The Game

“What we won’t do for ourselves, we will do for our children.”

The leeches were cold, wet, and repugnant against Kate’s lower left jaw and lip. Gnarled fingers gently probed the swollen and bruised area around them. “Just a bit more.” Agnes’ voice sounded as if an old bullfrog was buried deep down in her sagging chest. “You know girl, there are lines in life and there are circles.” Turning around she stoked the fire, “Lines are things like knitting a sweater or aging–definite beginning and end. You are in a circle, not a good one either. Needs to be broken.”

“The seasons change but they always come back,” Kate said while looking into her friend’s watery blue eyes, “Besides, the last time I ran he caught me.” Looking down at her chapped callused hands, “I am his by law and church. He can beat me with a stick, can’t be bigger than my wrist.”

 Emily played under the table, ignoring all but the frisky kitten she teased with a feather, her laughter a stark contrast to everything in this moment. The midwife’s home was so compact that nothing was more than a pace away from the hearth with its blazing fire that had the cabin and Kate sweltering–she wished for escape into the cold snowy day of early spring. 

The woman poked at her wounded face and then held up a single arthritic finger. “A marriage is a wheel, not a season. Wheels can be broken and never used again. You, my dear, just removed the wheel from the cart, and he put it back on.” She tapped the side of her head and then pointed at Kate. Grabbing the salt, she started to remove the now plump parasites. “I would send you home with some of these, but that fool would most likely think they are bad luck.” Plucking the last one off, she looked at her with piercing eyes, “You will pass it to Emily. Do you want that?”

***

The snow and crocus had melted away to tulips and daffodils as Kate stood letting the dishwater warm her hands and the breeze from the open door soothe her bruised face. She was thankful: for him being too drunk to go up the ladder after their daughter, for surviving another night, for a home, a full belly, and the clothes on her back. She ran all her blessings over and over to comfort and soothe her heart, which took as much of a beating as her body. Then she started with what was good about her husband. He could read and write, was a good father, had a good sense of humor, and always admitted when he was wrong in the dark events they shared.

By the time the breakfast dishes were finished, a feeling of calm was upon her. Blessings. She would count them—for happiness, for strength, for gratitude—and count them she did. They had little meant there was little to clean, the thought had popped into her mind as she wiped down the crude table and benches that have been smoothed by time rather than workmanship. The pungent smell of vinegar infiltrated her nose and made her eyes water as she dumped it and the dish water into a bucket. Walking first to the windows, the home had three, and she washed each one. It was a luxury she never took for granted. The bedroom window was her favorite, for the first morning light as it caressed her face and watching the stars on sleepless nights – Blessings. 

 There was comfort in the routine of her day. 

Before she even dressed, she made the bed, touching the wedding quilt her mother made kept her close.  Her scrubbing and straightening continued between the two rooms. In the kitchen, she lifted and wiped down each item that sat on the mantle, the small tin that held their money, a box that held the ammunition for the gun – she moved it back to its proper place. Glancing over at the rifle that hung over the door then turned back to the mantle where the only other item was a candlestick, it’s sister, lived in the bedroom on a small stool by the bed. They were left to her when her mother died. The silver finish was out of place in the small rustic home, but they were practical and sentimental at the same time. Bending down to scrub the hearth, a task she did whenever she needed to think; lately it sparkled like it was made the day before. Standing up and inspecting the floor, it too needed a scrub but mud season was not over and she didn’t need to think that much. She stretched her back and approached the door with her bucket in hand, her steps faltered by the sound of a small angry voice.

“Not right!” Shouted Emily. Kate didn’t hear the little boy’s reply, but it was her normally soft-spoken daughter’s sharp tone that had caught her attention.  “hit me – then flowers.” Her daughter’s voice faded as the children moved away.

Kate didn’t need to hear any more, she had gone numb. Her soul ached and her mind ran in disbelief of the reality before her. The truth of Agnes’ words echoed within her head causing her to blindly dump the water out of the door, she sat down hard on the front stoop, her mind in confusion which her body stilled. Boots came into her vision and her gaze rose up to a pair of strong legs, a wide belt, worn work shirt that covered his shoulders look as if they could carry the world without strain, an ornately carved cross hung around his neck to ward off evil, and farther still to a pair of regretful blue eyes, and a head topped with wild curly black hair. His looks caught her eye but his charm had flattered her into marrying him – now she saw more.  Jack was spoiled, insecure – a bully. He was never going to change.

At this moment, she had lost her hope for them.

  He pointed to her face, “I-I’m sorry.” He said “I shouldn’t lose my temper. Here.” She could no longer see him, because of a large bouquet of wildflowers he held to her face. Kate’s mind rang with the reverberating words of her daughter “. . . then flowers.”  

