The tap in the kitchen was leaking again. It did so once in a while, dripping relentlessly against a buildup of plates that had been surviving in the sink for the past week in spite of Martha’s constant nagging that it be kept dish-free. Ezekiel had tried to comply with her wishes when they had first purchased the house, hoping to placate the woman and end her griping, but after spending his entire day building the houses that other people would find happiness in, he didn’t have the energy to concern himself with the cleanliness of his own dismal and dissatisfying home.
He sat in the living room now, feet resting atop the coffee table, his comfortable old reclining chair tilted all the way back. Martha disapproved of the posture; she said it made him look like a layabout, but Zeke was comfortable. Why shouldn’t he be able to put his feet up while he watched the game? He had bought himself a six-pack, too, and now held one of the cheap beers in his hand. He wanted to be drunk tonight, and Martha, who sat scowling at him from her rocking chair, would not deter his determination.
The kitchen sink was still drip drip dripping away, and Zeke reached for the remote so he could turn the TV volume up a few notches. A contented smile crossed his face as the distracting noise was successfully drowned out by cable ads and previews for sitcoms that had lost their flavor and originality several seasons ago. His eyes slid sideways to glance at Martha, and he grumbled, “Don’t glare at me like that. I’m trying to watch TV, and I can’t hear it over that damned dripping.” There was only silence. “Not gonna argue? ‘Bout damn time you saw it my way.” Martha still didn’t respond. Zeke took a sip of his beer. She was right not to argue. She had complained time and again about the faucet and how it was wasting water and ruining the sink and keeping her up at night and all manner of other minor irritations, so she had no right to be giving him dirty looks now. At least they couldn’t hear the thing this way.
Something about the faucet’s steady drip had always reminded Zeke of a clock, and clocks had never reminded him of anything but his age. At 42, he felt like his life had passed him by. Kids didn’t know how good they had it. Not that they would have cared if they did. Bobby had failed his math test on Friday, and when Zeke had questioned him about it, he had blamed his failure on his teacher, a Mr. Dodson who Zeke had met with on several occasions and who had assured him that Bobby was less interested in math than he was in Alyssa Hatfield. Bobby had been grounded for the weekend, but that hadn’t stopped him from trying to sneak out tonight. But no harm done; a new set of locks on the window had made certain that Bobby wouldn’t be leaving again any time soon.
Come to think of it, maybe he should have put locks on Samantha’s windows, too. She was generally well-behaved, but there had been mishaps and Zeke really saw no reason not to nip the whole issue in the bud. He groaned and tilted himself upright, setting his beer on the coffee table without a coaster. Once again, he glanced at Martha, daring her to comment. Once again, she said nothing. “No complaints? I’m ruining your table.” Silence. “There’ll be a ring there in the morning.” More silence. Zeke raised an eyebrow, licked his lips, decided to see how much he could get away with. “Your mother’s a bitch.” Martha said nothing. Zeke grunted, his eyes focused now on a commercial for shampoo, his reason for sitting up half forgotten. Something to do with locks. Was the front door broken? He shoved himself upright and ambled toward the door to check, although he was pretty sure that wasn’t the problem. Sure enough, everything was in its place. Zeke grunted again, satisfied, and turned to head back to his chair, but his eyes fell on the partially open garage door. Right. The dog had been barking earlier, but it was silent now. Everything was silent now.
Zeke closed the door. The edge of it scraped along the floor and left a streak of dull red-brown in its wake.
It was dark on the way back to his chair, and Zeke bumped his hip against Martha’s seat. When he looked at her to apologize, he saw that she had leaned forward, her hand tilted toward the beer can he had left on the coffee table. Fury flashed through him, bright and hot, and he gripped the back of her chair with one calloused, powerful hand and yanked it back roughly. Martha flew back into it, and Zeke snarled at her, “You leave my goddamn drink alone, you whore.” A harsh laugh escaped him as Martha’s wide eyes gazed up at him, her mouth frozen in a startled little “o.” “Mr. Dodson told me all about it this afternoon. Tried to apologize, too, the jackass. Guess it’s my fault; if I’d been home earlier, I would’ve been the one going to meetings about Bobby’s grades. Too little, too late, I suppose.” He glanced at Martha, whose head had fallen forward toward her chest. Scowling, he gave the chair a little shake. “Are you listening to me, woman?” He shook again; her head popped back up. “Better. And while we’re here, I don’t give a shit about your stupid fucking flowers. What the hell are primroses? Sounds like fairy shit to me.” Martha still wasn’t responding, and Zeke found himself losing steam. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”
He shuffled back to his chair. It took a moment to get settled; his stomach had been growing these days, and his chair was made for a smaller man. Still, he managed to get comfortable as the game came back on the screen. The TV shone white against the carpet, the only light in the house, and it glared against Zeke’s pale face as he turned to Martha again; in the half-light, a series of thin red scratches glowed on Zeke’s cheek; neatly mirroring the three deep gashes on Martha’s chest and stomach, only just visible beneath her shredded dress. It had been yellow before, but now it was red.
“Yeah,” Zeke said, nodding. “It doesn’t matter. The kids are in bed; the dog’s finally quiet; and you don’t have anything to say to me anymore.” He smiled. “What do you think of that, Martha?”
