Damsel in the Dust

2

I spend the day actually doing chores, going about my normal life as if nothing has changed. I have to force myself to relax at dinner but the instinct to prepare for him walking through the door is strong, and I jump at every noise from the road.

He's not coming home, I remind myself. The sun starts to set. I make a cup of hot tea and dig my sketch pad out from a dresser drawer, where it's been collecting dust for months. I find a nub of charcoal in an old box of art supplies beside the sketch pad, and bring both to the kitchen table.

I drag the charcoal across the page in hesitant strokes. It's been a long time since I've dabbled in any kind of art, and I am afraid of making mistakes. As I outline the edges of the mountains behind my home, I remember the day I put my sketch pad away.

The afternoon was drab, dark and rainy, the kind that makes you want to curl up under a blanket with a mug of something hot and get lost in your thoughts as you stare out the window. When I couldn't finish the outside chores I'd gone inside, realized I had an afternoon to myself, and pulled out my art supplies. Charcoal has always been my favorite medium because it is imperfect and those imperfections give life and character to the art.

Charcoal is also messy, especially the way I use it. The knife edges of my hands are often covered in charcoal dust, my thumb and pointer finger turning completely black.

I had been so lost in my drawing that afternoon I hadn't heard Shawn come home. I didn't even notice he was there until he put a hand on my shoulder.

"I said hello," his voice was insistent, snapping me out of my focus.

"Hello," I'd said, looking up with a smile before returning to my drawing.

It took me a while to realize he was still standing there, hand still on my shoulder. I remember being annoyed that he couldn't leave me be long enough for me to finish. I was almost done anyway. I rolled my shoulder to get him to let go, but he still just stood there.

"Could you put that down for a minute and give me a real hug?"

Something in his tone made me stop. I set down my sketch pad and stood up to face him. He pulled me in for a kiss and I lost my balance, putting my hands against his chest to steady myself. When he pulled away, I saw the black smudges on his shirt. What I didn't see was the anger building up as he looked down and saw what I had done.

"Are you kidding me?" he'd said in disgust, backing away and looking at me with a twisted expression I'd never seen before.

I'd tried to tell him that it would rinse out, that it wasn't a big deal. He didn't listen.

"You're so careless," he spit, "why don't you do something useful, like make dinner while I change. You can rinse it out later."

I'd been dumbfounded. When we'd moved in together, Shawn had told me how great my drawings were. He thought I should stay home and build a career as an artist, even though I was willing to work and even had a good job at a law office in town. But he was insistent, showing my drawings to everyone who came over, bragging about them. He even sold one for me, and I decided to give it a shot. He had never, ever called my hobby useless. When he disappeared into the bedroom, I closed my sketch pad and tucked it away in a drawer.

I had tried to draw a few times after that, but a fear I had never known before, of making mistakes and not making a perfect drawing - of wasting my time - crept in and I couldn't stick with it for very long. I was also terrified Shawn would come home and start yelling at me about it again. Even though I'd put down my drawings, I hadn't looked for another job. There was plenty for me to do around the house, and Shawn preferred me being home to take care of it all.

My fingers twitch at the memory, sending the little charcoal nub skittering across the page. The girl I was a year ago would have smiled at the imperfection, working it into the jagged edges of the mountains. The girl I am now sees a ruined page. I close the sketchbook and go set it back on the dresser before taking my tea to the sunroom.

I sink into the ancient orange armchair we got second hand from Shawn's father and start to relax, watching the sun sink over the mountains. For the first time, I appreciate the isolation here at the end of the dusty county road we live on.

Until the headlights appear.

I knew he would come, but I didn't expect it on the first day. I inhale, preparing to face my new oppressor.

The engine dies and Christian climbs out of the cab. He makes his way toward the front door as I cross the kitchen, watching him through the windows. Even though I've reached the door, I wait for him to knock before opening the house to him.

"Hello Chris."

"Hey Leah. Mind if I come in?"

I shrug and open the door. It's not like I can say no and slam it in his face, as much as I might want to. Chris brushes past, a cloud of stale cigarette smoke trailing in his wake.

"Shawn asked me to -"

I cut him off, "I know. Thank you."

We stand in awkward silence, both trying to decide what kind of social meeting this is. I never know with Chris. Most of the time he's Shawn's sidekick, but every once in a while the Chris I'd known before Shawn stepped foot in our little town shines through.

I break the silence first. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Jack and coke, if you've got some," he says.

I nod and pour his drink, knowing I won't catch a glimpse of my Chris tonight. I add a little more coke and cut back on the Jack, setting the glass down at the table and taking a seat across from him.

"So," he starts, "how is it without the man of the house around?"

I stare into what's left of my tea. "I'm fine, Chris. Really. You don't have to babysit me. You can tell him I'm fine. Miss him like crazy. Whatever he needs to hear."

Chris downs his drink in one gulp, slamming the glass back onto the table.

"He's just looking out for you. All either of us is doing is looking out for you," he says.

I bristle. It's easier to let myself feel things like anger around Chris than it is with Shawn. Maybe because I've known Chris since I was seven years old. Maybe because I know he won't hurt me. Whatever it is, I don't hold back.

"I'm a grown woman, Chris. I don't need constant supervision."

I hope that I imagine the hunger in his eyes when he says, "Are you sure about that?"

I'm glad I diluted his drink. He always was the lightweight, constantly trying to keep up with Shawn, never even coming close. I stand, signaling the end to the conversation.

"I'm sure. I've been independent since I was ten years old and you know it. So thank you, for stopping by. Maybe next time try doing it as a friend."

Chris stands, fury battling a cowed expression and contorting his face. "You're damn stubborn. You know I have to come back. And you know I'm your damn friend."

I shake my head, "The Chris I used to call friend wouldn't show up like this. If you have to come back, fine. Then come back Sunday. I'll make dinner. But please, don't come uninvited, or at least unannounced, again."

He grunts in what I assume is agreement before storming out the front door. The metal screen slams in its frame, making me jump. I lock all the doors, draw the shades, change the sheets, and crawl into bed. Alone.

For the first time in months, my skin doesn't crawl.

I sleep like the dead.