“It’s not like that—”
But her father shouldn’t be one to judge, not when he never let her mother treat herself to a new dress, never let her tithe extra to the church. Her father always called himself frugal, but she sees now that he’s stingy, that he wouldn’t let a dime squeak out of his wallet to make anyone happy, even his own wife. At least Jacky isn’t like that. He likes to give people things, wants to help them—she can’t count the number of times high school kids have stopped by the house for career advice or guidance, or because Jacky promised them a few bucks to mow the lawn or rake the leaves, even if it’d been done only a few days before. She’s heard people say that you sometimes have to sacrifice to get ahead (she’s not sure where she first heard that saying, and even though she thinks it’s about chess, it still applies to her husband), and that’s what Jacky is doing. Sacrificing. Spending a few bucks to make other people’s lives better.
She still wants a baby, more than anything, but they can’t, so why not get a job? Or go back to school, become a teacher. Bring home her own paycheck, contribute to what they have going on, have something going on that could fill her days. But Jacky tells her no, gently, in a soft voice, reminding her that he provides everything she will ever need. Everything she could ever want. And that’s true, but sometimes Gloria thinks there should be more than this, than grocery shopping and planning meals and watching television and ironing, that she wants more than this, that she never thought this was how her life would turn out, even though women friends are always saying how lucky she is, what a good man Jacky is. And he is. She feels guilty when she thinks otherwise, because he pays attention to her, and takes her out for nice meals and opens doors and pulls out her chair, and he’s always careful about putting the toilet seat back down when he’s finished. And there’s the things he doesn’t do, let’s not forget, heavens no, because the things a man doesn’t do are just as important as the things he does—he doesn’t complain when she comes home from JCPenney and Montgomery Ward with armfuls of bags and he doesn’t care when she burns the casserole and he doesn’t mutter when she wears a flannel nightgown, the one that covers from her chin to the tops of her toes, and tells him that her head hurts, that she wants to go to bed, that she’s not in the mood. There’s never been a repeat of that episode so long ago, no more sex that might be rape but probably isn’t, and he doesn’t say that she’s so beautiful that she deserves to die, and he doesn’t hold a gun up to her head and promise that after he shoots her he’ll shoot himself too and the police will never find them, two bodies lying side-by-side on the cold linoleum, their bodies so close it’ll be impossible to tell one person from the other.
*
She wakes up one night, suddenly, not sure why. Her heart is caught high up in her throat, and she’s scared, terrified, and she’s not sure why, and that’s the worst of it, to not have a reason for the fear. Jacky’s side of the bed is empty, and the house is quiet, so he might’ve fallen asleep downstairs on the couch after everyone went home, it wouldn’t be the first time. She considers getting up, putting on her robe, creeping downstairs, waking her husband, and bringing him back with her, but she doesn’t want to leave the safety of the bed, as if the blankets might offer some protection against whatever monster is out there.
Someone screamed, she thinks, but the thought is barely there before she’s asleep again, already gone, and she won’t remember any of it in the morning.
*