“Murder or arson. Both are very serious crimes. You’ll get a long prison sentence. Maybe life. I assume you’ve thought of that. And he has too. He must have taken that into consideration when he asked you to do this.”
Silence again. For a long time.
I feel a burning sensation on my face, and when I look up, I discover that the psychologist is staring at me. Clutching the lighter, she points her finger. Those piercing blue eyes bore into me, but she addresses her words to my mother.
“You stood by and watched your daughter kill your husband. Then you protected her, let everyone think it was an accident.”
Mama takes a deep breath, and I realize she is mustering her courage, trying to steady her voice.
“Is that what Greta told you? Is that what she said happened?”
The psychologist brushes back her hair and juts out her chin.
“No. Not in so many words. She didn’t dare confess, when it came down to it.”
She utters a joyless laugh.
“It escapes me. That’s all she said. I remember it so well. She was obviously lying. Anyone would remember something like that.”
Mama doesn’t answer, just nods, as if to herself. Then she gets up from the floor, staggers the rest of the way over to the psychologist, and stands right next to her.
“That’s not what happened. Not really.”
She pauses for a moment, then kneels down again, leaning close to the woman. So close that they almost bump noses.
“I think you know what really happened. And why things had to turn out the way they did.”
I close my eyes. Time stands still. Silence is all that exists. Mama’s words hang ominously in the stifling air. Are they still looking at each other? If so, what do they see in each other’s eyes? My tongue feels dry and swollen in my mouth. My shoulder and head are pounding, just like the excruciating pounding of my heart.
After a minute, I hear footsteps approaching, sense someone squatting down next to me. Cautious fingertips stroke my cheek, and when I open my eyes and look up, Mama’s face is hovering above me. She smiles faintly.
“You poor thing,” she says. “All these years. And now this.”
Without hesitation, she leans down to untie the rope around my wrists. I expect the psychologist to stop her. I expect to see her come rushing over with the ax, yelling threats. But that doesn’t happen. After Mama manages to pull off the rope binding my hands, she turns her attention to my ankles. As she tugs and pulls at the knots, I cast a surreptitious glance at the psychologist. She’s sitting motionless on the rug, in front of the unlit pile of wood, her eyes locked on the lighter in her hand. After freeing me, Mama gets up with a muffled groan. Then she stands there, breathing hard for a moment before she again turns to the woman in the middle of the room.
“I’m going to the kitchen to get my daughter a glass of water. When I come back, I’ll tell you a story if you like, a story about mothers and daughters and what can happen to deceitful husbands. But you’ll have to put that down.”
Then she goes out of the room, leaving me alone with the psychologist. I feel my body stiffen. But the other woman doesn’t move. She doesn’t even glance in my direction. She’s just sitting there, holding the lighter between her thumb and index finger. I hear my mother moving around in the kitchen. I hear her turn the faucet on, then off. And then she’s back, carrying a big glass of water in her hand. She pulls me up into a partially seated position, with one arm around my back, and helps me drink. The feeling of cool water running down my parched throat is so exquisite it makes me giddy, and for a moment I forget all else.
After I empty the glass, Mama sets it on the end table. Then she turns to the psychologist. I follow her gaze, see the other woman hesitate briefly before she tosses the lighter aside. Mama goes over and picks it up.
“The ax too,” she says. “I can’t talk with that thing in the room.”
Without a word, the psychologist picks up the ax lying next to her on the floor. She stands up, weighing it in her hand. For a moment, it looks like she might actually comply, but then she changes her mind. The ax will stay. She makes do with lifting the nearest corner of the rug and sticking the ax underneath. Then she sits down in an armchair and wraps her arms around her torso without looking at either of us.
“Go ahead and tell your story,” she says. “Then we’ll see.”
Mama takes a deep breath. She sinks down on the sofa behind me.
“Okay,” she says after a long pause. “I’m going to tell you what really happened on a late September night long ago.”
I can’t see her face from where I’m sitting on the floor. I realize that’s the way she wants it.
39
Unlike Greta, I remember every detail from that night. Like the fact that I was freezing, but didn’t ask him to close the window. The cigarette in his hand, the reddish glow that flared every time he took a puff. I even remember how the cigarette paper disintegrated. And I remember what he said. Every single word.
What was left of the amber-colored liquid in his glass sloshed back and forth when he lashed out at me. It was his modus operandi, of course. The best defense and all that. That was his motto. Whatever I confronted him with, what I’d seen or heard or realized, was always handled the same way. He neither confessed nor denied. Nor did he apologize or beg forgiveness. Instead, he turned scornful and mocking, launching a counterattack and letting me know what a disgusting person I was. And even more disgusting as a woman. So repulsive that I made his dick shrivel up. Ugly enough to stop a clock. Finicky and complaining. A real cunt.
I used to think I was putting up a good fight. That I was strong. That he needed me even though he didn’t realize it. I convinced myself I was the same person with him as I was at my job, with my friends, out in the world. Someone who refused to be provoked or humiliated. That worked relatively well. Until he knocked my legs out from under me once again. Cunt. I don’t know why that particular term had such an effect on me. I only know that when he hurled it, I lost everything—my voice, my balance, my composure.
It was as if he’d torn off all my clothes to expose my nakedness. As if he’d pried my ribs apart and stuck in his fist and rummaged around until he found the scared little jellylike lump that was the real me. He held up that lump between us, forced me to look at it. Then he forced me to acknowledge what he already knew, what he’d claimed all along: that no matter how hard I tried to fool myself and the rest of the world into thinking that I was smart and special, deep inside I was nothing but a pitiful, colorless, trembling little lump. That’s all.
Outwardly, I did everything in my power to maintain the façade. Not that I was afraid people would find out what he was really like, this man I’d married. No, I was afraid they’d discover me, that jellylike lump, underneath the competent, robust surface. Ruth was the only person who knew, who was allowed to see how fragile I was. I met her through my job. For a while, we worked in the same department, and when the agency reorganized, we stayed friends. By then, Ruth had become not only important but essential for me. With her steady and sensible nature, she was my lifeline. I trusted her implicitly.
But back to that night. Just when I thought the argument was over, as I was about to put on a sweater and go out for a walk in the neighborhood to calm down, something happened that would change everything.