Linda

How much must a woman endure before saying, "Enough!" Note: Since this was posted I've expanded and concluded it, as a novella, on Smashwords, titled, Breaking the Pattern. It can be downloaded free.

LINDA

 

 

 

Linda sat, hunched forward in the rocker, chewing her lip and trying to ignore the pain that came with each breath as she studied her husband.

Jack sprawled across the bed, in a stupor brought on by a night of drink and the effort of beating her. She could undress him, but that might wake him and bring a renewal of the anger. In the morning, sober again, he’d be apologetic a model husband but not now.

Killing him would be easy and satisfying, and she thought about that for a long time. The pleasure those thoughts brought offset the pain. But if she wasn’t able to do it quickly enough, and he got free…

Hands clenched in her lap, she mouthed the words she didn’t dare speak the feelings she could never express aloud.

She thought about why she married Jack the second man to treat her as an object on which to vent rage.

How stupid she’d been, but how lucky she’d thought herself at seventeen in finding Opie, her knight in uniform, who provided a way out of the battle-torn shack her parents called home.

Opie, with his marine swagger and imperious manner had the worldliness of someone who’d traveled beyond the county of his birth. He represented an escape from so much. But it was an escape to something worse than home, a marriage that lasted only seven months, all of it downhill, leaving her alone, frightened, bruised, with pennies in her pocket limping along a rural highway in Mississippi.

This second marriage lasted a year. There would be no other.

With a sigh, she leaned back into the old rocker, wincing at a twinge of pain from a new bruise. Like the other beatings, this one had its beginnings in events over which she had no control.

° ° °

 

Jack came onto the porch, the hesitation in his step announcing that he was already drunk. She gave thought to hiding in the shed till he slept it off. But he was already reaching for the door. And, drunk or sober he’d been fairly well behaved since the last time, nearly a month before. And the one time she had hidden, he accused her of being unfaithful of being out of the house with another man and had whipped her with his belt until she’d prayed to die.

Jack, angry and sober, was a far worse thing than when under the influence of a few beers. She thought then about leaving, had even begun packing, but in the end, returned everything to its place before he could notice. Without money or skills, and with Jack’s promise to track her down and kill her if she left, options were limited.

Instead of hiding, this night, she forced a smile when he came into the living room, saying, "Hi, honey. How was your day?"

He was five hours late for dinner, now long cold in the refrigerator.

He growled something unintelligible and sank into the easy chair, blowing out a cloud of beery breath and scratching his stomach. Given the condition he was in, she breathed a prayer that he wasn’t in the mood for sex. After a few beers he lost what little consideration he normally had for her pleasure, using her as he might a drunken s**t, rather than a beloved wife. Sometimes, she wondered if he actually knew the meaning of the word love. Sober, he was a passable, if unimaginative lover, but drunk, he was an unfeeling brute, demanding things of her as he might a prostitute.

She studied him, seeking some clue as to what kind of mood he was in, so she could adapt to it and get through the night.

He muttered again. Missing his words a second time, she said, "What was that, Jack, honey? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you."

He swiveled his head toward her, mouth turned down in disgust. "I said, I lost the f*****g job, you deaf b***h! I lost the f*****g job."

Oh s**t! She clamped hard on the urge to run for the door. That would be suicide. Running triggered his hunting instincts, and he was sitting between her and the door.

The problem wasn’t the loss of the job. He was a good mechanic could be a better one if not for the drinking, so he could find another. The fear was for what that loss might mean for her.

Forcing the chair around with a shriek of complaining wood, he pointed a grease-stained finger at her.

"Let me tell you, something, baby. That Jew-b*****d Koch the f****r who owns the god damned agency he wouldn’t know a good mechanic from a dumb n****r, but he’s gonna pay for this. I’ll tell you that. He’s gonna pay real good!"

"What will you do, Jack?" Her voice was a tiny thing, mouse-like, and inoffensive, she hoped.

He stared at her for a long moment, then mimicked her voice, bringing his own to a nerve-jangling falsetto screech she despised.

"What will you do, Jack? What will you do, Jack? What the hell do you think I’m going to do? I’m going to kill that b*****d. That’s what I’m going to do."

Her shock must have shown, because he abruptly stood, overbalancing and stumbling against the footstool, which he kicked out of the way with a crash.

"Don’t you f*****g look at me that way, you b***h! The whole thing’s your fault anyway."

