The Promise

He leaves the bedroom, closing the door, to go to work. He leaves me in our soiled bed, my sore asshole still weeping his seed, my muscles slack and my thoughts racing in circles. The soft rays of the early morning sun peek through the curtains, and the shriek of the gulls, scavenging for scraps on the nearby wharves, pierce the air. Familiar, they do nothing to calm me.

Racing, my mind flits from one thought to another, far too agitated to dwell on any single issue for more than a few seconds. Questions followed by more questions and still more and no answers. Random thoughts tumble over one another pell-mell.

Few, a desperate few, things are clear.

John planned this morning. It was not an accident; it was planned. John knew he was going to take charge sometime. In spite of my repeated refusals over the years, he planned to take me in the ass regardless of what I said. The impact of this realization is nothing compared to the fact that he knows, in spite of my crying, whining and protestations to the contrary, that I enjoyed it, really enjoyed it. The very thought of how much I enjoyed it sends waves of guilt and anguish through my body. How could I enjoy it? What kind of pervert am I?

I am a respected member of our little community, active in our church, a supporter of the local P.T.A. I am the mother of four grown children and now, a woman who enjoys being dominated, humiliated and sodomized by her husband. What if someone finds out? What if John brags to a few of his buddies at the Legion? What if the kids find out? What will they think?

Churning, swirling, my mind is a cauldron of conflicting thoughts, emotions and sensations all competing for my attention and all succeeding. Two things, and only two things, are clear. It was planned and I enjoyed it in spite of my apprehensions and my reluctance. I enjoyed it.

The light curtains shift in the changing breeze. The rising sun changes the air currents over the water and the cool flow sweeps into the room, playing over my exposed body, caressing and soothing the inflamed entrance of my anal canal. My sphincter muscle slowly regains its elasticity, closing off the once virgin hole, cutting off the cooling wisp from my inflamed bowel. The flow of our juices slows to a trickle and it starts to cake on my skin, cracking and flaking off at the least movement on my part. In spite of all else, I remain practical enough to wonder if the stains will come off the Percale sheets as I slip back to sleep.

It is well into the morning before I take John his mug of black coffee. The thoughts going through my head are just as confused as they were before and I have made few concrete decisions. The only one that has to be made has been. The rest will have to wait.

"John," I call, my hesitation obvious in my voice. "John, where are you? I can’t see or hear you."

The only answer is the silence of an abandoned garage. The sunlight streams through the dirty windows as the dust hangs suspended in the air currents. A cold chill runs through me in spite of the warmth of the morning. My heart skips a beat as a sense of foreboding permeates every fiber of my being.

"John," I call one again, a sense of urgency in my voice. "John, I brought your coffee and, I brought you the other thing you wanted." I can’t bring myself to say out loud what else I have in the neatly folded blue facecloth in my left hand. As I advance into the garage my sense of foreboding increases.

I pass around the front of the tractor and I can see him for the first time, stretched out on the floor, deathly still, not working, not struggling with a frozen bolt, not cursing, just deathly still and silent.

"John, oh God John!" My scream bounces off the walls of the garage but goes unanswered. As I drop to my knees, I pick up his head. Cradling it in my lap, my brain comprehends what my heart refuses to accept. His cold, clammy skin signals that all life has left his body. I rock back and forth on my knees, cradling his head in my lap, crooning over and over, "John, John, John, how could you do this to me?" The words make no sense except to me but they go unheard except by the walls. Over and over my mind tries to comprehend, to fathom, the incomprehensible. How can one’s life change so quickly, how? My fingers slip lightly through his hair, caressing it this one last time. His greasy baseball hat lies on the concrete floor, its peak facing me emblazoned with the legend, "He who dies with the most toys, wins!"

My fingers continue to slide through my slick channel as the drug-induced dream of that fateful morning plays out in my mind yet once more. My juices flow, unabated through the juncture of my legs to pool on the sheets to be changed yet again. The muscles in my legs tighten and the skinny cheeks of my ass rise from the bed as my orgasm, induced by the vivid memories of the last time washes through my body. Gasping, I collapse on the bed, hauling great gulps of the stale bedroom air into my lungs.

