Linda

How much must a woman endure before saying, "Enough!" Note: Since this was posted I've expanded and concluded it, as a novella, on Smashwords, titled, Breaking the Pattern. It can be downloaded free.

LINDA

 

 

 

Linda sat, hunched forward in the rocker, chewing her lip and trying to ignore the pain that came with each breath as she studied her husband.

Jack sprawled across the bed, in a stupor brought on by a night of drink and the effort of beating her. She could undress him, but that might wake him and bring a renewal of the anger. In the morning, sober again, he’d be apologetic a model husband but not now.

Killing him would be easy and satisfying, and she thought about that for a long time. The pleasure those thoughts brought offset the pain. But if she wasn’t able to do it quickly enough, and he got free…

Hands clenched in her lap, she mouthed the words she didn’t dare speak the feelings she could never express aloud.

She thought about why she married Jack the second man to treat her as an object on which to vent rage.

How stupid she’d been, but how lucky she’d thought herself at seventeen in finding Opie, her knight in uniform, who provided a way out of the battle-torn shack her parents called home.

Opie, with his marine swagger and imperious manner had the worldliness of someone who’d traveled beyond the county of his birth. He represented an escape from so much. But it was an escape to something worse than home, a marriage that lasted only seven months, all of it downhill, leaving her alone, frightened, bruised, with pennies in her pocket limping along a rural highway in Mississippi.

This second marriage lasted a year. There would be no other.

With a sigh, she leaned back into the old rocker, wincing at a twinge of pain from a new bruise. Like the other beatings, this one had its beginnings in events over which she had no control.

° ° °

 

Jack came onto the porch, the hesitation in his step announcing that he was already drunk. She gave thought to hiding in the shed till he slept it off. But he was already reaching for the door. And, drunk or sober he’d been fairly well behaved since the last time, nearly a month before. And the one time she had hidden, he accused her of being unfaithful of being out of the house with another man and had whipped her with his belt until she’d prayed to die.

Jack, angry and sober, was a far worse thing than when under the influence of a few beers. She thought then about leaving, had even begun packing, but in the end, returned everything to its place before he could notice. Without money or skills, and with Jack’s promise to track her down and kill her if she left, options were limited.

Instead of hiding, this night, she forced a smile when he came into the living room, saying, "Hi, honey. How was your day?"

He was five hours late for dinner, now long cold in the refrigerator.

He growled something unintelligible and sank into the easy chair, blowing out a cloud of beery breath and scratching his stomach. Given the condition he was in, she breathed a prayer that he wasn’t in the mood for sex. After a few beers he lost what little consideration he normally had for her pleasure, using her as he might a drunken s**t, rather than a beloved wife. Sometimes, she wondered if he actually knew the meaning of the word love. Sober, he was a passable, if unimaginative lover, but drunk, he was an unfeeling brute, demanding things of her as he might a prostitute.

She studied him, seeking some clue as to what kind of mood he was in, so she could adapt to it and get through the night.

He muttered again. Missing his words a second time, she said, "What was that, Jack, honey? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you."

He swiveled his head toward her, mouth turned down in disgust. "I said, I lost the f*****g job, you deaf b***h! I lost the f*****g job."

Oh s**t! She clamped hard on the urge to run for the door. That would be suicide. Running triggered his hunting instincts, and he was sitting between her and the door.

The problem wasn’t the loss of the job. He was a good mechanic could be a better one if not for the drinking, so he could find another. The fear was for what that loss might mean for her.

Forcing the chair around with a shriek of complaining wood, he pointed a grease-stained finger at her.

"Let me tell you, something, baby. That Jew-b*****d Koch the f****r who owns the god damned agency he wouldn’t know a good mechanic from a dumb n****r, but he’s gonna pay for this. I’ll tell you that. He’s gonna pay real good!"

"What will you do, Jack?" Her voice was a tiny thing, mouse-like, and inoffensive, she hoped.

He stared at her for a long moment, then mimicked her voice, bringing his own to a nerve-jangling falsetto screech she despised.

"What will you do, Jack? What will you do, Jack? What the hell do you think I’m going to do? I’m going to kill that b*****d. That’s what I’m going to do."

Her shock must have shown, because he abruptly stood, overbalancing and stumbling against the footstool, which he kicked out of the way with a crash.

"Don’t you f*****g look at me that way, you b***h! The whole thing’s your fault anyway."

Wise enough to keep her mouth shut, she said nothing, simply poised herself to flee, if necessary. With a growl, he waved a backhanded blow at her, mumbling, "Pow! I ought to do a job on you, but you’re too f*****g dumb to change."

With that, he stumbled into the darkened bedroom, accompanied by her sigh of relief.

Unfortunately, he was only passing through it, making a toilet call. He returned to the living room far too soon, then headed for the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator, bracing himself against the door as he scanned the inside.