Wise enough to keep her mouth shut, she said nothing, simply poised herself to flee, if necessary. With a growl, he waved a backhanded blow at her, mumbling, "Pow! I ought to do a job on you, but you’re too f*****g dumb to change."

With that, he stumbled into the darkened bedroom, accompanied by her sigh of relief.

Unfortunately, he was only passing through it, making a toilet call. He returned to the living room far too soon, then headed for the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator, bracing himself against the door as he scanned the inside.

She got to her feet and began easing toward the front door, but before she could get more than a few steps in that direction, the door of the old refrigerator slammed shut, accompanied by the crash of jars spilling from the door compartments.

"There’s no beer, you stupid b***h. I told you to buy some beer!"

She thought of telling him the truth, that he hadn’t remembered to give her money for the beer, but that would only make him angrier.

"I’ll go now, Jack," she said, hurriedly. "I’ll run down to the store right "

Any further words she might have said were stilled as his hand clamped on her windpipe, nearly lifting her from her feet. The rest was a blur of pain and fear as he vented his rage on her, the cruel blows raining on her body like some demented parody of a boxing match. Only the fact that he would begin kicking her, should she fall to the floor, kept her on her feet, saying "please," over and over in a litany of fear. When he threw her to the bed and began to tear at her clothing, it was a relief.

 

° ° °

 

The beating hadn’t lasted long, nor was it as bad as some, but it finally broke something inside a dam of pent-up anger and self-lothing that had been filling for years. First had been the endless years of warfare between her parents, with their insane and unpredictable alterations between passion and hate with her used as both a weapon and target. Then, there was the stupidity of her first marriage, and the death of her dreams of romance and escape. Now, there was Jack.

As she sat watching her husband hating him with every fiber of her being she wondered how she could ever have put up with him. Certainly he was the one who took her in when Opie pushed her out of the car and drove off, though she’d paid for that with the only coin she possessed, her body. Certainly, when he wasn’t drunk, he was a decent enough person.

He was even handsome, when his face wasn’t flushed with anger. But at best, he treated her as an appliance, as though wives were bought at the discount store and had only certain, well defined functions: keep house, tend the small crop fields, wash his clothes, satisfy his sexual needs, and absorb his rage when necessary. It was assumed that any needs she had would be taken care of without his help. That he neither loved nor respected her was all too obvious.

 

Reaching a decision, she limped her way to the closet where her battered old suitcase was stored, tucked behind a carton; hidden against her need. He’d thrown it away, snarlingly informing her that she’d leave at his convenience, not hers. But she retrieved the case, wiping away the mud stains before hiding it.

Clearing the top of the dresser she opened the case, leaning the top against the mirror to hide her battered face from view. Moving quietly enough not to disturb him she began to pack, taking only what fit into that small case.

Finally finished, she moved to the bed and began the most difficult part: getting to his wallet. Lost job or not, this was payday, and he would have two weeks pay in his pocket, maybe even something extra as severance pay. He’d been on that job for seven months.

Her own money, saved penny-by-penny, amounted to less than fifty dollars, and would take her no further than the next man like Jack. But there’d be no more like him, and for that more than a few dollars were needed.

Jack grumbled under his breath as she got into the bed, then settled down to snoring as she leaned against him, as though cuddling in her sleep. He never stirred as she removed the wallet.

Nine-hundred dollars! There were nine one hundred dollar bills in the wallet, plus fifty in smaller bills. She didn’t take the time for an exact count, but there was enough to get her out of the county, even the state. Enough, perhaps, for a new start.

 

Slinging her bag over her shoulder and picking up the suitcase, she cast a longing glance at the old sewing machine in the corner. Through the bad times it had been her companion and her solace. Leaving it was like leaving a dear friend. Everything in her wardrobe had been made on that machine, copied from the dresses worn by models in the newspaper and in the magazines she took from trash cans. Jack wouldn’t let her buy patterns for the clothing, grumbling over the expense of the cloth she used.

Unable to simply pass by, she bent her footsteps toward the old machine, stopping to run her hand over its smooth curves, stroking the cool metal of the drive wheel and thinking about how well it would do to sew a shroud for her husband.

About to leave at last, she turned her head for a last look at his sleeping form, then stopped, fingernails tapping the metal of the machine wondering. She stood that way for a time, lost in thought. Then, with the beginnings of a smile, picked up the suitcase and headed for the front door.

