Free Dishonor Thy Wife by Belinda Austin Page A

on his face, cracking me in
two. Even my voice shakes as if Brad shattered my tongue. “Dinner is ready.
See.”
    He blows out the candles and snorts. “I’ll catch a bite
later.” His eyes roll down my body, sneering. “I’m not hungry now.”
    His car backs out of the driveway, and the stench of four
dozen roses is nauseating. “Jekyll and Hyde,” I mutter, “Brad number one is
back.” I hurl Brad’s plate, and two rare steaks slide slowly down the wall,
leaving a trail of bloody marks.
    Someone is crying her heart out.
    “Oh, Traci, sweetie.”
    My little girl is sitting on the bottom step with her head
in her lap, sobbing. She mumbles in a voice filled with hiccups, “He’s back.”
    The phone rings.
    “Hello?” I answer in a harsh voice.
    “Hello?” I say louder.
    “Hello,” I yell.
    Click.
    I slam the phone on its cradle.
    With any luck, the person will not call back. There was a
heavy breathing that creeped me out.
    “Mommy?”
    “What is it, Traci?”
    “I heard a scratching at the window.”
    I pat her head with a shaky hand, trying to reassure her. I tiptoe
around the house, listening for noises, and double-checking the locks, and then
set the alarm.
    Traci kneels by her bed praying, “Please send my daddy back
to me.”
    I lay in bed, listening for Brad, remembering all the ugly, threatening
things he has said to me in the past. I jump out of bed and lock the bedroom
door.
    Finally, he stumbles into the house at 1:55 in the morning.
    He was sober enough to disarm the alarm!
    I jump out of bed and rearm the alarm. A button is marked Police .
The cops will be here in minutes if I ever push this button. It is insane that
Brad is frightening again. Just last night, we had sex and slept together. He
sent me roses! I am afraid to leave my room and get the screwdriver. I was an
idiot to put it back in the kitchen drawer.
    At least Brad is not snoring tonight in his own room. Yet, I
am disappointed that he did not at least try the doorknob to my bedroom.
Stupid, stupid! Why even want such a thing when my meat is decaying on the
dining room floor! I will clean up the mess in the morning. Brad so
disheartened me that I just did not feel like dealing with the spoiled dinner.
    I barely sleep and in the morning go downstairs to clean the
kitchen and dining room. The thorn of a rose jabs my toe. My beautiful roses
are scattered across the den carpet. Someone deliberately tried to destroy the
flowers.
    Traci is mad at her father for not working on her horse
yesterday. She has never been destructive like Brad but his moods may finally
be affecting her. Did Traci swing the roses around her head, fling the roses to
the ground, and stomp on them?
    I clean up the destroyed flowers, tears dripping down my
cheeks. Only a dozen are damaged. Brad sent me flowers and said he was sorry.
He deserves a second…a third chance.
    Brad walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water.
    I smile brightly and sing, “Good morning, Brad. I made you
breakfast.”
    He makes a face at the eggs and bacon, holds his stomach,
and gags. “What are you all of a sudden? Betty Crocker?” He dumps the plate of
food in the garbage disposal. “The smell of eggs is nauseating. You are trying
to make me sick! Is that what you want? To poison me!” he hollers.
    “You are crazy Brad!”
    “I told you to never call me crazy! You know my real parents
gave me up for adoption. Who knows if mental disease runs in my blood?”
    You are welcome for breakfast, schizo.
    Over the noise of eggs and bacon crunching in the garbage
disposal, Brad’s car roars out of the garage.
    Quit messing with my mind, Brad, and driving me insane!   I
clench my hands on the counter and want to scream. He is making me nuts. For seven
weeks, the man eats breakfast every morning. Now he claims eggs make him ill.
    Traci is hiding under the table. She is gurgling as though
choking.
    I wipe my mouth with a trembling hand. I must see to
Traci. Oh, God, what is Brad