Leta was home alone. More and more over the summer, she found
she liked it that way. Her fifteen-year-old daughter Vivian was spending
several days with her cousins Lucille and June, daughters of Leta’s brother
Aaron. Her twelve-year-old son Dale was playing with friends down the street.
Her husband Leech was at work. It was a balmy Friday afternoon. Aside from
making supper, which she had already planned in her mind, she had finished her
housekeeping for the day. She was sitting in her rocking chair with some
embroidery and a glass of whiskey. A light breeze, as if it were the loving
breath of God, ruffled her fabric and tickled the back of her neck.
She waved to one of her neighbors, as he dragged his lawn
mower to his front yard. She liked Mr. Simmons. He was a polite, friendly
widower, in his early 70s. Where most of their neighbors spent Saturday
mornings taking care of their yard work, he did his in the afternoon. He told
her that he was a night owl, that he liked to spend his mornings drinking
coffee, reading the newspaper and relaxing. He did his chores in the afternoon,
so he could enjoy the heat of the day. He was a tall, thin fellow with only
wisps of white hair on his head. He walked with a limp from a wound he received
during the Spanish-American War. Nerve damage that he rarely noticed, he
explained. It didn’t slow him down at all. He and his late wife had ten
children. She died in childbirth, leaving him to raise the children on his own.
He had never remarried, he said, because he was simply too busy. By the time
his youngest daughter married it was too late. No one would want an old man who
was used to doing everything his own way. Women, he shared conspiratorially,
say they want to get married for someone to take care of them, but in fact, the
opposite is true. Women marry to have someone to take care of. He didn’t need
that. Shortly after Leta and the children moved in with Leech, she took Mr.
Simmons a pie to thank him for clearing snow off her walk. Shoveling snow was
just one of the chores that her husband elected not to do.
Mr. Simmons waved back and focused on his lawn.
Leta checked the time. Leech wanted her to have his supper
waiting upon his arrival home from work. As he didn’t like vegetables, the meal
primarily consisted of beef, pork or chicken—preferably roasted—and boiled
potatoes. Sometimes she would mash the potatoes. He would drink two bottles of
beer with his meal, burp loudly and then excuse himself. After spending ten
minutes in the lavatory, he would proceed out the door. On most nights, this
all took place within 30-minutes and not a word was said amongst the four of
them. On other nights, when one of the children or even she began to share some
bit of information or even ask a question about the meal, he would slam his
fist down on the table and glare angrily for several minutes. Leta actually
looked forward to the moment when her husband left the house.
Once he was gone, she and the children would finish the meal,
clear the table and spend the next two hours doing their chores and homework.
Leech arrived home from the speakeasy at approximately 8:30pm. If the children
were not already in bed, they were in their rooms. Depending on his level of
inebriation, he would either be friendly with his wife or stumble up the stairs
to bed. At least once per week, he would fail to undress or even take of his
shoes, but collapse onto the bed horizontally. Leta slept on the sofa those
nights. The first two times she experienced this, she tried to rouse him enough
to undress and move, but he would not budge. The second time, as she was trying
to remove his shoe, he kicked her in the face, bruising her left check. The
next morning he asked her about the bruise, appearing to remember nothing.
Leta hated to ruminate on the challenges of her life, but
lately it seemed that this was all she did. She sighed deeply, stood, pulled
her sewing things together and went into the house for a beer.
She did not see the woman watching her from half a block down
the street.
To be continued.
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