even the direst of situations. There was one time, for instance, I filled an entire essay booklet with utter bullshit in a history class I’d almost forgotten I had. It wasn’t anything exciting – just rambling about the injustice of colonialism or something – and I didn’t fool anyone. But the professor was so impressed with my random knowledge that he looked at the essay with just enough of a squint to claim it made sense, and gave me a C+.
That had been the proudest moment of my improvisational life to date. Cold-cocking a brutal husband though, that’s something else entirely. Just like I’d decided, I took my place behind the door, where I knew he wouldn’t see me.
My blood ran cold as I heard him fiddle with the deadbolt, and when it slid back from the doorframe, I listened to the rhythmic thump of my pulse inside my head. Chilly rivulets of sweat ran down either side of my face. I smelled his cologne before he came into view. How he managed to keep smelling like Aramis Classic through a day of manual labor, I’ll never understand, but without exception, he always did. The thought that he’d been cheating on me for half our life together – which was coincidentally when he started smelling like a men’s clothing store – hadn’t occurred to me somehow.
His hand, which was clean of any dirt or grease, was the first bit of him I saw as he passed through the door. Just like I planned, he didn’t bother to look behind him as he walked into the kitchen, but he was trying to be stealthy. Instead of his normal pounding, stomping steps, he was being as subtle as someone like Dan knows how to be.
Why would he bother with the stealth? I mean, he didn’t have any clue of what I had planned. He couldn’t – no one did, not even Karen. Curious as I was, it didn’t matter. The more I thought and considered and fiddled around, the more likely I was to drop the bat and give in once more.
Gritting my teeth, I simply refused to let that happen.
I heard the scratch of a chair against the hardwood in the kitchen. Of course you can’t pick up a chair, just have to scratch up the floor. Already barefoot, because I’m always barefoot if I have a choice, I crept into the kitchen with complete silence.
He was eating. I’ll never forget it as long as I live. There was a pan of enchiladas in front of him – the ones I’d made the night before and that he refused to eat because he said they were too greasy. There he was, chowing down on the whole pan of cold cheese-filled tortillas. Too greasy, my ass, I thought.
Squeezing the handle of my trusty bat, I felt the slightest tug as my skin slid over the wood. Just a few more seconds, count to three, Raine.
One.
Two. Dan took another bite, a shovel-held forkful of enchilada went into his mouth. Some of it dribbled down the side of his face.
Three.
I swung as hard as I could, aiming at the ridge on the back of his head.
Thunk.
It was like the entire world stopped spinning. Dan straightened up in his seat, but didn’t turn around. “Raine?” he asked, his speech slurred a little. “These enchiladas are no... no... no good?”
I fought back against the urge to hit him again. This wasn’t rage, it wasn’t an execution... okay well maybe it was a little like an execution, but I really hoped I wouldn’t have to hit him again.
He stood, pushing back from the table and knocking the old Amish chair backwards. One of his legs faltered, but he managed to catch himself on the end of the table. Turning around, I saw that one of his eyes had gone googly in his skull and the other was staring off at nothing.
“You’re done with me,” I snarled, my body trembling. “I’m done being kept under your thumb.”
Dan started laughing. A rattling, taunting sound with a certain frailty to it. I pulled back to hit him again, aiming right at his left temple. But before I swung, he started to jibber. The laugh turned to gasped breaths, and then he went to one trembling knee. Reaching out for me, Dan grabbed ahold of the waist of my jeans. His weight tugged at them so heavily that I had to back up and push him off to keep him from