A Shattered Wife (12 page)

Martha spent every waking hour in fear; fear of something
intangible, and fear of the wild empty gunslinger eyes that belonged to her
husband. More and more, she thought of running away. Where to, though? She
would only be in William’s way. None of her friends had called or visited in
months. Katie might help, but Martha knew there was no place in her life for an
old woman who was afraid of her own shadow.

Automatically, she felt for the jagged piece of broken glass
in her apron pocket. It was still there, the sharp point reassuring. Not that
she could ever use it, but at least it was something concrete. Even the
continuous silence between them was making her jumpy. As she began to clear the
table, her gaze strayed to the chart on the wall. The red and black slashes
seemed to wiggle and wave at her and she turned away quickly. Talking as much
to hear her own voice as anything else, she said softly, "I guess I’ll
pick peas today."

When Bill made no reply, she continued. "I think I’ll
put them in the freezer. It’s easier and quicker than canning them. Maybe I’ll
cook some for dinner. They should be good and –"

"I don’t think you will," Bill interrupted. It was
the first thing he had said all morning.

"Will what?"

"Pick peas."

"Of course I will. If I don’t they’re going to ruin."

"They’re for the animals," Bill said softly.

"Oh, Bill…."

"I need to lure animals in here. I have to make them
come to me." His face twisted into an ugly sneer. "In case you
haven’t noticed, I can’t exactly hunt them down."

Martha stopped midway between the table and sink, a plate in
each hand. She’d known all along, of course, but hearing him say it made it
sound like a joke. "Please, Bill. Surely…."

"As the summer wears on, that garden is going to draw
animals in here like crazy. I don’t want you to touch one weed or harvest any
of the vegetables. Understand?" His angry fists opened and closed
spasmodically on the table.

"You’re crazy." The words slipped out before she
could stop them. She continued walking toward the sink but listened carefully
for movement behind her. She placed the dishes in the water, trying to pretend
that she had not said those last two words.

Trembling with anger, Bill pointed a thick, gnarled finger
at her as she turned around again. "Don’t you ever say that again!"
he hissed between tightly clenched teeth. He turned and wheeled out onto the
porch, letting the screen door slam loudly.

After he left the room, Martha felt like her arms and legs
were wrapped in wet cotton. She sank wearily into a nearby chair and rested her
head on her folded arms. Should she go after him and apologize? She felt like
she would never be able to move again. Looking up, she saw the summer morning
through the kitchen window. She whispered, "I’m sorry."

No one answered her.

After a while she began to feel better. She finished up the
dishes and made their bed, completing her few household tasks for the day.
Without her rose garden, she had nothing but reading to keep herself busy. With
a heavy sigh, she settled into an overstuffed chair with her book. Birds
flitted past the window, and the scent of lilac reached her sensitive nose. She
lost her place several times before finally giving up. It was just too
beautiful to stay inside. The house was suffocating her, anyway.

Crossing the room to the window, she looked out at her
garden. It was green and beautiful, and it would lay there and rot if Bill had
anything to say about it. What a waste.

Her newfound anger surged again, and she squared her
shoulders and stood up straight. She could not spend the rest of her life being
afraid of Bill. It was her garden and she would harvest it as she saw fit. What
could he do to her that was worse than making her kill that groundhog? Putting
on her old shoes and a big straw hat to shield her face from the sun, she
picked up a yellow plastic pail on her way out of the house.

Bill pretended to clean his rifle. There was no need to look
up at his wife as she clomped across the back porch in her garden shoes. He had
already guessed that she would disobey his orders, because it would go against
everything in her nature to let food go to waste. Since she had talked to
Katie, she was becoming more and more independent and strong-willed every day.
Something would have to be done. He was having a hard enough time keeping the
wildlife pests under control. He had no need for one more pest.

Martha’s favorite part of gardening was harvesting and
preserving the vegetables she grew. She hadn’t planted many peas, but they
produced early and well. The shiny green pods were so plump and full that they
threatened to pop open in her hands when she pulled them from the vines.

