyes. He let go and clutched at his face. 

The fear finally set in, but she couldn't move. She stood there and listened to him cuss at her and call her vile names while he rubbed his eyes. She held onto one thought, and she clung to that thought as if it were a prayer; a mantra on which her life depended: “Drop dead. Just die. Die now. DIE!” She repeated this thought and then realized she'd been saying it out loud. It was a whisper at first, and then she began yelling it at him until it was a roar that filled the room with loathing and rage such as she'd never experienced in her whole life. 

Charles became silent. He stared at her with a confused expression on his purplish face. Daisy continued to stand against the sauce-covered wall, her body frozen, still screaming those seven words, over and over. Her voice sounded demonic; possessed. Charles suddenly grabbed his chest. His face went pale and sweaty and he reached his arm out toward his demon wife. “Help me.” He fell to the floor and made a wheezing sound that could barely be heard over the screaming chant. 

Daisy stopped speaking and ran to him. She knelt on the floor beside him and smiled. She made no effort to touch him or help him in any way. 

Charles's eyes were bloodshot. He had a look of shock and pain on his face. “Daisy...” the word was almost inaudible. Daisy put her lips close to his ear and whispered, “Die, Charles. Die. Die, die, die, die, die, die...” The words seemed to go on for an eternity. But she didn't stop until she could no longer hear his ragged breath beside her. She put her fingers on his fat, sweaty neck and felt no pulse. She smiled. 

Daisy stood and stepped around his body to the front door. She didn't even notice the blinding heat as she walked toward her shop. She was still smiling. 

Halfway there, she felt a drop on her arm. And then another. And another. It felt strange. She supposed it was because it hadn't rained in so long. Then, she glanced down at her arm and saw, not raindrops, but tiny, scarlet drops of blood running down her arm. She looked up at the darkening sky and blood began to pour from the clouds in a great torrent. Daisy didn't run or panic or even wonder what was happening. She just kept her head raised to the sky and laughed in the rain.