Just a Quiet Evening at Home

“Officer, can you tell me if my husband’s been arrested?”

Yeah, sure, I could do that. And the very next question would be, “Why, should we be arresting him?”

So where was he, and was he coming home this time?

Not like I was really up to walking to the neighbor’s house. Half a mile was too far to take the baby at this hour, anyway.

I lifted my shirt a little, examined the purpling line along my abdomen with some perverse kind of pride. Not even a single moist tear, just an impact with a kitchen counter because I’d stood between him and the hot summer night.

The black pan of suds was in the sink, still needed my attention. Dish soap and burnt beans--what a delicious aroma.

What had I been supposed to do? Beans keep; not much else does. Sure he’d rather have steak. I’d rather have steak. I make a damned good steak. But not without a ride into town, not without some money.

I walked back into the living room, past the silent TV, gazed at my beloved child still sleeping peacefully, all innocence and baby-smell on the couch. I lifted him, held him, smelled his tiny perfection. This was what I’d wanted. This was life, normal life, good, socially acceptable life. No woman could give me this. No woman could be so easily accepted in close-knit, traditional, rural Calloway County as could a husband, any husband, my husband who was “from around here” and whose Mama served breakfast at Rudy’s. I was determined, eventually, to fall in love even if it killed me.

I looked at the clock again, wondering. Drunk and driving? An accident? Drugs in the car . . . arrest? Just gone?

There wasn’t energy to wonder about when and whether he’d come home. No car, no phone, no food here now that the beans had burnt--but if he came home the night would only grow longer. And if he did, which then would be worse, still angry or wanting to make up? No . . . no energy for that kind of thinking.

I moved us to the front porch swing, gazed out at the brilliantly starlit black sky, lights too far away to touch or even dream of touching. Pulling my slumbering son close to his still-unborn sibling, I tried and failed to rouse him enough to nurse. Sleep, then, maybe, for both of us . . . and I wrapped my arms more tightly around him.

I consciously determined that dreams would be a relief, tonight. It had been so long since I’d loved a woman, I wondered if I would remember how, even in that other sleeping world where I had control over anything.

written April 3, 1999
as a 15-minute exercise at Camp Sister Spirit

Return to the Library.
Return to the Front Door.
Sit down to write me a letter. (Weavre_@hotmail.com)