night feeling amorous. He'd gone to beat the tar out of the woman who'd outted him to his wife. Mike does not like being told what to do. And he sure doesn't like being found out if he's done wrong.
Why had I married him? Why hadn't I listened to my parents?
For a crazy minute I thought about calling the police. But that would only make things worse between Mike and me. At the time all anger over his infidelity was gone, and I just wanted my husband back. Safe. I did not want him going to jail for assault and battery of some woman who wasn't even worth the trouble.
Finally at 11:50 I heard the truck. The engine cut underneath the carport. Mike soon walked into the bedroom, breath puffing, steps agitated. I didn't need to see him to feel the adrenaline rolling off him.
My insides went cold.
He disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the door shut hard, the shower go on. His usual routine. When he came out five minutes later I heard the plop of his uniform onto the floor.
He crawled into bed, breathing still erratic. He had to know I was awake, but he didn't try to talk. He just tossed and turned. It was a long time before he fell into the even breath of sleep.
What had he done?
I lay rigid as stone, expecting the phone to ring any minute, cops to beat on our front door. But . . . nothing. Just hot, smothering silence.
The next morning when I managed to pull myself out of bed, Mike was already up. I could hear him in the kitchen. Like a robot I picked Mike's uniform off the floor to throw in the hamper. It was a one-piece jumper-like thing, and as usual he'd peeled it off half wrong side out. My eyes fell on the inside tag at the topâand my hands stopped. I stared at the tag. Pulled it closer.
It didn't look right.
This was an older uniform, with different words on the tag, in different letters. Michael had been issued three uniforms, all the same. Two to wash and one to wear. This uniform was the right sizeâbut it wasn't the one he'd put on that morning. I'd swear to it. I'd washed those clothes so many times I knew every square inch of them.
Like the hand of fate, Mike chose that moment to walk into the bedroom. He halted just this side of the threshold, eyes moving from my face to the clothes in my hands. His fingers twitched. He tried to cover up the nervous gesture by scratching his elbow.
I held up the uniform. "This isn't yours."
"'Course it is."
"It's not the one you put on yesterday morning."
"Yes it is."
"No, it's not."
"Tully. Shut up ."
I glared at him, the fabric hot in my hands. Where was his uniform? Why did he need to change it?
"Mike. What did you do?"
"Nothin."
"What did you do ?"
"Tully, we ain't talkin about this. Now or ever."
"I want to know !"
In a split-second he covered the ground between us. Wrapped his fingers around my throat and squeezed. I dropped the uniform. Started to choke.
"You hear me good, Tully." Rage contorted his face. "I came home at the regular time last night. Just like always. You got that?"
I couldn't breathe . Panic staggered through me.
"Tully!" Mike dug his fingers deeper.
My throat was caving in. Black dots swarmed over my vision. I tried to beg for my life but could only gurgle.
"Do you hear me?"
My head managed a nod.
Michael eased off. I pried my mouth wide and dragged in air. It skidded down my throat like fire.
"What time did I get home?"
I couldn't talk.
" What time?"
I panted hard. "Nor. Mal. Time."
"You see anything unusual?"
"N-no."
"You sure?"
"Huhhhhh."
"Tully!" He shook me.
"Yes!"
"Don't you forget it." Mike pushed me backward. I stumbled into the wall. "I'm goin fishin till work." He spat the words.
The world spun. I fell on the bed, chest heaving, tears hot in my eyes.
Ten minutes later I'd moved to the couch, not daring to speak. Mike stalked outside, carrying his fishing gear, but then returned. He snatched a cleaning rag from under the kitchen sink, wet it, and took it back outside.
What was he doing?
After a
Why had I married him? Why hadn't I listened to my parents?
For a crazy minute I thought about calling the police. But that would only make things worse between Mike and me. At the time all anger over his infidelity was gone, and I just wanted my husband back. Safe. I did not want him going to jail for assault and battery of some woman who wasn't even worth the trouble.
Finally at 11:50 I heard the truck. The engine cut underneath the carport. Mike soon walked into the bedroom, breath puffing, steps agitated. I didn't need to see him to feel the adrenaline rolling off him.
My insides went cold.
He disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the door shut hard, the shower go on. His usual routine. When he came out five minutes later I heard the plop of his uniform onto the floor.
He crawled into bed, breathing still erratic. He had to know I was awake, but he didn't try to talk. He just tossed and turned. It was a long time before he fell into the even breath of sleep.
What had he done?
I lay rigid as stone, expecting the phone to ring any minute, cops to beat on our front door. But . . . nothing. Just hot, smothering silence.
The next morning when I managed to pull myself out of bed, Mike was already up. I could hear him in the kitchen. Like a robot I picked Mike's uniform off the floor to throw in the hamper. It was a one-piece jumper-like thing, and as usual he'd peeled it off half wrong side out. My eyes fell on the inside tag at the topâand my hands stopped. I stared at the tag. Pulled it closer.
It didn't look right.
This was an older uniform, with different words on the tag, in different letters. Michael had been issued three uniforms, all the same. Two to wash and one to wear. This uniform was the right sizeâbut it wasn't the one he'd put on that morning. I'd swear to it. I'd washed those clothes so many times I knew every square inch of them.
Like the hand of fate, Mike chose that moment to walk into the bedroom. He halted just this side of the threshold, eyes moving from my face to the clothes in my hands. His fingers twitched. He tried to cover up the nervous gesture by scratching his elbow.
I held up the uniform. "This isn't yours."
"'Course it is."
"It's not the one you put on yesterday morning."
"Yes it is."
"No, it's not."
"Tully. Shut up ."
I glared at him, the fabric hot in my hands. Where was his uniform? Why did he need to change it?
"Mike. What did you do?"
"Nothin."
"What did you do ?"
"Tully, we ain't talkin about this. Now or ever."
"I want to know !"
In a split-second he covered the ground between us. Wrapped his fingers around my throat and squeezed. I dropped the uniform. Started to choke.
"You hear me good, Tully." Rage contorted his face. "I came home at the regular time last night. Just like always. You got that?"
I couldn't breathe . Panic staggered through me.
"Tully!" Mike dug his fingers deeper.
My throat was caving in. Black dots swarmed over my vision. I tried to beg for my life but could only gurgle.
"Do you hear me?"
My head managed a nod.
Michael eased off. I pried my mouth wide and dragged in air. It skidded down my throat like fire.
"What time did I get home?"
I couldn't talk.
" What time?"
I panted hard. "Nor. Mal. Time."
"You see anything unusual?"
"N-no."
"You sure?"
"Huhhhhh."
"Tully!" He shook me.
"Yes!"
"Don't you forget it." Mike pushed me backward. I stumbled into the wall. "I'm goin fishin till work." He spat the words.
The world spun. I fell on the bed, chest heaving, tears hot in my eyes.
Ten minutes later I'd moved to the couch, not daring to speak. Mike stalked outside, carrying his fishing gear, but then returned. He snatched a cleaning rag from under the kitchen sink, wet it, and took it back outside.
What was he doing?
After a
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