A Shattered Wife (13 page)

"Where have you been? I’ve been waiting…"

"Listen. I can’t talk now, but I’m not going to be able
to get out to the Landrys’ today. Something’s come up."

Katie sighed heavily. She wasn’t surprised. "Ok, when?"

"I don’t know."

"Tonight?"

"Maybe tomorrow. Listen, honey…."

"I know. You’re sorry." Katie finished his
sentence with a knowing smile.

Paul gulped down the last of his sandwich and heard himself
being paged. "I’ve got to go."

"Paul, I was worried about you."

He smiled with relief. "I love you. You know…."

"I know, I know. I suppose I’ll have to get used to
being married to a doctor."

"I’ll call you."

Katie hung up, worried. A sense of foreboding enveloped her,
but there was nothing she could do. If she knew the Landrys' better, she would
just drive out there herself. Right now, though, it would seem strange for her
to show up, out of the blue and without Paul. Besides, when she thought about
Bill and those guns, and the way he had spoken to her when she'd found his
chart, she knew she wouldn't go alone.

"Martha! Martha! Help me!" Bill’s urgent voice
called to her across the yard, stopping her flight halfway to the truck.

She hesitated, looking from her house to the road, trying to
decide.

"Martha, please! I fell out of this damned chair!"
A lifetime of caring for him, of being a good wife, weighed heavily on her. A
lifetime. She sighed. Ignoring him was impossible. She would have to catch
Milly after she made the turn and started her return trip. Martha knew that she
had about ten minutes.

Bill was half in and half out of his wheelchair, clinging to
the edge of the bed for support and looking helpless when Martha found him. "I
fell," he said sheepishly.

With her hands under his arms, Martha lifted and tugged at
his seemingly powerless body with no result. "I guess I’m not as strong as
I used to be," she puffed as she brushed at strands of hair that had
fallen across her face.

Bill smiled weakly, but made no move to help himself.

"I’m afraid I’ll hurt you," she said.

"You aren’t hurting me," he told her as she tried
to lift his legs and maneuver him into the chair. The sound of Milly’s mail
truck chugging past the house on her return trip brought tears of frustration
to Martha’s eyes. If she didn’t get out there now and flag Milly down, it was
going to be too late.

"Maybe if I push this way," Bill suggested,
cutting into her thoughts.

The truck zoomed past the house noisily, backfired once, and
then the sound of its engine faded away. She would have to spend another night
with Bill.

Suddenly, the big man slipped into his chair with almost no
assistance. "I’m sorry. I guess I was just totally paralyzed there for a
minute," he said lamely.

More tears of frustration formed in her eyes and slid down
her cheeks. Crying was useless and she wiped at her face angrily. She must not
let Bill see how frightened she was. Leaving the room, she consoled herself
with the hope that Paul would get her message. But would he believe her, or
just think that she was a hysterical woman? She realized, too late, that she
should have had the note delivered to Katie.

Martha decided that she would try to call Katie at work, and
waited patiently for a chance to use the phone. It was late afternoon and her
head and leg throbbed painfully. Going to the bathroom, she took two aspirin,
then saw the bottle of sleeping pills sitting innocently in the medicine chest.
She picked them up and looked at them, thinking that just a few days ago, she’d
been ready to end it all. Now, she was scheming to keep her life.

Peering out the bathroom window, she saw that Bill was
dozing on the porch. The afternoon sun made his hair and beard shine
lustrously. She tiptoed through the house, lifted the receiver and put it to
her ear. Her heart almost stopped.

"Something wrong?" Bill asked quietly from behind
her.

She whirled around, expecting to see the gun aimed at her
again. "The phone is dead."

"I know. I think some of your furry little friends
chewed the outside wire in two. Here, I’ll show you." Leading the way
outside, he showed her the two pieces of telephone line.

The ends were cleanly cut, not jagged or chewed, but the
look in his eyes told her not to argue.

