Read Online Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough by Isabel Sharpe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Isabel Sharpe
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like this. I try to get away. Then he says he isn't going to hurt me. He just wants to touch my hair. So he slides his hand down my hair and says he knew it would be that soft. And then he rides away like he's embarrassed.
I don't remember the last time someone touched me nicely. My mom did, but she left so long ago it seems like a dream.
I want him to touch me again.
Joe was late.
Erin glanced out the front window at Maple Avenue. No sign of a car. Most cars that came down this far were either Joe's or turning around. She and Joe didn't have too many visitors. Sometimes his friends would come by to play cards or watch movies. But not often.
She and Joe lived at the dead end of the street; their house was set off some from the others. Another house could fi t on either side of theirs. Behind them lay woods and farmland and a stream she used to imagine joined the Mississippi. She loved the idea of being connected to something as vast and powerful as the Mississippi, though she'd never bothered to find out if the stream fed into the mighty river or not. She didn't want to deal with the disappointment if it just went into Lake Chippewa.
Her stomach growled; she put a protective hand to it. Funny how gas felt like a moving baby. She was hungry, but Joe hated eating dinner alone; he always said eating alone made him feel as if he were a bachelor. The fact that he hadn't ever been a bachelor, just a child and then a teenager and then a husband didn't seem to matter. He felt like a bachelor when he ate alone. So Erin waited, allowing herself a few crackers to tide her over.
She'd made progress on a painting this afternoon. Towering layer cakes frosted brown and pink and white, yellow tulips, and a plate of blue -silver trout. But once she realized Joe wasn't coming home on time, she couldn't paint. The uneasiness got in the way.
If Joe was late, he was out at Harris's Tavern. Slightly late, say six -thirty, meant he'd stopped for a drink; he'd be mellow, cheerful, and affectionate. He'd tell her how the country should be run, how the town should be run, how the butcher shop he worked at should be run. She'd listen and laugh at his jokes, make him feel interesting and funny, and the evening would be pleasant.
Seven o'clock, he'd have two drinks in him. He'd be harder to cajole into a good mood, tired, more withdrawn, early to bed.
Seven-thirty, he'd find some fault with dinner, with the house, with her attitude, with her appearance, and turn it into a chance to make sure she realized he'd been forced to marry her. Sooner or later he'd mention the lost babies. The first baby was the only reason he married her; where was that baby now? Where were the rest of them? Dead, that's where. And why hadn't there been any since Joy; what was wrong with her? If he knew then that she wasn't normal, he would have used protection. Lots of guys were having sex in high school; he could have gotten condoms without the Stottlers, who owned the drugstore, fi nding out.
Eight o'clock, he'd come home mean and want sex the way she hated it most.
It was nearly eight -thirty.
She wandered into their bedroom, past her studio, which had been set up as a nursery until Joe went nuts one night, brought in an ax, and destroyed everything. He was tired of her keeping the room that way with the baby dead and no more coming. The crib, the wallpaper she'd put in herself, the changing table, the tiny chair, the rocking airplane for when Joy was older, he'd chopped it all up. Erin hadn't been able to stand it. She'd wanted to take the ax and chop Joe up, but she couldn't get it away from him. She'd ended up with bruises and a cut near her mouth that left a small scar. Another one.
When Joe came back to normal, he'd insisted they make the room over into a studio for her. It had seemed horrible to replace Joy's room with a room just for Erin, as if Joy had to die twice. But Joe's self -loathing and his
I don't remember the last time someone touched me nicely. My mom did, but she left so long ago it seems like a dream.
I want him to touch me again.
Joe was late.
Erin glanced out the front window at Maple Avenue. No sign of a car. Most cars that came down this far were either Joe's or turning around. She and Joe didn't have too many visitors. Sometimes his friends would come by to play cards or watch movies. But not often.
She and Joe lived at the dead end of the street; their house was set off some from the others. Another house could fi t on either side of theirs. Behind them lay woods and farmland and a stream she used to imagine joined the Mississippi. She loved the idea of being connected to something as vast and powerful as the Mississippi, though she'd never bothered to find out if the stream fed into the mighty river or not. She didn't want to deal with the disappointment if it just went into Lake Chippewa.
Her stomach growled; she put a protective hand to it. Funny how gas felt like a moving baby. She was hungry, but Joe hated eating dinner alone; he always said eating alone made him feel as if he were a bachelor. The fact that he hadn't ever been a bachelor, just a child and then a teenager and then a husband didn't seem to matter. He felt like a bachelor when he ate alone. So Erin waited, allowing herself a few crackers to tide her over.
She'd made progress on a painting this afternoon. Towering layer cakes frosted brown and pink and white, yellow tulips, and a plate of blue -silver trout. But once she realized Joe wasn't coming home on time, she couldn't paint. The uneasiness got in the way.
If Joe was late, he was out at Harris's Tavern. Slightly late, say six -thirty, meant he'd stopped for a drink; he'd be mellow, cheerful, and affectionate. He'd tell her how the country should be run, how the town should be run, how the butcher shop he worked at should be run. She'd listen and laugh at his jokes, make him feel interesting and funny, and the evening would be pleasant.
Seven o'clock, he'd have two drinks in him. He'd be harder to cajole into a good mood, tired, more withdrawn, early to bed.
Seven-thirty, he'd find some fault with dinner, with the house, with her attitude, with her appearance, and turn it into a chance to make sure she realized he'd been forced to marry her. Sooner or later he'd mention the lost babies. The first baby was the only reason he married her; where was that baby now? Where were the rest of them? Dead, that's where. And why hadn't there been any since Joy; what was wrong with her? If he knew then that she wasn't normal, he would have used protection. Lots of guys were having sex in high school; he could have gotten condoms without the Stottlers, who owned the drugstore, fi nding out.
Eight o'clock, he'd come home mean and want sex the way she hated it most.
It was nearly eight -thirty.
She wandered into their bedroom, past her studio, which had been set up as a nursery until Joe went nuts one night, brought in an ax, and destroyed everything. He was tired of her keeping the room that way with the baby dead and no more coming. The crib, the wallpaper she'd put in herself, the changing table, the tiny chair, the rocking airplane for when Joy was older, he'd chopped it all up. Erin hadn't been able to stand it. She'd wanted to take the ax and chop Joe up, but she couldn't get it away from him. She'd ended up with bruises and a cut near her mouth that left a small scar. Another one.
When Joe came back to normal, he'd insisted they make the room over into a studio for her. It had seemed horrible to replace Joy's room with a room just for Erin, as if Joy had to die twice. But Joe's self -loathing and his
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