Historical fiction by Tom Hoerr, September 1984. This domestic-abuse narrative is not presented as an identified real incident.
“Why do you think it is that we don’t get invited to parties anymore, dear?” he asked, slightly lowering his newspaper with his left hand and delicately raising a too-full cup of coffee with his right. “What?” she responded, not really listening. She, too, was reading the morning paper.
In fact, at this very moment she was interested in an item in the local gossip column. “Parties. Why aren’t we invited anymore?” “Whatever are you talking about?” she asked.
The tone in his voice told her that whatever it was he wanted, it was better to answer now than let him go on and on until he became aggravated. Too many breakfasts had ended like that lately.
A statement not heard, a question unanswered, a comment in a tone that was too harsh or, worse, filled with slow boredom.
By now he had put the paper on the table, creasing the page with care his shirt had never seen. “Par-ties,” he said slowly, the syllables coming apart like a couple with too many years of marriage. “When’s the last party we went to?” She paused for but a second, “Mildred’s thirtieth anniversary dinner, only two weeks ago.” “No, damn it.
Not a family affair, a real party. Somewhere where people come together because they like one another, not because fate has caused them to share chromosomes,” he said, his voice rising. “I like Mildred and Fred,” defiantly escaped her lips. Too late, she thought, I don’t have time for this.
His eyebrows arched and he pushed his chair back from the table.
She opened her mouth to speak and save the situation, but he cut her off. “Mildred and Fred,” he said with a cutting edge, “are thieves.” Responding, no, rebutting, crossed her mind, but she remained silent and rose to pour more coffee in her cup.
He continued, now on the attack. “They’re thieves, and you know it!
He sells AmWay out of his car, his garage, even once, remember, to Roger when they were all here for Thanksgiving. I don’t know how much he makes off that damn soap, but I’m tired of him telling me that he doesn’t declare a cent of it on his taxes. That’s cheating and lying the same as taking money from a lady’s purse.” He paused and waited, and she waited.
The futility of it all overwhelmed her.
She poured her coffee and started to offer him some, but thought better of it.
This morning’s scenario—no, episode was better—was simply one in a series. Breakfasts hadn’t always been like this.
At first, mornings had been fun and hectic, a time to plan the day and imagine victories to come.
She remembered packing a rubber rat in his lunch once and waiting for his reaction when he returned home; he had bettered her, saying nothing and allowing her to open the lunch box and find the rat with a bite out of it. That was in the early years.
It all changed when Stacy came and then Kevin and, finally, Diana.
During those years breakfasts weren’t designed for civility, just organization and efficiency.
The kids were gone now, except for the holidays when they returned home.
Then, the family reassembled and theatre began: Actors putting on old costumes and playing worn-out roles for the audience which was, of course, only themselves.
Without realizing it she had seated herself and absent-mindedly picked up the paper. “I’m talking to you!” he spat, his voice barely below a yell. “I’m sorry. I lost my train of thought. What were you saying?” “Parties. Why don’t we get invited anywhere anymore?” “I don’t know. I really haven’t given it much thought. I ….” “Well, I have.
The problem is you.
No one wants to be around us because all you do is chatter and make a fool of yourself.” She had heard it before, but it didn’t lessen the pain. Wearily, she raised the cup to her mouth and drank.
The coffee was too hot and it burned her lips and tongue, but she drank anyway.
He stood up now, pushing some of the paper to the floor. “People are tired of you. Just like you don’t listen to me, like now, you don’t listen to anyone else either.” She closed her eyes and listened, trying not to hear. “Think about it,” he went on, “and while you’re thinking about it, look at this kitchen.
The kids are gone, but the place is a mess.” “It’s your kitchen too,” she whispered, lowering her eyes and grasping the coffee cup with both hands, pushing it downward into the saucer. “My kitchen?” he laughed sarcastically. “That’s a laugh.
I have an office where I work. That’s mine.
This is your kitchen.” There was a silence and then she replied gently, “I work,” almost too gently.
They were playing roles now, she knew. Next he would say something about his job or her job; either way, the result would be the same. “What you do isn’t a job, it’s a hobby.” This was more than she could bear.
She knew where they were going, but she had no choice. “It’s a job, too, like yours,” she screamed, pushing her coffee cup forward.
The cup clattered and coffee lept forward from the cup on to the table and his newspaper. “It’s a hobby because you don’t earn what I pay in taxes!” She paused and waited, trying to regain her control.
She picked up a paper towel and moved to his side of the table, feebly trying to blot up the spilled coffee. “You can’t even clean up your own mess,” he said in a voice laced with hate and vengeance. “And your job,” she replied, knowing she had lost it, “how much money would you make if you weren’t working for your father?” They both straightened, faces separated by a few feet.
She continued, “Do you really want to know why we don’t go to parties? It’s you!” She was screaming now. “You act like such an ass that everyone ….” She saw his arm raise, but she didn’t have time to react.
It had happened many times before, but she was never ready. Lying on the floor, choking sobs and tears were all she could manage at first.
She couldn’t even curse him.
She heard the door slam shut and then nothing but silence, broken only by her pain and tears. Slowly she moved to the wall, half crawling, half lying.
She grabbed the phone book and pulled it to her body. Tears were flowing freely now and she needed both hands and an arm to wipe them away so she could read the print on the pages. Finally she found the heading she had been looking for and dialed the number.
A distant voice answered, “Hello. Spouse Abuse Hot Line. May I help you?”
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, September 1984.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times1984_09.pdf, printed page(s) 12; PDF page(s) 12.