  The world suddenly felt tilted, off center. Numbly she grabbed the flowers and touched the petals reverently, hoping to find stability to put back into her world. Her father gave her mother flowers, from time to time when she was young and things were good – it had stopped. The circle of their lives was just like hers. Her mother always thankful and so sure he loved her – he did, yet there was always an excuse.   

“It wasn’t always like this.” Her mother told her once in a quiet sad whisper, “He just has so many disappointments, and when he drinks he just can’t help it.” 

  John apologized, that is what made him different – was he really? Was he saying sorry, because he was, or because it was the thing to do? When was the last time he gave her flowers without the need to apologize? The first time there were tears and begging for her forgiveness. Now there was only a small stammer and flowers or trinkets. It would stop soon, just like for her mother.  

  “Kate, are you listening to me?” John snapped 

  She looked up at him with the distant look fading from her eyes. “You know Kate, if you paid more attention, you might stay out of harm’s way a little better.” 

  “What?” 

  “You know, when I am in one of my moods you could watch your tongue or something.” This was not abnormal for him to point out her contribution to the problem, especially after his apologies. This is the first time she heard it for what it was – deflection. “You know, when these things happen you’re just as much to blame as me.” The self-doubt didn’t come over in waves of anxiety, remorse or shame as it usually did  – just a slow boiling anger which she pushed to the back of her soul.  

Murmuring something he wanted to hear, she went inside to put the flowers in water – fighting the urge to not throw them into the fire. He followed her and grabbed his jacket, he was off to check the livestock; as he stepped through the door, he turned to her and said, “Make sure you stop by that old witch’s house and have that eye fixed.” 

  She busied herself with arranging the flowers, in order to not look at him. “I will need a bit or two. I’m out of sweets to trade.” He just nodded to the money tin on the mantle and left, touching the horse shoe that hung on the door frame on his way out.  Watching him go over the rise, she grabbed her shawl, the two bits from the container and the sweets she had made and put aside earlier that morning for Agnes.  

  She had the start of a plan. 

  Things were forming in her mind, she wasn’t waiting for fate to save her. After all other women weren’t beaten; that was why she went to Agnes, to take away the shame. Two sweet rolls would take away the bruising and no one the wiser. The old healer made the offer one morning when they met up in town. She had found her hiding among the bolts of fabric after over hearing the women talking about her. They called her, “timid Kate”. As if she would walk boldly down the street with the marks of shame for all to see. They were symbols of a lack of control in her life and of bad choices.  

The bruises weren’t her fault. 

  So, lost in thought Kate found herself at Agnes’ front door. Looking into the old woman’s eyes the light of understanding seemed to pass silently between them. Her friend knew. “Well, girl,” the woman croaked, “I’m going to miss your sweet rolls.” Then the door of Agnus’ small shack quietly closed, not giving her time to reconsider her decision. Inside, the house the woman leaned with her forehead and stiff hands against the door – and prayed. 

  Emily looked up at her mother, “Isn’t Aggie goin’ to fix you” 

  A slow smile spread across Kate’s face “No, I am done hiding.” The smile faded, as she glanced over her shoulder at the edge of town. Looking at her daughter Kate ruminated, the child deserved to grow up knowing her father. Her decision faltered, for all that John was; he was her father. Money, what would be her source of income? They would need a roof, food, and necessities of life; Emily was already running bare foot because her shoes were too tight. Could a child be raised in this situation and break the circle? Could she continue to put up with John’s abuse? No. Children learn by example. Staying would only reinforce her grandmother’s statement, “It’s just the way of men.” 

  The decision was made, the cost: hopefully not more than the two of them could bear but in the end, it was her only hope. Her chin went up, her spine straightened and 

with a deep breath to fortify her mind and body, she moved forward.  “Come, let’s get 

you a piece of candy.”                                                                                                                                                    

  Kate’s first instinct had been to run, take what little she had and let the future take its course.  Trading one devil for another was not an option, she owed Emily more. The money that was in the tin wouldn’t get them a day of meals, let alone far enough to be out of reach of John or anyone else who would do the “right” thing. Was there any place he couldn’t reach her? What she needed to do was take away the desire for him to come after her. 

  Death? 

  No, she had a hard time killing the field mice that got into the pantry. The man that she loved would be impossible, but maybe she could?  It was something she must think about later, right now she needed money. 

  Entering the general store to get Emily her candy, she paused and fought the urge to cover her face. Giving herself the mantra ‘for Emily, for Emily’. Kate went to the owner, he was a round man with an easy smile and a quick laugh. Looking at him with more confidence then she felt. She quickly unwrapped her sweet rolls and offered him one in exchange for a peppermint stick. Mr. Warner always had an eye for the sweets as his pants, that drooped under his belly, gave testimony.  

  “How is that good man of yours?” Mrs. Warner asked as she stood next to her husband, they looked like the number ten when they stood together.  

