He hit her again. And again. By the time he tossed her on the bed and unzipped his pants, the world had become a gray blur.
“You won’t learn,” he said, as he came down on top of her. “I try and try to teach you to be a good wife but you—just—won’t—”
Dawn moaned as he seated himself deep inside her. She could feel her dry flesh tear as he pounded into her again and again until, finally, she felt the hot spurt of his discharge. He fell against her, his breathing harsh, the reek of him like sewage in her nostrils. She could feel wetness between her legs. Was it from him, or was it blood?
I hate you, she thought, God, I hate you, Harman Kitteridge. I wish you were dead!
No. It was wrong to think such things. This was her husband. She had taken vows that bound her to him. He was the father of her child.
Maybe he was right. Maybe all this was her fault. She didn’t lie with other men, she didn’t even talk to other men, but surely she did things that made him angry. She could learn to do things his way. The right way. She could—she could plan a little better, look at the sink and notice that she’d put the soap dish in the wrong place or see that she hadn’t folded his work shirts the way he preferred them folded.
She could leave him.
No. She could never do that. It wasn’t right. A wife was supposed to cleave to her husband. Besides, there was the baby to consider. She’d grown up without a father; she knew that a child deserved better than that. And Harman didn’t mistreat the baby. He’d never raised a hand to him. Tommy loved his daddy. He loved him. Wasn’t that worth the world?
Dawn lay stiff and silent under her husband’s suffocating weight. He was a heavy man, big and muscled from years of working the timber on the mountain. She was small, just like her mother. But she knew better than to complain that he was crushing her and, after a long time, Harman grunted and rolled off her.
Dawn waited. Then, slowly, carefully, she began inching toward the edge of the mattress. She had to wash, put some ice on her jaw and on her temple. Her little boy was getting older. The last time Harman had beaten her, Tommy’s eyes had gone wide when he saw her in the morning.
“Mama hurt?” he’d said, as he’d touched his soft baby fingers to the cut on her lip.
“No, darlin’,” Dawn had answered, “no, Mama’s fine…”
“Where you think you’re goin’?”
She gasped, jerked back as Harman’s hand closed hard on her wrist. “Nowhere. Just—just to the bathroom.”
“You was goin’ to check on the kid.”
“Well—well, yes. I thought the baby might have kicked off the blankets and—”
“He ain’t a baby no more. Don’t need you hangin’ over him all the time.”
“He’s only three, Harman. I just want to—”
She cried out as his fingers bit into her flesh. “He’s only three,” he mimicked cruelly. His voice dropped, grew flat and cold. “Three’s plenty big enough for him to know to put away his damn toys.”
“Yes. Of course. I’ll teach him.”
“You’d better. ‘Cause if you don’t, I will.”
; A chill shuddered down her spine. “Harman. He’s just a baby. He’s just—Ahh. Harman. Please. Don’t. Don’t—”
Dawn closed her eyes as her husband climbed between her thighs and shoved himself inside her again. Each surge of his body was like a blow.
When he was done, she rolled away from him, rolled into a tight ball and lay shaking in the dark, her hand curled into a fist and shoved between her teeth to keep them from chattering. It had never been this bad before. Never. And it was her fault. Hers. It had to be. If she just learned to be a good wife…
“You’re no good.” Harman’s voice rumbled in the silence. “You never will be. You’re just like your mama. Don’t know how in hell I came to marry a bitch like you.”
Dawn bit back a sob. There was no sense in contradicting him, in reminding him that he’d seduced her into thinking a life with him would be better than the one she’d been living, that she’d gone to his bed a virgin.
“Don’t know why I ever thought you’d make me a good wife or that you’d be a good mother to my son.” The bedsprings squealed as he rolled onto his back. “The boy’s turnin’ out bad already.” He yawned; his voice took on the blurry softness of alcohol-induced sleep. “But I’ll fix that. I’ll teach him the right way. I’ll turn your little baby into a man.”
“No.” The word burst from her lips. “Harman, no. Not Tommy. You can’t—”
“I can do whatever in hell I want. This is my house. The boy is my flesh and blood. Startin’ tomorrow, I’m gonna start teachin’ him that.”