She got to her feet and began easing toward the front door, but before she could get more than a few steps in that direction, the door of the old refrigerator slammed shut, accompanied by the crash of jars spilling from the door compartments.

"There’s no beer, you stupid b***h. I told you to buy some beer!"

She thought of telling him the truth, that he hadn’t remembered to give her money for the beer, but that would only make him angrier.

"I’ll go now, Jack," she said, hurriedly. "I’ll run down to the store right "

Any further words she might have said were stilled as his hand clamped on her windpipe, nearly lifting her from her feet. The rest was a blur of pain and fear as he vented his rage on her, the cruel blows raining on her body like some demented parody of a boxing match. Only the fact that he would begin kicking her, should she fall to the floor, kept her on her feet, saying "please," over and over in a litany of fear. When he threw her to the bed and began to tear at her clothing, it was a relief.

 

° ° °

 

The beating hadn’t lasted long, nor was it as bad as some, but it finally broke something inside a dam of pent-up anger and self-lothing that had been filling for years. First had been the endless years of warfare between her parents, with their insane and unpredictable alterations between passion and hate with her used as both a weapon and target. Then, there was the stupidity of her first marriage, and the death of her dreams of romance and escape. Now, there was Jack.

As she sat watching her husband hating him with every fiber of her being she wondered how she could ever have put up with him. Certainly he was the one who took her in when Opie pushed her out of the car and drove off, though she’d paid for that with the only coin she possessed, her body. Certainly, when he wasn’t drunk, he was a decent enough person.

He was even handsome, when his face wasn’t flushed with anger. But at best, he treated her as an appliance, as though wives were bought at the discount store and had only certain, well defined functions: keep house, tend the small crop fields, wash his clothes, satisfy his sexual needs, and absorb his rage when necessary. It was assumed that any needs she had would be taken care of without his help. That he neither loved nor respected her was all too obvious.

 

Reaching a decision, she limped her way to the closet where her battered old suitcase was stored, tucked behind a carton; hidden against her need. He’d thrown it away, snarlingly informing her that she’d leave at his convenience, not hers. But she retrieved the case, wiping away the mud stains before hiding it.

Clearing the top of the dresser she opened the case, leaning the top against the mirror to hide her battered face from view. Moving quietly enough not to disturb him she began to pack, taking only what fit into that small case.

Finally finished, she moved to the bed and began the most difficult part: getting to his wallet. Lost job or not, this was payday, and he would have two weeks pay in his pocket, maybe even something extra as severance pay. He’d been on that job for seven months.

Her own money, saved penny-by-penny, amounted to less than fifty dollars, and would take her no further than the next man like Jack. But there’d be no more like him, and for that more than a few dollars were needed.

Jack grumbled under his breath as she got into the bed, then settled down to snoring as she leaned against him, as though cuddling in her sleep. He never stirred as she removed the wallet.

Nine-hundred dollars! There were nine one hundred dollar bills in the wallet, plus fifty in smaller bills. She didn’t take the time for an exact count, but there was enough to get her out of the county, even the state. Enough, perhaps, for a new start.

 

Slinging her bag over her shoulder and picking up the suitcase, she cast a longing glance at the old sewing machine in the corner. Through the bad times it had been her companion and her solace. Leaving it was like leaving a dear friend. Everything in her wardrobe had been made on that machine, copied from the dresses worn by models in the newspaper and in the magazines she took from trash cans. Jack wouldn’t let her buy patterns for the clothing, grumbling over the expense of the cloth she used.

Unable to simply pass by, she bent her footsteps toward the old machine, stopping to run her hand over its smooth curves, stroking the cool metal of the drive wheel and thinking about how well it would do to sew a shroud for her husband.

About to leave at last, she turned her head for a last look at his sleeping form, then stopped, fingernails tapping the metal of the machine wondering. She stood that way for a time, lost in thought. Then, with the beginnings of a smile, picked up the suitcase and headed for the front door.

 

The night air was soft and filled with the growing smells of springtime, symbolizing, for her, a new beginning, one that would take her from this place and this life. Never again would she submit. Never again would she permit a man to dominate her life. A line had been crossed, and there would be no going back. The flame of anger had been hard to ignite. Life before this had seen to that. But now it burned with a clear and steady glow as she loaded her suitcase into the rear seat of the car. She placed her worn old shoulder bag on the front passenger seat, then slipped the keys into the ignition, where they would be ready. Sliding out of the car, she closed the door far enough to extinguish the overhead light and kill the warning tones, but left it unlatched, in case she might have to get into the car on a run. Finally, she headed back to the house.

 

First, she bathed, flinching at the new bruises and scowling in disgust at the yellowed remains of the older ones. Then, she dressed herself in the best of the clothing remaining in her closet. Finally, she headed toward her sewing box for needle and thread.

