Allan Leverone - Postcards from the Apocalypse

She knew the day was rapidly approaching when she would have to take Jonathan and escape, just leave Mark and this awful (haunted) house behind. The problem was, she had no idea how she would manage it. Everything was in her husband’s name—the credit cards, the cars, the savings accounts and investments, everything. He had all the money, all the connections, all the standing in the community, all the power. She was trapped, but she knew somehow she had to figure out some way to protect her innocent little boy, despite her growing realization that she could not even protect herself.

Across the kitchen, Jonathan was enjoying his eggs, spreading them all over his face and occasionally even getting some into his mouth. Deb watched him eat through eyes filled with tears.

That night was even worse than usual. Normally after a beating like the one Mark had inflicted last week, Deborah was able to enjoy a short respite from the terror. Her husband would be overcome with guilt and remorse and for a period of anywhere from a couple of weeks to even a couple of months would treat her, if not gently, at least without any outright hostility or physical intimidation.

Not this time, though. The air in the old house was thick with the scent of impending trouble again already. Deb felt she could almost reach out and touch the malevolence. Something had gone badly at work, something Mark was not the least bit interested in discussing with Deb. But a storm was brewing inside her husband. She had known him long enough to be able to recognize the warning signs, much like some seasoned weather observers can sense an oncoming electrical storm just by sniffing the air.

Jonathan, of course, was totally oblivious. He babbled at his father, describing a butterfly he had seen during a walk he had taken that afternoon with his mommy. “It was brown and yellow and it flyed in every direction!” He excitedly began running around the dining room, flapping his arms like butterfly wings in a manic demonstration of the insect’s flight path.

Mark said nothing, just sat in his seat glowering at Deborah, who was nearly in a panic trying to get dinner on the table before the impending explosion ripped through the house. She had misjudged how long it would take to cook the chicken, and now she knew what was coming, could sense it, could practically feel the onset of violence. All he needed was an excuse, and she had provided him with a ready-made reason to get angry, had served it up to him like a ball on a tee, just waiting for him to smash it out of the park, literally in this case.

“Is there a chance, any chance at all, that we might be able to eat dinner before that little rugrat is ready for COLLEGE?” The question had started out soft, Mark’s words almost imperceptible across the length of the kitchen, but by the end he was screaming at Deb, dark eyes flashing, fist slamming on the table and making the dinner dishes rattle with a discordant crash!

She cringed, knowing she was making a mistake, knowing that her fearful reaction would only set him off more, but she just couldn’t help it. “It’s ready now, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s ready now, I swear it’s ready now, I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out of her in a rush of fear and panic.

Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Jonathan begin his trek, head down, into the living room as Mark advanced upon her like an avenging angel. She heard the child’s DVD start up, heard the wheels of the bus begin to turn, rolling through a world where little boys didn’t have to watch their mothers get assaulted by the very people who were supposed to love and protect them, a world where mommies didn’t have to wear long-sleeved blouses in July to hide the bruising inflicted by daddies, a world where life was cozy and happy and safe and normal.

Mark wound up and shoved Deb hard. She lost her balance and fell back, arms pinwheeling, an ugly purple bruise appearing as if by magic on her lower back where she smashed it against the corner of the stove. Her ears rang as he clapped his hands over them and then hit her in the face. She fell into the dining room, landing in a heap, trying to protect her ribs from his vicious kicks, once, twice, three times.

He kicked her in the head and her consciousness began to waver, little black spots blossoming around the edges of her vision and then growing larger and threatening to overwhelm her, and Deb thought for just a moment that this was it—this was going to be the time he killed her. It was inevitable, wasn’t it? Black despair flooded her heart, not for herself but for her only son. Who would care for Jonathan? Who would teach him right from wrong? Who would make him understand his mommy had loved him and tried her best to protect him?

From where she lay in the corner of the dining room, sprawled on the floor and unable to stand, Deb looked through the open entryway into the den at her beloved son. He was once again staring up at the ceiling, entranced by whatever it was he saw during these moments of extreme stress.

“TURN THAT MUSIC DOWN!” Mark screamed as the wheels on the bus started turning again on Jonathan’s DVD. He turned on his heel and started across the room toward the little boy, lost in his rage. As he did, Deb saw the enormous chandelier hanging in the middle of the room begin shaking on its own, almost as if a small earthquake was taking place over just that one spot in the ceiling. It was almost imperceptible at first, a musical jingling sound as the crystal orbs bounced against each other. Mark didn’t notice.

Jonathan continued staring upward, a look of intense concentration framing his tiny face, and plaster began to break away from around the cast iron plate that kept the chandelier bolted securely into the ceiling, falling like snowflakes in July on and around the angry man.

For the first time, Mark looked up and took notice of the strange occurrence taking place over his head. By now the chandelier was swaying violently back and forth, rattling and screeching as plaster continued to fall. Time seemed to stop as the abusive man stared in slack-jawed amazement at the unlikely sight taking place directly above him.

After just that moment’s hesitation he seemed to recognize that he might be in danger and he started to move, taking one giant step toward the corner of the room and the prone body of his wife. As he did, the chandelier let go, tearing loose from the ceiling with an impossibly loud roar, plaster and wood and cast iron and cut glass crashing down in a screaming symphony of destruction.

He almost made it. Two feet farther and the massive lighting fixture would have slammed harmlessly to the floor. Instead, Mark Weingarten took the full force of the falling chandelier, smashing him to the floor like a rag doll, slicing off the top of his head in an instant and spraying blood in a near-perfect circle on to the gleaming oak floor.

Deborah struggled to her knees, hair hanging in sweaty strings around her face as she spit up blood, adding a little of her own to the rapidly growing pool around her now-dead husband’s body. She wondered absently how many of her ribs Mark had broken when he was kicking her.

Glass from the ruined chandelier crunched and tinkled under Jonathan’s sneakers as he ran across the room to his mother. She tried to tell him not to go near his father’s body but discovered she couldn’t manage to form the words. She was tired, so tired.

Jonathan stopped in front of Deb and kneeled on the floor, not even seeming to notice the devastation in the room. “I did it, mommy! I did it! It’s okay now. Daddy was really mad but now the mad man will never bother us again, mommy.”

Deb reached out with a shaking hand and pulled her son close, brushing shards of the deadly glass off his jeans from where he had kneeled in front of her and hugging him fiercely. Blood sprang instantly from her hands and agonizing pain from her broken ribs ripped through her as she held him but she barely noticed and didn’t care. Tears rolled down her cheeks; tears for what she had lost and what she had gained and what her son would never have.