"People's dreams are made out of what they do all day. The same way a dog that runs after rabbits will dream of rabbits. It's what you do that makes your soul, not the other way around." Barbara Kingsolver
It was just 2 days since I slept in the ecstasy and bliss of Debra. It felt like it was all a dream, never happened. Her smell, her voice, her hands, I yearned for these things. That is an understatement. I would sacrifice for this. Everything was available for barter, everything but my children. My very breath, I would live in asphyxia if that is what it took.
The monotony of daily life kicked in as if programmed, giving a deceptive impression of stability. All around me looked the same, smelled the same, but the reality was in the corners of these rooms, fleeting across walls like tree branches reflected through windows. Creaking in the floorboards as I would change my cadence to interpret, ringing hollow in the vaulted ceilings. An existential plane, ethereal, and elusive, taunting, begging ... sleeping waking, rising, falling, more or less, in dreams, demanding the lovers who owned it. Until Debra broke thru this tedium, and I felt renewed in the hope of a life with her.
Heading home after our meeting on Ella and 1960, I ran into my husband, almost literally, while trying to hurry home from a rendezvous with Debra. I had left the children, safely, for an hour to do so, planning to be back before Bill came home. Considering all that happened, his early arrival should have been expected. Something, years before, or even days before, would have been ridiculous to even desire. He came home when and if he chose.
So, now, what was I going to tell him?
Devon’s birthday was just the next day, and she loved flowers. Debra had given a dozen roses to me, and I was going to toss them, but instead, knowing Devon would love them, decided to keep them for her. In retrospect, good plan.
Bill backed the car up in the one lane alley to let me enter the garage first. I was so nervous. Ok … that is a flimsy film of what I actually felt. I had my New Yorker in reverse and stepped on the gas almost plowing thru the fence. I could see Bill laughing, a new, and I will say, more patient, Bill. I smiled, wishing that for all these years, that had been the person I was married to.
I lived with ridicule, I could do nothing right. My mother was almost certain of this and every time I was in her presence, she would peer over her white milk glass coffee cup, waiting for the first chance to hit me with her barbs. Unfortunately, my father was this way as well, but not as personal. He attacked without prejudice. My brothers and sister, as well as my mother, were always scheduled for a mud racking from him.
That instrument of pain.. ridicule, verbal abuse, my vacation from that over the last three months made me aware the behavior was unacceptable and ridicule did not mean love, like or the desire to toughen one up. No, in fact ridicule means ridicule, ridiculous, But do not be too concerned for me. I had two very adoring grandparents who made certain I had self-esteem, affection and much-needed one on one attention. They had a huge bible I loved. I would read from it as my grandmother patiently went word by word with me. Truly, I loved the pictures. They were so beautiful, something a child's not usually exposed to. This bible went across my legs and onto the floor. It was that big. I miss reading from it. My grandmother taught me how to tie my shoes and tell time.
Now, in defense of my mother, she was 15 when she got married, 16 when she had her first child. One year later, the second, and me, when she was 20. Three kids at 20. She most likely was grateful for this interception, reprieve from the hectic day to day of three very small children vying for her attention. . I know I would be. But that had been so many years ago, and now I had become used to this treatment. Until Debra.
During our 11 years of marriage, Bill came home to a cooked dinner, the house cleaned and laundry done. And if these were not done exactly right, and even when they were, he would slam his fist down, grab his keys and go “out with the guys”. This caused concern and pain on two fronts. If it were payday, which it usually was, he would run through the money and I would be forced to call his father and ask for help. If it wasn’t on payday, I had his chemical influenced anger to deal with. On payday I had both to deal with. Let’s just say, not an ideal situation.
I grabbed the roses, quickly putting them back together and causing my skin to pierce, more blood. Fuck, wasn’t I going to get a break.
Bill drove in while I was reassembling the mess created only minutes before while in Debra‘s clutches. He and I getting out of our cars in rhythm. He had a bouquet of flowers, roses, red in his hands. Figures. Either no one wants you or everyone wants you.
“Ummm, I see you already have your rose allotment for the day” Bill said as he pulled off his suit jacket.
He always looked splendid. For a man. I could feel the tension, and he was cleverly trying to disguise it, not wanting to set off a certain explosion.
“Funny, are we? These are for Devon” as absolutely fucked up as that was, I did keep them for her. “Her birthday is next week”
He came over kissed me on the fore head, flowers in his right hand, his left touching my hair pinned to my head.
“OUCH!” he pulled something out of my head, literally, out of my head.
“What’s this” he held a thorn between his fingers.
My crown of thorns that came with a coupon for an eternity of having my ass kicked.
Beginning of Book
Yes, this is absolutely positively true. If you lived this wouldn't you write about it? Some of the names of characters in this blog are fictitious. This is an account of actual events. Some of the events have been compiled together for the flow of the story. Even when I read my own work, I wonder how it could be so. But if you study your own life and compartmentalize it into less than 200 pages, you would be surprised how interesting it really is!
TRUTH HAS WITNESSES (Dianne Lindsey) This material is the copyright Dianne Schuch Lindsey and cannot be duplicated in any fashion without the express permission of the Author. All rights reserved ©