By Keylor Hale

Tw: Domestic violence

“You know, Margret, I haven’t seen your husband at the store in a while.”  

Charlie was the nosiest one at the senior embroidery club. She worked at the local diner  just to hear who died, who left who, which chicken farm got shut down because of code  violations, and so on. If there was nothing new in Dutch Creek, as there often was in a town of  about two thousand people, she created something to talk about. But not of my life. No ma’am.  She will know only what I choose to tell her.  

“You know how Herald is.” I shoot a glare across the table at Charlie, pushing my needle  through the last stitch of a hornet’s nest on my dish towel embroidered with pollinators. “One  day he wants to build a deck out back, the next he fishes til sundown.”  

Charlie narrows her eyes at me, as if trying to judge if I actually knew my husband.  “Now you know,” Charlie begins to argue, “Herald isn’t-”  

“He might not be the kindest man in town but at least he’s not a perv like your creepy old  man,” Ellen winks at me as Charlie’s face becomes a tomato. Ellen is the only one in the club  willing to stand up to the town star and bully and often comes to my rescue.  

What does Charlie even know about husbands? When she can’t even keep one for more  than four years! So what if Herald doesn’t keep his word and disappears for days at a time? He  still loves me. He’s just self-centered. Charlie should know everyone sucks. Especially when she  looks in the mirror and sees that horrible little-  

“Don’t let her get to your head.” Ellen’s gentle voice brings me back to reality. Our  embroidery club had ended a half-hour ago, and I’ve been sitting on the bench outside watching a black and yellow wasp hop from flower to flower looking for food. “But it doesn’t help that  Herald hasn’t been back to town in a few days. I know you can’t make it to town all the time,  living out in the country, but are y’all doing okay? Is there any chance he is actually doing  something besides fishing, like maybe-”  

“We’re fine,” I snap at her before she could finish. “And I don’t appreciate everyone  assuming there’s something wrong. Herald’s being Herald and I definitely haven’t done anything  to deserve your criticism.”  

I grab my cane and hobble over to my tiny red car before Ellen can argue and tell me how  I’m not being fair because she’s ‘trying to help.’ Well unless you can help my husband’s fishing  habits, then you don’t have any help for me. I almost reach my car when I hear Ellen call after  me, “At least come eat supper with me and Earl so you have some company!”  

“No thanks!” I yell back as I unlock the car door. I could tell her that I was expecting  Herald back today. I could tell her that I was making his favorite meal – chicken fried steak,  mashed potatoes, and gravy – and that he was bound to show up. I could also tell her that I  secretly enjoy it when he’s gone. I could tell her that I don’t fall as much when I’m home alone.  That a house occupied with only one person doesn’t end up with the same bruises as a house  occupied by two. But I won’t. She doesn’t deserve to know that. Friends don’t speak badly about  each other’s husbands.  

As I turn on the highway, I see Ellen’s dejected face get into her car. Good. That’ll teach  her. Maybe she’ll be kind to me next Tuesday when we play cribbage together.  

“Bridge one,” I mutter to myself. There are three bridges on the road between Dutch  Creek and home. I count each one to make sure I stay alert. Maybe Herald is back from fishing by now. Ever since we saved up enough money to buy a boat, he stays out on the lake for days at  a time. Nothing unusual. I leave the fridge stocked up with ready-made sandwiches in case he  leaves during the night.  

“Bridge two.” Even if he’s not home yet, he will be. He swore that he could feel it in his  gut when I was making chicken fried steak.  

“Bridge three.” I look down at my arms, one full of yellow spots from falling last week,  the other one with blue. Falling is the one thing I don’t enjoy about Herald coming home. Oh  well. Our house hasn’t killed me yet, and I doubt it will now.  

I turn into our driveway only to see that Herald’s truck is still gone. Surely he’ll make it  home by supper.  

“Shoot.” I wince from the bruise on my side as I climb out of the car. It might be good if  he doesn’t come home tonight. Give me some extra time to heal.  

 My knees nearly give out as I clamber up the stairs leading to our front door. Why did I  let Herald convince me to build a house with a crawl space underneath? Sure, it keeps the house  cooler in the summer, but is it really worth it when I’m always in pain?  

 The smell of rot nearly knocks me off my feet as the door swings open. “Dang animal,” I  mumble to no one. A countless number of dogs have picked our crawl space as a good place to  die over the years. I’ve been waiting for Herald to come back to help me dispose of this one, but  at this rate I might have to fish it out on my own. 

