PROLOGUE:

   I killed my husband.  He lay bleeding at my feet.  How could he be dead? It was starting to register.  Dear God–I killed my husband, Ron.  After a long while I realized that my husband was dead.

   A blessed event.  That’s what Connie Sullivan would probably try to tell me the baby her daughter was expecting was for her.  A blessed event. Connie and Amber were on their porch, going into the house.  I was gardening, wearing my straw hat still holding a shovel in my hands.  I pretended to notice for the first time suddenly that Amber was pregnant. 

     “Wow–a baby?” I asked. “When is this going to happen?”

     “Any day now,” Connie responded in a low tone. “Amber didn’t see the doctor until recently. We were…surprised.”

What type of parents don’t realize until a few days before the birth that their fourteen-year-old daughter is pregnant?  Amber hid it I reason. She wore bulky clothing, oversized sweatshirts and T-shirts with words on them.

     “I assumed the extra weight was bad diet,” I said. “I know you aren’t a health-conscious family.”

I had been in their trash snooping, pawing through fast food bags and snack packaging, ever since the first day they moved into the neighborhood.

    “The doctor says that she is carrying nicely,” Connie told me, wanting me to know that she had taken Amber to a doctor. 

    Connie lowered her voice a bit.

    “It isn’t exactly how we would have liked it to happen, but we’re thrilled–our first grandchild.”

I nodded as I felt this woman’s heart sink.  This would be the talk of the neighborhood within an hour. We both knew it.  Relief filled me.  I was already envisioning telling people about it.  For so long the gossips that I am usually the center of have gathered in hushed conversation talking about my husband’s inability to get a job since he left the last one.  Everyone would be talking about Amber Sullivan now.  I could not inside tot he telephone quick enough.  If only the line reached outside, I thought anticipating what I would say about all of this. 

            I did not offer Connie baby things, not even after she told me that they didn’t  have anything.  Things my youngest didn’t need anymore. I  was not there to help, but to get information.

            “How old are you again, Amber?” I asked.

            “Fourteen,” Connie answered for her daughter.

            “Oh, my,” I said.  “Fourteen is young.”

            “Fifteen in October,” Connie offered in a soft tone as if it made a difference.

            “Will you be keeping the baby?”   

            “Of course we will be!” Connie stated. 

            “I don’t mean to offend you,” I told her. “It’s going to be difficult. That‘s all I meant, Connie.”  

            “It’s going to be a challenge but we’ll help her,” Connie reluctantly said finally. 

            “You can barely help yourselves,” I said. “I mean with all of your money troubles.”

            “We’ll manage, Gwen.” Connie nodded.  “People help.”

            “Of course,” I said. “People help, but people will only be patient with you for so long. I suppose the baby will be born on welfare.”

            “Public Aide,” Connie corrected me. 

            “Is that what it is?” I asked.  “I wouldn’t know.”

The big question was hanging between us. Connie was wondering if I would be rude enough to ask it.  For a second I let Connie Sullivan believe I would not ask, that I would let it go, but I was like a dog with a bone.  Connie Sullivan must have heard it coming from me before I finally asked it. 

            “What about the father?” I asked. “Is his family able or willing to help?”

            “Amber won’t tell us who the father is,” Connie said, swallowing hard with the proper amount of shame, finally.

            “Oh, my…” I gasped. 

Amber’s voice spoke up for the first time, talking louder than she has talked in all of the time they have lived in the house next to our own.

            “Ron,” Amber said to me. “Your husband is the father of my baby.”

I felt my mouth fall open wide.  The color drained from my face.  Amber Sullivan went into the house.  I staggered away leaving Connie Sullivan who stood speechless unable to keep thinking about the baby that her fourteen- year- old daughter was having as a Blessed Event.

    I came into the house so angry.  Ron was in the house, balding and pale with a full stomach made up of months of unemployment that caused him to look suddenly pregnant to me.  I didn’t hit him that hard this time. How many times had I hit him harder before? Nothing ever happened. I constantly threw things at him. He was always fine afterwards. This time I only shoved him, a push is all that it really was. I’ve done worse. Ron had to be fine!

      On my knees I shook my dead husband, demanding then begging for him to wake up. I rolled him over.  The wild bleach blonde curls on my head ran down toward my eyes. I saw the blood on the right side of Ron’s head. I had struck him along the left side of his head with my fist, pushing him hard. There was blood on the other side of his head. Looking up I saw the corner of the brick fireplace. He must’ve hit his head on the corner of the fireplace. That was what killed him, not me. I couldn’t have killed my husband.

     I paced the living room of our home. My hands covered my face, opened palms running up to my forehead where I pushed my curls away. What had I done? Dear God–what had I done? A sick feeling formed in the pit of my stomach. I was going to vomit. Dear God–what the hell had I done?

      The windows alarmed me. I ran to them, the heels of my sandals slapping the wood flooring. Raising my arms above my head, feeling sweat down the back of my white sleeveless blouse, I began yanking the heavy draperies closed.  It would appear odd to the neighbors that I had pulled the draperies in the middle of the day, I thought. What would I say if anyone asked? The sun was too hot. That was what I would say to anyone who asked.

     I turned back into the room, away from the window where the world was normal outside. Everything was spinning. I was going to fall to my knees. The world was not alright. It was falling down around me. Dear God–what had I done?

   I called to make plans for the girls to go to a sleepover with the neighbors down the street.  They were all so excited when I told them as they came in from swimming, unaware of the blood I cleaned from the floor after dragging their father down to the basement freezer. 

   Once the girls were gone I waited.  Night descended but I still waited.  Finally, I dragged Ron out to the garden where I buried my husband.   I worked hard to conceal what I had done to my garden, the damage putting my husband down deep beneath it caused, as I recalled  the way that face looked right before he died. He had that stupid look on his face that I always hated. 

    In the morning I will tell the lie for the first time when I pick the girls up.  Our daughters run through my head now.  Joyce, Ruth, Emily,  and the baby.  Ron left us, that is what I will say.  Everyone will believe me when I tell them that Ron left us.  He was weak, without a spine.  It’s a lie that they will believe I tell myself as I work the gouged soil and uprooted flowers of my gardent hat are tormented by what I have done.  I have killed my husband.