Penance

Chapter 3

Chapter 3Marianne Morris was unable to tell a soul why she stayed on with her husband, Dwight, in a miserable, long-sexless union. Was it because of Becky, their twelve-year-old daughter, asleep on the seat beside her? Was it because she was afraid an existence alone would be worse than what she endured now?

As she drove up to their house, tired after the nine-hour drive from Youngstown, Ohio, she realized what she did and didn’t feel and how that should make things clear for her.

What she didn’t feel was glad to be home. The white bungalow rose up before her, bereft of Christmas decorations. Unlike so many of the other houses on the street, it was dark and empty-looking. A house, not a home.

She wondered if Dwight was inside and, if he was, what he was doing. Since his aunt Adele, protector and substitute mother, had died two weeks ago, Dwight had taken to sitting in the dark for long spells. Once, she had caught him whispering and, when she listened, realized he was talking to his dead aunt. She could tell from the way he phrased things that he understood Aunt Adele was dead, but still it chilled her, made her wonder, as she so often had, who Dwight really was.

As Marianne shut off the car, all she felt was tired. Weariness had settled into her bones, into her spleen, filling her up so completely she wondered if she had the strength to get out of the car and carry her own and Becky’s bags inside the door.

* * * *

She smelled smoke as soon as she swung the front door open. Marianne looked over to Becky, who had her nose raised up, sniffing the air.

Marianne closed her eyes, leaning against the door frame, keys in hand. What now? Upstairs, she heard Dwight’s voice; it sounded low and threatening.

Did he have a boy in the house? Again? Marianne closed the door and put her keys down on the table by the door. She had thought about calling from her sister’s before she left Youngstown, to warn Dwight, hoping she could at least avoid seeing him with another young boy.

But she thought that lately, with his going to his s*x Addicts Anonymous meetings and the therapist at St. Francis in Evanston, he was beginning to overcome what they discreetly referred to as “his problem.”

Marianne also knew she wanted to surprise him, to see if she could catch him, to know for sure if his dedication to helping himself was more than just an act.

“I wanna see Daddee!” Becky sang out. Marianne looked at their retarded daughter, shaking her head. Twelve years old and no signs of maturity, no signs of growth. Twelve years they had struggled with the girl, hoping she would one day be independent.

Mildly retarded was what the specialists had said.

What did mildly mean?

Marianne looked up the stairs, at the blue haze of smoke she saw hanging high up when she turned the light on. She wondered just what had gone on, what she had interrupted.

Before Marianne could stop her, Becky raced ahead and clambered up the stairs, shouting for her father.

Marianne put a hand to her forehead. She knew she should try to stop the girl.

But Marianne was just too tired.

She called out to her daughter, “Becky! Take it easy on those stairs.” Taking a breath, she started up the stairs herself. “Dwight? Are you up there?”

As Marianne reached the top of the stairs, she heard Dwight yelling for Becky to get out of the room. She saw her daughter retreat, the tears welling up, magnified by the thick lenses she wore. She turned to look at her mother, her lower lip trembling, and screamed, “Why is Daddy mad at me?”

Marianne went to her daughter and put her arms around her, wondering what she had seen. Dwight came out of the room, closing the door behind him.

He smelled bad. His robe hung in charred tatters around his shoulders. His hair was a mess. And he wore an expression of absolute terror on his face. Sweat trickled down his forehead even though it wasn’t warm at all in the house. His eyes darted around, looking everywhere but at his wife.

Marianne took her arms away from her daughter, gently moving her aside. “Dwight? Dwight, what the hell is going on here?”

She started toward the closed door of the study and Dwight moved to block her path. “It’s not what you think, honey.”

“I don’t know what to think. What was going on, Dwight? My God, were you trying to burn the house down?”

Dwight swallowed hard. She watched his Adam’s apple move with the effort. “I knocked over a candle is all. It’s nothing. I got it put out.”

Just then Marianne heard some movement from within the room. She looked at Dwight, questioning.

“What are you doing back?” Dwight asked. “I thought you and Becky were staying through Christmas.”

