I married Ricky not long after that. Darrell, my father, my brother, they all told me I was moving too fast, but I was in a rush to feel normal at that point in my life. I wanted to do what other Black Wolf County girls did. I married a mine worker, I worked to make us extra money, I went to the 126 and drank and joked with friends, I cooked and cleaned and had sex with my husband on Wednesday nights and Saturday mornings. Lather, rinse, repeat.
That was how my life went for three years. Maybe that’s how the rest of my life would have gone, if Ricky hadn’t heard his supervisor making a joke about his damaged nose and thrown the man through a window. The assault got him fired from the mine. Everything changed after that; everything began to spiral downward, for me and for him. I began to see the other side of my husband, as if I were orbiting around the dark side of the moon. His failures as a man somehow became my shortcomings as a wife.
Darrell was right about the danger of living with tigers. Believe me, as a cop, I knew what happened behind closed doors to too many of the women in Black Wolf County. Ricky hadn’t touched me, not yet. Even so, I’d grown wary of what he might do. I’d noticed the heat of his temper, like a gas flame on high. When we argued, I saw him clenching his fists. His demands in bed had begun to make me uncomfortable. I felt like he was testing my boundaries, pushing me to see how far he could go before I pushed back. It was almost as if he wanted me to give him an excuse. All along, he had this odd, taunting look in his eyes that said: I dare you.
“I’m going to take a shower before the water gets cold,” I said. I got off the sofa and slipped out of my winter coat, but Ricky blocked my way.
“Was Ajax there?”
“What?”
“Were you with him this morning?” Ricky asked.
“I wasn’t with him. He’s a cop. He was at the crime scene, too.”
“Yeah. Sure he was.”
“What’s the problem? What are you talking about?”
Ricky’s blue eyes looked like ice on a glacier. “I know you’re screwing him.”
“No, you don’t know that, because I’m not.”
“He says you are. He threw it in my face at the movie on Sunday.”
“Well, Ajax is a liar. He pushes your buttons, and you let him do it.”
“He comes on to you,” Ricky said. “I’ve seen him do it.”
“Yeah, he comes on to me and every other woman in town, but there’s nothing between us.”
I was tired of this argument. We’d had it over and over. I was done defending myself, but I still felt the need to be a peacemaker. On that day of all days, I needed a little bit of peace.
“Look, I’m sorry about the argument on Sunday,” I went on. “I’m stressed about money. I’ll talk to my dad. He’ll help us out.”
“It’s not my fault there are no jobs, Bec.”
“I know. And I know it sucks that I have to work on Christmas. I’ll make it up to you. But right now, I need to shower and get back.”
With that, I dragged my tired body up the stairs to the second floor.
In the bathroom, with a little morning light coming in through the window, I stood in front of the mirror and took off my clothes. I hung up my uniform carefully, as if it were a disguise. I unhooked my flimsy bra and peeled down my underwear, and I stared at my reflection in the gloom. Two dark eyes stared back at me, dark as coal, with thick eyebrows like two black slashes. Underneath them were the bags that makeup couldn’t hide. I hadn’t slept more than a few minutes in days. My nose was Rudolph-red from the freezing cold temperature and from sniffling and sneezing. My cheeks were flushed, and my entire head felt thick.
I had a V-shaped face and a tiny mouth, but my lower lip bulged in a way that made men think I was puckering at them. I wasn’t. My black hair hung to my shoulders. It was messy, with split ends and a few strands going their own way no matter how many times I brushed them down. I was skinny. I’ve always been skinny. You could see my shoulder bones, my narrow hips, my knobby knees. My arms were as scrawny as the chicken leg Ricky had been eating. My breasts made shallow pyramids that ended in tiny pink points. My skin was pale, my whole body china white. It wasn’t just the winter; even in the summer, I never tanned.
I may have seemed fragile on the outside, but this was tough country, and no matter if you were skinny and small, you did what you had to do. I shoveled snow. I cut down dead trees. I cuffed drunks twice my size.
That was me, sweetheart. That was your mom.
I mean, not yet, but soon.
I climbed into the tub and turned on the shower. The brown water wasn’t hot anymore. It dribbled from the showerhead, mostly cool. I didn’t wash my hair, because I had no way to dry it with the power out, and I couldn’t leave it wet. Instead, I tucked as much of it as I could under a plastic shower cap. I soaped up quickly, watching dirt run down the drain, and I rinsed off, freezing.
When I yanked back the shower curtain, I screamed.
Ricky was right in front of me. He looked me up and down, his wife’s naked body, me shivering like a soaking-wet cat and wearing my stupid yellow polka-dot shower cap. His chest was still bare. His pajama bottoms and underwear were pooled around his ankles. The pudge of his stomach swelled from his waist, but everything else was muscle. He dangled, already beginning to grow. His hands took hold of my shoulders, and he squeezed with his thick fingers, not enough to hurt me, but definitely enough to remind me of his strength.
I felt the weight of his arms shoving me to my knees and making it very clear what he wanted.
“Ricky, not now,” I told him. “Not like this.”
I held my breath, wondering if words would be enough to put him off this time. He waited a long, long moment before he let go. Then he laughed, as if this was only a game. As if we hadn’t been on the verge of something ugly. He yanked up his pajamas with a shrug, but he gave me a look as he did, and I saw that same strange challenge in his eyes.
I dare you.
Chapter Six
“Where were you on Sunday evening?” Darrell asked Sandra Thoreau when we visited her later that morning. That was his very first question. We hadn’t told her about Gordon Brink, but I assumed that phones had been ringing all over town with news of the murder. She didn’t look surprised to see us.
Sandra’s eyes went from Darrell to me and back to Darrell. We were seated in the living room of her small rambler. When I’d seen her shortly after midnight, she’d been smoking and drinking a can of Old Style, and she still was. In between, she’d tied her hair back and put on jeans and a loose gray sweatshirt. I saw a few toys near the Christmas tree where her son, Henry, had unwrapped them. Henry himself was in the front yard, building a snowman. Sandra had told the boy to go outside when we arrived.
“Well, shit, Darrell,” she replied, blowing smoke at us. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”
“Believe me, Sandra, I’d much rather be home with my family than here asking you questions. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we’re out of here. Now tell me about Sunday evening.”
She shrugged. “There’s nothing to tell. I was watching the movie at the 126, like most everybody else. Probably fifty people saw me there.”
“Did you leave the bar at all during the film?”
“Yeah, I went out to grab a smoke and enjoy a little peace and quiet for a few minutes. I’ve seen the movie before. Did I hop in my car and go slice and dice Gordon Brink? No, I didn’t. I mean, that’s what this is all about, right? That’s what you want to know?”