“Good thank you.” Kate quietly answered. She forced herself to make eye contact, but kept her good eye towards the woman. 

“I will give you a new hair ribbon for the other.” Mr. Warner offered, as he eyed her basket with the glazed look of the sugar addicted. An idea rolled into Kate’s mind. “You can have this one Mr. Warner, but-” she stopped his hand before it reached the roll. “I would like to make a business deal.” Her hand shook and nerves rolled in her belly, but desperation and determination kept her from wavering.  

‘For Emily, for Emily.’ 

  “What kind?” Mr. Warner’s interest peeked.  

  “I would like to sell my sweets rolls – I make them.” Kates voice shook to some extent. 

  “All right,” He agreed, and tried for the rolls again. 

  “For every two dozen rolls I bring,” Kate took a hard breath in to her lungs, “you keep the first six as your profit and supply me with flour and sugar.” 

  “Ten”  

“Seven” Kate gulped, “I still have to buy eggs. Seven.” It was taking every ounce of will not to back down as well as to look him in the eye. 

“Seven, but I keep the first four sold as my personal use then the rest will be sold, plus you buy your own supplies.” 

“First three yours and supplies at cost.” The large man scanned her face with the swollen black eye which almost blocked her vision. As a gesture of agreement she let go of his arm and watched the roll disappear into the cavern on his face.  

  The first earnings from the sweet rolls came in as the garden vegetables were just peeking out from under the rich Vermont soil. Kate started walking with her head up, a strong sense of hope filled her heart. Some of the money went towards two bags of mohair. She noticed them while she and John brought the extra wool over to the grange to be sold for his boss. This would be a means of support once they arrived at St. Johnsbury, the load would be light to transport and the profits high. Now she needed time. Cleaning, carding, spinning, and dying all took time, and that she might not have. 

Also, Kate still needed to figure out transportation and what to do about John. Distracted by her own thoughts and tasks to complete that day. She needed to make the day cheese from this morning’s milking and Emily still needed to gather the eggs. At the door, she saw father and daughter sitting on the ground. Gently cradled in John’s arms was an over loved rag doll. 

  “Girl, it’s a fine-looking babe you’ve got.” 

  “Oh, Poppa.” 

  “I mean it!” Lifting the doll out of the shadow of his body. “She’s a healthy one. Oooh, an’ look at the smarts showing in her eyes. Just like you when you were a little one.” 

  “Really Poppa?” 

  Kate walked away from the two of them. Doubt came surging in waves that rumbled through her body as she looked out the window. The whole reason they were in northern Vermont was because of Emily. John had come home early one afternoon, a little pale and more than a little agitated. The normal easy smile that played on his face for the past four months since Emily’ birth was missing.  He had paced in front of Kate’s loom for several minutes; his five paces covered the entire width of their apartment. Finally, he walked over to where his daughter lay sleeping in a wicker basket, she was quickly outgrowing it. Kate just waited. Running both hands through his hair John turned to her, for the first-time since entering their tiny bed-sitter, what Kate saw was something she had never seen on his face. It was distress.  

  “I was making a delivery in Roxbury,” He audibly swallowed, “there was an accident.” He breathed as if it were painful and would be his last. He had taken two steps towards their table, which was nothing more than a board with two legs nailed to the wall. Absently he ran a figure over it. “A little girl ran into the road –  hit by a wagon.” His voice raw as he looked at his wife and then at the ceiling holding emotion back. “She was a sprite, laughing one minute – gone.” He sat next to Kate on her bench, her hands still held the shuttles as if they were frozen in time. He took the them slowly away and placed them by the beater bar, then picked up her hands. He noted the way the spinning kept them soft, even in winter; while the other wives’ hands became: rough, chapped and even bled. John had rubbed his thumbs in small circles on the back of her hands and he knew that what he was going to ask would take away the softness. “Darlin’, we need to move out of the city. Go back to the country.” She looked blankly at him, “Sickness has taken three babes, in the neighborhood,” He squeezed her hands and leaning in close he whispered, “and now this.” John spoke as if speaking of the accident out aloud would bring it onto their door steps. 

  Kate was reeling first from the news he brought, but more so from his declaration. Confusion clouded her face like an incoming storm, “You left your father’s farm because you hated the back-breaking work.” She replied in a severe whisper. 

“I was young”  

“The poverty.” 

“We’re poor here too.” 

“The dependence on the weather for success.” She looked at their bed with its brightly colored quilt: the only color the room held. 

“I will work for wages on one of the big farms.” 

“The isolation!” Kate whispered harshly, looking down at the loom; the simple pattern was calming. The idea of the country felt isolated, just as it felt to be stuck in that apartment because of weather and illness; knowing family was across town had helped.  

  “Emily needs to be safe.” John emphatically declared. 

  “There are dangers in the country also.” Kate argued. “We can’t stop life from happening to our children.” 

