Malena woke up
from a dream she couldn’t quite remember, except for a blurry sense that she
had been falling. The red numbers on the alarm clock read 5:58. It wouldn’t begin
its shrill call until 6:00. She reached across her husband Henry’s chest to
turn it off. Still asleep Henry’s arms slipped around her waist and pulled her
down to his side. Malena buried her face in his neck and smiled. This was nice.
They barely exchanged a quick kiss before bed anymore.
Henry groaned and
pulled her on top of him. She let him hold her a moment longer, then sat up to
take her nightgown off. Henry opened his eyes and stared at her as though sleep
had stolen his memory of her. She smiled at him and leaned forward to kiss
him. He grabbed her hips and slid her
back to her side of the bed.
“I can’t this morning,
Malena. I have to go for a run. By the way, how much weight have you gained?” Henry
swung his feet onto the wooden floor and stretched his arms over his head. Slipping
off his boxers, he strode naked to the bathroom. The slight pooch of his belly
had grown smaller since he’d taken up running again.
Malena lay still, feeling
her face flush with heat and shame. She felt her own belly, full and round. Her
hips, supported by her prominent backside, stretched wide across the sheets. She
sat up and pulled her nightgown back on before Henry could come out of the
bathroom. She picked up the clothes he had worn the night before, and placed
the pants and socks in the hamper. She started to hang up his jacket, then
stopped and held it close to her face. It smelled like him, like his soap, his
musky cologne. But there was something else; something sour, something familiar.
Her stomach knotted, but she shook her head and hung the coat over the back of
the chair at her desk.
Henry walked back into
the room, drying his face with a towel.
“Are you going into the
bathroom?”
Without waiting for a
reply he threw the towel at her. “Here.”
Treading heavily toward
the stairs, Malena started turning on lights. The light in the hallway was
first, then Sophie’s light in the bedroom across the hall from theirs. When she
turned it on, she called to her daughter, “Sophie, wake up, kiddo. You’ve got
to get up now.”
Sophie
rolled from her side to her back mumbling something about clothes.
“Sophie,
if you want pancakes, you have to move.” Another mumbled response.
As
Malena continued toward the stairs, she turned the light on in the boys’ room.
Gus rolled away from the electric glare with a groan, but Finn sat up and
smiled as he did every morning. At six he was still little enough to be
undaunted by mornings and school days.
“Morning,
mommy!”
“Morning,
sweetie. I guess you get the first hug
of the morning.”
“Yes!
I win again.” Finn stretched out his arms to Malena; unlike his older siblings,
he wasn’t embarrassed by affection from his mother.
“Get
up and get dressed, Finn. I promised Sophie I’d make pancakes this morning, but
we’ve got to be ready fast. You can help me.”
“Is
it a long pants day or a short pants day, Mommy?”
Malena
felt the window pane. It was cold. Looking out the pockmarked glass, she saw
that the grass was frosted in a shade of delicate white.
“It’s
definitely a long pants day, Finn. I don’t think we’re going to have any more
short pants days till next spring.” Finn stood up on the bed and bounced a few
times, then jumped off, landing on the floor with a thud.
“Spiderman
is going to the bathroom!” he shouted, then ran down the hall.
Malena
laughed, and walked over to the other bed. Gus had burrowed his head underneath
his pillow, but she could still see the curve of his chin and the pink of his
lower lip. He was fourteen, but Malena thought
she saw a trace of the little boy he’d once been. She stroked her hand across
his back.
“Gus?
Gus. It’s time to get up.”
“I
know.” The pillow made his voice sound far away.
“Are
you getting up?”
“Yes.”
“Are
you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes, mom, I’m getting up,” Gus said, annoyed.
He pushed the covers off, sat up and stretched his arms.
“I’m
getting up, Mom. You can leave now.”
Some
mornings Malena would have called him on his snotty tone, but she knew he was
feeling awkward about his body around her, around anybody, so she decided to
let it go. Finn came back in the room, completely naked with his pajama shirt
tied like a cape around his neck.
“I’m
naked Spiderman,” he proclaimed!