"Mom…Mom… are you alright? Mom, unlock the door! Please Mom, unlock the door now." The soft, tremulous voice of my youngest daughter begins to penetrate the fog that shrouds my mind. The begging, pleading tone is obvious, although it fails to register on me.

Groggy, I open my eyes and desperately try to focus on the bedroom light fixture madly swirling on the ceiling over the bed.

"Mom!" she screams, as she bangs insistently on the locked door.

The tone of desperation finally registers on me. "Stop banging, Debbie, I hear you. Put on the kettle so we can have a cup of tea. I’ll be out in a few minutes."

"Mom, Cindy is with me, are you all right?" The tone of uncertainty is still present in spite of my reassurance that all is well.

"I’m fine, put on the kettle." The hoarse croak of my voice, while lost on me is not lost on the girls locked on the other side of the door. The worried, knowing look they exchange would send a chill down my back if I saw it or was in any shape to interpret it.

Rolling on my side, I ease my legs over the edge of the bed and slip my bare feet deep into the pile carpet, fearful that any jarring move will aggravate the thumping deep in my brain. Gingerly, I sit on the side of the bed and hold my head in the palms of my hand, my elbows resting on my knees. The big red digits of the bedside clock flash, searing their story onto my fragile brain. 6:27…but is it A.M. or P.M.? How long have I been locked away in my bedroom in my own private little hell? Is it dusk or dawn beyond the drawn drapes?

Raising my head ever so slowly I try to peak around the corner of the drapes without having to get up and push them aside. The dim light of the setting sun peeks around the corner. Braver, I hold my head and, rise, pulling the drapes aside to see the fiery ball of the sun settling into the waves of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The wind, freshening from the northeast, is churning Rustico Harbour. The building waves are slapping against the lobster boats still tied to the wharf.

As my mind clears, the fog, the self induced numbing fog rises, and I realize once again, that all is in its place, all is as it should be in my universe, except John is gone. He has left me to face this world, to cope on my own.

I just can’t do it. I’m not strong enough. Only the scotch can ease the pain, make life bearable, even tolerable. It is sitting on the kitchen counter waiting, beckoning to me and I have to get past Cindy and Debbie to get to it. Two more sentinels guardian the portals of my house, but they are living, breathing flesh and blood of my loins, and they want answers, demand answers. I have no answers, only hurt.

As my head pounds, I ease myself from the tumbled bed and start to search the room for fresh clothes to don to meet my daughters. Panties come from the laundry basket, clean but waiting to be folded. A bra is on the floor, discarded by the side of the bed. ‘A boulder holder,’ as John used to say, but he was being generous. I snap it on and slide it into place, squeezing my eyes shut to clear the red flashes in front of my eyes. ‘Pebble holder’ would be closer to the truth. My wrinkled shorts lie on the floor, discarded with the bra, in my haste to escape, once again, into my imagination.

Thank God for the little bathroom off the bedroom. It is the only luxury John and I opted to put in when we started to build this little bungalow on the western shore of the harbour when we married twenty-five years ago.

Hair combed, teeth brushed, lipstick in place and three extra strength Tylenol sitting on the remnants of the scotch in my stomach, I take one last look around the bedroom to make sure everything is in place.

The bone-white louvered doors to the double closet are still open. The white sentinel on John’s side stands alone, guarding an empty closet, the stark, bare walls marked only by the scuffmarks of his boots near the baseboard. The five-gallon drum sits in the corner abandoned. The white top is firmly in place, marred only by a slit in its top. On the front, only the fading label hints at its original contents - "MacLarens Cherry Pie Filling." Below, in slightly less noticeable letters reads, "for Wholesale use only." On my side of the closet, partially hidden, its mate peaks out from behind my suspended dresses and skirts. The label, "MacLarens Lemon Pie Filling," is only visible in its entirety when I am rummaging in the still full side of my closet.

Fearful that the girls will come in on some pretext or other and find the sentinels and their secret hoard, I close the doors to the closet tightly and sweep my eyes, one last time, around the room.

Yes, the drawer to the bedside table is closed. My marital aids are hidden from sight. Satisfied at last, I open the door and pad down the hallway to the kitchen in my bare feet to find Cindy and Debbie deep in a quiet but animated discussion at the kitchen table.

