WARD RICKER

Maria grabbed the edge of the table and, trembling, sat herself down in the chair. Her breathing came in gasps. She looked at her hands. They were shaking uncontrollably. She sat until she regained control of her breathing. When the trembling had nearly subsided she reached up and wiped off the cold sweat that covered her forehead.

Had she actually done it?

She stared at the pale yellow curtains overhanging the kitchen's window. She did not see the dark clouds off in the distance, the sparrow that flittered by outside, or, for that matter, the curtains themselves. Nor did she hear the Chrysler that sounded its horn impatiently at the traffic outside or even Jack's now deepening breathing in the next room. All she could see or hear was the scene that had just transpired: her husband's loud grizzly voice, the rage in his eyes, his clenched fists, her terror, that twitch in his right eye that told her the worst was coming. And then his gasp as he fell back, the awful thud as he contacted the floor.

She stared in disbelief. Not disbelief at her husband’s rage. She had come to believe that all too well over the last four years. At first she had tried to disbelieve—to deny that the rage and violence that she saw was coming from the same man whom she had thought to be so charming and kind mannered, the man who had brought her flowers on Valentine's Day and even wrote her a poem on her birthday. But now that she had married that man she had come to know the real Jack: a vengeful man capable of violence even against those he was supposed to love—especially against the one he was supposed to love. She had come to believe it too frighteningly well.

No, it was not Jack's rage that held her in disbelief. It was herself. Had she really pushed that button? Had she actually brought Jack down writhing in pain. No, no matter how violent or furious her husband could be, she was not capable of such violence. Yet, she had done it. This time she had put her finger on that button and pushed, knowing what would happen. How could she have done it—her, the one who wouldn't even kill the occasional spider that infiltrated their bathroom, but rather with great care not to damage any of its spindly legs would pick it up on a sheet of paper, gently put it in a paper bag and release it into the garden? How could she have made her own husband squirm in agony.

The sound of Jack stirring in the next room brought her back to the present. She could hear his heavy breathing and the sound of a body lifting itself off the floor and collapsing again onto a soft surface. Suddenly fear returned, a panic as great as that she felt only a few minutes earlier. Surely Jack had seen her grab the remote and push the button. He must know what she had done to him. If he was angry before, he would be furious beyond any constraint now.

Her head snapped toward the door. She could bolt out and race down the back stairway and to the safety of Linda's home. In five minutes she could be there, before Jack was strong enough to try to stop her or come after her. Linda understood. Linda was the only person she had spoken to about her situation with Jack, and, even though Maria had left out the worst details, Linda had tried to tell her that she should get out of that situation. She had actually suggested that Maria leave Jack.

But Maria couldn't leave Jack, whether it be that she actually still loved him or whether it be that she was scared of what he might do if she tried. Or perhaps she was just scared of being alone. She had not had many men show interest in her. Indeed, she was already nearing forty when Jack was the first to ask her to marry him, and perhaps Maria was afraid he would be the last. Maybe putting up with the violence was less frightening than facing life alone again. Whatever the reason, she could not leave Jack, anymore than she could run out that back door right now.

With her stomach churning like an egg beater she raised herself from the table and slowly approached the doorway between the two rooms. In a few minutes Jack would be able to move again, and who knew what fury he would let loose. She looked at the back door again. Why couldn't she just run out that door and be done with all this?

Instead she stepped into the doorway and saw Jack half sitting, half laying on the sofa, with one hand still held on his chest. On the chair across from him she spotted the remote. She could grab the remote and threaten him with it again if he tried to hit her. No, she couldn't do it. No matter how scared she was, no matter if her heart was pounding seemingly as if it was going to break right through her chest, she couldn't do it again. She couldn't even touch it.

She thought of the phone. She could call for help. She could call Linda, but what could Linda do with a furious man nearly twice her size? She could call the police, but, no, she couldn't bring herself to do that either. As she tried to think of something to do before the inevitable started again, Jack raised his head and looked her in the eye. For an instant, terror almost overcame her, but as they looked at each other Maria saw that there was something different in Jack's eyes. Was it softness? No, not Jack. Was it love? No, Maria was convinced that Jack was not capable of that either, certainly not after she had just dropped him to the floor clutching his heart in pain.

