The War of the Roses

The memory of her crushed and lifeless body floated into his consciousness. Mercedes was gone. Benny was gone. The thought of Benny stimulated a sour, chalky taste in his mouth and he gulped.

He listened. Every tiny movement displayed itself on the kaleidoscopic screen in his mind. So far she had cleverly avoided the matrix he had created. Sooner or later, she would falter and start a chain reaction of destruction. It was only a matter of time.

Taking a deep pull on the bottle, he knew he was trying to drown out reason. Reason was his enemy. Like love. Like devotion. Reason weakened the will. He opened the drapes and looked down into the street again. It was dark now, but he vaguely recalled the woman's cries. Something about the children, he recalled. The children? This was not their affair. What was happening had nothing to do with them. It was not fair to invoke the children. Hadn't Goldstein told him that? 'Go away,' he shouted to the empty street. He screamed again. 'Go away.' But that was meant for Barbara.

Out of the vapor of his thoughts, a girl child emerged in memory. A wave of old anxieties washed over him. Her baby cries tormented him with their helplessness. He had not the courage to let her cry. He, the father. He had explained that to Barbara once. They owed this child their protection, their shelter, their warmth. She had protested his spoiling Eve but had moved in their bed to make room for the baby. They held her between them, loving, warm. Now she is safe, he told her.

Then Josh had come. A boy in his image. In their image. Now we have a complete family, he had said, or surely must have said. Barbara had agreed or seemed to agree. They were pictures in his mind, the four of them against the world. Husband. Wife. Son. Daughter. Family.

He had created a fort to protect them. This house.

'You just don't matter anymore,' she had told him, as if she were throwing the first handful of dirt on his coffin. 'Not to me.'

'You could have told me that years ago, before you let me build this life.' Perhaps he had responded that way. He was no longer sure. A jumbled conversation surfaced in his mind.

'I didn't know.'

'Didn't know?'

'I was blinded by love.'

'Blinded? Does love blind?'

'Yes.'

Well, then, it blinded me as well, he shouted within himself. How dare she take away my life? My whole life. My family. But the house was his. His. She would never get that. Never, never, never, never.

It was a pustule. He could not keep his fingers from it. It itched. He scratched. He wanted to tear it open and let the pus run out and free himself at last.

Sounds intruded - the squeal of tires, the throb of a car's motor. He looked through the drapes and saw the outlines of the cab in the muted light of the street lamp. Familiar, shadowy figures emerged. A girl and a boy. They stood looking at the house as the taxi pulled away. His mouth opened, but he could not find words. Instead he stepped away from the window. The closed drapes plunged the room into darkness again. He moved backward, losing his balance as his feet hit the bottles. Reaching out, a wall supported his weight. He cowered in a corner, hoping that they would go away. On his knees he prayed, looking upward. To whom was he praying? he wondered.

'God help me,' lie whispered, trying to get up. His body wanted to hang back, stay in that safe corner. He heard the beating of the knocker, rhythmical, persistent. The chimes had died. Still he hung back. Perhaps they would go away. Rising now, he listened.

The knocking sound disappeared. Silence. Then a new chorus began, a persistent clarion in a stormy night.

'Mom. Dad. It's us.'

Who are they? he thought.

The knocking began again, drowning out their voices.

He heard faint whispers, then a metallic sound and the thing that he had vaguely dreaded became a reality. The door was opening.

He sprang out of the room, but his footing was unsure, made more so by the broken figures in his path. He lost his balance and fell. Through the brass slats in the banister, he saw the door open and heard the children's screams as they fell on the slick surface, struggled upward, then fell again, groping toward the stairs.

'Go back.' The words formed, then burst through the din. They stumbled forward.

'Go back. Please.'

It was not his voice. Barbara's. He saw her on the landing above him, looking down, her face frightened, terror-stricken.

'Mom.'

Their voices rose in tandem. Seeing her, they stumbled forward, their hands tearing at the stair carpet for balance. They untacked carpet gave way and the cast-iron pots began their avalanche with a clanging roar as they rolled forward. The clock chimes, too, began suddenly, booming out in an abrasive rhythm, vibrating in the air. Pictures fell off the walls. Eve and Josh pressed themselves against each other, just managing to escape the falling pots.

'Go back,' Barbara screamed, her voice shrill, panicked. She lowered her eyes to his, imploring.

'Save them, Oliver. Our children.'

Her sobs stirred him and, for the first time since the nightmare began, he saw the old softness, the other Barbara.

'Our children,' he repeated, swallowing deeply, desperately trying to clear his mind. Time compressed itself.