There was anger in her hands as she sewed, and anger in the teeth that bit off the ends of the thread she used to sew the legs of his pants together. It wasn’t the kind of anger Jack knew. His was unreasoning rage, destructive and wild. Hers was cold and controlled, serving her purpose. Moments after she began, her lips turned up in a grim little smile at the realization that there was little chance of him stopping her, with his legs immobalized, even should he wake.

That complete, she rolled him onto his back and sewed his sleeves to his shirt front, using heavy duty button thread. Even should he wake, getting free would take more time than for her to reach the waiting car.

But there was no need to run. He never woke as she pulled the sheets free from the mattress and tossed them atop his body, to form a form-fitting tube, which she sewed to his sleeves and pants.

 

 The task took several hours, but when she finished he was sealed inside a body-sack that bound his arms and legs far more securely than had she tied him. The sack she sewed to the mattress, laughing at the mental picture that brought, of him laboriously working his way to highway with that mattress on his back like a snail’s shell. By then, she was humming to herself, not caring if he woke.

Finally finished, she had only to go over the hurried work she’d done in the beginning, reinforcing it, to be certain there’d no easy escape. He might work his way free, or worm himself out of the house and to the highway, but that would take hours. In any case, a call to the sheriff, when she was safe, would insure that he’d survive.

He was awake when she cut the final thread, bloodshot eyes squinting in the morning’s light, his face filled with confusion. It was then that she sat back to admire her work, ignoring his angry questions. With a nod of satisfaction she stood, and then went looking for his baseball bat.

 

Linda was humming to herself as she drove away, glad she’d taken the time to kiss him goodbye, even if he hadn’t noticed. It was, she decided, the start of a beautiful day.

 

° ° ° °

 

Author's Note

This piece began as a dramatization of an event reported by a woman who was driven to emulate Willie Nelson's first wife. When the story was complete, I was curious about what happened to Linda after that morning, so I began a novel that followed her life after that traumatic night. It was only after I finished that I learned that the story about Willie Nelson is urban legend, and only partly true.

Reviews

[deleted]

I like how it was written and it was easy to follow.Throughout the story, I got a sense of Linda's feelings of fear and cautiousness. However, I did not get the same of her anger. I think it could've been shown in the scene below:

* The night air was soft and filled with the growing smells of springtime, symbolizing, for her, a new beginning, one that would take her from this place, and this life. Never again would she submit. Never again would she permit a man to dominate her life. A line had been crossed, and there would be no going back. The flame of anger had been hard to ignite. Life before this had seen to that. But now it burned with a clear and steady glow, as she loaded her suitcase into the rear seat of the car. She placed her worn old shoulder bag on the front passenger seat, then slipped the keys into the ignition, where they would be ready. Sliding out of the car, she closed the door far enough to extinguish the overhead light and kill the warning tones, but left it unlatched, in case she might have to get into the car on a run. Finally, she headed back to the house.*

Instead of telling us about this anger, show us. It seems you try during the scene where she pauses to look at her sowing machine.

Overall great story.

[Scott Kris]

The justice always seems to gentler than the crime. But it shows who the real monsters are and the heart of those who constantly are victims.
At least it’s the last time? One would hope. And history tells us, he will do it again to her or someone else.

Well written story IMHO. I found the scenes easy to visualize and the storyline easy to follow.

Thank you for sharing your art.

Scott

[Lisasview]

Oh my goodness Jay,
I just finished reading your story...kept me on the edge of my seat... really quite fabulous..
Actually, I never read stories on this site but ah well...I am on a short holiday and thought I would read another one of yours...
Definitely a good idea..because I loved it.
This could be made into a movie...
I just loved it...so full of excitement..
Lisa, now in Tarragon for 5 days

[JayG]

I'm glad you liked it. If you want to learn what happened afterward, so did I. The result is a novel, called, Breaking the Pattern. It's free at the address below, on Smashwords (it's listed as pay what you want, so Amazon will see a price that seems to match theirs. but it's also listed as "pay what you want," which really means $0.)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1015122

[Lisasview]

Thank you, I will do that..
Did you get my private message?
Lisa

[Joyram]

Mr. Jay Greenstein
I profusely thank you for reviewing my story-like essay ' Regained purse and hope'. I bow down to your pristine language and guidance, par excellence. I confess I am still a novice in writing English stories. I have been writing for about one year. I appreciate sincerely your first suggestion to paragraph the contents.
It would be my delight to go through your writings in the days to come. You sound like a professional writer if my guess is correct. Such reviews done with the intention of improving a writer, are a boon for every writer who wants to be noticed by a fraction of the reading community, at least.
I have already posted a few more stories. In case you could find five minutes of precious time, please do
review one of my stories. That would help me to make a giant leap in my quality and style of writing.

