The last secret_ a novel - Mary McGarry Morris [125]
“Shut up! I said shut the fuck up, you little bitch,” he bellows, advancing on the child, hand raised, warning her to stop unless she wants the same as her mother. Glancing back at Robin, his shadow obscures Lyra, and suddenly Nora knows, having seen it, having dreamed it so many times before, exactly what will follow, and how necessary, how justifiable it seems in this deadening ether of fear and hope.
But a helpless child. No, not her, she would scream, and will later remember, if not shrieking, then the searing rawness in her throat, but in this moment there is only his roar over the child's mewling pleas to leave her alone. Please, please, please, and yet here she stands, again, doing nothing, because there is nothing to do, though the shameful choice is clear, an insidious pact only she can end, as it began. The ceremonial shovel first from the glinting row on the wall is surprisingly heavy. The initial blow lands between his shoulders, does little more than make him glance back. She swings higher, at the back of his head, hits his neck instead, the silver blade's sharp edge slashing deeply. Spurts of blood darken his white collar, and his hands shoot to his head. Turning, his face is monstrous, a festering welter of pain and rage as he comes toward her. An animal, a cornered animal, desperate, beyond feeling or reason, she strikes again, this time slicing his cheek. With a wounded, bowel-deep bellow, he lunges for the shovel, but she hits him, keeps hitting him. Again and again. He staggers a moment then sinks onto the floor, and she stands over him, sobbing with every blow after chopping blow, even though the side of his face is gashed wide. What she wants is for him to look away or close his eyes, but they stay open, their dull knowing stare holding hers. A halo of blood pools out onto the spotless gray concrete. As his torso twitches, his hands and feet spasm because he won't die, won't be silenced no matter how many times she must hit him.
She doesn't remember hanging the blood-streaked shovel back on its hook with the others, but that's where they will find it. She doesn't remember Drew chasing her down the street through the lighter, lifting rain that finally promises spring. She doesn't remember him begging, then insisting, she come back with him. She doesn't remember him crying. All she knows is that right now she has to get away, far, far away. She wants to go home. That's all she wants. Come with him, then. That's where he'll bring her. That's what he does, holding her hand.
There are two ambulances left in the driveway that is cordoned off by yellow tape. Jimmy Lee is out there as well, taking pictures of the house. Her lovely home is teeming with people, some in uniforms, most of them somber strangers, these very busy people, hurrying back and forth, respectfully, quietly as they can. Knees together, hands folded, she sits at her kitchen table, shivering, waiting, knowing it's out there. Where it's always been, dormant, capable of flaring up at any moment, a chancre in her life. Behind her, Ken paces back and forth, talking on the phone. Everyone else speaks in whispers. Her marriage is over, but she is a very lucky woman they want her to know, keep assuring her. Can they get her anything? the policewoman asks. Is there anything anyone can do, yes, explain how such evil can be, because that was her agony of puzzlement, Robin, who would carry spiders and ants outside rather than kill a living thing, even bees, though she was deathly allergic, trapping them in cups against the window glass then sliding cardboard over the opening until she could set them free. A very brave woman, someone else insists, resting a hand on her shoulder, a gesture she's distantly aware of, sees and doesn't feel. Probably