“Oh
God, Finn! Stop walking around naked! Mom, please leave, so I can get up.”
“Fine,
I’m going. Don’t say ‘Oh God.’ Finn, once you’re dressed, go jump on your
sister and wake her up.”
“I
heard that!” Sophie called from her room.
Malena
went down the back stairs into the kitchen. The stained linoleum was freezing
under her feet. She thought about running back upstairs and digging out her
grungy slippers from the closet. But it was getting late. She would try to
remember them tomorrow. She started the coffee and pulled the box of Bisquick
out of the pantry.
It was all normal,
ordinary. Henry came downstairs in running tights and a jacket. Malena bit her tongue to keep her comment
about his tights to herself. She had laughed when he bought them, teasing him
about being desperate to look younger. Henry hadn’t spoken to her for a
week.
“There’ll be pancakes
when you get back.” She spoke in a light voice, addressing his hamstrings as he
stretched in the middle of the kitchen.
“I won’t have time to eat
anything. I have a nursing home service this morning, so I’ll shower at the
church. Did you iron my dog collar? You know the old people like it when I look
like a minister.”
“There are some collars
on the ironing board in the dining room.”
Henry looked at her. “Are
you sure pancakes are a good idea? It looks like you’re already wearing some on
your hips.” Malena’s eyes filled with tears; she tried to hide them by turning
back to the griddle.
But Henry noticed. “I’m
just trying to offer some constructive criticism, Malena. You’re too sensitive.”
He ran out the backdoor. Malena heard Finn hopping down the stairs.
“I’m ready to make
pancakes, Mommy.” He pulled the black stool up to the counter, and climbed on
it, spatula in hand.
It was so normal, so
ordinary. Finn turned the pancakes, accidentally giving one to Maggie, their
border collie, when he tried to flip it into the air. Sophie sat at the table and finished the last
of her math homework in a panic. Gus was sullen and sleepy when he first came
downstairs, complaining that all the guys in his class were taking a weight
training class at the community college. Flexing his biceps, he asked if he
could take the class too.
There was nothing
different about this morning. The chatter, the commotion were the stuff of
every breakfast, every day. But Malena didn’t go into the basement every
morning. This morning she did. This morning, she ran to the basement to get the
old birdcage that Finn wanted to bring to school for show and tell. This
morning she saw the bottle of amber liquid, with measuring lines drawn across
its circumference from the bottom to the top. She picked it up and saw that the
whiskey was down to the one quarter line. She unscrewed the cap and inhaled its
sharp aroma. Her stomach twisted just as it did when she’d smelled Henry’s
jacket. Malena felt dizzy and sick. Bile rose to the back of her throat, and she
leaned over thinking she would throw up. Nothing happened, but sweat beaded on
her forehead and upper lip.
“Mom! We have to go!” Sophie
yelled to her from the top of the basement stairs.
“I’m coming.” Turning,
she wiped her face with her hand. This morning she knew what Henry was doing.
Malena
tried to clean, but her thoughts whirled frenetically. She couldn’t concentrate
on any one task, so she haphazardly abandoned one chore for another. She would
start to wash a dish, put it down and move to the ironing board. Leaning over
to plug in the iron, she saw dust along the baseboards, so she pulled out the
vacuum. Finally, she gave up and waited for Henry to come home for lunch. Malena
waited, sitting on the torn plaid couch that the church council insisted stay
in the parsonage because a member, long dead, had donated it to the parsonage
rather than the landfill. She waited with the bottle on her knees, spinning it
like a top, wondering in which direction the sloshing fluid inside would point.
Henry came in through the back door. Malena heard his briefcase land on the
floor and his keys slap against the kitchen counter. He called her name. She
didn’t answer. He walked into the living room, whistling. Malena knew this
meant he was in a good mood. Maybe he’d run faster today. Maybe the nursing
home service had gone well or someone had complimented him on Sunday’s sermon. Maybe someone had died and left the church
money. Whatever the reason, when he whistled, she knew he’d won somehow. Usually
he wanted to celebrate by having sex instead of lunch. He wouldn’t want that
today. When Henry turned the corner from the dining room to the living room and
saw her holding the bottle, the off-key tune died on his lips.
