Raising The Stakes. Sandra Marton

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.”

      “Harman—”

      A whimper drifted through the thin wall. Dawn grew rigid with fear as the whimper grew stronger.

      “Wazzat?”

      “The wind,” she said quickly, “it’s just the wind.”

      “Mama?”

      The baby’s cry was soft but it seemed as loud as a church bell in the silence. Tommy, she thought, Tommy, no, please, baby, no. Go back to sleep.

      “Mama?” her son said, and began to cry.

      “It’s the kid,” Harman grumbled. “Just listen at him, sobbin’ like a girl.”

      “He’s not. He’s just—we must have woken him. He heard us and he’s afraid. He’s only a baby.”

      “I’ll give him somethin’ to be afraid of,” her husband said. He rose up on one elbow, groaned and fell back against the pillows. “In the mornin’. I’m too wore out now. Man works all day, comes home for a little peace and quiet and does he get it?”

       “Maaamaaa…”

      “Go shut the kid up, you hear me, Dawn? You keep him quiet, or else.”

      Dawn sprang from the bed. She tugged what remained of her nightgown together and ran into the next room. Tommy was standing up in his crib. He was too big for it, really, and suddenly she knew why she hadn’t suggested it was time to put him into a bed, because she’d been afraid of this all along, afraid of Harman taking a good look at their child and realizing he wasn’t a baby any longer.

      “Mama?”

      Tommy sobbed her name, lifted his arms to her and she scooped him up, held him close, soothed him with whispers and kisses.

      “Hush, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Mama’s here. She won’t let anybody hurt you.”

      Except, it was a lie. Harman would hurt him and she’d be powerless to stop it from happening. Hot tears burned her eyes. Why had she denied the truth for so long? Her husband was a monster. He took pleasure from inflicting pain on those too weak to fight back. Tommy’s life would be even worse than hers. He was a child, and helpless. Harman would brutalize him…and when he grew up, what kind of man would he be? One who’d learned to beat others into submission with his fists?

      No. God, no. She couldn’t let that happen. She was the one who had brought her baby into this and she was the only one who could save him. Dawn knew it as surely as she knew that the silk moth outside would be dead by morning.

      Sounds came through the thin wall. Harman was asleep and snoring. He’d snore straight through to morning and wake up mean-tempered and even more dangerous than he was now.

      Quietly she stole from the baby’s room to the kitchen where the day’s laundry lay neatly folded in a wicker basket, awaiting the touch of the iron. She always ironed on Saturdays. Harman preferred it like that. He liked to sit by the stone hearth and watch her iron. She’d