Gathering the peas took longer than expected. By the time
her pail was two-thirds full, the sun had become warm and she stood up to take
off her hat. Stretching her cramped legs and back, she listened as two blue
jays argued in the curved limb of a nearby sycamore. Finally, one of them
swooped away toward a young pine in the back yard.

Martha followed the flight of the bird with her eyes, but
only as far as the back porch. The barrel of the 30.06 was aimed directly at
her head. The little black hole looked like a cannon, even from here. Her first
impression was that Bill was still cleaning the gun, but seeing it pointed in
her direction brought on an uneasy prickling sensation on the back of her neck.

Then she saw the grim look on his face. He was peering at
her through the scope of the rifle as though she were one of the rabbits or
groundhogs robbing his garden. The prickling sensation swept down her spine,
leaving her cold and shaking. Her heart thudded loudly in her ears, blocking
out any other sounds. Her mouth went sticky dry. Instinctively, she dropped to
the ground, wishing it would just swallow her. Now she knew how the animals
felt when Bill spotted them.

Bill followed her movement easily with the gun. There was no
doubt about what he intended to do. "Drop the peas!" he ordered in a
sharp, clipped voice.

She got the feeling that she was trapped in an old western
by mistake, and her hysterical giggle came out as a strangled whimper. Should
she ‘reach for the sky’?

"I said – drop those peas!"

She dropped the pail and her beautiful green peas scattered
across the dark earth at her feet.

"Now," Bill said, motioning with the gun, "get
up here."

She swallowed hard and stood up slowly. Her legs were
quivering jelly, and she was afraid they wouldn’t hold her weight.

The boom of the rifle was deafening as a shell dug into the
ground close behind Martha, throwing dirt and small rocks in all directions.
Pieces of soil flew up and struck her skin painfully.

Again, instinct brought her to the ground. Too afraid to
move, too afraid to cry, she lay motionless in the dirt, her eyes locked on
Bill and the gun. After several painful seconds she felt a fiery burning in her
thigh. She thought she’d been stung by a bee, and absently reached to rub at
the spot. Her hand met with something warm, wet and sticky. Tearing her eyes
away from Bill, she looked at her hand. Blood.

Then she saw the scorched hole in her dress. Blood ran
freely past her knee and soaked into the dirt. The bullet, she thought, had
only grazed her thigh but the raw burning pain that grew more intense every
moment was nothing like she’d ever experienced. She crouched motionless,
speechless, staring at her ruined dress and the stain that was spreading on her
sock.

He was an expert marksman. If he had intended to kill her,
he would have. The bullet that grazed her leg was no accident.

Bill’s thick, bitter voice reached her and sounded far away.
"You’re just like them. They took away my legs, and now you’re trying to
destroy the only pleasure I have left."

Martha glanced again at the overturned pail, the smashed
peas, and her bloody, burning leg. Fear and anger fought within her. Hot tears
sprang to her eyes. Yes, she was just like them. Trapped by a killer.

The pain spread through her leg, drowning out all other
emotions. She wiped off as much blood as possible with her apron. Gathering her
courage, she slowly stood on shaky legs. Then, fighting dizziness and nausea,
she limped slowly back to the house, leaving her hat, pail and bright green
peas in the garden.

"You should have seen your face!" Bill hooted with
wild, slightly hysterical laughter when she finally reached the porch. "You
looked just like a little rabbit, scared out of your wits."

Her first impulse was to slap the triumphant grin off his
face and tell him exactly what she thought of his ‘joke’. Fighting desperately
against the dizziness and pain, she kept silent and moving. She limped across
the porch and headed for the back door. With her hand on the door knob, she
risked turning to look at him.

He was caressing his gun lovingly. His smile was gone, and
with a faraway look in his eyes he said quietly, as if to himself, "It
would have been so easy. So easy."

If she’d suspected it before, she knew it now. She was in
serious danger. Bill was just playing with her, having his fun. When he got
ready to kill her, he would. She was going to have to do something – fast.