His face flushed, and
his gray eyes looked defiant and hard, like stones. Malena and Henry stared at
each other. Neither spoke nor moved.
Malena only knew she was breathing by the rise and fall of her chest.
Henry
turned away first, picking up the mail from the table next to the front
door.
“There’s
nothing wrong with me having a drink or two, Malena. I wouldn’t hide it if you
weren’t so uptight about it. I wouldn’t do a lot of things if you weren’t so
uptight.”
Malena
cut off further explanation. “Who is she, Henry?”
“Who
is who?” He asked, sounding innocent.
“Who
is she, Henry?” Malena asked again, her voice rising with each word.
“I
don’t know what you’re talking about Malena. I just drink to relax.” He smiled
at his wife, his tone calm and appeasing.
“Bullshit!
You drink to cover your guilt. Who is she, Henry? Who is she? Is she a
parishioner? Is it Nola Dobbs? Carmen Sweeny? Is it someone in the choir, the
council, the women’s Bible study? Who is she?” Malena stood up and walked
around the coffee table to face him. He backed a step away.
“You’re
imagining things. Again.” But Henry couldn’t look at her. He stared down at the
mail in his hands.
“Who
is she? When will I start getting phone calls that mysteriously hang up at the
sound of my voice? When will people stop talking the minute I walk into a room?
When will the synod start getting complaints about you? When will the rumors
and the innuendos and the damn whispering start, Henry? When will we have to
move again, Henry? When? WHO IS SHE?” Malena
screamed, and then she slapped him across the cheek. Her palm and fingers
stung. The left side of his face bore the imprint of her hand.
Henry
touched his cheek. He raised his fist. Malena put her hands up, protectively,
covering her face. But Henry dropped his hand. He looked at her calmly. He
smiled at her. He laughed.
“It’s Diana.”
“Diana?” Malena stared
at him. Her mouth was dry. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. He didn’t
need to punch her with his fists. He had just knocked her windless with two
words.
“Diana.” He walked
around the table, picked up the bottle and opened it. He lifted it to her in a
mocking toast, and then drank, almost emptying it in one swallow.
“She likes it when I
drink. She likes a lot of things.” He turned and left the room. Malena heard
the tinny jingle of his keys, then the slam of the door. She looked at her
hands. She stared at the room around her. Nothing looked familiar. Her hands,
her home, her life was foreign and strange. Looking down at the coffee table,
she saw the old black covered Bible that belonged to Henry’s great-grandfather.
Henry displayed it prominently; a showpiece of the generations of
self-righteousness that grew abundantly on his family tree. Its binding was
torn in places and the pages were grubby from years of turning. She picked it
up and felt its weight press against her palms. With both hands she threw it
through the glass top of the coffee table. The sound of the glass shattering gave
her no comfort.
Malena
washed the hand that had hit his cheek over and over again. It didn’t stop the
stinging. She paced back and forth, her hands fluttering in front of her. She
couldn’t stop moving. She couldn’t deflect the bombardment of memories. On their
first anniversary, she’d walked into the church office to surprise him with a
picnic lunch and found him standing at the copier with his secretary. He was
behind her, close behind her, stroking her bare arms. The secretary quit soon
after. Right after Gus was born she’d seen him slide his hand along the thigh
of a college student at the college ministry picnic. The student had blonde
hair that fell below her waist. Henry had tangled his fingers in it and they
had smiled at each other. In Henry’s last church, two choir members had walked
in on him and the choir director kissing by the wooden rack that held sheet music.
In less than a month, Henry was moved to a new church.
Each
time Malena had threatened to leave, to walk out. She would go back to teaching.
She would find a job. She and the kids didn’t need Henry to take care of them. She
didn’t need Henry. But he’d always begged her to stay. He’d always promised to
stop, to change. They had gone for counseling. He sought out a spiritual
director. He had been reprimanded by the synod. Henry told Malena he couldn’t
live without her. He couldn’t live without the kids. Henry swore he loved only
her, and he pleaded with Malena to keep loving him in return. She did.