Then Jack spoke in a faltering voice, "Maria, I...I'm s-sorry".

Maria stood there with fear turned into astonishment. Was what she was seeing and hearing really happening? Jack had never in their four years of marriage said he was sorry for anything. He was always right. She was always wrong. And now, after she had done this to him, she was hearing the words, "I'm sorry". Could it be that he had not seen her grab the remote? Or could he possibly have seen it but didn't make the connection? Surely it had been hard for Maria to believe that a simple TV remote control could interfere with her husband’s new pacemaker. It wasn't until Jack had walked through the living room on several occasions when Maria had been changing stations and stopped to clutch his heart, at the same time claiming that it was minor and nothing to worry about, that she finally realized the connection.

This time was different, though. This time he wasn't going to claim it was just a minor twinge. Perhaps it was because he had been at closer range or perhaps, as Maria was now realizing, it was because, being immobilized with fear, her finger had frozen on the button for, who knows, fifteen, maybe twenty, seconds. But whatever the reason, this time it had knocked him down, dropped him to a helpless lump writhing in pain in the middle of the floor.

Suddenly Maria recognized what she saw in his eyes: fear. Never had Jack shown fear. When he first started getting pains in his chest he acted as if there was no concern. Even when they operated and installed the pacemaker he had never appeared the least bit afraid. But now the wall was down. She could see the fear in his eyes as easily as the heart shaped tattoo with his first wife's name, "Wendy", on his arm.

Maria walked over to where Jack lay on the sofa. Suddenly she realized that her fear was gone. Now the tables were turned. After four*** years of Maria living in fear, now it was Jack's turn. Now Jack could see what it was like to be afraid. Was she relishing this moment? Did she actually enjoy seeing her husband afraid? No, of course not. She couldn't enjoy anyone suffering—physically, emotionally or otherwise. No, she was not capable of taking pleasure in another's fear. But she couldn't say that she was sorry for her change of roles.

When she reached Jack he straightened himself on the sofa. Then, as she remained standing, he continued to speak, "Maria, honey, I'm sorry. I haven't been very kind to you lately. Maybe I've been too concerned about my heart, but I have not been very thoughful. I'm sorry. I'll try not to be so hard on you from now on."

Maria could not respond. "Haven't been very kind"? "Not been very thoughtful"? Those were surely the understatements of all time, but at the same time Maria couldn't believe that the same Jack that she had been living with for the last four years was saying even that much.

Maria tried to smile or open her mouth to say something that would be right, but nothing came. No smile. No words. No tears. No anything. She simply turned and walked back into the kitchen.

For the next two weeks life was calm. Maria felt more relaxed than she had in three years. She wasn't sure if Jack had really changed at heart, but on the surface he was at least controlled, if not amenable. Only once did he start to lose his temper, and, seeming to remember, he quickly calmed down again.

The calm broke again on a Thursday. For the second week in a row, Maria forgot to set the garbage out. When Jack came in the house in the afternoon after having discovered the pile of refuse still resting in the garage, he was visibly irritated.

"Maria, why didn't you put out the garbage this morning. The truck has already gone by, and it's too late".

"I'm sorry. I forgot."

"This is the second week in a row you forgot. There is a huge pile in the garage. Can't you remember anything?" His voice was rising, and Maria started to feel the old fear coming back.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, "I ... just... forgot. There isn't anything I can do about it now. I will be sure to set it out next Thursday".

"Next Thursday!? Next Thursday it will be full of maggots and the garage will stink like the town dump. What's the matter with you? Can't you do anything right?"

At this point Maria would have opened her mouth to speak, but she knew that anything she said would only further antagonize him. She looked over and located the remote lying in the green overstuffed chair.

"It's about time you learned some responsibility, Maria". Now his right eye started twitching and Maria knew what was coming. "Why did I have to marry such an incompetent wife. She can't even remember a simple thing like setting out the garbage. How stupid can a woman be?"

Now Maria's anger overcame her fear, and she started to open her mouth to defend herself, but before a word came out she saw Jack raise his hand and start to move toward her. She lunged toward the chair as he swung, and his hand barely grazed her shoulder. She grabbed the remote and tucked it behind her with her finger on the button.

"Damn woman!", Jack screamed. "Think you can get away from me?"

Maria squeezed the button as he stepped toward her.

