boots lumbering across the porch. There was a thump followed by cussing. The thought of him coming at her as he had in the past churned in her stomach.
Not now, she prayed. Please, not now.
Closing her eyes, she pretended to be asleep. Eliza caught the smell of whiskey before she felt the weight of him fall onto the bed. Moments later he turned on his side and grabbed her breast.
“Wake up, wife,” he mumbled, his words slurred.
She didn’t need to hear the words to know what he wanted. It had happened countless times before. She’d expected it then but not now. She thought they’d moved past all that ugliness and moved on to a more loving relationship. Found a measure of happiness. As a huge weight of sorrow settled in her chest, her eyes grew watery then overflowed. Tears rolled down her cheeks and dropped silently onto the pillow.
Feigning sleep did not dissuade him. When he was like this, he didn’t care whether she was awake or asleep. He’d take what he wanted then roll onto his back and sleep.
He was fumbling with the buttons on her dress when she heard the baby cry. At first it was just a whimper; then it became a wail. She pushed his hand aside.
“I’ve got to see to Margaret Rose. I’ll be right back.”
Apparently too drunk to argue, he rolled onto his back.
“Shut her up fast,” he said, “I’m…” He mumbled a few less understandable words and began to snore.
On Saturday Martin slept until mid-afternoon. Anticipating that he’d be in a foul mood and nursing a hangover, Eliza sent the eldest three to visit Rita Miller’s boys.
“Mention that you can stay the night if Rita doesn’t mind having you,” she told Oliver.
She’d seen it as a way to keep the pot from boiling over; give Martin the peace and quiet he’d be looking for and hope he’d wake in a better mood. The rainstorm that rolled through just after dawn brought a breeze that made the heat seem tolerable. Martin woke in a somewhat better mood and decided it was a good day for fishing.
“Fix me a bite to eat, and fetch the boys,” he told Eliza.
“They’re not here. I sent them to the Millers so you could get some sleep.”
For a moment he just looked at her with his brows knotted together and his chin set hard as a rock.
“You sent them away when I’m home?” he said, his voice bristling with anger.
“I thought you’d want—”
“I don’t give a damn what you think! They’re my kids. When I’m home, I expect them to be here.”
“John Paul and Louella are here. They’d love to spend time with their daddy. I could fix a picnic basket, and we could take them down by the creek to—”
“Are you deaf? I said I was in the mood to go fishing! There’s no fish in the damn creek.”
Still trying to salvage the day, Eliza offered to go get the boys if Martin would keep an eye on the little ones while she was gone.
“Don’t bother. If they don’t care enough to be here when their daddy’s home, I’m sure as hell not gonna chase after them.”
There was nothing Eliza could do to placate him, and the tension that rippled through the air grew greater by the minute. Each time she suggested something, he countered with a snide remark or a jibe so hurtful that it left marks on the inside of her skin.
“It’s been a wonderful summer,” she said. “Please don’t ruin it now.”
He glared at her. “Me? It’s not me. You’re the one.”
They went back and forth for hours. When the sun began to set, he said he was leaving to catch the late train back to Charleston. As she stood at the door watching him go, the tears came again.
“There was something I wanted to tell you,” she whispered mournfully. “Something I thought you’d be happy about.”
By then, he’d vanished into the darkness of the road.
The Summer of Discontent
THE HEAT WAVE THAT BLANKETED the mountain in August hung on throughout most of September, and Martin remained in Charleston the entire time.
In the fourth month of carrying a new baby, Eliza felt the heat more than most. Her breath came in fluttering gasps, and she suffered dizzy spells that left her so woozy she held onto a chair or table to keep from toppling over. In a condition such as this, there was little she could do when the leaves of the corn rolled inward and