Cloven Hooves. Megan Lindholm

in this wretched little place. Despair washes over me, almost a physical thing. No way to escape this, no way at all. The play is written, I must say my lines.

      “Lyn, I can’t go to Dad now, when he’s counting on us, and say that … are you all right?”

      I nod, swallowing the nauseous lump in my throat. A great wind of stillness is blowing past me, drowning Tom’s voice. Talk to him, I urge myself, watching his mouth move, his head tilt as he coaxes me to be reasonable. I know what he must be saying, but my ears cannot seem to make out the words. Tell him you’re afraid. Tell him they’re going to take him and Teddy away from you, and you will be left alone in the darkness. Tell him. Tell him now.

      But his words are flowing like a river, washing past me, barely touching my ears as they carry us inexorably on. “… that we were staying. It didn’t seem fair to leave them wondering. Mom’s got it all planned out. You can use her washer and dryer on Tuesdays, that fits in with everyone else’s schedule. Steffie was really excited. She’s really a sucker for her little nephew, and she gets so lonely around here in winter. She thought it was great that you and she would get some time together. She’s just full of plans for canning and berry picking this fall, and sewing and cooking together this winter. She really wants to pull you into the family, make you feel like part of the gang. She thought maybe you’d want to go shopping, get some clothes more appropriate for this part of the country …”

      The white noise comes up again, washing over me like a wave. I stare through it, trying to see Tom, my Tom. They would pull him into the family machine and absorb him. Then Teddy. Then me. First it would be helping out with the big family meals and sewing and washing in the big house. Maybe by next spring I’d be taking care of the chickens, helping plan the kitchen garden. By the year after it would be as if I’d never existed as a separate person at all. We would all live happily ever after. All I had to do was let go. Surrender. Admit they were right in feeling sorry for me. Admit I needed to be fixed. Stop being me and become Tom Potter’s wife.

      “Don’t pull at your face like that, honey. You’ll get wrinkles. So, what do you say?”

      Fuck you, Tom Potter, you traitor, traitor, traitor. And fuck me, too, because I am saying, “Well, we’ll have to work out the details as we go along, I guess. It’s just for this winter, right?”

      “Of course, honey. You don’t think we’re going to live here forever, do you?”

      You bet your ass I do. Why do you smile so warmly and go right back to your manual? I look down at my own book, study the shapes of the words on the page. I read a few, they make no sense. So I try counting them. I used to be able to soothe myself by doing this, counting all the words on a page, but tonight it fails me.

      “I’m going to bed,” Tom announces, flopping the old manual shut. He stands and stretches, towering over me in the cramped room. “I want to hit the job early tomorrow, get this tractor back on line. So I’ll get a late breakfast with Dad in town. If you want, I’ll take Teddy with me, you can sleep in.” He pauses. I count words, not looking up from the page. “You’re coming to bed now,” he asks, but it isn’t really a question.

      “Yeah, in a second. Yeah.” I turn a page, count some more.

      He stands over me a few seconds longer. I can feel his contentment, he has it all. He’s come home to his family, to his old familiar world, his wife is tractable, his son is smart, he has it all. He waits for me a few seconds, then shrugs and trudges off down the hall. As soon as he is gone, I feel my shoulders drop. I can breathe, as if the air has flowed back into the space he occupied. I lean back in my chair, setting my book carelessly atop his scribbled notes, listening to the sounds of Tom going to bed. Water runs in the bathroom. Light switch clicks off in the bathroom, then on in the bedroom. Clump of falling shoes, a rustling of clothing. I hear his belt buckle ring against the floor. More rustling and the bed creaks. Silence. The silence grows longer, becomes indignant.

      I know just how he is lying in there. His head is almost under the covers, he is curled on his side. He has left the light burning for me. His eyes are closed but he is far from sleeping. Duty calls me.

      I arise and click off the kitchen light. Night flows into the room from the uncurtained windows. There was part of a moon, and stars peeping through the partial overcast. Rain tomorrow, maybe. Rain. Rain for the new crops rising in green rows. Good. Rain for the fields.