A House on Eden

3. The Move

The week I was to move into the house was the week Bruce worked a 7 day night shift. I stopped at the house every day after work. I let myself in with Marjorie's keys and walked through the rooms, seeing myself live here, sitting on the porch behind the kitchen listening to the water fall into the pond.

I thought about what I was going to take with me and came to a startling realization: everything in our house was tainted. The walls were tainted, the furniture was tainted, our bed was tainted, our forks and knives were tainted, our sheets and towels were taunted. Everything carried the red haze of Bruce's rage, the knuckle prints of his fists. If I was going to leave Bruce, I was going to have to leave them too.

The thought filled me with excitement and it took me by surprise. I was going to slowly fill my house with myself, paycheck by paycheck, piece by piece. My house would only bear my signature, my finger prints on it. My house would be clean, unpolluted by his presence.

I made phone calls and scheduled the utilities to be turned on by Thursday. It was the longest week of my life. Bruce pulled in at seven, smelling of alcohol. I made him his breakfast, always the same with eggs and bacon. I watched him stumble down the hallway toward our bedroom, heard him turn the shower on, heard him get into our bed.

Then I would pack more things: knickknacks, pictures from high school and college, winter clothes from the storage closet, old pots, pans and dishes from the garage. I made sure Bruce would not notice anything missing, anything obvious that was suddenly no longer there.

There were enough old pots and pans to equip a kitchen, enough old silverware to fill a drawer, enough linen to fill a closet. Bruce always kept everything and for once it was to my advantage. I did not want to be kept anymore, like a frozen statue on his mantle with long flowing dark hair, haunted brown eyes and pointed breasts punching through the sheer fabric of my long dress.

I started bringing the boxes over, loading them into the trunk of my car. Each day I brought more and stacked them on the hardwood floor in the living room. I brought my old sleeping bag from college and some spare blankets and pillows and made up a bed for myself on the floor in the master bedroom.

I picked flowers from the garden, bright blue and yellow ones, and put them in a vase on the counter. I began putting away the kitchen stuff, hung my winter clothes in the bedroom closet. I was moving my life. I was saving it.

On Wednesday I told Bruce my mother had asked me to come for the weekend. My father was away on a business trip to New Mexico, and she didn't like being by herself.

"I don't care," he grunted while eating his eggs. "Do what you like. Give the old lady my love." Then he stumbled down the hall and my heart thudded. It had been too easy, I thought, he would suspect something, change his mind. But he didn't.

On Friday I came home from work at six. Bruce was pacing the living room in his sweat pants and tee shirt.

"What the hell took you so long?" He said.

"Working late," I said.

"Well, where the hell is my supper?" He snarled.

"Getting right on it," I said, filling the large pot with water. "Spaghetti and meat balls, your favorite."

"When are you going to your mother's?" He said.

"I was thinking of leaving when you leave for work," I said.

"At ten?" He said, glaring at me suspiciously. "Why so late?"

"You know I hate heavy traffic," I smiled. "If I leave right after dinner it will take four hours to get through Washington. A late drive is better."

"Is there something I should know about?" He asked.

"No, nothing," I said. "I've already told you."

"Don't get smart with me," he said, 'and hurry up that dinner."

I served dinner promptly at six thirty. He ate greedily, drinking large glasses of water. Bruce never drank before going on his shift, only after and on days off.

"You seem strange," he said suddenly. "You seem different, like you have a secret."

"I've been shopping for your birthday," I smiled. "It's a surprise." He studied me with his eyes and smiled.

"My birthday isn't till next month," he said.

"Getting an early start," I smiled. For Bruce his birthday was as big as president's day.

"Make sure you spend your own money," he said.

"Don't I always?" I said.

We watched a movie on Netflix. Bruce picked it. I wasn't watching it. I was watching my husband, his broad shoulders and muscular arms as he leaned back in the Lazy Boy.

"Are you seeing this?" He laughed, and I smiled.

At nine thirty, after the movie, he walked down the hall to our bedroom. At nine forty five he emerged wearing his uniform. His badge shined under the ceiling lights.

"Safe trip," he said. "See you back on Sunday." He did not kiss me. Bruce believed kissing was reserved for making love.

I watched the tail lights disappear into the night. I entered our bedroom and began taking some of my clothes from their hangers. I only took what I would have needed for a weekend in DC. I boxed my toiletries from the bathroom and packed my suitcase with the clothes and my shoes.

I walked through the house a final time. I expected to feel sadness, like a mother feels sadness when she sees her child off to college, but all I could feel was resolve. I had done something and it was irrevocable.

I packed the trunk of my car, locked the house, and drove home. I did not look back before I made the turn.

I spent my first night under the blanket on the floor. I listened to the quiet sounds of the night, the occasional car driving by. The hardwood floor surrounded me, embraced me, the walls drew closer for warmth. I felt like I was in a cradle, a small child cherished. My breathing became even and deep.

I woke up at two, hearing soft foot steps in the house. They moved through the kitchen, into the dining room, the living room, and then they came down the hall.

I saw a small dark figure standing in the door opening of my bedroom. It paused there, studying me, waiting for a reaction. I strained to see its face, its gestures as it quietly waited. I was unafraid, startlingly calm, as if this figure was known to me.

"I've come to say goodbye," it whispered. Its voice sounded like a woman's.

I felt overwhelmed with empathy, with kindness at her words.

"It's hard to leave, isn't it?" I whispered. "Take all the time you need."

The figure stood there a while longer, studying me. Then it moved into the bathroom. I could hear its feet moving upstairs, hear it grab the railing on the stairway down, pause in the kitchen, quietly close the door on its way out.

I smiled. I turned over on my other side and slept a deep sleep.