 

The night air was soft and filled with the growing smells of springtime, symbolizing, for her, a new beginning, one that would take her from this place and this life. Never again would she submit. Never again would she permit a man to dominate her life. A line had been crossed, and there would be no going back. The flame of anger had been hard to ignite. Life before this had seen to that. But now it burned with a clear and steady glow as she loaded her suitcase into the rear seat of the car. She placed her worn old shoulder bag on the front passenger seat, then slipped the keys into the ignition, where they would be ready. Sliding out of the car, she closed the door far enough to extinguish the overhead light and kill the warning tones, but left it unlatched, in case she might have to get into the car on a run. Finally, she headed back to the house.

 

First, she bathed, flinching at the new bruises and scowling in disgust at the yellowed remains of the older ones. Then, she dressed herself in the best of the clothing remaining in her closet. Finally, she headed toward her sewing box for needle and thread.

There was anger in her hands as she sewed, and anger in the teeth that bit off the ends of the thread she used to sew the legs of his pants together. It wasn’t the kind of anger Jack knew. His was unreasoning rage, destructive and wild. Hers was cold and controlled, serving her purpose. Moments after she began, her lips turned up in a grim little smile at the realization that there was little chance of him stopping her, with his legs immobalized, even should he wake.

That complete, she rolled him onto his back and sewed his sleeves to his shirt front, using heavy duty button thread. Even should he wake, getting free would take more time than for her to reach the waiting car.

But there was no need to run. He never woke as she pulled the sheets free from the mattress and tossed them atop his body, to form a form-fitting tube, which she sewed to his sleeves and pants.

 

 The task took several hours, but when she finished he was sealed inside a body-sack that bound his arms and legs far more securely than had she tied him. The sack she sewed to the mattress, laughing at the mental picture that brought, of him laboriously working his way to highway with that mattress on his back like a snail’s shell. By then, she was humming to herself, not caring if he woke.

Finally finished, she had only to go over the hurried work she’d done in the beginning, reinforcing it, to be certain there’d no easy escape. He might work his way free, or worm himself out of the house and to the highway, but that would take hours. In any case, a call to the sheriff, when she was safe, would insure that he’d survive.

He was awake when she cut the final thread, bloodshot eyes squinting in the morning’s light, his face filled with confusion. It was then that she sat back to admire her work, ignoring his angry questions. With a nod of satisfaction she stood, and then went looking for his baseball bat.

 

Linda was humming to herself as she drove away, glad she’d taken the time to kiss him goodbye, even if he hadn’t noticed. It was, she decided, the start of a beautiful day.

 

° ° ° °

 

Author's Note

This piece began as a dramatization of an event reported by a woman who was driven to emulate Willie Nelson's first wife. When the story was complete, I was curious about what happened to Linda after that morning, so I began a novel that followed her life after that traumatic night. It was only after I finished that I learned that the story about Willie Nelson is urban legend, and only partly true.

Reviews

[deleted]

I like how it was written and it was easy to follow.Throughout the story, I got a sense of Linda's feelings of fear and cautiousness. However, I did not get the same of her anger. I think it could've been shown in the scene below:

* The night air was soft and filled with the growing smells of springtime, symbolizing, for her, a new beginning, one that would take her from this place, and this life. Never again would she submit. Never again would she permit a man to dominate her life. A line had been crossed, and there would be no going back. The flame of anger had been hard to ignite. Life before this had seen to that. But now it burned with a clear and steady glow, as she loaded her suitcase into the rear seat of the car. She placed her worn old shoulder bag on the front passenger seat, then slipped the keys into the ignition, where they would be ready. Sliding out of the car, she closed the door far enough to extinguish the overhead light and kill the warning tones, but left it unlatched, in case she might have to get into the car on a run. Finally, she headed back to the house.*

Instead of telling us about this anger, show us. It seems you try during the scene where she pauses to look at her sowing machine.

Overall great story.

[Akshay Rawal]

Hi, I acutally found you after reading a review of yours on Myra Fellow's story Entanglement. Then I read your bio and finally reading this story you've written, I'd say you're a very expressive and insightful writer. I believe this must have been a result of years of practice but I'd think less of that and would just marvel at your well-written pieces instead.

This one was surely an entertaining story, the world was small with necessary items. The fact that she knew sewing added an unexpected twist to this tale, as this is quite an innovative way to capture a person. The writing kept me hooked through the story and caused me read more and more along, and that's the sign of an interesting write - The length just doesn't matter :)

Great work, and I look forward to read more of your work. Your way of explaining and putting the emotions, the crux of the actions and situations in well-chosen metaphors is really refreshing.