“Don’t, Dwight. Who’s in that room?”

Dwight grinned. “Nobody. Why don’t you go on and take Becky downstairs? I’ll be right down, soon as I get things cleaned up.”

“I don’t think so.”

Just then, the door opened and a young boy, thirteen or fourteen, emerged from the room. He looked scared and weak, hardly able to walk properly. He gripped the wall for support. Marianne turned to her husband. “Dwight? Who?”

The boy brushed by them, whispering something Marianne couldn’t understand.

“Who’s that boy?” Becky yelled as he descended the stairs. The front door closed behind him.

Marianne turned to Dwight, and tears welled up in her eyes.

What was she doing here?

Dwight blurted, “I guess I have some explaining to do.”

“Why is Daddy mad?” Becky screamed once more, then choked on a sob.

Marianne turned to her daughter. “Honey, why don’t you go downstairs to your bedroom? You need to get your things unpacked. You’re a big girl. I know you can do it all by yourself. Can’t you?”

Becky, proud to be given some responsibility, lifted her glasses to wipe the tears out of her eyes, then turned and went down the stairs.

“You don’t need to explain anything,” Marianne said. “I have eyes.” She pushed her husband aside, glad for once she weighed considerably more than he did, and went into the study. Her eyes took it in all at once: the rope, the can of Crisco, the overturned candle, the hunting knife, and the charred patch of carpeting on the floor. The room reeked of smoke.

She turned to Dwight, who was standing at the threshold of the room. He covered his mouth with his hand, then took it away. “I had a slip.”

Marianne nodded. Where were the words? She needed to find the courage to say them…now…while she still could. Tomorrow, she would forgive him and the cycle would start all over.

How long before their names appeared in the Chicago Tribune because her husband was arrested for child molestation?

How much therapy would it take to cure him? How many s*x Addicts meetings? How many nights more would she cry into her pillow, feeling she was drying up as a woman, empty and alone?

How much more jealousy would she feel for these now not-so-faceless teenage kids?

Dwight went on. “Just a slip, Marianne. They say in the group meetings it’s normal.”

Marianne went over and picked up the length of clothesline lying on the floor. “Is this what you used to keep him here?”

“Yes, but—”

“Is that ‘normal’?”

She put the rope down, picked up the can of Crisco. “I wish I could say I only knew one use for this, like other wives.”

Dwight stared at her.

She held the Crisco can up to him. “Normal?”

Dwight crossed to her and took the can from her fingers. “This is the last time. I promise.”

Even though it chilled her, she picked up the knife. She thought, I don’t even want to know. She held it up to him. “Normal?”

Marianne’s lips turned up into what she intended as an ironic smile, but knew probably came out looking more like a grimace.

Say the words. Just find the breath and say them. “Dwight, I—”

She could tell he knew what was coming, but she realized, too, that the words would have to be spoken. Until they were, she could never be free or at peace.

“Dwight, I can’t live with you anymore.”

“Marianne, don’t say that.”

Once the words were out, she realized, it was easier. “It’s not working. It’s not fair.”

“It’s all the kids’ fault, Marianne.”

She looked at him, even more certain she was doing the right thing. “Is that what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

Marianne was too tired to argue, to try to put some reason to his insanity. Maybe in a week or two, she could talk to him again.

Maybe not.

She just wanted to be away. Now that she had said the words, she wanted nothing more than to just get on with it.

He gripped her shoulders. “Please, honey, it’s not me. It’s the kids! They tempt me. They shouldn’t be doing that.” He turned away and began whispering in an enraged, staccato voice. “Filthy little cocksuckers. If it wasn’t for them, I’d have a decent life. Filthy, rotten, dirty little perverts…sucking d**k and letting their little asses get f****d until they bleed…”

Marianne walked out of the room. She couldn’t bear to hear any more. She’d heard the words before. And she knew Dwight needed help. But it was help she just didn’t have to give.

The bags were still by the door. She could work out the details later. Marianne started down the stairs, already practicing how she would explain things to Becky.