One More Dress for the Closet

I came around the corner of the front office and saw him sitting at the big desk, head down with his hands covering his face. When he heard me, my daddy immediately sat up and the despair changed to a smile but it took effort and I could see the remnants of tears in his eyes. I knew that my mother had just called and the war was on again.

He almost never gave in to the urge to fight back or defend himself, just allowed her to rant and threaten and call him names until she was worn out. If she threw something, he ducked and picked up the pieces. If she was violent, he left. Her abuse skimmed the surface and bounced off him but it wasn't harmless and you could see it in his eyes - a sadness that never quite went away, a surrender that was never quite enough to satisfy her. It wasn't enough for my mother to win, she had to devastate, had to level her victims and leave nothing standing. Each small, false victory encouraged her to be more cruel the next time. It was impossible to understand and even harder to watch.

This time it was about an evening gown. She wanted a new one and he had dared to suggest that she had enough in her closet, a mistake he recognized at once but too late. She would have a new evening gown and damn the cost, she spit at him, when we got home. She wasn't about to be seen in last years rags, laughed at and scorned because of his failure to provide. Just because he was a barefoot farm boy didn't mean he could treat her like one. It went on and on like that most of the night, long after he had given in, long after she had won. From my room I could hear her, screeching like a crone into the empty air, I never should've married you, look what you've done to me, all you care about is yourself and the damn kids, you hate me and are going to leave me, you've ruined my life.
I heard glass shatter and something hit the wall violently, a door slammed and then it was over and there was silence.
When I crept downstairs, my daddy was on his knees picking up the pieces of a lamp. The remains of a broken whiskey bottle was soaking into the carpet amid the shards of glass and his hand was bleeding. The coffee table lay on its side and the telephone had been pulled from the wall. My mother was sprawled in her chair, smoking and muttering and when she saw me she jerked upright and in a low voice ordered me back to my room. There was menace in her tone and my daddy got to his feet and in one quick movement was between us. Leave her out of it, Jeanette, he told her quietly and led me to the stairs and up to my room. My mother cursed and waved us off. It's not for you to worry about, he assured me, this is just between me and your mother.

Come morning, there was no sign of the night before save a carpet stain in front of the fireplace and a missing lamp which was replaced that same day when my mother came home with her new evening gown. Eventually, like all the others, it ended up worn once then crammed and smothered in her closet, covered with dust and mildew and rotting away. There seemed to be no winning unless the victory inflicted pain.