As usual, Martha said nothing. There was only darkness, the TV, and silence. Enough silence to drown in. Zeke threw his feet back onto the table, scooting a kitchen knife to one side as he did. “You wanna watch the game with me, dear?” he asked gently. “Good. I’m glad. We can talk about all this in the morning, after our guys have won.” There was a pause before Zeke said, “I love you, honey.” On the TV, the crowd erupted into applause.
He sat in the living room now, feet resting atop the coffee table, his comfortable old reclining chair tilted all the way back. Martha disapproved of the posture; she said it made him look like a layabout, but Zeke was comfortable. Why shouldn’t he be able to put his feet up while he watched the game? He had bought himself a six-pack, too, and now held one of the cheap beers in his hand. He wanted to be drunk tonight, and Martha, who sat scowling at him from her rocking chair, would not deter his determination.
The kitchen sink was still drip drip dripping away, and Zeke reached for the remote so he could turn the TV volume up a few notches. A contented smile crossed his face as the distracting noise was successfully drowned out by cable ads and previews for sitcoms that had lost their flavor and originality several seasons ago. His eyes slid sideways to glance at Martha, and he grumbled, “Don’t glare at me like that. I’m trying to watch TV, and I can’t hear it over that damned dripping.” There was only silence. “Not gonna argue? ‘Bout damn time you saw it my way.” Martha still didn’t respond. Zeke took a sip of his beer. She was right not to argue. She had complained time and again about the faucet and how it was wasting water and ruining the sink and keeping her up at night and all manner of other minor irritations, so she had no right to be giving him dirty looks now. At least they couldn’t hear the thing this way.
Something about the faucet’s steady drip had always reminded Zeke of a clock, and clocks had never reminded him of anything but his age. At 42, he felt like his life had passed him by. Kids didn’t know how good they had it. Not that they would have cared if they did. Bobby had failed his math test on Friday, and when Zeke had questioned him about it, he had blamed his failure on his teacher, a Mr. Dodson who Zeke had met with on several occasions and who had assured him that Bobby was less interested in math than he was in Alyssa Hatfield. Bobby had been grounded for the weekend, but that hadn’t stopped him from trying to sneak out tonight. But no harm done; a new set of locks on the window had made certain that Bobby wouldn’t be leaving again any time soon.
Come to think of it, maybe he should have put locks on Samantha’s windows, too. She was generally well-behaved, but there had been mishaps and Zeke really saw no reason not to nip the whole issue in the bud. He groaned and tilted himself upright, setting his beer on the coffee table without a coaster. Once again, he glanced at Martha, daring her to comment. Once again, she said nothing. “No complaints? I’m ruining your table.” Silence. “There’ll be a ring there in the morning.” More silence. Zeke raised an eyebrow, licked his lips, decided to see how much he could get away with. “Your mother’s a bitch.” Martha said nothing. Zeke grunted, his eyes focused now on a commercial for shampoo, his reason for sitting up half forgotten. Something to do with locks. Was the front door broken? He shoved himself upright and ambled toward the door to check, although he was pretty sure that wasn’t the problem. Sure enough, everything was in its place. Zeke grunted again, satisfied, and turned to head back to his chair, but his eyes fell on the partially open garage door. Right. The dog had been barking earlier, but it was silent now. Everything was silent now.
Zeke closed the door. The edge of it scraped along the floor and left a streak of dull red-brown in its wake.
It was dark on the way back to his chair, and Zeke bumped his hip against Martha’s seat. When he looked at her to apologize, he saw that she had leaned forward, her hand tilted toward the beer can he had left on the coffee table. Fury flashed through him, bright and hot, and he gripped the back of her chair with one calloused, powerful hand and yanked it back roughly. Martha flew back into it, and Zeke snarled at her, “You leave my goddamn drink alone, you whore.” A harsh laugh escaped him as Martha’s wide eyes gazed up at him, her mouth frozen in a startled little “o.” “Mr. Dodson told me all about it this afternoon. Tried to apologize, too, the jackass. Guess it’s my fault; if I’d been home earlier, I would’ve been the one going to meetings about Bobby’s grades. Too little, too late, I suppose.” He glanced at Martha, whose head had fallen forward toward her chest. Scowling, he gave the chair a little shake. “Are you listening to me, woman?” He shook again; her head popped back up. “Better. And while we’re here, I don’t give a shit about your stupid fucking flowers. What the hell are primroses? Sounds like fairy shit to me.” Martha still wasn’t responding, and Zeke found himself losing steam. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”
He shuffled back to his chair. It took a moment to get settled; his stomach had been growing these days, and his chair was made for a smaller man. Still, he managed to get comfortable as the game came back on the screen. The TV shone white against the carpet, the only light in the house, and it glared against Zeke’s pale face as he turned to Martha again; in the half-light, a series of thin red scratches glowed on Zeke’s cheek; neatly mirroring the three deep gashes on Martha’s chest and stomach, only just visible beneath her shredded dress. It had been yellow before, but now it was red.
“Yeah,” Zeke said, nodding. “It doesn’t matter. The kids are in bed; the dog’s finally quiet; and you don’t have anything to say to me anymore.” He smiled. “What do you think of that, Martha?”
As usual, Martha said nothing. There was only darkness, the TV, and silence. Enough silence to drown in. Zeke threw his feet back onto the table, scooting a kitchen knife to one side as he did. “You wanna watch the game with me, dear?” he asked gently. “Good. I’m glad. We can talk about all this in the morning, after our guys have won.” There was a pause before Zeke said, “I love you, honey.” On the TV, the crowd erupted into applause.
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