Page 122 of The Instruments of Darkness

“I’m still trying to decide.”

“That’s all he is, pure front, but it took me too long to recognize it. He had aspirations, but none of the character or substance required to back them up. I watched his rage grow because of it.”

“How long were you together?”

“Two years. Not long, I suppose, but long enough.”

“For what?”

“For Stephen to reveal himself. You asked if he was violent toward me. The answer is yes, but only once. I didn’t wait around to see whether it might happen again. I’d watched that story unfold between my parents when I was growing up, and I wasn’t about to replicate it in my personal life. It was my mother, incidentally, not my father, just to counter any assumptions you might have. She drank and he didn’t, but she had other problems as well. She was mentally ill, but people didn’t talk about that the way they do now. Alcohol made it worse, although it was a function of her illness. She ground my father down, physically and emotionally, but he never once raised a hand to her in retaliation and it was never spoken of either inside or outside the home. He was ashamed, I think. He was a man being beaten by his wife—and he wasn’t small, either: not in stature, not in any way. He’d just stand there and let her hit and scratch until she wore herself out, then put her to bed. The thought of leaving her never arose. He loved her, you see. That was his tragedy. It would have been easier for him had he not.”

She scowled, but more at herself than me, annoyed at how much she had suddenly revealed. I thought she might be very lonely.

“What happened to them?” I asked.

“My mom died and my dad started living. He’s with another woman now. She’s good to him. They live up in Macwahoc. They visit when they can. It’s easier for them to travel than for me.” She shook her head. “Jesus, listen to me: Chatty Cathy, unburdening herself to a stranger. Look, the point is that I know violence and I won’t stand for it. When Stephen hurt me—and he hurt me bad—we were done.”

“What led to the incident?”

“That’s a very diplomatic way of phrasing the question,” she said. “Another ex of mine once asked me what I’d done to Stephen to get him all riled up. Because I must have done something, right? I sent that one on his way, too, the asshole. You want to know what I did to enrage Stephen, Mr. Parker?”

She leaned forward.

“I got myself pregnant, that’s what I did. I ran out of birth control pills, was short on cash, and thought I had the dates all figured out so we could fuck without risk, but I was wrong. I could have asked Stephen to wear a rubber. He would have, because he wasn’t difficult in that way, not like some I’ve met, but I thought it would be okay to ride bareback. I did the test twice, because I didn’t want to believe the result the first time, even though I knew it was right. I could feel it was right. I didn’t tell Stephen until I was sure. I was afraid to. I thought I had a good idea of how he’d react, but I was wrong about the degree.”

“Why were you afraid?”

“Because Stephen had told me over and over that he never wanted children,” she said. “At first, I put it down to how immature some young men can be. They’re convinced they’re going to be handsome forever, and don’t want anything that might tie them down. They’re like bucking broncos, but life tames them. Gradually, I came to understand that Stephen was different. He really didn’t want kids. He had this visceral antipathy to fatherhood. He didn’t even like being around other people’s children. What’s more, he claimed to find pregnant women repulsive. He said that if I ever became pregnant, he’d dump me without a second thought. But that wasn’t what he did.”

“What did he do?” I asked.

She took a long, deep breath.

“He punched me repeatedly in the stomach. He only stopped when I vomited. Then he dumped me.”

“Did you consider going to the police?”

“Sure, but I elected not to,” she said. “I know it goes back to my father and how he remained silent all those years about being abused by his little wife. I felt ashamed. I was disgusted with myself for sleeping with—for loving—a man who could do that to me. I didn’t want folks pointing at me on the street or talking about me behind their hands, because what happened would get out if I pressed charges. It was around that time I took up running and learned how to box. I wasn’t going to be any man’s punching bag again.”

“And the baby?”

“I miscarried not long after. I was only surprised it didn’t happen sooner. Given what Stephen had done to me, I was sure I’d lose the baby that night, but I didn’t. I was worried he might have damaged my insides, but I’m fine. I’d still like to have a child someday, or more than one, but it hasn’t happened yet. Do you have children?”

“I have a daughter,” I said.

“What’s her name?”

“Samantha. Sam. She lives with her mother in Vermont.”

“Do you get along with her?”

“I try to. She’s an unusual child.”

“I like the name Samantha,” said Beth. “I have a list of names for my baby, and they’re all girls’ names. Funny, but I’ve never countenanced having a boy. I hope I don’t. Girls are more trouble for a couple of years, but they’re smarter—and kinder, too. This world isn’t overflowing with kindness. We could do with more of it.”

She checked her watch.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I really do need to take that nap.”

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