Dolores Claiborne(20)

There were times when he raised his hand to me, but then he'd think better of it. Sometimes when the hand was up, wantin to hit but not quite darin to hit, I'd see in his eyes that he was rememberin the cream-pitcher. . . maybe the hatchet, too. And then he'd make like he only raised that hand because his head needed scratchin, or his forehead wipin. That was one lesson he got the first time. Maybe the only one.

There was somethin else come out of the night he hit me with the stovelength and I hit him with the cream-pitcher. I don't like to bring it up - I'm one of those old-fashioned folks that believes what goes on behind the bedroom door should stay there - but I guess I better, because it's prob'ly part of why things turned out as they did.

Although we were married and livin under the same roof together for the next two years - and it might have been closer to three, I really can't remember - he only tried to take his privilege with me a few times after that. He -What, Andy?

Accourse I mean he was impotent! What else would I be talkin about, his right to wear my underwear if the urge took him? I never denied him; he just quit bein able to do it. He wasn't what you'd call an every-night sort of man, not even back at the start, and he wasn't one to draw it out, either - it was always pretty much wham, bam, and thank you, ma'am. Still n all, he'd stayed int'rested enough to climb on top once or twice a week until I hit him with the creamer, that is.

Chapter Five

Part of it was probably the booze - he was drinkin a lot more durin those last years - but I don't think that was all of it. I remember him rollin offa me one night after about twenty minutes of useless puffin and blowin, and his little thing still just hangin there, limp as a noodle. I dunno how long after the night I just told you about this would have been, but I know it was after because I remember layin there with my kidneys throbbin and thinkin I'd get up pretty soon and take some aspirin to quiet them down.

'There,' he says, almost cryin, 'I hope you're satisfied, Dolores. Are you?'

I didn't say nothing. Sometimes anything a woman says to a man is bound to be the wrong thing.

'Are you?' he says. 'Are you satisfied, Dolores?'

I didn't say nothing still, just laid there and looked up at the ceilin and listened to the wind outside. It was from the east that night, and I could hear the ocean in it. That's a sound I've always loved. It soothes me.

He turned over and I could smell his beer-breath on my face, rank and sour. 'Turnin out the light used to help,' he says, 'but it don't no more. I can see your ugly face even in the dark.' He reached out, grabbed my boob, and kinda shook it. 'And this,' he says. 'All floppy and flat as a pancake. Your cunt's even worse. Christ, you ain't thirty-five yet and f**kin you's like f**kin a mudpuddle.'

I thought of sayin 'If it was a mudpuddle you could stick it in soft, Joe, and wouldn't that relieve your mind,' but I kep my mouth shut. Patricia Claiborne didn't raise any fools, like I told you.

There was some more quiet, I'd 'bout decided he'd said enough mean things to finally send him to sleep and I was thinkin about slippin out to get my aspirin when he spoke up again . .. and that time, I'm pretty sure he was cryin.

'I wish I'd never seen your face,' he says, and 'hen he says, 'Why didn't you just use that friggin to whack it off, Dolores? It would have come the same.'

So you see, I wasn't the only one that thought gettin hit with the cream-pitcher - and bein told things was gonna change around the house - might have had somethin to do with his problem. I still didn't say nothing, though, just waited to see if he was gonna go to sleep or try to use his hands on me again. He was layin there naked, and I knew the very first place I was gonna go for if he did try. Pretty soon I heard him snorin. I don't know if that was the very last time he tried to be a man with me, but if it wasn't, it was close.

None of his friends got so much as a whiff of these goins-ons, accourse - he sure as hell wasn't gonna tell em his wife'd whopped the bejesus out of him with a creamer and his weasel wouldn't stick its head up anymore, was he? Not him! So when the others'd talk big about how they was handlin their wives, he'd talk big right along with em, sayin how he laid one on me for gettin fresh with my mouth, or maybe for buyin a dress over in Jonesport without askin him first if it was all right to take money out of the cookie jar.

How do I know? Why, because there are times when I can keep my ears open instead of my mouth. I know that's hard to believe, listenin to me tonight, but it's true.

I remember one time when I was workin part-time for the Marshalls - remember John Marshall, Andy, how he was always talkin about buildin a bridge over to the mainland? - and the doorbell rang. I was all alone in the house, and I was hurryin to answer the door and I slipped on a throw-rug and fell hard against the corner of the mantel. It left a great big bruise on my arm, just above the elbow.

About three days later, just when that bruise was goin from dark brown to a kind of yellow-green like they do, I ran into Yvette Anderson in the village. She was comm out of the grocery and I was goin in. She looked at the bruise on my arm, and when she spoke to me, her voice was just drippin with sympathy. Only a woman who's just seen something that makes her happier'n a pig in shit can drip that way. 'Ain't men awful, Dolores?' she says.

'Well, sometimes they are and sometimes they aren't,' I says back. I didn't have the slightest idear what she was talkin about - what I was mostly concerned with was gettin some of the pork chops that were on special that day before they were all gone.