But
Diana? Diana was her friend. Diana made her laugh. Diana was the only person in
this stuffy, self-righteous church that didn’t make her feel inadequate and ill-equipped to be a minister’s wife. Diana seemed to know when Malena was
discouraged or feeling hemmed in by the house, the church and her life. She took
Malena shopping and to the movies. They went to lunch and talked and laughed.
Henry was screwing Diana.
She could not comprehend it. She could not bear it. Malena’s stinging hands
fluttered. She paced. She couldn’t cry.
She couldn’t speak. Henry was screwing Diana? Henry was screwing Diana! She wanted to pray;
she wanted, she needed God to help her. Help. Her. She tried to pray, but God was
gone.
Malena had never been a convincing liar, so she was amazed at how easily she could explain
away chaos to the children. The broken coffee table was due to her clumsy
vacuuming. Daddy had been called away to visit a family in crisis. It was all
right that they were eating without him. He would be home late. The evening
looked as normal as the morning. But Malena felt far away, as though she were out-of-step
with time. She stood at a distance and watched ordinary Malena do the ordinary
things. Ordinary Malena washed dishes, helped with homework, directed showers
and read bedtime stories. Ordinary Malena gave kisses and hugs, helped lay out
clothes for the next day; picked up toys and checked through backpacks.
When
her children were asleep, Malena went back down to the basement. She didn’t
find any more bottles, but lined up against the wall were old cans of paint
displaying their colors in drips of hue frozen on the sides of the cans. Malena
found a can of red, chosen once to renovate some old chairs her grandmother had
given her. But the only brush she could find was stiff from too much use and
too little cleaning. It would have to do.
She
took the paint, the brush and a screwdriver, and went upstairs to her bedroom. The
bed was still unmade. Her desk was covered with a swirl of papers, bills,
unread magazines. She pulled out a drawer, and reached in with her hand. She
felt the cigarette pack taped at the back. Henry wasn’t the only one with
secrets. She pulled off her jeans and t-shirt and put on the bathrobe that he
had given her last Christmas. Sitting on the bed, she opened the paint can with
the screwdriver. She threw the tool onto the wooden floor. It landed hard,
gouging a mark in the already scratched wood. Malena didn’t care. She opened
the window of their room, the one that faced the church. She climbed out onto
the narrow pitch of roof, paint can in her hand, brush in one pocket of her
robe, cigarettes and lighter in the other.
It
was cold, but Malena didn’t feel it. Instead she felt feverish and the bitter
air was like a cool cloth on her skin. She dipped the brush into the paint and
tried to form the first letter. The bristles were too old and stiff to
cooperate. She hurled the brush to the ground. Dipping her hand into the can,
she cupped the paint like Henry cupped water when he baptized a baby. Putting her hand to the shingle, she shaped
an S.
Sweat
started at the peak of her hairline and slipped down her forehead into her
eyes. She swiped at it with her arm and the
paint spackled her hair in red. Malena felt the perspiration gather under her
breasts and behind her knees. She took the cigarettes and lighter out of the
pocket, laying them precariously on the shingles next to her. She pulled off
her robe and threw it to the ground to join the brush. Before it could land, it caught on a low branch
of the oak tree in the side yard and hung there like a ghost. Malena didn’t
notice. A sudden gust of wind chilled her feverish skin, and dried her sweat.
Turning back to the
paint, she started the next letter; O.
Malena splashed her hand into the paint a final time, kneeling on all
fours, intent on her message. The last letter; another S.
Sitting
back, Malena lit a cigarette. She sat perched on the roof holding it in her red
stained hands like some sort of smoking bird. Blood colored paint covered her.
It was smeared across her breasts where they had sagged against the roof as she
wrote. She looked down at herself and saw that the paint had tinged her belly,
her knees, and the tops of her thighs. She was covered in blood. She was a
sacrificial lamb. She exhaled a ring of smoke and watched it climb the air. Maybe
its perfume would be pleasing to the God who was supposedly up there somewhere.
She looked at the letters again. Here was her prayer. Here was her plea. S.O.S. Save our souls.
This story was written as an assignment for a creative writing class I took with Professor Amy Weldon.
