A RETRIBUTION

I don’t recall why I took the day off, but I was home alone, the children in school, and Wayne, my husband, at work when the telephone rang. I picked it up and was surprised to hear my mother-in-law’s voice. I could not recall her ever calling me. In fact, for the past fourteen years, though I had adored her, she had shown no sign of even liking me.

“How are you?” I asked.

She was in the final stages of throat cancer. Her husband and younger daughter had tired of caring for her and shipped her off to live with another daughter who also resented giving time to her mother. I would gladly have taken her, but she was in New Mexico, and I was in Washington state.

When we first married, Wayne and I drove down to South Texas to visit my in-laws every month or so. My parents were forgotten. Wayne adored his father and wanted to spend time fishing with him. That left me alone with Marie, his mother. I felt sorry for her as she worked nights as a nurse and spent her days taking care of her small grandchildren and her youngest daughter who was only six. Her older daughter’s husband had been killed in an automobile accident less than a year earlier, leaving Kay, my sister-in-law, with two small babies, one only nine months old.

Kay was selfish and spoiled. She moved back home and left her babies with her mother while she went off to party and shop. She would say to me, “Come on I have to show you the new shoes I bought. Don’t tell mother. She thinks I spend too much.”

Into her bedroom we went where she brought out bags and bags of new clothes and shoes. She didn’t pay one cent to her mother for taking care of her babies or living in her home. She made no effort to help her mother with housework or cooking. Sometimes she went off for days, leaving her babies with her mother and giving no notice of where she was or how long she would be gone.

During those times, Marie and I would sit together on the front lawn watching Kay’s small children. The chubby, small girl had been picked up so seldom that she had trouble sitting on her blanket. She would slowly slide down backward with her teething rattle in her drooling mouth. We would sit her back up. Marie was such a patient woman and so good with the children.

I can’t say much for myself during that time. I remember sitting on Marie’s couch and seeing an advertisement in the paper for a dress I wanted. It was bright and flouncy and cost much more than I could afford. The thing was, I knew if I pointed it out to Marie she would buy it for me. So, that's what I did

“Look at this dress. Isn’t it grand. I’d love to have something like that,” I said.

I walked the newspaper open to the ad over to her. Sure enough, she took me down to the store and bought it. I did things like that often. I was as bad as my sister-in-law.

His parents were so proud that Wayne had graduated from college with an engineering degree. He said of his father, who so adored him, “He worked so hard to get me through college. He couldn’t afford that.”

“But your mother worked hard, too. She worked nights all those years, and that’s when she had your sister and had to take care of her during the day, too, never getting enough sleep.”

Marie had become pregnant with her surprise baby while Wayne was a sophomore in college. The baby was born prematurely and weighed only four pounds, requiring extra care until the baby was over a year old. Marie had worked all during that time.

“She didn’t work as hard as Dad did. And she drinks.”

“Yes, she worked just as hard and your dad drinks, too,” I said.

Wayne scoffed at this and walked off. His parents bought liquor by the half gallon. Neither of them became blind drunk, but they, nevertheless, drank a lot.

Shortly after our marriage, Wayne lost his job. One day, his boss called him into the office and told him he was fired. This shattered Wayne’s confidence. We didn’t want to tell his parents as they were so proud of their son and of the wonderful job he had gotten. Wayne found another job soon enough, but he didn’t make as much as he had at the first job, and somehow, the second job was not as prestigious. Marie blamed me, saying I talked him into taking this second job. Both his parents became angry with me over this, and we never wanted to tell them what had happened.

When our first child was born and was about two years old, I made her sleep in the afternoon and put her to bed at eight in the evening. Marie believed that children would sleep when they were tired and shouldn’t be forced to bed.

“Why do you make her go to bed? She’s not ready to sleep. Let her alone. She’ll go to bed when she gets tired,” Marie said, sitting on my couch. They were on one of their rare visits. My parenting skills damaged our relationship.

Marie and I developed a hobby together. On a day when the rattlesnakes were not as likely to be out in South Texas, we went scouring over the open range for arrowheads. It was something we both loved and enjoyed. She had no one to go with her to do this, and I was happy to go. We would hop in her truck, and she would drive us out to the ranch land. It was my job to open the gates and remain in place until she drove through. Once she decided on a spot, she would park, and we would go our separate ways, heads down, looking at the white clay soil. She called it Caleche.

Indians had lived here centuries earlier and left the stones across the land. We usually found something. After a bit, Marie would come for me and we would share our spoils.

“That was a good day, “ she said.

“I see a difference in the arrowheads. Some are finely cut and others are ragged,”I said.

“Yes, the older they are, the more refined they are,” she said.