Martha went into the bedroom and closed the door firmly. As
long as he stayed outside, she would be safe. As long as his mind was busy with
other things. Somehow, she was able to nap for just a bit, and when she awoke
it was beginning to get dark. A final plan occurred to her. As soon as it was
completely dark and Bill was asleep, she would just leave. She wondered if
anyone would believe her story. It was a chance she would just have to take.

Martha woke with a start. The house was dark, and the sky
was studded black velvet. Had she slept too long? A glance at the luminous
clock face told her it was well after midnight. She lay perfectly still,
listening. Silence, except for the faithful grandfather clock ticking away the
night.

She turned as quietly as possible onto her side and peered
across the room. Brilliant moonlight illuminated Bill, huddled under his
blankets in the big bed they’d once shared. She was surprised to see that he
was breathing slowly and evenly, with the occasional soft murmur. He was
usually wide awake, roaming the house.

Carefully pushing herself onto her elbows, she stopped again
to listen. The strange stillness worried her. Finally, she crawled out of bed,
still fully clothed. The pain in her leg when she stood was almost unbearable.
She bit her lip and tried to ignore it while putting on an extra sweater.
Summer nights were often chilly in these hollows and she had no idea where she
might be in the next few hours. She only knew that she couldn’t stay here.

On tiptoe, she crossed the room and eased the door open,
only wide enough for her to pass through. Avoiding the creaking floorboards in
the hall that she knew so well, she crept through the kitchen and laundry room
like a ghost. With trembling fingers, she felt in the darkness for the nail by
the door where she kept the truck keys.

It was empty.

With fists pressed to her tired eyes, she decided that she
must have left them in the truck. Continuing her silent journey, she slipped
out the back door. Without realizing it, Martha had been holding her breath,
and when she stepped outside she let it out gratefully. So far, so good.

Now, all she had to do was get the truck away from the house
before Bill woke up and tried to stop her. Hurrying through the almost eerie
stillness, she knew that she would have to try to drive the truck without
lights until she was out of sight.

By the time she reached the truck, she was feeling more
confident about her escape plans. Opening the door, she climbed behind the
wheel. It felt solid and comforting in her hands. Automatically, she reached
for the ignition.

No keys.

Frantically, she searched the seat, the floorboards, and the
glove compartment. The keys were clearly not there. She sat very still,
fighting panic, forcing herself to concentrate. Where had she put the keys the
last time she drove the truck? It seemed like a century ago, but finally she
remembered that she had definitely hung them on the nail by the door. Maybe
they had fallen off.

Trembling from head to foot, the pain in her leg a dull, throbbing
ache, she returned to the house and quietly opened the back door. Again, her
hand fumbled along the wall in the darkness for the nail that held the keys.
She hardly noticed the pain when the empty nail scraped her fingers. Running
her hand down the wall, she knelt and searched the floor in darkness. The
result was the same – no keys.

Martha thought she heard movement somewhere in the house.
Heart hammering in her chest, barely breathing, she froze, listening. She could
not hear a sound, not a bird or even a bug. Closing her eyes, she tried once
more to concentrate. Where could those keys be? And then suddenly, it dawned on
her.

Bill had them.

It had been so long since he’d had any use for them that it
hadn’t occurred to her that he would even notice them. They were probably in
his pocket, or hidden somewhere to keep her from using the truck to get away.
What should she do now? It was doubtful that her leg would hold out, but she
could try to walk. What if she did make it to the neighbors? They would be in
bed, asleep. What would she tell them? That Bill was sick? That she needed a
doctor? After several agonizing minutes, she decided to try to find the truck
keys.

Back in the bedroom, she stood in the doorway for long,
silent minutes to make sure Bill was still asleep. He stirred slightly, but the
deep even breathing continued, punctuated once in a while by a soft snore.
Satisfied, she crept to his bed on all fours.

The most likely place to search for his keys would be his
pants pocket. She found his pants hanging from one handle of his wheelchair.
Still on her knees, she searched through the pockets, taking care to stay
quiet. They were all empty. Frantically, she searched a second and third time,
turning all of them inside out. At last she sat back on her heels, rubbed her
tired, burning eyes, and thought carefully about where to look next.