  “What are you saying, that we don’t even try to keep her safe?” His voice had started to rise in volume. 

  “Sshh. Don’t wake her.” Kate lowered her voice even more, “Of course not, but there are also other factors. We can’t just run off because we are scared of what might happen.” Her thoughts ran to her dying mother and her sister who was expecting a second child.  

  “Look, I know your feeling lonely being stuck in this small place,” He had turned towards her, as much as the bench would allow and placed his face close to hers with their noses almost touching, “but we could get a larger home, with our own bedroom.”  

  Kate looked at their tiny one room home, with her loom and the bed taking most of the space. The curtains moved in the window with the cold, the small table with its two mismatched stools, one wobbled, jammed into a corner by the stove. The household had a feeling of a storage area more than a home – nothing decorated the walls – everything was utilitarian. The only pleasant thing was the smell of dinner in the oven and the multi-faceted quilt – the shadow of her spinning wheel peeked out from under their bed.  It was too small when only John lived here, but with the three of them it was more than packed, but it was their home. She was happy there. 

  “If you loved Emily you would do this.” He kept saying as he spent the rest of the winter trying to talk her into going and she spent it hoping he would give up. He won after her mother died and her sister with her small family moved away in late winter. The influx of Irish refugees made finding work difficult for all. She had no reason to stay. John was gone two months to find work, by the time he returned Kate was more than ready to leave.  

  The memory faded as quickly as it came, and she realized that John was her protection from the hardships of the world. The fact of knowing her security would be gone, Emily would no longer have her father, and all that was familiar would be traded for the unknown. The knowledge of the pattern in her life was in some perverse way a comfort.  

Voices of past conflicting conversations floated in her mind.  

. . . .  “The way of men. . .”   

. . . . .  “Must break the circle. . ..”   

. . . . . “Can’t change fate” 

. . . .  “The wheel needs to be broken. . ..”  

Could she protect Emily out there as well as she did now? Was she protecting her? Which did the most harm? Staying? Leaving? The never-ending questions made her the nerves jump under her skin and emotions of indecision rose to the surface of her mind. 

  John’s footsteps on the stoop made her quickly wipe her tears. “Where is my hat?” 

  “I don’t know.”  She said facing away from him. 

  “Well, find it!” He harshly barked. 

 Looking in the bedroom and around the kitchen “I don’t know.” She waved her hands helplessly. 

  “Woman! You’re as brainless as a bitch in heat.” Doing a quick check around the room and finding nothing until he pulled back the door that had been left open to catch the early summer breeze. There on the wall pegs he found it. Looking at her from under his hat, he muttered, “Useless.” Then tapped the horseshoe before exiting. Kate’s eyes narrowed and made a small mental note to loosen the nails on it this afternoon. 

  As he swept out the door Kate noticed Emily silently watching. A husband was not going to treat her like that, not Emily. Taking her daughter’s hand, they walked to the barn to collect eggs and a chicken for dinner. The axe slammed into the rooster’s neck and the sudden vision of it being John’s head on the chopping block – made the distasteful job seem quite satisfying.  

Every spare moment of that summer, she baked and spun. To do so she stole time from other chores, but now the leaves were starting to change into their fall wardrobe when a new shipment came into the store. Its contents were the cause of excitement among the regulars, but the rough wooden shipping crate gave Kate inspiration. The store keeper was in the middle of the selling madness, when Kate bartered for the box and its delivery. Mr. Warner raised an eyebrow and asked what she was going to use it for. A root cellar was her response. With a chuckle, he promised to deliver it within the week.  

  John threw the door open just as the biscuits went into the oven and the explanation as to why dinner was late did not soothe his inner beast. “Ya shouldn’t have gone. We can’t afford anything.” The growl came from deep in his chest. 

  Kate’s spine tingled with warning. “I realized that before we went. It was just for fun.” Wiping unsteady hands on her apron. “Why don’t you wash up and supper will be on the table when you’re done.” She looked John square in the eye and said, “I made custard for dessert.” 

  “Don’t tell me what ta do, woman!” 

“I wasn’t.  A suggestion, so you won’t notice your growling stomach.” An outward calm was kept, but the agitation that vibrated inside her and made her voice difficult to keep steady. 

“We will talk about this later.” His neck tensed with his barely controlled anger, she could see the violence roll under his skin. His finger pointed at her, it was so close to her face it was nothing but a blur. “Ya have supper on this table by the time I get back – or else.” The circle was on the uphill climb and there was no changing it. Was she ready? The tension made it almost hurt to move as the fear whirled around. The hope of her being able to leave before he exploded again was slowly diminishing. ‘For Emily, For Emily.’ Kept running through her head. 

John scowled through the meal, with a growl that bordered on the cusp of a whine, he complained: the stew was greasy, the biscuits doughy, the custard runny, she was a mess, house was a mess, and on it went with the complaints. She wasn’t to leave tomorrow was his final command, as he went out to the barn. Tapping twice on the loosened horse shoe, he paused for a moment trying to push the nails back in, his brow creased. 