At her house, we would bring out all we had collected to date and go over them, noting how hollows for the placement of the shaft were located to make the arrow twist as it entered or how the arrow itself had a slight roll to its face. Together we studied books about arrows and how they were made. We tried to make an arrowhead in her kitchen when the men were gone. They tended to laugh at our efforts. We banged together two hard rocks, chipping away until we had arrowhead-sized pieces. This alone took a great amount of time. Our arrowheads couldn’t be recognized as arrowheads, and we gave up.

Wayne took another job that moved us to Washington state. Marie and I gave our collection of arrowheads to the University before I left. That ended one of the better times of Marie’s and my relationship. After that, I became the horrible daughter-in-law as they figured I wanted to move and talked Wayne into taking the job. Wayne couldn’t have done it on his own. I didn’t know about the job or the move until Wayne had already accepted the deal.

My father-in-law called me one day after we had moved to let me know how unhappy they were with me for influencing Wayne to move away. I guess he chose to forget the time he sat next to me in church and pinched my bottom as I sat down or the times he told me if his son didn’t want me, he did. He would always take me to live with him. I don’t think he meant he would take care of me as a daughter. He had made advances from the moment Wayne and I were married. At first, I thought he did it just to let me know he approved of me, but when his attentions continued, I decided otherwise and began to stay out of his way.

That day Marie called, I tried to be a good daughter-in-law and listened to Marie’s complaints and her desire to die. If I could have helped her, I would have. To say my heart went out to her sounds trite, but it did. I loved her so but was unable to help her other than to hear what she said. It was unfair that she had given so much to them all, and they were now treating her like worn-out baggage.

When Wayne arrived home, I told him about the call, but he only grunted and walked away down the hall to put on his sweats and lay in front of the television with apparently no thought about his mother. I thought he was cold.

She died ten days later and again, I was home alone when the call came. I could not reach Wayne to tell him and had to hold the news to myself for several hours. When he came through the door, I immediately met him and told him the news.

He didn’t respond. There was no change in the expression on his face. He didn’t cry or become upset. He didn’t call his father or sister to talk about it. He did just as he always did and went to our room to put on his sweats and lay before the television to watch football.

I stood some distance away and said, “Aren’t you going to call your father?”

“What for?” He asked.

“Your mother. My gosh, your mother died. Don’t you care?”

“No, I don’t.”

He didn’t so much as turn his head to see me.

“Aren’t you going to help them plan the funeral?” I said.

“No, I’m not. Now leave me alone.”

“My gosh, she was your mother.” I said astounded.

“She never did anything for me. It was my dad who took care of me and got me through college. She wasn’t much of a mother.”

“She worked as hard as he did, all those nights at the hospital. She cared about you.”

“Not much,” he said, aggravated now by my annoying talk.

The next morning, he went off to work as usual and at noon came to park the car so he could ride in another man’s car to tend to some business.

His whole attitude stunk. I became angrier and angrier at how he had responded to his mother’s death, not even taking one day off for her.

There sat that royal car of his, polished, not a scrap of dirt or extra paper in that car. I had never been allowed to drive it, only sit in it on special occasions while he drove. Nor were our children allowed in the car except on those special occasions. It was a symbol of how great Wayne was. Great men had to have such a car, great men who showed no loyalty or love for their mother.

It was a momentary thing. I didn’t plan it. I took the keys off the hook in the hall, went out without my sweater even though it was a bit cool, hopped in that car, adjusted the seat, and started the motor. No clear thoughts gave way to purpose when I spoke to the police later. I didn’t understand why I did it and was never able to explain. To be truthful now, I didn’t want to explain.

I drove that car down to the dealership where Wayne bought it and continued driving right through the large plate glass windows of the dealership. The car stopped of its own accord, not far enough into the showroom to suit me. I wasn’t injured. I wasn’t upset. I couldn’t get the door open and sat for a few moments wondering how I would get out of that car. Someone opened the other door, and I scooted over and left the car, left the showroom and smiling like an idiot, went to the bus stop a few blocks away to take a bus home.

That should have ended the marriage, but did not. Here I was, the children grown, and Wayne driving another show car. I looked out the window, just as I had that morning, and saw the wonderful car parked in the drive. I saw the keys on the hook in the hall. I could drive this car the same way I drove the other. The dealorship had replaced the window. I could drive through it.

I recognized Wayne’s disrespect of me, of any female, of his mother and it was plain to me what I had done so long ago, and why I did it. I had not followed through as I should have. Today, I would. I looked around the house and didn’t see much I wanted except Marie’s large bean cooking spoon. I pulled it off the wall where it was mounted for display. With that decision, I went to my chest of drawers, took out what clothes I wanted, packed them along with small things, like toothbrushes, that I needed and walked out the door.

It was that easy. I wouldn’t bother explaining why to anyone. I knew why and I think Wayne did, too.

Bonnie Sedgemore currently has four novels in publication. She enjoys writing short stories and fiction and can't stop writing. She lives in an assisted living home in Spokane WA. USA.