"Ahhhhh! My heart". Jack clutched his chest.

This time Maria released the button after only a few seconds. He stood in front of her, looking at her with a mixture of rage and fear.

After a long minute, without any further words, Jack retreated to the bedroom. Maria collapsed into the chair and held the remote in her hand. She almost smiled, but caught herself. "No, I only use it out of necessity," she muttered under her breath.

The weekend passed peacefully but Maria sensed Jack's underlying tension. Monday evening Jack found Maria watching the television in the living room and again was irritated. "How come you're always watching that damned TV?"

The television was Maria's escape from her painful reality. Indeed, it was perhaps the one victory she had had in their four*** years of marriage. Jack hated the television, like he hated many things, and didn't want to have one in the house. But at the outset of their marriage he had been congenial enough to allow it. And now, even after many threats to destroy it, it had managed to survive. Her one consolation now was that it was his hatred of the television that kept him from operating it and thereby learning for himself the secret that Maria possessed.

"I swear you married the TV and not a husband," Jack continued. Maria heard the increasing hostility in his voice. She looked at her side and was consoled to see the remote easily at hand. She thought it best not to answer, but at this he shouted, ever more upset, "Don't you even talk to me anymore?"

"Of course I talk to you, but the more I say the more upset you become. Why don't you please just relax and..."

"Relax! Who are you telling to relax?"

Maria saw his eye start to twitch. Her hand was ready to grab the remote, but then Jack stopped. He glared at her for about twenty seconds. Then his eye relaxed, and he went off to the kitchen without another word. Maria almost smiled. She looked again at the remote. "Maybe this is alright", she said to herself, running her fingers over the small mechanism.

Jack did improve over the following weeks. Although he at times made disparaging remarks, he didn't lose his temper. Maria found herself talking and acting more boldly, too. She would suggest things to Jack that she would have kept her lips tight about before—for instance, that Jack should clean up his own dishes after supper. She never lost track, though, of the location of the TV remote.

She liked the change in Jack, but found that, in spite of her new situation, she was not happy. Jack's manner was still rough at best, and she remembered all the events of the last four years so clearly—how he would belittle everything she did, how he would criticize her for every mistake, how he would call her stupid or incompetent. And how he would hit her. When she was watching TV rather than ironing his dress shirt, he hit her. When she put the spinach in the tuna casserole, he hit her. When she forgot to pay the electric bill, he hit her.

And now he still criticized her when he wasn't satisfied with a meal, if she forgot to mail a letter. Every day something else to criticize her about.

One day when she hadn't cleaned the living room Jack came in complaining and criticizing, "Why can't you keep the house fit to live in instead of looking like a pig stye?"

This time she had had enough and spit back, "Because the pig who made it look that way never offers to help clean it up. That's why!"

Maria couldn't believe her own voice. She had never spoken to Jack that way. She couldn't speak to Jack that way. But she had just done it!

Jack eyes widened in rage, but he was so shocked that he didn't react at first. Finally, he stammered, "What did you say to me?"

"You heard me," she heard herself continuing, still not quite believing her own voice. "I have done enough. I clean and cook and do errands for my thankless excuse for a husband, and all I ever get is criticism. If you can do a better job then you clean up the living room. It's your turn."

She turned and ran into the kitchen. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry—or run! She thought she should feel guilty and afraid, but she felt neither. She had no time to decide what it was she felt, because Jack immediately followed her into the kitchen.

"How dare you talk to me like that?"" he boomed. "You get back in there clean the living room right now or you..."

Maria didn't wait for him to finish. She ran past him into the living room and grabbed the remote. She had it just out of sight behind her when Jack came into the room.

He moved toward her. "You've gone too far this time, woman. You think I'm an invalid because I wear this thing, don't you. You think you no longer have to do what I say. Well, I will show you who makes the rules in this house."

As he reached up his hand and took the last step toward her she yanked the remote out from behind her back and pointed it at him. He stopped and looked at her. His rage turned to wonder, and then he started laughing. "What are you going to do with that, little woman, turn me off?"

Maria looked at him without wincing. With a firm voice she declared, "I said it is your turn to clean the living room."

Jack looked at her not sure whether to laugh or hit her. His last thought, though, before the pain burned through his chest, was that he had never seen Maria's eye twitch like that before.

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