She gave the kitchen a quick clean – leaving anything that could wait for later. Helped Emily ready for bed which was in the loft filled with Kate’s canning from the summer’s garden. They were finished prayers when she heard the stomp of his boot, the same pattern every night, but it carried an edge. With a good night kiss and a warning to stay put, she left. 

“About time you finished. She’s old enough to do it herself.” John’s mood had not improved over the past hour. “What do you do up there with her anyway?” He didn’t bother to wait for a reply. “Never mind.” A snarl graced his lips as he scanned her from head to toe, looking at her as he would filth on his boots. “Damnation, ya look like something the cat dragged in.”  

She had let too much show. 

“What have ya been doing – running abou’?” He placed his hat and coat on the pegs beside the door with exaggerated care. “Ya work at that damn wheel.” He growled as he gave a slight kick to her basket of carded wool. “Lettin’ everything go.” He came towards her with a look that she was all too familiar with, “What’s been goin’ on?” 

Every nerve in her body was on alert, screaming with a warning to flee, but she fought it.  It was time. Her voice as smooth as cream as she looked directly at him. “I have been planning your murder.” John’s expression was dumbfounded as a small smile played on her lips. “I’m going to bed now. Do you need anything?” Kate cocked an eyebrow at him. Stunned silence was his only answer. “Well, there’s some coffee left. 

Good night.” 

In bed with the blankets up to her chin and her back to the door – she waited. The drop of boots and the scrape of his chair, listening to the noise of his nightly routine, Kate’s grip on the sheet tightened by degrees. She waited for the interruption of his predictable ritual that would warn her of the coming explosion. Knowing what to do and having the courage enough to do it seemed miles apart. . …. For Emily, for Emily . . .  was the chant that kept her motivated. So, intent on staying strong she missed the que. The door slammed against the wall with a startling bang, the tiny bedroom filled with a soft light from the kitchen, as the blankets were ripped from her. “What the hell d’ya mean?” Kate sat up rubbing her eyes. “About what?” She faked a yawn. 

“My murder?” He yelled. 

“Sssh, you’ll wake Emily.” 

“Look ya useless bitch. What d’ya mean?” His face flush with rage. 

“You really must be tired if you don’t understand a joke.” Her voice steady – her nerves not.  

“Not funny.” His glare could have melted iron. 

Fighting the urge to hide under the bed she instead rolled her eyes. “Come to bed it is late.” She patted the mattress. “It will be light soon enough. I’m sorry I upset you.” 

He grabbed her arms and pinned her to the head board. “What the hell’s goin’ on? All ya do is spin or go to town. Ya always a mess.” Her head cracked against the wall as he gave her a single shake. Then he pulled her up so her face was only inches from his and squeezed her upper arms – she would be bruised in the morning. 

 The first thing she thought of that would stop the pain, came from her mouth. 

“You know I’m not my best the first months.” 

His anger subsided in slow increments as the words settled into his mind, “A babe?” His voice filled with doubt and cautious hope. 

He released her quickly letting her bounce onto the bedding. Kate nodded, then pulling up the covers to hide her trembling. She felt like a coward. He seemed mollified. She had gathered the blankets closer under her chin and turned her back to him. The silence and time passed with each beat of her heart, it seemed forever until finally he snuffed out the candle and laid down. Kate didn’t breathe easily until she heard his soft snores. “God, give me courage.” She prayed as she looked at a sky full of stars. 

This was going to be hard.  

  The next morning after a quick sweep of the house, Kate swung open the door and took in the view before her. The cloudless sky and cooling fall breeze was lost on her; she had a mission. The front yard was mostly filled with the vegetable garden. Ten feet beyond the stone wall that surrounded the house was a perfect spot, she grabbed a shovel from the barn and trooped onward. 

  Digging the sod and rocky ground was going to take her days, but determination and fear kept her motivated. She did quit in time to clean herself up as well as make lunch. John ate with a tense silence, which just gave Kate more motivation to continue with her plan. He muttered that she was needed to help finish up the haying tomorrow afternoon. Her job was to spread the hay evenly on the wagon, and Emily would run around tramping it down as the men tossed it up – it was a miserable, dusty job that would make her skin itch for days.  

  Supper was waiting for John when he came in that evening.  Kate hummed merrily as she spun the wool, enjoying the sound of the rhythmic whirl of the wheel and feeling of the fibers twist and pull through her hand. It soothed her. Everything stopped as he stomped into the miniscule room, which had been made even more so by her project. He stopped and looked around at the spotless house and fragrant dinner waiting to go on the table. “Why the hell do I have to yell at you – to get you working?” he greeted her. 

