Forever Yours

You know it’s coming. You can feel it building all night. He was in an ugly mood when he came home – bad day at work, but you still hope. Maybe it will pass. Then dinner doesn’t meet with his approval. It’s overcooked, it’s undercooked, it’s spaghetti, and goddammit, she should know that he hates spaghetti. Last week, he loved it, but never mind. You look at your mother’s face and you know. When he throws the baseball mitt at your head because you left it in the yard, you know it’s going to be a really bad night. And it is.

           It starts at seven, right after the news. He watches the news every night, needs to know what goes on in the world. He turns off the television and calls you and your mother into the living room, and begins. “What’s the matter with him?” His finger jabs the air at your chest. “Ungrateful little bastard. Doesn’t he know how hard I work?”

Your mother tries to protect you. She stands in front, pleads with your father, gets a broken nose for her trouble. Sometimes, he takes off his belt and makes you bend over a chair, whipping your naked legs and buttocks. Sometime, he just punches you and knocks you down. You learn it’s always better not to cry.

           You wonder why your mother doesn’t divorce him. She hates him; you can tell. When you ask her, she just shakes her head. “You’ll understand when you’re older,” she tells you, mumbling about money and food, then God and sacraments and vows.

           Eventually, you realize that you’re almost as big as your father and stronger. When he hits you, you get up and hit him back. He falls against the chair; you stand over him, eyes narrowed, feeling the blood pump in your ears, feeling the power, taking control of your life. He never hits you again, but you can’t always protect your mother.

           Still, you move out as soon as you can. Suitcase in hand, you head to the station. You join the army and you never look back. You go to Fort Irwin, California and Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Then to Fort Carson, Colorado, and you meet Andrea. She is eighteen and alone, working in a grocery store. Her parents died when she was fifteen, killed in a car crash. Too old to be adoptable, no other family, she finished high school while living in foster homes. You are ten years older; she looks up to you. She loves your strength, your purpose, your maturity; she needs you to take care of her.

Her parents are dead and so are yours. At least, that’s what you tell her, and it could be true. You don’t know and you don’t care; you never look back. You become the family she didn’t have, someone to take care of her. She becomes the family you didn’t have, someone to love you as you are. Her laugh soothes you, makes you smile. All your twisted nerve ends untangle; you finally relax. You are yourself and she loves you.

           You get married and have children, a boy and a girl. You remember your father, and you never hit your kids. She’s a good mother; she takes care of the children, and you work hard to earn a living. For a long time, you are both happy. Your job pays well, has benefits. You go to little league games, violin concerts, ballet recitals. You teach your son to hunt. Andrea hates the guns, but she knows you are always careful. You buy a house, mow the lawn, trim hedges, grill hot dogs, take out the garbage. She plants tulips and marigolds, joins the PTA and the neighborhood book club. You are the center of her life, and you are happy.

           You go to bed early, so she does too. She knows you can’t sleep alone. You watch football on Sunday, so she does too. The house is always clean and she makes your favorite meals. You get a promotion and work more hours. She’s home when the kids come home from school. She drives them to soccer games and orthodontist appointments, bakes cookies, chaperones fieldtrips. She is perfect.

           The kids get older. In high school, they can drive. She gets bored; she doesn’t have enough to fill her days. She talks about getting a job, and your heart stiffens. She would be out in the world alone, out of your house. You know that would change things too much. You tell her the kids need her more than ever. She has to be home to keep them out of trouble. She doesn’t look convinced, but she agrees. No more talk of jobs, at least for now.

           The kids graduate and go to college. She cleans the house, bakes cookies, goes to the library. She redecorates, volunteers at the hospital. She begins to look sad; she cries a lot, over nothing. You don’t understand. What is wrong with her? Everything is perfect; everything is just the way you want it. She’s changing the rules and it’s not fair.

You ask her what’s wrong and try to listen. She goes to a doctor, takes hormones and anti-depressants. Still, she is worse. She sleeps a lot, watches television. The furniture is dusty; there are dishes in the sink. She buys pies at the grocery store. You try to be patient, but this new wife makes your chest hurt. It’s hard to breathe all the time.

           You come home from work to find she watched TV all day and didn’t cook dinner. You’re impatient and you yell at her. She cries. You feel bad. But every night is the same and you don’t know what to do. You just want your wife back. You are losing her and you are terrified.

Still, you try. You bring her petunias to plant in her garden. She smiles, thanks you, then lets the flowers die in their pots. You buy earrings and perfume that she never wears. Her favorite candy stays unopened. You start to feel desperate.

One night, you kiss her, and she tells you to leave her alone. You slap her – hard. She falls against the wall, looks shocked. She goes to the bedroom. You both cry.

