Sure, the sun was hot that morning, the house sweltering, but that wasn’t what was bothering me. It was the atmosphere! It was beating me down. The air was so taut you could cut it with a knife. Boy, you could slice it open, just like the belly of a fish.
Now, you don’t hear me saying I’m not somewhat to blame. I’m not saying I couldn’t have done better, but damn, can’t a fella get a break? I mean, I’m as patient as the next guy, but even I have my limits. And I told her! It’s not like I didn’t tell her. And she just kept at it, talking in circles, covering ground we’d already covered time and time again. And, after a while, there’s nothing left to say. I felt like I was dredging up other folks’ feelings, replaying scenes I’d watched in movies, peddling off some pseudo-psychological mumbo jumbo just to have something to say. She even found something to criticise in my silence. I mean, a guy’s got limits, right?
And if you’d have seen me that morning, you would’ve felt sorry for me. You think you wouldn’t have. You think, sitting there behind your polished wooden bench, all high and mighty, righteous as the new day that you wouldn’t’ve, but you would’ve. Even you would have, Your Honour, I guarantee you.
But no, you’re up there, and I’m down here. A salt of the earth kinda fella like me, honest as the day is long, and here I am. And I don’t mean no offence, I really don’t—but y'all ain’t my peers? Look at that wristwatch, Mister. I bet that there cost more than I make in a month. Nonetheless, here I am defending myself to the likes of you. Well, OK, here goes.
You think she was some perfect little doll? A happy homemaker? A loving wife and mother? You don’t know the half of it. If you’d seen me that morning, all defeated, my face set like stone so as not to give away any emotion for fear it might be the wrong one. Like showing contrition when I should’ve been relieved, hopeful when I should have been crushed, or patient when I should’ve been all feisty-like. What do I know about this stuff? I couldn’t read her mind, and she had the script already, like she’d written it down and memorised it. What I should’ve done. What I should’ve said. Word for word, like this.
When she said, I need space
I should’ve said, I think we need to go away together. Drop the kids with your folks and head out to the lake.
When she said, This isn’t working anymore
I should’ve said, I know it’s been tough lately, baby, but every relationship goes through rough patches.
When she said, Stop pushing me
Well, I guess that’s different … but that’s all water under the bridge now.
Yeah, yeah, I could’ve handled it better. And sure, she’s petite. Believe me, I know. Do you know how many times I’ve protected her from creeps in parking lots? How many times I’ve dragged the kids out of the car when they were sleeping cause they were ‘just too heavy’ for her to carry anymore. Do you think she ever took the trash out? Hell no! That was me every time. Bring the groceries in from the car? Yep, that was me, too. So yeah, I know better than y’all how petite she was, and I guess I could’ve been gentler. I was just so mad, you know?
You probably think because she was small, she couldn’t beat down on me; well, let me tell ya, Mister, she could. Oh boy, could she. I mean not physically, but the other way, you know, like with her words. Oh man, would she beat on me with her words! Day in, day out. Time and time again. Until I didn’t know which way was up. Until I couldn’t tell the truth from her version of it. How do you think that makes a man feel? If he can’t even trust himself no more? Well, I’ll tell ya. It makes him feel like a weed. Like a piece of trash that you kick to the gutter. That was me. Trash. Trash all over. Nothing but a shell that’d been hollowed out so she could fill me up with everything I didn’t do right, every way I didn’t measure up. I mean, she knew I wasn’t no religious man when she married me. I never led her on. And a man can only handle so much. Yessir, that he can.
And well, it’s not like I did it on purpose or anything. And when I saw her there on the floor, all that blood soaking into the shoulder pads of her good dress. Well, I felt mighty bad. I did! I was glad the kids had walked to Sunday School already, so they didn’t have to see that. But I’d told her a million times, I ain’t one to go to church, but I fear the good Lord well enough, and I give him his due on Christmas and Easter, but that’s it for me. I ain’t needing to go more than that. But she had to go pressuring me. Every week, the same story. You needa show your face in church, Ron. The Good Book says a woman can’t be yoked to no unbeliever, so you better get your behind in church or get outta this marriage. And what about our boy, Ron? You want him growing up to be a godless bum like his Papa?
Goddamn it, I couldn’t handle another second of that, so I gave her a little nudge. How was I to know she wasn’t holding on to the railing? And I’d told her a hundred times if I told her once, that ain’t a good place for the coat rack, Gina. Someone’s gonna get hurt. Well, I was right.