  Kate just shrugged and busied herself with getting supper on the table. Emily climbed up onto a chair after John had settled. When everyone was served, Emily started chatting, “Momma worked real hard.” The little one took a large gulp of milk and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, “I helped.” 

  John appraised his daughter for a minute, “Good for you, if you work hard you might get a fine husband.” 

  “No.” Emily said wrinkling her nose. “kissin’ and yellin’ – yuck.” 

  “You’ll change ya mind. Now finish up and get ta bed.” John stated around a mouth full of food. They finished their meal in silence that wrapped them in a choking rigidity of tension. 

  After Kate promised to tuck her in, Emily went to bed. “What in the hell made her not want ta get married?” John demanded the minute the child left the room. 

  “Nothing,” Kate answered, but seeing him start to steam added, “It’s just a stage she is going through.”   

  “Ya better make sure it’s a stage! Ya lazy bitch, ‘cause I’ll have no spinster in this house.” John’s voice raised in volume, the tension that started yesterday had increased.  “Of course, dear.” 

  Early the next morning she listened to her husband’s movements in the main room, absently she rubbed the wedding quilt. The thump of his feet as he put on his boots, the sound of his stride as he walked out of their only door. The sound of each boot on the stone steps and a groan as he stretched. She knew he would scan the yard and fields before him in the dim light. She waited by the bedroom door. The exhale of his breath and the low oath of a question at what he saw. A small smile moved onto her face as she realized he had seen the pile of dirt. The slam of the door with a muffled profanity, he trudged off. 

  At breakfast, he asked about it and her answer was, “Oh, it’s a new root cellar.” She smiled, then glanced out the window, “You know, it kind of looks like a grave?” 

  He went to the door and looked at the growing mound of dirt. “Little far for a root cellar?” 

  “A little.” Kate agreed, “But good news – too close for a grave.” 

  Shooting her a quick look, he jammed on his hat with a little more force than necessary. Tapped the horse shoe twice that he had re-secured and left. Kate’s pulse fluttered – power is a massive thing and John was slowly losing his over her. Spending her mornings digging, her afternoons spinning, both piles grew, and in-between it all she baked. That afternoon the box was delivered, with the help of two delivery men it was put by what Kate was now referred to as her ‘little project’. 

 That evening he discovered the box, a strangled sound came from John’s throat, but he said nothing all day. When he was close she smiled and hummed old songs, but she made sure she hid her bitten nails. And he rubbed the cross around his neck each time he looked at Kate. 

  The feeling of fall was strong with the rain coming in bursts and spits of biting cold, winter was trying to take hold, but the season wasn’t ready to let go. With enough wool spun, Kate started to dye. She stood back admiring her finished product when John found her in the barn. The thick skeins of black yarn hung from maple saplings that had been cut the day before. 

“What-” His voice squeaked and he had to clear his throat. “What’s this doing in my barn?” 

  “Oh John, I hope you don’t mind none. I needed to get it done soon or it won’t be ready.” Kate touched his arm. “Didn’t it come out looking good?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but turned to leave. 

  “I thought you didn’t like the color black – said it’s for widows and preachers.” The question stopped her at the door. 

  She turned her head back to him and smiled, “It is.” 

  The days had turned into patterns of Kate digging, baking and spinning, but the hardest task was being sweet to the man of the house. Being thankful was no longer soothing her soul, nor was remembering the good times. Her anger boiled deep and memories of black moments kept her moving forward now. The one memory which was similar to a repetitive nightmare was last Christmas. She had made Emily a new doll and John a sweater, but John had given nothing and spent the day silent.  

That evening it had started slowly snowing big soft snowflakes which called to a person to stand among the magic. Emily, before bed tried to catch them on her tongue and laughed when they landed on her lashes. The evening was mild. The child wore Kate’s shawl over her nightgown, her shoes slipped and made slapping thuds in the still night as she danced around. They were only out for a moment. When they tried to enter the warm house – the door was locked. Kate slapped her hand on the solid exterior door while yelling for John to open. Silence was her greeting, then she tapped on the window. He looked up and glared.  

Pleading with him to open the door, he just turned his back towards her. She grabbed Emily up into her arms and strode off to the barn; not daring to leave the child for a moment. She stepped into the tool shed and looked for something to open the door with – hanging on the wall was her only possibility. The cold started to seep in under their clothes making waiting John out not a possibility. Holding her daughter in one arm and with the sledgehammer pulling down her opposite side – she marched towards the house.  

