It's just ahead. A beacon of light in the darkness. Surrounded by the crumbling structures of lives surrendered to the desolation of this "neighborhood," our home gleams like a gemstone in a quarry of clay.
She had made it so. Refused to be defeated by the decay around her. Refused to succumb to the absolute dejection on all sides. Roses climb trellises she had sunk herself along the small, neat porch. A swing hung where she might sit of an evening, as though there was anything worth seeing out here.
I'd scoffed at her efforts. Called them 'pretense.' Bristled at her insistence that we stand out as some example of how much could be done with so little. In my heart and with my words I accused her of thinking herself too good for this place. Too good for me. But it was a lie I told myself. The truth is, she was too good for me, but she was the one person who couldn’t see it.
I mount the steps. They are noiseless and solid thanks to the shims she put in last spring. And I’d hated her for it.
I don’t understand what the big deal is, I’ve used a hammer before you know
The big deal is you fucking humiliate me in front of the whole neighborhood. What do you think it looks like? My wife out there with a tool bag and lumber, like there’s no man in this house?
Of course, the “man” in this house never would have done what she did and she knew it. But she never said so. She never would.
I’m still mystified as I enter the neatly arranged space of the living room. Lace curtains, fluffy pillows, floral prints assail me. Knives to my heart. How many hours of the little time she had on this earth had been spent in the creation of this welcoming, warm place? And why? Who ever saw this oasis but the two of us?
Her parents stopped coming long ago. The frost of my demeanor overwhelming any warmth they might have found in the home of their only child. She never complained. She just went to see them on her own, in their world. I declined every invitation, telling myself it was because they hated me. Because I couldn't give her the life they had with its cobbled pathways across manicured acres.
And its safety.
I sink into the embrace of the recliner she picked out for me. Bought with her money, of course. I could refuse to move to a better, wealthier place on her dime, but I couldn’t stop her from bringing better here.
My cell phone is on the side table, voicemail alert displayed. I know it’ll be the vet. Again. They wanted me to go pick it up yesterday but I didn’t bother. Not going to bother today either. Or ever. I wonder what happens when an animal is abandoned like that. Is it like leaving your car impounded? Will bills for storage just pile up? Will they eventually auction it off?
Of course not. Unwanted cars have value. Unwanted animals… not so much.
I shake off the image of a miniature gas chamber and grab my wallet from the table, extracting my bank card. I haven’t earned an income in a month and all I’m using to kill myself is hers, but I comfort myself that it’s the best money she ever spent on my sorry ass. Slipping the card into my back pocket I head for the door, but pull up short when I spy the sleek, black silhouette of what can only be my in-laws' Jaguar pulling up to the curb.
When the driver’s door opens, I see it is her mother. And that she is alone. She straightens to her full height, spine rigid. The cream pantsuit she wears practically glows against the flawless ebony skin her daughter also boasted. I expect her to come straight to the door, and I’m contemplating hiding, calculating the odds she has a key of her own, and guesstimating the likelihood she’d use it if so, when she turns instead to the rear driver’s side door. Opening it, she leans in.
Fear fills me. I am suddenly certain she has brought either a weapon, or some tragic box of memories of my dead wife. Her dead child.
As I grip the door knob and prepare to face the woman whose daughter I took from her, I hope to god she has a gun.
To be continued...
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