David Wiltse: The Edge of Sleep

She stopped abruptly, her back turned to Ash, and let the suitcase fall to the floor. Slowly she turned to face him and her voice was very calm.

She had read his mind after all.

“Where did you put the hanger?”

Ash did not even think of lying to her. It never worked; she saw through him like glass.

“I left it in Branford,” he said. He thought Branford was the last town they had lived in. He wasn’t sure; geography confused him.

“You did it on purpose.” she said.

What was the point in denying it? She knew everything. Her face was very, very still as she looked at him. Her lips were taut and the skin around her mouth had turned a greenish-white. White patches showed on the wings of her nostrils where they flared out from the central ridge.

She was very dangerous when she got like this. It was at such times that she really hurt him.

“Take off your clothes,” she said. Her voice was so low he could barely hear her.

“I’ll get you another hanger,” he said as he rose from the bed. “I’ll get it right away.” He yanked his shirt over his head without undoing the buttons. “I know where to get one.”

“No, you don’t,” she said.

She was right. He did not know where to get another wire clothes hanger, although he thought he might be able to steal one somewhere. He felt self-conscious as she continued to stare at him. It was so much better when there was anger in her eyes. Now there seemed to be nothing there at all, as if she had gone away and left her body frozen in place behind her.

Ash looked down at his chest where her gaze was fixed. He was a big man, massive through the upper torso without need of weights or exercise. Dark hair sprouted and curled from his belt up to the soft skin on his throat. He knew she hated the hair and at first she had made him shave it, but she had abandoned that process since starting with the boys. The boys had changed many things.

“The pants,” she said.

Ash stepped out of his pants and stood naked before her. He had stopped wearing underwear several months ago when she forgot to buy him a new pair.

“Give me the belt.”

Ash pulled the belt from his trousers and handed it to her. He watched carefully to see how she wrapped it around her hand. If the buckle was in her palm, he would be all right. He did not mind so much when she used the belt, because it was a broad strap of leather and the blows did not cause welts.

She put the tip of the belt in her palm and wrapped it once around her hand, leaving three feet of leather dangling down. The buckle was on the hitting end.

“We will see how much you prefer this to the hanger.”

She made him ball his socks and put them in his mouth, then bent him over to clutch the back of the chair. In this position she could hit all of him, everywhere.

She beat him in silence, punctuated only by the grunt of her exertion, the whoosh of the belt, the slap of leather on flesh, the duller sound of metal colliding against skin. Normally she would scold him, tell him what he had done wrong, revile him with his own failings. This time she was saving her energy for the job at hand.

Ash held on. There was comfort in knowing he deserved it. He always deserved it. There was not punishment enough in a lifetime to be more than he deserved.

When he came to, Ash could hear her steady breathing from the bed. He lay on the floor where he had collapsed, his face pressed against the musty, threadbare carpet. His balled socks were only inches from his face. He lay very still for a long time, knowing that when he moved the pain would overcome him again. He wished he could see her from where he lay on the floor; he loved to watch her sleep, knowing she was safely in the same room with him, at peace, so that he could watch over and protect her while she was swathed in what little calm and serenity she ever knew. He would watch her half the night, one eye on the television screen, the other noting her every shift and turn. The sweet tranquility of her face in slumber restored Ash from the turmoil of her waking hours and he knew that he loved her then.

He pushed himself to his knees and the pain came at him from all sides. He gripped the chair to steady himself but could not keep from pitching forward again. For a long time he stayed on all fours, his head hanging down like a sick animal. He was careful not to moan too loudly and wake her. He did not want her to see him like this; she was used to thinking of him as powerful. Sometimes she called him her bear. Those were the good times, the very good and tender times. Ash worried that she would not continue to think of him as her bear if she saw him so bruised and swollen and sore that he could hardly move. He must get dressed and hide his condition. His face was unmarked; she was always careful about his face, and with the boys as well. It was important to her that everyone should be able to go out in public the next day as if nothing had happened. That was especially important with the boys, of course. She didn’t mind if Ash spent days at a time in the room, but she liked to have the boys with her in public. That was the whole point of taking them.

He must dress himself, but first he must be sure that she was not in danger. Ash’s beating had been very severe-that was unusual for her. It was a bad sign. He crawled to the bed and raised himself to look in the purse that was on the nightstand. Ash rummaged through the purse until he found her medicine. Everything was all right. She still had it, the bottle was half full of pills. She wasn’t in danger, she was still with him. The beating must have been especially severe only because her thoughts of what he had done had overwhelmed her. That was all right, because he deserved it.

Ash found his own pills in her purse. At least a dozen remained in the plastic bottle. So he was not in danger, either. She was still taking care of him. He eased himself on the bed beside her and closed his eyes. He would pretend to be asleep, because she preferred not to have to deal with him immediately upon waking. Ash never really slept; he didn’t allow himself to. He didn’t dare to allow himself to sleep, even with the medication, but he was very good at pretending. He eased his breathing into the same steady rhythm as hers and let himself think of her and not the pain. He was so glad she lay beside him. He was so grateful to her.

Tomorrow he would go out and find a wire hanger for her; he didn’t care what he had to do to get it. He would ask the motel people, they would help him.

“I love you. Dee,” he whispered softly.

The helicopter landed on a private air strip that normally handled only two single-engine planes and the gliders they towed aloft for rides at fifty dollars per trip. Since most of the customers returned to earth disappointed by the noise and bumpiness of glider travel-if not actually airsick-there was little repeat business. The field was almost knee high with weeds, and the shack that served as control tower/reception area looked equally unkempt and neglected.

The owner of the airfield was overjoyed and a bit awed by the sudden arrival of a chopper filled with FBI agents. He entertained the pilot at the counter that served as ticket office and operations room while Becker and Karen Crist sat across the room at the magazine-littered wrought-iron table that had once served as lawn furniture.

The owner brought Karen and Becker plastic foam cups of instant coffee and, at a glance from her, retired to talk to the pilot. He tried to engage the pilot in flying stories, but the other man only grunted, wishing the owner would shut up so that he could more effectively eavesdrop on his boss and her legendary guest.

Becker looked at the coffee with some distaste. Clots of white artificial cream floated on the surface.