Dolores Claiborne - Stephen King [27]
You know, taking the cream-pitcher to Joe was really the easy part. Before I could do it, I had to once n for all rise above the memory of my Dad pushin my Mum down, and of him stroppin the backs of her legs with that length of wet sailcloth. Gettin over those memories was hard, because I dearly loved them both, but in the end I was able to do it prob'ly because I had to do it. And I'm thankful I did, if only because Selena ain't never goin to have to remember her mother sittin in the comer and bawlin with a dishtowel over her face. My Mum took it when her husband dished it up, but I ain't goin to sit in judgement of either of em. Maybe she had to take it, and maybe he had to dish it up, or be belittled by the men he had to live n work with every day. Times were different back then-most people don't realize how different-but that didn't mean I had to take it from Joe just because I'd been enough of a goose to marry him in the first place. There ain't no home correction in a man beating a woman with his fists or a stovelength outta the woodbox, and in the end I decided I wasn't going to take it from the likes of Joe St George, or from the likes of any man.
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.
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 fuckin you's like fuckin a mudpuddle.