Thanks for sharing

[ToddK]

I liked this. I liked how I felt I really knew Linda as I learned more about her. I could tell she was smart, but unable to show any form of intelligence because of the put down of a long string of losers she'd teamed up with. Through no fault of her own, she had reached the end of her life rope. If SHE didn't initiate some changes, the only change would be her disappearance and a shallow grave somewhere in the woods. I like how she did more than simply flee. She made a statement by sewing him to that bed. The statement was "This is no longer going to be my lot in life. Today, I turn a corner and live for me."
Thanks for taking the time to tell this story, Jay. It was well told and I was inspired to make my own writing better.

[Brooke Graco]

I really liked this short story. I could really feel all of Linda's emotions through her actions. At first, I thought maybe the anger could be shown in a more heated way, but soon realized that it was a deep, cold anger, so I believe the controlled way of expressing her anger through the words you used was great.
Every time I read one of your pieces, I learn something different. Everyone expresses emotions differently, and I should really zero in on how that one character feels these emotions compared to the stereotype most people put down.
Thanks again!

[JayG]

I'm glad you enjoyed it. If you'd like to read more of Linda's tale, I released the novella a few days, as Breaking the Pattern. It's currently pay what you want on Smashwords, and I'm fine with $0.00.

[Brooke Graco]

I didn't even know about Smashwords!
I've just signed up and I'm looking forward to reading your book!

[Chopstix]

#WhyILeft drew out #WhyIStayed. This story should inspire #WhyIJustHadToKillHim. In California, spousal abuse is serious. Our laws allow evidence of abuse as mitigating evidence in murder cases. I don’t think Mississippi has the same law. This story wouldn’t help it pass one. Basically, this is a Wife takes advantage of an abusive husband’s slumber to bind him, bludgeon him and live happily ever after.

Linda comes from a volatile home where her parents involve her in their attacks upon each other (how they did this is not specified and we do not know if it involved physical abuse) which prompts Linda, at age 17, to leave home with Opie. Opie marries her, but he is physically abusive. He abandons her. She stumble upon Jack, her second husband, who treats her worse than anyone.

This story begins with Linda contemplating what to do after Jack, drunken, beats and rapes her. She reviews, briefly, her past relaionships. After a story break, we read an obligatory back story dump including more details of the evening. After another story break, the back story continues and blurs in details of her relationship with Opie. When readers catch back up with the stories start, the story proceeds with a series of actions and reflections as Linda improvises her retaliation.

I think this story should make readers sympathetic towards Linda, but the writing betrays her.
First, she’s a bigamist. Her first husband throws her out of his car, but that does not constitute a divorce.
Second, she steals from Jack, her second husband.
Third, she murders her husband by sewing him into their sheets and beating him with a baseball bat.
The writing also states she has no skills, but she makes her own clothes and seems adept at sewing. In the end, she drives off into the sunset even though there is nothing in the story to suggest she ever owned or operated a motor vehicle.
Most peculiar, she’s been married twice without any mention of a wedding or honeymoon. The story makes a point of saying whether characters have ever been outside the county of their birth. Only Opie, who served as a marine, is attributed with any travel.

To be fair, the author never actually says what Linda does with the baseball bat. Strangely enough, she kisses Jack before driving off which seems inconsistent. Her entire set of actions are inconsistent. She flees though she believes Jack will hunt her down and harm, probably kill her.

Perhaps the worst sequencing error is Linda’s taking time to shower before spending hours sewing up her husband. Too risky to to be believed. A rational person would bind her tormentor before tidying up. Even drunken men wake to urinate. It happens. Quite often.

This is a short story (2500 words) so I understand that every detail can not be included. The question remains: Is the story written well enough to capitalize and sustain readers suspension of disbelief. In my read, no. There are several noteworthy reasons why.

First: Many sentences are wordy, verbose, turgid even. This story employs a lot of narration, third person limited or TPL. All third person narration should place authors thoughts in readers minds as quick as possible. Scene descriptions should flow quickly so that readers feel like they are there. Action descriptions should reflect the action’s pace: violent action, quick; lingering drawn out (but only a little). Words get in the way, but they are language’s medium. Narration should be pared down by choosing the best verbs and phrases to convey narration’s subject.

Mathematicians have a saying: The longer the proof, the more likely it will have an error. In first submitted proofs, there is, on average, one error per page. In writing, there is a similar rule. The longer a sentence, the more likely it will contain unintentional errors, usually misplaced modifiers. In English, sentences start running into trouble after fifteen words (okay, before I Googled it, I would have said writers get into trouble after ten words).

