Simmering Below the Surface

           The soaring inflation threw my boyfriend into a drinking binge like never before, and when he kicked my low tire with his steel toed boot I knew he was smashed. “Lilly, were you drinking and driving? How did your headlights and windshield get shattered on your new convertible?  

           Sitting behind the steering wheel I raked my fingers through my new hairstyle emboldened with red highlights. “After I went to my hairdresser and stopped at the supermarket I hit a deer and crashed into a ditch. A farmer pulled me out.”

           “Did you get your license from a Cracker Jack box?” Kent said. “Call your insurance company. They’ll tell you that your taste in electric cars is pathetic. I told you to buy a diesel pickup with a four-wheel drive, but oh no, you had to be a typical city slicker and buy a ragtop. Obviously, you think it makes you look sexy. Maybe if you got a facelift and a boob job I’d make love to you more often if you weren’t such a cold fish.” 

           I’d heard that before. Sometimes he even bragged about being the best lover, but I could contest I’d had better. “Maybe I’ll see a plastic surgeon,” I lied, stepping out on his driveway with a bag of beauty supplies for aging skin. “I’m certainly not getting any younger.”

           “You can say that again.” He belched. “Where’s my beer?”

           “It’s in the trunk with the groceries,” I answered in a calm voice, using the grey rock method as if I didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything.        

           He retrieved the twelve pack. “Don’t just stand there like a bump on a log. Get the rest of the groceries.”

           I stood on one foot. “I think I may have twisted my ankle when I got out of the car.”

           “You’re such a klutz,” he said.   “You’ll use any excuse to get out of work. Just hurry. NASCAR is on right now. It’s your fault I missed the beginning of the race. I had to come out and get my own beer. If you had gotten home on time I’d be eating dinner right now. What are we having? You know how much I love a big juicy T-bone cooked on the charcoal grill. Did you get eggs and bacon for tomorrow’s breakfast? I like my eggs over easy and my bacon fried crisp. Don’t burn the toast either. Pancakes would be better. I hope you purchased blueberries and maple syrup. I got a craving for sweets.”         

            As I limped into his farmhouse it crossed my mind to leave and go home, but I didn’t want to get pulled over by the cops or try to hoof it home on an injured ankle.          

           While I was putting the canned goods away in the kitchen Kent put his beer in the fridge and again started in on me. “After NASCAR I’ll get out the lawn mower so you can mow my yard. You’ll like the new blades I purchased for it. It’ll do a real nice job for you. Maybe you oughta go mow that farmer’s property too. Obviously, you’ve been having an affair with him because I sure ain’t been gettin’ any.”      

           His scandalous accusations repulsed me, so I tried to emotionally detach, but he kept rattling on and the more he flapped his lips the more anxious I became, but I reminded myself to stay calm and deescalate the conversation. “I tried to call you after I hit the deer, but you didn’t answer your phone.”

           “I was taking a shower.”

           His dirty overalls, unshaven face and greasy hair told me otherwise. “Why are you lying? You haven’t showered in a month.”

           “When was the last time you took a bath, Lilly?”

           “Why do you always have to project everything onto me when you’re intoxicated?

           Kent leaned against the refrigerator. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. If you’d stop nagging at me I might quit drinking.” He slammed down another beer and threw the can in the trash. “The kitchen would be cleaner if you weren’t so lazy.  And sanitize the fridge before you put away the groceries.  I worry that you might contaminate the food. I hope that farmer didn’t give you the flu or some other contagious disease.”

           “Don’t be silly, Dear. You’re missing NASCAR.”                 

           Once he was in the other room I thought about all the self-help books I read regarding his Jackal and Hyde personality. I learned that his sadistic way of thinking was an act of psychological warfare to break me down and make me submissive. I used to believe that if I’d just toughen up and let his bad mood swings roll off my shoulders things would get better, but I’m beginning to doubt my ability to stay sane. Maybe he’s right. Perhaps I am losing my mind to Alzheimer’s. I’m certainly forgetful at times. 

           He shouted from his man-cave. “Hey, bring me a beer!”  

           I popped one open and spit into the can. The TV was so loud that when I limped into the smoky room he didn’t hear me sneak up behind him. He was lying back in his recliner and when I glanced over his shoulder he was sexting on his phone. “What are you doing looking at pornography?” I snapped, walking around the chair to face him head on. “Are you having phone sex and seeing other women?”            

           He blew cigar smoke in my face and grabbed the beer. “You’re paranoid. I was only surfing the internet. I wanted to surprise you with some sexy lingerie.”

            I backed away and waved at the smoke. Maybe he wasn’t right for me. Perhaps some hoe would suit him better.  “Don’t flatter me with lies or blow smoke at me. It’ll flair up my asthma.”

            “Hey, Honey,” he said, as if he was innocent of any wrongdoing.  “How about you whip up a homemade banana cake with the mixer I bought you. Isn’t it a beauty? I thought you’d really like it. You know how much I love what my mother used to make. Have you started the grill? I’ll take homemade baked beans and French fries too. Now run along. You know how much I love your cooking. Now don’t overcook my steak and make sure the fries are brown and crispy. Put hot dogs in those beans too and cut them up into little bite-size pieces.   Before I forget, do you like that new vacuum I got on sale? I dropped some cookie crumbs on the carpet, so you’ll need to run the sweeper.”

           Bowing to his needs was getting on my nerves. He made me feel like an unpaid servant, and I wanted to tell him I wasn’t his maid, chef or gardener, but I held my tongue. Instead, I changed the subject to keep the peace. “Have you seen my bifocals? I specifically remember leaving them on the coffee table.”