Setting Emily on the ground Kate stepped up to the stoop and slapped her hand on the door and called to John one more time – no answer. Stepping back, she raised the hammer – it pulled at her shoulder muscles until she balanced it above her head, for a split second it wavered before gravity and a slight outward push had it headed towards the door lock. Bang! It was heavier than the axe that was used for splitting firewood. Again, her muscles brought the heavy implement up over her shoulder, then she felt the gift of gravity as it slowly gained momentum which equaled power. It solidly hit. Bang! The drafty oak door shook slightly but didn’t move. Winding up again, her shoulder shook with the exertion of weight and was harder to control once it started to fall, it met its mark, again. Boom! Still nothing. On the fourth attempt at another swing – the door flew open and John stood in a rage in front of the oncoming hammer. It was too late to stop the propelling force as it swung towards the door lock, but now was aimed at his crotch. The large man jumped back as Kate and the projectile she held moved forward into the door frame. She yelled for Emily. The child ran into the house and straight up to the loft.  

Kate turned toward John not caring for the consequences, because justified anger poured from every cell in her body. “What the hell was that about?” Her eyes narrowing in anger, “We could have frozen to death.” “Like that would be a loss.” John muttered. 

“What?” Kate questioned in disbelief. 

“You should have been dressed better if you were going to go out in the snow.” The statement hung between them and she took it in with disbelief. 

“This was some kind of lesson on dressing properly for the weather?”  

“You will dress her properly at all times.” His voice coming out like he was all omnipotent.  

“You risked your daughter’s life and mine, to teach a lesson?” Kate didn’t wait for a reply. “You, idiotic fool! How could y-” the back of his hand hit her face and she was promptly muzzled.  

“Don’t ya ever call me names, you cow!” He bellowed and then shoved her. Kate’s shoulders were pinned to the kitchen wall. “You. Will. Respect. Me. Always.” Kate just stared at him. Pushing away from her he stormed towards the door, grabbed the sledge hammer and went out to the barn – without his coat. That memory just added fuel to a fire that was growing into an uncontrollable inferno.  

Keeping her raging soul at bay was getting harder the closer her preparations came, to being finished. To soothe herself she told him of the latest gossip. “Mira Jane caught her husband in bed with their neighbor’s daughter, and tried to shoot him,” as Kate served him his favorite jam on homemade bread for breakfast.  

A few days later – “Old man Davis died last week and his wife couldn’t afford a coffin. Heard he was buried in a shipping crate.” she said to him as he shoveled his favorite lamb stew into his mouth.  

Every chance she could she brought up old and new gossip of dying men or violent women, adding in ordinary news so as to not let him get clued into her motives.  

Putting the icing on the cake, John had lost his wooden necklace and without it to keep evil away he was a little jumpy – it sat in the bottom of her sewing basket.  

Finally, the time had arrived just before the first hard frost was due. Kate was as prepared as she could be with enough money to get herself and Emily to St. Johnsbury and with enough goods to sell to get them even farther. 

Winter was coming fast. 

  John had been on edge: the missing necklace, loosening horse shoe, the sporadic talk of graves, and the color of death filling the baskets around Kate. His wife had been nothing but kind to him, he never did feel the malevolent undertone. John wasn’t any different than most people – signs of her leaving and anger were in front of him but still he doubted what he felt. All because he had never heard it come from his sweet Kate before. The strain of uncertainty grew to such proportions that he had a friend over to supper the evening before. The dinner had been filled with laughter and good food. It also caused memories of times when it was good between them – stolen kisses and shared dreams. Could it be again? Looking out the window while she finished the dishes, Kate viewed the twosome, as they looked at her project, which was now finished. She watched as his friend got in and laid down. She smiled and shook her head, while she finished the dishes. 

  When they came in for coffee and dessert, Kate excused herself to enjoy the fresh air of the mild night – and as an excuse to eavesdrop on their conversation. Unfortunately, she could not hear what they were saying, but one voice sounded concerned and the other reassuring.  

This was good. 

  John had not touched his breakfast but silently glanced in her direction all morning. The tension that would have normally circled the whole house and encompassed everyone was isolated today – each spouse in their own cylinder of tension, self-doubt, and internal thoughts. A neighbor stopped by and needed help with an overturned wagon.  The break was just what she needed and quickly Kate ran over to Agnes’ house, traded for a sleeping draft, praying all the way home that it would work.  

That night all three sat down to supper without a word. John grunted out answers to Emily’s questions and stories of her day. Kate was unnaturally quiet. He focused on his meal and shoveled it in as if the hounds of hell were at his heels. When he took a large slug of sweet tea with Agnes’ potion – he spewed it onto the table and swiftly stood. Kate’s eyes widened in alarm and with an unexpected quickness he had his wife out of her chair – held by the neck against the wall. “Ya tryin’ to kill me!” the words punctuated by his cracking teeth. 

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.” She was gasping for air and clawing at his hand that held strong to her throat. 

  “Ya’re goin’ to kill me, aren’t ya’?” His hand started to tighten on her throat. Then she felt John’s body bump against her and she was dropped to the floor. Emily screamed. She gasped for air and stumbled to the table – one thought running through her mind – Emily. 

