As the night settles, so too does this house

The walls are alive with zipping current, the refrigerator hums its third-shift duties, the floorboards moan from the day’s trample of little feet and purposeful strides.

Be silent! he had yelled when I’d asked about the smell, and I shut my mouth. I can be silent.

This house, though, that had once helped nurture the first-time homeowners as we grimaced through the undigested milk and Gerber’s reflux that was commented upon by our coworkers, enjoy it while it lasts; that had once heard delighted squeals, that had once absorbed the pounding of knees with the vroom of Matchbox races and the squeaking of unsure bedframes-as-trampolines, to the pitiful can we come downstairs yet? on Christmas mornings as Tom and I savored the last of our peaceful French Roast, this house that was then a home is now settling with the night in a stuttered sigh of what next?

I’d tiptoed out when the snoring became too guttural, glottal; when I knew the phlegmy gurgle would again cause fright, mommy IT came back again. I switched on their Beethoven at Bedtime and shut their doors, and tiptoed downstairs for the relative silence of the sanitized, lemony-fresh kitchen, I won’t have MY house smelling lived in, to sit by the window, to settle into silence with a house that cannot be silent, for it still has responsibilities.

Enjoy it while it lasts, my coworkers had said, referring to my neck-vomit residue, but which I now sorrowfully liken to that honeymoon phase, to morph into a particular time, a turning point that I cannot define, like the boiling frog: when exactly did my husband begin to smell (the ability to smell can begin in the womb, da-DUH-dum); when did that voice begin to rise, that temper to flare? It seems it all just folded in, like how we were taught to mix batter, add the eggs gradually, when Tom said I needed classes, your food sucks, you cook like a peasant. I’d presented my first chocolate soufflé the evening of our fourth anniversary, soufflé means ‘to breathe,’ I’d proudly informed, we can do that now, now that we’re homeowners, doncha think?

The soufflé’d splattered against the wall like a wet car-wash sponge. He didn’t throw the ramekin, just scooped the dessert out with his hand and launched it, Why do you always have to be so damned extra?

There was Grand Marnier in that, just for you, you sot, I wanted to scream. But I didn’t know how to scream, not with our children in the house.

HOME FOR SALE is what I’d heard from the realtor. Home. Like, melting cheese to advertise the burger, or scratch-made to sell the biscuit, or even START YOUR CAREER to advertise the gas station sales associate position, a home was what I’d wanted, that nasal mmmmm sounding like the refrigerator pulling third-shift responsibility, like the current running through the walls as I sit in this kitchen in the glow of the stove lamp, quietly asking: what next?

It is snowing. I notice this now. Silently snowing, which is redundant because snow makes no sound, but it does have a smell, and that smell is chill, and the smell of chill slaps me as I open the back door. I breathe in deeply, and like cold water down the parched throat or the heavy duvet over the trembling body, that chill delivers a wave of relief, of betterment; God’s icy breath, I’ll tell you what next.

God. Tom had said I needed to find God. Tom had said only God could relieve me of my delusions.

We were sitting in church and Tom was breathing heavily, which he usually does because of his deviated septum but this morning it was more labored; as I reached over him to hand Jeb a crayon I snuck a quick glance, and not only was he breathing through his nose —which he never does, because of his deviated septum— but he was sweating, which was odd, because it was November and he’s from Duluth.

You sound like a hippopotamus, I giggle-whispered and playfully nudged, trying to keep it light.

You look like a hippopotamus, he mouth-breathed, maintaining his upright posture and not at all pivoting but still the smell of sour mash found its way upstream.

I wanted to scream, right then, you don’t need your mouth closed to stink, you lush, I’ve been smelling you all morning. But, I didn’t think screaming in church was a good idea, let alone even bringing it up, there. Much better to be silent.

I knew how to be silent.

I stand in the doorway, breathing deeply, in through my nose that is free of deviation; a clean nose, polyp-less, no whistling at all, now (that is) that the swelling has gone down. It wasn’t the punch that shocked me so much as how little damage it did. A crunch, and a nice flow of blood. That was all.

Wimp, I wanted to scream. But I’d already been punched once, and I didn’t want to scream. Not with the kids in the next room.

Be silent, he’d seethed through clenched teeth. It’s all in your head. 

At first, I did. I shut my mouth.

But I knew what I’d smelled, when he’d returned from work, his tie askew and his shirt tail out, his eyes like he’d swum without goggles. You cannot unsmell it.

You’re telling me you haven’t been drinking?

And that’s when it hit me, fast…lightning, then deep-ocean sonar ping.

Then, the silence he demanded.

Very much like the silence now, as I walk back with new resolve into the kitchen from the brisk chill, the house humming its responsibility which is not at all silent.

I have learned from the house; I’ll show you ‘delusional.’ As I ascend the stairs, on tiptoe because I will be quiet, he sounds like a beast from Mordor. It is swampy up here; the air is thick with bourbon stew. I steal into the boys’ rooms; I bundle them in swaddling clothes even though they’re well past the age of swaddling, and one by one I lug them to the car, idling in the driveway, lights off. I worry not about their clothes, or their toothbrushes or teddies or boythings. We will not be gone long, I think.

The car is running. It is warm in there. I lock the doors, then head back inside to finish the job. I go to the heavy pantry door, and slam it hard several times against my temple; with my own right fist, I punch my right eye very hard, several times. I feel my fragile nose shift from Tom’s initial punch, several days ago. I take a knife, the Cutco he uses for meat, and slice my palm, and a nice streak down my arm. With my other hand, I wipe the handle, then making certain the blood drops on the stairs as I ascend, I place it in his outstretched hand.

Yes, I wore his shoes as I went up those stairs.

And yes, I scaled the banister as I went down.

Probably unnecessary, but I am no stranger to crime television.

I check myself in the mirror, and give myself two more healthy pops to that eye. My cheek runs red from the bloody palm, the hand that tried to stave off the knife wielder, but that is okay. It’s all in the name of defense. Of delusion, you bastard.

Being certain first to smear blood over the children’s swaddling clothes, I let out a scream and I run to the neighbor’s. There is enough adrenaline running through me from the wounds to make this look real. The tears are certainly natural; I’d cut deeper than I’d planned.

Mrs. Rogers sorry to bother you would you call the police I have to get the boys out of here Tom’s upstairs and…

The house is settled, quiet when we reenter that evening, but not silent. And I too am no longer silent. I have responsibilities that resumed when the officers thanked the neighbor for not letting me drive in such a panicked condition, when they’d found Tom passed out on the bed holding the bloody knife, when they took him away to be processed.

It was then that I was informed that my husband of five years had priors. Several of them.

Delusional, he’d called me.

Well, that’s now settled.