As they turn to face me as one when I enter the room, the guilty look on their faces says it all. There is no doubt that they have been talking about me. They remain, bless them, as transparent as they were as children were.

Debbie breaks the silence, but not without exchanging a quick glance at Cindy. "Mom, are you all right? You don’t look well."

"I’m fine, Debbie, you and Cindy woke me up."

The look they exchange may say many things but it certainly does not convey any regret that they have disturbed me.

Debbie continues, "Have you eaten your supper?"

The question flusters me. The scotch and the erotic dream of my last time with John have clouded my mind, slowing my thought processes. I am in a state of mental confusion. What did I do all day? Did I eat at all? The look of consternation on my face is obvious to the two girls sitting at the table.

"Mom, do you remember what you did today?" Anger and resentment flash through my mind but I bite my tongue. They mean well, they just don’t understand. They simply don’t understand what I am going through. "Of course I remember what I did today. I just laid down for a short nap. I was going to have supper when I got up.

" I wasn’t expecting the two of you tonight. Why are you here, especially together? You never come to visit together."

One again there is a silent look exchanged between them, almost as if they are saying to each other, "See, I told you so." Unbeknownst to me, the curtain has been raised and a well-rehearsed scene is about to take place in which I am a principal character. The sole reward for a good performance for the girls will be the salvation of one tormented soul. A poor performance will alienate them from their mother forever. In spite of the risks, they are compelled by their love for their mother to give the performance of their lives.

The drama opens innocuously.

"Mom, is there anything in the fridge for supper?" Cindy asks, rising from the table.

Cindy opens the fridge to find it empty of any practical ingredients to prepare a nourishing meal. Two quarts of milk, a container of margarine, a few onions and several old potatoes are the only items, which are salvageable. The rest is covered in mould, showing all signs of being there well past the normal shelf life. "Mom, when was the last time you went to the Co-op to get groceries?"

She doesn’t expect an answer, as the evidence before her is self-explanatory.

My eyes drop, unable to bear her stare.

Shrugging her shoulders in surrender, Cindy takes out the milk, onions and potatoes and, after rummaging in the cupboard for several minutes, finds two cans of Snow’s Clams. Basic ingredients in hand, she goes to work making a clam chowder.

"Mom?" Debbie whispers, reaching across the worn kitchen table to take my hand.

My attention shifts back to Debbie as Cindy goes about her task, but Cindy’s attention never leaves the conversation.

Debbie starts talking. "Mom, this isn’t a surprise visit tonight. Cindy and I are here to have a heart-to-heart talk with you. Maybe the correct phrase is mother to daughters, but somehow that doesn’t seem appropriate under the circumstances." Her eyes drop to the table, but she keeps talking in spite of her obvious desire to fall silent. "We thought it was best that Harry and Joe weren’t here, but they know what we are going to talk to you about, and they are 100 percent behind us."

The look of apprehension that crosses my face is obvious. Even Cindy, working across the kitchen, and watching me carefully out of the corner of her eye as she dices onions, can see it.

Debbie, with a quick furtive glance at her sister, continues. "Do you want to end up in the hospital? Do you want to end up in the psychiatric floor of the regional hospital? Is that what you want, you really want?"

I can only stammer a weak protest. "Really, Debbie, don’t be silly. There is absolutely nothing wrong with me. I am fine, truly I am. I feel fine. I am perfectly normal. Really, what put such a silly thought into your head?"

Debbie is unprepared to accept my denial. Ignoring my futile protests, she continues as if I had not spoken. "No, Mom, you are not fine and we cannot allow the situation to continue, or we are going to lose you, just like we lost Dad. The only difference will be that we will lose you, and your body will still be here."

Once again the salty tears start to flow down my cheeks as silently, sobs start to rack my tiny frame. Have I sunk so low that now my children have to try and rescue me, no salvage me, the only parent they have left? The reaction is not lost on either of the girls but they make no effort to comfort me.

"Mom," Debbie continues, "we all face grief in a different way. Some of us show it to others, wearing it like a badge of honor on our sleeves, vocally proclaiming our loss for all to know. Some of us keep it private as if the hurt, if nourished and cherished deep within us, will somehow keep us close to the person we have lost. In the end we all face up to it and move on with our lives. We remember the past fondly, lovingly, but we move on with the good memories safely stored in our hearts and our minds."