Second: John Gardner, in The Art of Fiction, points out that stories should start somewhere in the middle. Exactly where is a hard call. This story does this, but the backstory, in this case, gets in the way. I wonder if it’s needed after all. To keep it, the story should start even later, perhaps as Linda leaves the scene. This could shrink the ponderous first section and streamline the back story.

Third, and most important: Keeping narration in check. There are many instances of narrator intrusion. The worst example is the line: There would be no other. At first, I thought this might be a little foreshadowing leading to suicide, but that didn’t happen. The story ends as Linda leaves the house and drives away. We really have no idea what happens afterward, just that she feels good about it. This leaves the above sentence completely without purpose. It doesn’t fit. Cutting it would actually help this story.

There are two many sentences like “First had been the endless years of warfare between her parents, with their insane and unpredictable alterations between passion and hate, with her used as both a weapon and target.(30)” Many problems here. She left home, so Linda’s parent’s abuses actually ended. I’m unclear on how they used her as a weapon, though target suggests actual abuse. The weapon part seems like a throw in which does not advance the story in any way. “Alterations,” use for fluctuations?, draws attention to itself and wrecks the sentences. It reads like they keep hemming and re-hemming their trousers.

Near the end of this story, Linda undertakes a series of actions which shows her transition from fearful punching bag, to scheming escapist, to crafty assurance ending with baseball bat wielding murderess (okay the murder is not stated, but when writers leave details up to readers, they must accept what readers fill in). Since Linda’s back story excludes any hint of these actions, they are out of character. Duh, her character is changing, but something is missing here. Readers can follow her actions, but not her thoughts or reasons. Excluding the mistimed shower, which is just wrong, Linda’s actions lack credulity. Something is just plain missing here which brings out this stories greatest flaw, readers suspension of disbelief breaks down.

Two easy fixes come to mind: Switch to first person and use internal dialog with lots of italics, or add a character to which Linda can talk this out. She could call a crisis hot line, her mother or a friend (it seems weird that Linda lives all her life in one county – implied - and has no friends). Even better, restructure the story starting events further back, after the baseball bat. Imagine her arrested and telling her side of the story to a detective while she’s handcuffed to an interrogation table.

The first goal of writing is to inform. This story fails. There are just too many questions. By cleaning out sentences and throwing out tossed in details, this story could shed at least 500 words. With that much word space, perhaps some important answers could be worked in. I’d like to know.

Did Linda ever love Jack (as her kiss implies) and why? Saving her from the street just be beat her seems insufficient.

What was her parents altercations about? How did they use Linda as a weapon? As a target? And a little about how this left Linda so accepting of violence against her.

Why doesn’t she have any friends?

Would she be attractive should her bruises heal? I mean, if she were a fat, ugly cow, part of her relationship with Jack could be seen as settling.

Why does she think herself unskilled when she seems to be accomplished at sewing and making her own dress patterns by looking at magazines?

Does Linda enjoy anything about her life? What is her fondest memory of Jack?

No telephone? No smart phone? When is this story set?

Where in the world would she go, if she could? Where would she settle on going with only $900?

It’s not that I want to read more of this story. I just want my money’s worth.

[Huckleberry Hoo]

I noticed a few little things while reading, ie in the second section, fifth paragraph, "Given the condition he was in, she breathed..." not breather.

Also, same paragraph, I'm not sure you need the comma after beers?

And perhaps a bit stereotypical, a wife beating Southerner named Opie?

But I noticed that you identified yourself as a "storyteller" in your bio, which is how I think of myself also, and storytellers should pay little note to such things, as opposed to authors. I enjoyed the read.

[JayG]

Fixed, thank you. No matter how many times you edit...

As for Opie? He reminds me of a relative.

[Ralph Proenza (Docralph..]

Great story. I like how you connect with the reader, first with emotion, then with the words. Being a man, I know how to properly treat a woman, so yes, I wanted to bash the worthless jerk over the head. Very evocative— good writing!

[Ted Kniffen]

I quite liked this Jay. The characters come across as very believable and since I have lived through situations like this with my parents I can appreciate the dialogue and the thinking.
Now then, my wife is a seamstress so the revenge aspect is more than real, it is scary. The helplessness he'll feel when he regains his senses and the empowerment she has gained is priceless.

A good write.