"Looking for something?" Bill’s voice came out of
the semi-darkness so close to her ear that she let out a muffled scream.

"No! I was just…."

"Praying? You looked like you were praying," he
said helpfully.

Martha swallowed hard and shook her head.

"Were you perhaps looking for these?" He dangled
the keys tantalizingly close to her face. They glittered in the moonlight.

She stared at them for a few seconds in silence and then
said, "I wanted to make sure I hadn’t left them in the truck."

"You weren’t going anywhere, were you?" His eyes
were shining brightly – feverish, almost – and the beginnings of a smile curled
his lips.

"No."

"Then I’ll just keep them for you until morning.
They’ll be safe with me." He jingled them gently and laughed.

The keys were just inches away from her face. She had to
have them. She had to get away. In a purely instinctive reaction, her hand shot
out and snatched at the keys.

Bill was startled at the sudden move, but he was alert and
just as quick. His iron grip on the ring left no room for slippage and he
easily captured and held her small wrists with his other powerful hand.

Tears streaming down her face, whimpering softly, she
struggled to free herself. The keys to her freedom were locked in one of his
huge hands, and she was being held by his other. Still, she would not give in,
and Bill’s laughter at her futile attempts only made her struggle harder.

Suddenly, he froze. "What the hell?" He pushed
Martha away and sat up, still holding the keys.

She scrambled to the other side of the room, then looked at
him. His head was cocked to the side, as if he were listening. She heard
nothing, though, except her own ragged breath.

He swung himself quickly into his wheelchair and then
started through the hall. Martha followed, hanging back a little. In the
kitchen Bill stopped and listened intently. "Sounds like it’s coming from
out back," he said, and without hesitation wheeled himself in that
direction. He paused only briefly before jerking the door open. Together, they
peered outside.

Nothing.

The porch, the yard, the driveway were filled with nothing
more than pearly white moonlight. All was quiet.

"What the hell?" Bill muttered again and pushed
his way outside.

"What? There’s nothing there. Bill!"

He was about halfway across the porch, but then he stopped
and began to wheel backwards with one hand. His other began slapping wildly at
his chest and legs. Martha stood at the door, too mesmerized to react. The look
of terror on his face was heart-stopping. What was he doing? What was he
fighting? Whatever it was, he fought it desperately, screaming and slapping at
himself, closer and closer to his face. The wheelchair careened into her small
rocker and tipped it. It crashed against the porch rail.

Her first instinct was to go to him. She even took a
tentative step in his direction, but then stopped. She had no idea what was
going on. At a loss, she thought to call for help, but then remembered that the
phone didn’t work.

Finally, she forced herself to move and ran to him, but
almost immediately he slapped her away in his frenzy. His screeching hurt her
ears. As she retreated slightly, her hand touched the cold barrel of the 30.06
that was resting in the corner, not far from the door. Picking up the heavy
gun, she wondered if she should give it to him. Would he feel protected that
way? What if he shot her again, instead? Was he pretending?

A word interrupted her thoughts. "Help!" His voice
was strangled. She couldn’t understand him, but thought she heard the word
‘animals’ along with his gibberish.

Seeing his gunslinger eyes roll wildly, she knew he wasn’t
pretending. He needed her help. How, though? What could she do? He was clearly
insane. She walked toward him again, holding the rifle.

With her eyes on his, she lifted the rifle to her shoulder
just like she’d seen him do it. It was heavier than she could've imagined, and
lifting it took both hands and all of her strength. She had never fired a gun
in her life, but had seen him do this so many times that it was ingrained in
her mind. Looking through the scope, she saw that the crosshairs intersected in
the center, dividing the site into wedges.

She could see Bill’s face, but it seemed very far away.
Struggling to hold the gun steady and still looking into his blue eyes – the
beautiful but cruel gunslinger eyes that made her heart lurch – her index
finger sought and found the curved trigger. It was cold and the steel edges
were sharp.