Read Online Stop Here by Beverly Gologorsky - Free Book Online Page A

about struggle that women who live with men don’t. What exactly she’d be hard pressed to explain.
    â€œWhat’s there to get, Shelly? A marriage falls into a pit. Who climbs out first? The woman does. Remember Dad’s depressions, what did Ma do? She walked around them till he snapped back. He always did. It never occurred to her to leave.”
    â€œWe don’t know that. It isn’t something she would’ve told us. Anyway, Ma didn’t expect anything better.” She’s not her mom, won’t be.
    â€œShelly, what part in this do you play? What should you be doing that you’re not? Is it all Bruce? It might be. But do you know that for sure?” Patti’s bright blue eyes, so like her own, remain steady on her. Then she glances at her watch and takes another quick sip of coffee. “I couldn’t take lunch, it’s too early. I’m on break. It’s over. Sorry. I’ll call you later.” Her sister drops three singles and rushes out. The door slams, she and the teenagers the only customers there.
    Is Patti right? Is she contributing to Bruce’s behavior? She badgers him constantly. Wear the new boots, take off the hat, pick that up, don’t drop it, too hot, too cold, not right, a thousand ways to control. He lets her, Bruce does. Actually, she does pretty much as she pleases, always has, with her sons, the house, her hours at work.
    â€¢ • •
    In the pharmacy next door, she buys a box of Epsom salts and a packet of bubble bath. Then she picks up a steak at the food market. She’ll hash brown potatoes the way he likes, though he doesn’t need the starch. Wine, yes, that too, and a candle for the table. Maybe some unexpected shaft of light will illuminate his face and rekindle her.
    She takes out her cell phone and leaves Ricky a message to pick up Bruce another night.
    â€¢ • •
    Shoving the pillows deep into cases so they’re plump, she turns down the duvet, exposing the pretty blue hem of the sheet. She remembers how the bed gave itself up to them as if it too was a star performer, the naughty pleasures that followed her into the next day. Remembers too the years of Bruce’s whispered words, always the same endearments because they belonged to her. It’s what’s left of their marriage. Memories.
    She scrubs the bathtub till it’s as white as one in a soap commercial. He used to like it pristine. Peering into the crystal clear mirror, the face that stares back hasn’t begun to reveal the truth. Strong-boned like her mother’s with skin that promises to age gently. A few laugh lines would be good. Her touched-up dark hair is graying at the temples. She doesn’t care the way she used to. There was a time she’d dress up on a Saturday night, heels and all, even if they weren’t going out. He always noticed, Bruce did. He called her his dark Irish beauty, his one and only. He was her mirror, her happiness reflected there. Now her makeup sits unused on a shelf near the sink. She unzips the pouch, takes out foundation, eyeliner, blue shadow, frosty pink lipstick, all the while thinking this is even crazier than some of her fantasies.
    â€¢ • •
    She places the unlit candle in the center of the table set now with matching plates, stemware, and cloth napkins. She won’t broil the steak till he gets out of the bath, then a few glasses of wine. It’s strange, the fussing without the excitement that used to rise in her as naturally as her energy. Still . . . if she doesn’t try . . .
    Hearing the front door, she hurries toward it in the high-slitted long purple dress he brought her from overseas. Her eyes made up, she’s wearing earrings and perfume. “Bruce? Honey?” When was the last time she called him honey?
    â€œSomething happen?” His face drains of what little color it has.
    â€œNo. Everything’s fine. Let’s have us an evening.”