  Kate grabbed the frying pan off the table and stumbled into the bedroom, where she found Emily on her back – John’s booted foot holding her down. He struggled to get his belt off. Thump. The cast iron hit his head. Emily stopped screaming and John stood there and swayed in small circles – it wasn’t hard enough, “Run! Run! Run!” she screamed at Emily.  The bitter evening air gushed through the house, proof that the child had escaped.  

 Turning towards her, his eyes glowed with anger, he threw her onto the bed, straddled her body and his hands surrounded her throat. He growled. “I could kill ya right now.” 

  Her grip tightened on the frying pan that hung over the side of the bed, hidden from his view, “Do it.” Kate stated in a calm voice – peace and clarity washed over her being. The room became still. She was aware of all things: his breathing, the feel of the cast iron, the cool breeze from the door, the softness of the bed under her and the shock on John’s face. The statement made him hesitate and loosen his hands, with a swiftness and strength of adrenalin, she smashed into the side of his head with her weapon of choice – a slowness that mocked time – his eyes rolled back as he collapsed on top of her.  

  Kate took a moment just to breathe and give thanks, before she began the arduous task of moving his dead weight off her. Finally, able to roll him onto his side of the bed. She scurried to retrieve the rope she had hidden in the kitchen. She tied him up; first hands, then ankles, last, she struggled to wrap the rest of the rope around his body so his arms were pinned down. Ripping off a strip from the bottom of her skirt – she gagged him.   

  The first order of business was finding Emily, whom she found hiding in the corner of the stall with the goats, her eyes were so much like John’s but wide with fear. Kate held her tightly in an attempt to quell the panic within them both.  ‘For Emily, For Emily.’ 

They walked to the old healer’s home after their breathing had calmed and nerves had been soothed, but the horror of the night danced around them as they quickly scampered along the worn path. With a hug and a promise of being back by morning, she went home to finish her mission.  

She laid the blanket onto the floor, rolled John onto it – the crack of his head hitting the floor sickened her. The work of dragging him to the box was difficult with two-hundred pounds of dead weight. Kate got him there and rolled him in, he hit with a bounce and moan. Distracted and exhausted from the work of moving him, she carelessly threw the blanket on him and slammed the box shut. Her breath came in huffs and pants as she walked back to the house. 

She would deal with him later, after she packed.  

  Kate’s back ached, but with a grim look she trudged back to the coffin with John’s warm body in it. Dressed in some of his altered work clothes and a hunting knife in her hand she approached with caution not knowing what would be found. The dim light of dawn colored the sky, red and pink, as she opened the box. The blanket had covered his face and she pulled it back and found him awake and angry, until he saw the knife in her hand.  

  Climbing into the box with a foot braced on either side of his waist she sat on his stomach – hard. She held the knife up by her ear – in ready to stab him. Her face twisted with rage that she had held back for what felt like a lifetime. His face paled. 

“Six years of you making me feel bad.”  

She placed a hand on his throat,  

“Six years of your temper tantrums.”  

She leaned closer,  

“Six years of feeling what you are feeling now.” She in a husky whispered close to his ear. 

She arched a brow as she sat up, “What are you feeling?”   

With the knife lowered she inspected it,  

“Fear?”  

Her thumb wiped down the razor-sharp edge.  

“Tense?”  

She placed the tip of the steel blade on a wooden button over his sternum and playfully twisted it.  

“You look a little pale.” 

  Kate grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt with both hands – the knife grazed his cheek like the straight blade he shaved with, “good.” She pushed away from him like he was a piece of filth he smelled of rot. She spent a minute to look at him. Then raised the knife, the morning sun sparkled off it, John’s eyes popped as her arm rapidly arched down towards him.  

  The knife landed into the wood bottom – so close to his right ear that he felt the cool vibration of the blade, as it became embedded into the wood. Turning his head towards the knife it presses into his cheek causing a slight cut – he contorted his neck and head instinctively to look at the deadly blade, but instead saw the inverted horseshoe she had installed: a symbol – luck had run out. Panicked he attempted to move away from the sight, there was no place to go. Kate leaned down and placed her left forearm over his windpipe. The sweet melodic voice he fell in love with spoke, “You bring me back.” Kate leaned close to his left ear and whispered ever so softly. “This will be your tomb.” She stretched her body as she climbed out and felt lighter than she had in years – the day had fully started. John, silent up until she kicked the lid shut and rolled a couple of large rocks on top. 

  Indifference filled her heart with the sound of his panic and muffled rage. 

  Kate pulled away from the cottage, their small wagon piled with all she could carry – anything that could be sold. The family’s live stock of goats with their kids walked behind and the three chickens in a cage attached under the wagon. She left the house that she called home without a backwards glance. Her body was filled with worry and hope roped together with fear, the latter she refused to claim because it gave it power. She had worked too hard to give up any control to anyone or anything.