The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(6)

If you wonder why I never became a statistic with the sheriff’s office, it wasn’t for lack of trying, and not just on Jim’s part. If you’ve never been in my shoes, you likely could never understand. Ten years ago, I couldn’t have. The closest metaphor I know is the one about the boiling frog: Put a frog in a pot of boiling water, and he will jump out at once. But put him in a pot of cold water and turn up the heat by degrees, and he’ll cook to death before he realizes it.

After the slap comes the fist. After the black eye, the split lip. The punch that caused me to miscarry was a bad one. After that, came the fear: That I did not know this man. That I didn’t know myself. That he could seriously hurt me. That he might even kill me. That there was no one to turn to, so thoroughly had he separated me from familiar people and places. He had moved me into his world where he was an authority, an officer of the law, and I was the outsider, an unknown quantity.

Then there was the shame. That somehow I had caused this. That somehow I deserved this. That this was, as he so often told me, my fault. If only I were smarter or prettier, took better care of the house, were more cheerful. If only I had salted the beans right, or hadn’t left the toothpaste tube facedown instead of faceup.

In point of fact, when I finally felt the water start to boil, I did try to get help. But Jim was ready. It happened the first time he cracked one of my ribs, and I dialed 911. He didn’t stop me. This was an object lesson, only I didn’t know it. The deputy who knocked on the door was a longtime fishing buddy who still had one of Jim’s favorite trout spinners in his own tackle box at home. By the time the deputy left the house, he and Jim had plans that Sunday for Clearwater Lake.

Jim waved the man out of the driveway, came inside and closed the door. I was leaning against the china cabinet, holding my side. Laurel was a toddler then, and wailing in her crib. It hurt so bad to bend that I couldn’t pick her up. Jim came at me so fast I thought he intended to ram right through me. I shuffled back against the wall. He braced one broad hand against the doorjamb, and with the other shoved hard against the china cabinet. It toppled over and crashed to the floor, shattering our wedding set to bits, scattering eggshell porcelain shards from one end of the room to the other.

Jim was red with rage, snorting like a bull. “You stupid bitch,” he said, panting hard. “Clean this up.”

He stepped toward me again, this time more slowly. His hand came up and I winced in anticipation, but he only cupped my cheek in his palm, stroking my skin. When he spoke again, the pitch of his voice was changed utterly—low and gentle, like a caress.

“And if you ever call them again, I swear to Christ I will cut your f*cking fingers off before they even get here.”


*

After that, you feel the heat, but not the burn. After that, you get on your knees and pick up the pieces, grateful you can still do that much. And after that, you lean over your daughter’s crib no matter how much it hurts and pick her up and hold her so tight you think you’ll smother both of you.





March 10





Laurel turned seven yesterday, and it was a good day. Jim was off and had picked up presents—a dress with ruffles and matching shoes, a DVD of Sleeping Beauty and a stuffed rabbit with a pink bow around its neck holding a heart-shaped pillow that read, Daddy’s Girl. He’d suggested a coconut cake, even though Laurel’s favorite is chocolate. I made chocolate, but covered it with coconut icing.

Laurel doesn’t like ruffles, either, or matching sets of clothing. Left to herself, she’ll pair pink stripes with purple polka dots and top it with a yellow sunhat freckled with red daisies. It will look like she’s pulled on whatever has risen to the top of the laundry basket, but in fact she will spend a half hour in careful consideration of this piece with that before making her final decision. Jim jokes that she must be color-blind. He calls it “clownwear,” and if he’s home to see it, he makes her change. But I let her mix and match as she pleases, because she says she is a rainbow and doesn’t want any color to feel left out.





March 13





Jim’s probation has ended. Three months of good behavior, ten days served, an official reprimand and a misdemeanor conviction that a career man can overcome with enough time and a little effort. That was the sheriff’s encouraging speech when he met with Jim and me this morning to, as he says, close the book on an unfortunate incident.

As far as he knew, we had merely argued. And I, being foolish, had taken the stairs too fast and slipped. And if it was anything more serious than this, well, he was a big believer in the healing power of time.