I say nothing as I stare into my lap. The staccato sound of the knife dicing the potatoes is the only sound in the kitchen.

"The time has come," she continues, as she reaches to take my hand in hers, "Mom, for you to move on with your life. The time for grief is past, the time to remember is forever, but you have to move on with your life. Dad is dead. He has been dead for 18 months. He died of a massive heart attack at the age of 48 in the barn trying to change the rear tire on the tractor. He should have had Coastal Tire Services come in and change it, but he wanted to save a hundred dollars. Well, he saved the money and now he is dead and gone. All you have of him is his ashes in the fancy urn on top of your dresser."

The words spark my resistance for the first time. I raise my head protesting, "Really, Debbie, that is no way for you to be talking about your father. I don’t like your tone."

I try to pull my hand away from Debbie but she will not let go. It is as if she is afraid I will use it as an excuse to slip further and further away into the private little corner of my mind that I have created with the liquor, for just John and I.

Debbie continues relentlessly. "You are living here like a pauper. There is virtually no food in the house and you rarely go out unless it is to the government liquor store. We are scared. We are scared that we are going to lose you. We have talked to your doctor and he is worried as well. He thinks you are turning into an alcoholic, if you are not already one. If we can’t help you, if we can’t reach you with words, pleas, yes even begging, this one last time, we are going to have you committed to a hospital for treatment. The doctor said he would sign the papers. Is that what you want us to do, Mom? Is that really what you want us to do? Because we will, Mom, we love you too much to lose you if there is anything we can do to prevent it."

The tears flow down her face to drip on the scarred surface of the kitchen table. For some strange reason, I look at Cindy busy at the counter, to see the tears flowing down her cheeks as well, as she dices onion. It never crosses my mind that the onion fumes induce them.

Unexpectedly Cindy enters the conversation, as if to give Debbie a brief respite to collect herself. "Mom, more and more you are withdrawing from reality. Dr. Macdonald is more concerned by that than he is about the alcohol."

The fact that they are questioning my sanity sparks an indignant response in me. "That’s silly talk! I’ve never heard such silly talk in my life. I am in perfect touch with reality. I just miss your father."

Cindy ignores my protest and she savagely chops away at the onions, the tears streaming down her cheeks. "No, Mom, it is not silly talk. You live here like a hermit on the shores of the harbour. You never go out unless it is to walk to the end of the road to the government liquor store for more scotch. You drink and lay on your bed and stare at your pussy pails and then pass out playing with the toys you and Dad used to enjoy so much."

A crimson flush spreads across my face as I try to defend John and myself. "Really, Cindy, you have no call, no right, to speak to me like that. I am your mother. Besides, where did you get those terrible ideas?" Embarrassed and mortified, I fall silent.

My embarrassment causes Cindy to stop talking. She turns beet red and drops her eyes to the counter where she assaults the potatoes and onions with the frenching knife with the vengeance of an executioner who has just discovered how a guillotine works.

The girls have obviously planned to double-team me, and Cindy passes the ball back to Debbie. "Mom, you are losing touch. You are living here like a hermit as if you were living from one social assistance check to another. There is no food in the house. Mom, you are a woman who is worth between two and three million dollars and you show no signs of realizing it, comprehending it. Can you not see why we think you are slipping away from reality?

"Dad is dead. We all loved him, we will all remember and cherish his memory, but life goes on. All of us have to look to the future. We can’t, you can’t, continue to live in the past."

For the first time I keep my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself. Deep in the recesses of my mind I know, intuitively, I know that there is a kernel of truth in what they are saying to me. Embarrassing it may be, but true it is.

Debbie clutches my hand as a drowning man would a lifeline. There is no question they are trying to save me from self-destruction. The question is, do I want to be saved?

The words start to pour out of Debbie’s mouth in a torrent. "Mom, you are a very wealthy woman. The McCains want to buy you out. They have offered $2,000 an acre for the various fields and are willing to pay extra for the equipment and barns if you will make it all one package. The lobster license and the boat and equipment are worth another $500,000. The boys are not interested in taking over. The have no desire to spend their lives working like draft animals like you and dad. Our husbands are not interested either." She falls silent, spent from her effort but she continues to clutch my hand in hers for dear life.