I grab the bandana off of the coat rack we use when burning brush as I step into the  house. The smokey cloth fills my lungs with something other than death as I knot its ends  beneath my white bun.  

 “Pull the steaks out of the freezer.” I can only stay sane by talking to myself in this still  house. Plus, an old woman can forget what she’s doing from time to time. The cold air seizes my  hand as I pull out three smashed steaks. One for me, two for Herald. He eats too much if you ask  me. I’ve tried to put him on a diet, but he sneaks Oreos from the pantry when I’m busy with the  garden. That hornet nest hanging from the tree by the garden needs to be taken down. As much  as I love the bugs, they can be a nuisance. Herald claims that they have it out for him. Herald!  

 I already forgot I was making dinner. The stove clock glares 4:25. Crap. I’ve stood here  for twenty minutes thinking about nothing. At this rate Herald won’t ever come home!  

 I push in the handle of the gas stove and wait for it to click three times before I fired it up.  Two won’t give enough gas for the spark to catch, and four will cause a big enough flame to burn  the end of my tendrils when my hair is down.  

 Maybe Herald doesn’t love me after all. Maybe Ellen was right. The cast iron skillet  causes my bruises to scream as I pull it out from under the stove. Maybe that’s why he-  

 “Stop,” I hear someone hiss behind me. The skillet clatters on the stove as I whip around,  but I only find the dining room table behind me full of embroidery supplies.  

 “Who’s there?” I reach for my cane before crossing the kitchen entryway to scan the front  room that functions as both our living room and dining room. There’s nothing under the table.  Nothing behind the couch against our front window. Oh well. The cane buckles underneath me  when I hear the hiss again, “Stop lying to yourself.” 

“Show your face!” I grip my cane as if it’s my old high school softball bat. I know I can’t  win in a fight these days, but no one can break in my house without meeting the consequences.  But there’s no one to be found. Not in the living area, our bedroom, or the guest room.  

 I twist my colored, aching wrist to check the time. Why am I losing time! It’s 5:12.  Making dinner takes an hour. Tops. At this rate it’ll take me until six to be done. I rush back to  the kitchen, holding my side to help the pain.  

 “Put the steaks in the skillet.” I’ve got to remember this time. Focus. Herald will be back  any minute. These dang bruises. Herald wants me to hide the bruises. He says that they will give  him a bad reputation. I don’t know why he thinks that, it’s the house’s fault.  

 “Herald hurt you. There’s no sense in lying to yourself.”  

 “Where are you?” My voice fills the house with desperation. The voice echoed from the  one room I didn’t check. I limp to the bathroom, not caring if I fell without my cane.  

 There’s no one here except my reflection. A taller, confident Margret laughs at me from  within the mirror.  

“What do you want?” I ask. “I just want to be left alone.”  

 “Let me take over.” Mirror-Margret’s sultry voice fills my ears. “I’ll take care of you. You  know I always have.”  

 “What? When? I don’t remember this?”  

 “That’s because you don’t want to remember.” Images flash before my eyes. Beer cans.  Herald angry. A bat raised. Whelps covering my body. Blood pooling from my face. Over and  over and over. 

 “Stop! Stop! You win!”  

 The room spins as if I’m waking up from a daze. “We’re back,” I whisper. “Time to take  care of business.”  

 I waltz down the stairs and squeeze my old body under the house. I need to grab the body  while I’m in control. My hand finds the animal’s back foot first. Grab. Pull. The body moves an  inch. I grab the second foot, which gives me enough leverage to drag the body out of the crawl  space.  

 Wasps hum around the animal’s head. No doubt building a nest in the ears of the newly  vacant host. But I can handle a few stings. Its body crushes the freshly planted onions and  potatoes in its wake as I take it to the trunk of my car. It’s too heavy to hoist on my shoulders, but  it drags easy.  

 “Ellen wasn’t very kind to us was she.” Only the waking crickets and the gravel under the  body answer. “We can take care of her tomorrow though.”  

 I scoop the body into the trunk of the car right as the sun sets. “For now, we need to get  rid of the body.” I turn the key in the ignition, and the engine starts to rumble. “What is it we  always count?” I drive and drive and drive until a bridge is revealed by the headlights.  

 “That’s it. Bridge one. The perfect place to hide Herald.” 

Keylor is an up-and-coming writer based from a small town in Arkansas. She currently attends Arkansas Tech University and studies education with a minor in creative writing. She hopes to write throughout her life, and inspire future students to do so as well.