Now you are frightened. You can’t be like your father. Then you think - but you’re not like him, not really. Your father beat you and he beat your mother, no matter how hard she tried. You never laid a hand on your kids and you never would. You wouldn’t hit your wife either, but she needs to keep her vows, to hold up her end and love you and take care of you. She’s not trying at all.

Then you come home to find dinner waiting: meatloaf, baked potatoes, corn, apple pie for dessert, all your favorites, made from scratch. She is smiling, but she looks nervous. After you eat, she tells you she applied for a job. She has an interview. You feel sick, but you agree. You don’t know what else to do.

She starts working in a law firm, just part-time. For awhile, it’s all right. She cooks your favorite meals again. She laughs more. The house is clean. She is home when you get home. You watch TV together. When you kiss her, she doesn’t pull away.

When you turn off the television one night at bedtime, she smiles, looks nervous, turns the TV back on. She wants to watch a new show; it’s something she heard about at work. She tells you she’s going to stay up a little while longer; she’ll come to bed after the program is over. You’re shocked; you pick up the remote control and turn off the television. You throw the remote; it hits her in the chest. She cries, but you don’t care, not really, and you’re surprised. She goes to bed when you do.

She starts working more hours. One night, she doesn’t get home until eight o’clock. You don’t have dinner; you can’t eat. When she walks in the house, she starts to explain, but you can’t listen. You slap her and tell her she has to quit her job. She looks frightened, but she says no. She wants to talk, but you won’t. There’s nothing to talk about. She says we need to work things out. She asks if you will go to counseling. But you know that you don’t need counseling. You just need your life back. You just need to keep everything from spinning out of control.

You scream that at her, over and over, so she will know and understand. She looks frightened, runs to the bedroom, locks the door. The click of the lock reverberates, a shock to your guts. Your house, your wife, your bedroom, your life falling away. She is taking it all away.

The door splinters easily. You hit her, once, then again and again. Her blood stains the bedspread, droplets of burgundy spattered among the yellow daisies and blue cornflowers. She has to be your wife again. She has to stop changing.

After time, your knuckles hurt and you stop. She is huddled on the bed, face burrowed into the top of her knees, arms curled around her head. You want to cry, but you can’t. You want to feel bad, but you can’t. You have to get your wife back and this is the only way you know how.

You leave for work in the morning, thinking she’ll stay home. She can’t go to work with a split lip and black eye. But she does and you are shocked. Why is her job so important to her? You start to wonder if she’s having an affair. Is it her boss? Someone else? One day, you call in sick and follow her to work. You wait outside, watching. She goes out for lunch, alone. She walks to McDonald’s, eats a cheeseburger, reads a book. Still, you wonder and you pay attention, close attention.

You go through her purse, her pockets, her papers. You read her texts and e-mail and track her on-line history. You watch her all the time. You have a chance to take early retirement, so you do. Now you can drive her to work. You can pick her up. You can be with her all the time. She doesn’t object, doesn’t argue, but she gets more and more quiet. The harder you try to hold on, the further she goes away. You are desperate.

The day comes when you go to pick her up from work and she doesn’t come out. You wait and wait. Finally, you go into her office and they tell you that she didn’t work today. You smile and nod, but you’re screaming inside. She is your life; she’s not going to leave you.

She doesn’t come home, but you know you can find her. You go downtown, and you wait at work for her. You know she’ll go back to her job. And she does. You catch her on her way in, force her into your car. You take her home, just to talk. But the talk does not go well. She wants to leave you; she wants a divorce. The words roar in your ears, rush through your guts; no, no, no, she is not going to leave. You grab her and shake her; she has to understand. She says she can’t live with you anymore; you won’t hear those words. She can’t say those words.

You put your hands on her mouth. She has to stop talking; she can’t say she’s leaving. Your hands move to her neck and you squeeze. You have to keep her quiet; you squeeze her neck and shake her, and finally she’s silent. She’s not going to leave you now. Not ever.

Your wife is yours forever. You have what you want. First you feel relief, and you feel strong once more, powerful. She will never disagree again. You have what you want. Don’t you? You gaze at her face. So beautiful, always beautiful. But so still. Why doesn’t she move? You stroke her hair, run your fingers over her lips. You lay beside her, pull her close, kiss her cheek. She is yours forever.

Then you look into her eyes, wide open, staring at nothing, her beautiful blue eyes are red, stained with ugly strings of blood. Reality slams you like your father’s fist to your gut and you can’t breathe. She isn’t yours, anymore. No. Not yours forever, no. Gone forever; she is gone forever. Oh, dear God, gone forever.

You push her away and stand up. She can’t be gone. You won’t let her be gone. You are determined now. You can fix this. You will be together forever. You open your dresser and pull out your loaded pistol. You sit next to her on the bed; you hold her hand. You close your eyes, point the gun at your broken heart and you join her. Forever.

The End