           “Don’t blame me for losing them.  It’s your fault you misplaced them. You’d lose your head if it wasn’t hooked on.”

           I ignored him and returned to the kitchen. As I mixed up the cake batter I added three bananas, a cup of salt instead of sugar and sprinkled in a heaping tablespoon of Cajun to replace the cinnamon. As I scraped the spatula along the side of the bowl I fanaticized adding rat poison. I even laughed about it, but then I shrugged it off. Maybe he was right about me being paranoid about infidelity, although lately he’d been preoccupied with his phone and working late. 

           When dinner was ready I turned off all the knobs on the stove and we dished up our plates.

           In the den we sat down to watch NASCAR and I was glad to get off my aching feet. I could feel the swelling in my injured ankle, and my arthritics hurt too, but I ignored the pain. As long as I didn’t complain maybe he’d stop picking on me.  Today I felt like every bit of energy had been drained out of me and I couldn’t wait to hit the sack. 

           “Did you see that crash earlier?” Kent said. “It was awesome.”

           “No, I missed it. I was busy cooking.”

           He shoveled food into his mouth and spoke with his trap full. “You should plan things better. You always miss out on the best parts of the race.”

           Here we go again I thought. “How’s your steak?” I asked nicely, pleased with myself that I was practicing the grey rock approach.

           He stabbed a hotdog with his fork and bit off half.  “The meal would be better if you had cooked the steak over charcoal and cut up the wieners. If I hadn’t been so busy watching NASCAR I would have grilled the sirloin steaks; although I would have preferred a good piece of meat that wasn’t so tough, but then I’m not a tight ass like you.”  

           “Sorry dear, but my ankle hurts, and I didn’t have the energy to cook outside."           

“You’re weak as an invalid. You tripped and fell against the car because you’re getting older, and your balance is off. I’m thinking about getting you a lift chair. You’ve been stumbling around like a drunken old maid.” 

           “Forget the chair. I’m middle aged. I don’t drink and I’m trying to watch my money.”

           “You’d be better off watching your weight,” he said, slurping down the rest of his beer. “If your job was as strenuous as my farming you’d shed off the pounds.”

           “You might be right.”

           “Would you like a second helping? I’m gonna grab me some more grub. I hope it’s not cold.”

           “No thanks,” I replied, sticking to my diet.

           From the kitchen I heard him fumbling around and when he returned with another beer and a full plate of fries smothered with ketchup, he said, “You left a burner on, so I turned it off. Maybe without your glasses you couldn’t see what you were doing.”

           “I specifically remember shutting off the knobs and I only use my bifocals for reading.”

           “I’m starting to worry about your memory. You didn’t forget the cake in the oven, did you? It sure smells yummy.          

           “Wait until you taste it. I made it just for you.”

           “Thank you, Honey. I hope you’ll use my mother’s butter frosting recipe.”

           After I removed the cake from the oven I grabbed a rolling pin and headed for the barn to feed his wild cats. When I returned my keys were missing from the hook and he was passed out in the chair. When I woke him he jumped up from his chair as if I had goosed him.      

           “Did you see my keys hanging beside the garage door?” I asked. “I swear I hung them there.”

           “Don’t accuse me. It’s not my fault you lost them. Look in your purse or your pockets.”

           “I already did.”

           “Then they’re probably in your ignition.”

           “Whatever,” I sighed, changing the subject. “Your cats are fed; your milk cow is dead, and her calf is hungry.”

           “That’s not funny! You’re always saying things to piss me off.”

           “I’m telling you the truth. The cow kicked the bucket. Go look for yourself. It’s your responsibility to feed and bed down the cattle.”

           When Kent returned from outside he was holding an empty whiskey bottle and was three sheets to the wind. “Lilly, the heifer would probably still be alive if you’d fed the cats this morning and checked on my livestock. Just think about at all the things I’ve done for you. I fixed the plumbing so you could do the dishes. I had a cow butchered so you could cook my meals. I let you pick out the stove when my old one took a dump. I even bought you a Betty Crocker cookbook for your birthday and for Christmas I gave you a new set of pots and pans. What more could you ask for?”     

           “Love and respect,” I spat back, forgetting about kissing his ass.  “I’m done being your punching bag! You need help. You need to return to Alcoholics Anonymous and do your Twelve Steps.”

           “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. If you’d stop nagging at me I’d probably stop drinking.”         

           “Nonsense! I stuck by your sobriety for five years, and now you’re back to slamming down a twelve pack a day.” 

           “You’re the one who needs to see a doctor. I swear if you don’t have Alzheimer’s you must be a closet drinker. You wrecked your car, left the stove on, lost your glasses and you can’t find your keys.”  

           “You’re right. It’s not you who’s at fault. It’s me. I’m the one with the problem. I should have left you a long time ago. You want me to believe I’m going crazy, but it’s all so clear now. You hid my keys and my glasses, and you lied to me about leaving the stove on. You’re most likely screwing around too.”

           He threw my keys at me. “Get out! Leave before I throw you out!” He yelled, throwing his arms into the air like a deranged monkey.”

           “I’m not going anywhere in my car. Someone is coming to tow it."      

He shoved me against the wall and tried strangling me with his thumbs pressed hard against my neck.

Fighting to breath I pulled out the rolling pin tucked inside the back of my loose-filling jeans and struck him hard over his head.

As he lay unconscious on the floor I gave him a swift kick in the ass with my cowgirl boot and removed his pickup keys from his back pocket. “Thanks for the pickup. I hope you choke to death on that cake! I should have trusted my instincts long ago.”