All of these thoughts crowded into her brain as she cleaned
her injured leg carefully in the bathroom. At last, the bleeding had stopped
and she discovered that the wound was not as large or as deep as she’d
expected. Stifling her whimpers, she applied antiseptic and then a bandage.

After taking care of her leg, she decided to call William.
Scolding herself for not being able to remember his number, she went to her
room and looked it up in her address book. When she returned to the living
room, Bill was sitting beside the phone. "You’d better make a pot of
coffee," he said briskly, looking up from his magazine.

While making the coffee, Martha tried to decide what to do
next. It was obvious that Bill was deliberately blocking the phone. She checked
the clock. It was still early. Her next available avenue of help would be Milly
and the mail.

Turning on the coffeepot, she walked as nonchalantly back to
her room as possible and scribbled a note on a piece of paper. She placed it in
an envelope and on the envelope wrote, "Please call Dr. Paul Newsome in
Roanoke and read this message to him at once. Urgent!" Just in case she
couldn't get to the truck. Just in case. Tucking the note in her apron pocket,
she left the room.

Bill was still sitting near the phone, reading.

With her leg throbbing painfully, Martha walked quietly
through the kitchen and out the back door. When she stepped off the porch, a
wave of dizziness hit her and she had to sit down for a few minutes. Then she
hobbled around the side of the house, across the sloping green front lawn and
out into the gravel road. Limping, it seemed to take forever. Was Bill
watching? What if he shot her again? Pain snaked up her leg, making it
difficult to even breathe, but she reached the mailbox without incident.
Pretending to pick wildflowers, she prayed that Milly would come soon.

The front door slammed, sounding like the crack of the .22,
and Martha jumped.

Bill wheeled to the top of the front porch steps. "What
are you doing out there?"

"Picking flowers," she said, willing her voice to
remain steady.

"Are you coming in soon? I want to talk to you about
that operation." His voice sounded almost plaintive, and that frightened
Martha even more.

Reluctantly, she left the mailbox and her plea for help
behind, and began limping slowly toward the house. Would he shoot her now? She
strained her eyes, trying to detect a gun. If he had one with him, it was
well-hidden.

"You’re not afraid of me, are you?" he asked, when
she had worked her way up the front steps and reached his chair.

She shook her head. Afraid wasn’t the word for it. She was
so terrified she could barely breathe.

"There’s no need to be afraid of me. I was just kidding
around a while ago." With tentative, gentle fingers, he touched her
bandaged leg. "I didn’t mean to hurt you."

Either he was lying or he’d finally flipped and Martha knew
only one thing – she had to save herself, somehow. She nodded again, dumbly.

"Good."

"I’m going to sit on the back porch for a while now,"
she managed to croak and slid away from him as quickly as she could. The
discussion of his operation was forgotten. Where her rose garden had
flourished, Martha had a clear view of the mailbox and a good chance of escape
when Milly arrived. For what seemed like hours, she sat on the steps, waiting
and resting her leg.

The ringing of the telephone brought her to her feet. It
rang only once, and by the time she struggled inside, Bill was cradling the
receiver.

"Who was that?" she almost shrieked.

"Wrong number," he answered with an innocent
smile.

Martha returned to the back porch on shaking legs and leaned
wearily on the railing. Was Bill lying? Had Milly called to say that there was
no mail today and that she wouldn’t be out? If so, Martha knew she was in trouble.
There was nothing she could do now but wait and pray that she wouldn’t have to
spend another night in this house with Bill.

The sound of Milly’s truck traveling their road was
something that she’d never paid much attention to, but today it was the most
important sound in her life. When she finally heard the ancient vehicle
chugging up the road toward their house, she almost fainted with relief.

The truck stopped at the mailbox, engine running. She heard
the door of the mailbox squeak as it was opened. "Please let me get to
Milly in time," Martha prayed softly as she hurried blindly in the
direction of the truck.

"Hey, Katie," Paul said into the receiver. He was
standing in the busy hospital corridor eating a sandwich.