Thanks and best wishes
Joyram

Now I have read the above short story, and your biography too. You seem to have been born with creativity and a pen. In front of you, a mountain, I am a little mouse. Your review of two of my short stories has already inspired me to write better. It will be my endeavor to do so but with one thing, that is writing in my own style, what I feel like. I would not mind even if no one read my writings. Originality is my nature, however poor I may be at that.
Wishing you happy days of flamboyant writing!
Joyram

[JayG]

You make the common mistake of believing it's a matter of talent or how we write that's the problem—the same mistake I made.

The real, and only problem is that like everyone else, you left your school years believing that writing is writing, and that we have that taken care of.

Way back in the 1990's I wrote six novels, for which I received enough rejections to wallpaper my room. But then, I paid for a critique, expecting lots of grammar comments, but an overall, "Nice job, I liked the writing and the characters."

What I got back was a manuscript awash in blue pencil comments. they filled the space between the lines, colored the margins, and even the back of the pages. In short, an expensive version of what I told you.

A year later, after a LOT of work, and that book I suggested, I was offered, and signed, my first literary contract.

We all think it's a matter of talent and a good story idea. But talent is potential, only, and an untrained talented writer and one with no talent are equal.

And to quote myself:

“Talent? Were talent enough, there’d be no need of rehearsal...or editing...or Photoshop. And if desire were the key, we’d all be famous. Sweat, though. That’s the magic elixir.”

And:

“Your words are the lyrics. But gesture, expression, body attitude and movement—even the language spoken by the eyes—form the music. Leave them out of your fiction and the song is forever unfinished. And since our reader can't know the song as we would sing it without our help, we must learn how to write music, so the reader can sing our song properly.”

In other words: Try a few chapters of that book. It's the best I've found, and the only reason I've sold even a word.

[Katriya]

Nice masterpiece and very authentic. Most of the wives around the world undergo such treatment, some retaliate, while others suffer silently. I'm gland Linda reacted finally. What next ? Anyways all the best Jay!

[JayG]

• What next ?

That's what I asked, and why this became the first scene in, Breaking the Pattern. If you'k like to see what happened to her, I made it free on Smashwords (well, pay whjat you want, but thet really means free).

[Suzanne Sonderleigh]

I was Linda’s shadow throughout this piece. I could feel her anxiety and I love the way she took control. She could have gotten away with a fairly decent start, but she needed to bind him as her way of saying, “no more will you hurt me.”

[SE Wright]

This is my first go at reviewing any writing, here or anywhere else so here goes:

I liked the fact that you did not spend words on describing the surroundings or environment but only the characters and this was done from what seemed to me to be coming from inside them rather than a witness description. I think the beating could have been described in more detail to indicate that this really was the last straw - after all she had suffered domestic violence repeatedly so what made this time so different - what made now the time she decided to leave?
I loved her revenge, it was original and creative, almost as though by using her sewing skills she was reclaiming a part of her that had been suppressed by her abuser. I'm not sure why she went looking for the baseball bat as she had already decided to call the law and I would have liked to know what she used it for (but I'm one of those people who hates loose ends!)
I found the writing a good example of how I need to develop characters in my own work.
Thank you for sharing

[Beccy]

Not generally an avid reader of stories Jay, too much of a grasshopper mind for anything but poetry; but I am so glad I found this.

Sadly, the subject is all too familiar, but the way you have portrayed it here; the detail, the long time repressed emotion and the way you brought me such an insight into the mind of Linda, is genuinely top echelon.

Fiction, maybe, but so well written, that I am left wishing so much that she has a better rest of her life.

Beccy.

PS. Trust she took the baseball bat with her; best not to leave evidence behind. :))

Beccy,

[JayG]

Thank you. It's nice to know that the effort that went into the writing wasn't wasted. As I mentioned below,to Linda Wells, if you want to find out what happened to her after she left the house, what I posted became the opening chapter of, Breaking the Pattern, which is currently "Pay what you want" which, in reality, means free, on Smashwords:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1015122

[Linda Stinson Wells]

WOW!!! I'm going to have to make me a pot of coffee and smoke me a cigar or two, and at least a half pack of cigarettes. After reading "Linda" I didn't realize you knew me. I won't be sleeping tonight. The story opened up doors that I thought were closed years ago. Now I feel pity for her and for me. I do admire her method of escape. that's original. I know about that deep dark feeling of despair that lingers in the pit of ones stomach in which there is no end. No self esteem at all. Always being fearful of everything. I really am at a lost of words. There are really no true words that describe that kind of abuse. My mind wants to say so much but I just can't get them out. It really is an awesome story. A very great story as a matter of fact.

[JayG]

Thank you.

You might find what her life was like afterward, interesting. What I posted became the opening chapter of, Breaking the Pattern, which is currently "Pay what you want" which, in reality, means free, on Smashwords:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1015122