Triumph

“We can’t do this anymore.” Lance said, breaking the silence that claimed their small two room apartment.  The streetlight from across the street near the convenience store was the only lighting in the room, and it lent eerie shadows across the living room that now served as the room of truths.  He spoke more to himself than the other occupant, but the meaning was not lost on her.  The silence that followed that revelation seemed much deeper and filled with sentiments than the previous absence of sound.  Now the silence had weight, fraught with things finally brought out into the open.  The pale orange light fell in strips across the light brown carpet, falling short of illuminating the face of his companion, and he couldn’t see any reflections in her eyes.  He supposed it didn’t matter if she was looking at him or not, actually he preferred it if she weren’t looking.  It was over.
         “What is that supposed to mean?” she bit, clearly defending herself from the truth that she already knew.  She could see him where he sat, near the window, could see those same orange strips, sliced by the mini blinds they had bought just a month before, laying across his chest and arm, giving him a strange tan that wouldn’t be there any other time but now, here under the arc-lamp from across the street.  Outside a horn bleated casually, more than likely in response to another driver’s idea of vehicular incompetence, which brought a deeper frown to her mouth.  She crossed her arms and settled deeper into the chair she was keeping warm.  Marcy could feel the cold fear and pain coming, could, in fact, feel it for some time now, but with it actually on the table, it felt colder than she ever imagined.  The honking horn still echoed in her head, sweeping her back years, back to the last time she could not control what was happening to her. 
         Marcy was enjoying her senior year of high school with her friends, celebrating a hometown football win, driving and singing at the top of their lungs with the radio.  The weather was not bad for that time of year, and the rural roads they traveled were clear, as were the skies that autumn.  She shared the back seat with a new friend, one from the next town over who showed interest in her best friend Randi.  His name, also, was Randy, only spelled the “guy” way, and Marcy and he had many things in common, and had enjoyed each other’s company on previous occasions.  Since Randi was driving (it was her car for heaven’s sake) and Heather had called shotgun, then heck, Marcy and Randy took up the rear of the small two door car.  “Home Sweet Home” from Motley Crue was playing, the whole gang was singing as the car crested a small hill doing somewhere over forty miles per hour.  No one could have seen that car sitting in the middle of the road just over that hill.  There were no screeching tires, no panic stops, just a bright flash of light and cold, bitter pain.  As she lost consciousness, she could hear the horn blaring nonstop.
         “You know what I mean,” Lance sighed, moving to the edge of the sofa, perching on it, expecting the normal blow up.  He was tensed up, every muscle contracted, awaiting the storm that he knew was brewing.  “We can’t be together.”
         Marcy calculated her next statement, still chilled by the memory of the accident.  She forced the icy pain down from wherever it was it came from.  No, if this cold dagger of pain was going to surface, it was going to be on him.  She’d had enough of its chill.  “Is that right, Lance.”  It wasn’t a question.  It was an accusation.  “Care to explain that?”
         For the last six months Lance Hendricks tried to find a common ground for them to stand on, but once he found it, it slipped away, either by sheer bad luck or by her using a shovel, no, hell, a damn bulldozer.  Vivid images of their relationship haunted him, and he was shocked and appalled to see only the bad, bitter fights between them.  He fought hard to find a fond memory, but at each revelation was a darker, more frightening scene.  He couldn’t remember a time that they were happy.  The last time they teetered on happiness was in a last ditch effort to regain the relationship that was supposed to be marriage.  It began as a weekend away in Oklahoma City, away from home, seemingly away from problems.  But of course, the movie they went to see just wasn’t up to her strict standards of comedy, nor was the dinner they had afterwards up to her deft palette.  Nothing was ever good enough for her.  The weekend ended in the middle of the onramp to I-35 with her screaming at him for some small detail of something he could no longer remember.  He only remembered blocking traffic on a busy Sunday evening, everytime he tried to put the car in gear, she slammed it back into “Park” to further make her point known not only to him, but evidently to the entire populace of Oklahoma City.  He’d finally gave in, agreeing to whatever it was she was insisting on, if only to stop impeding traffic flow to the busy interstate.  They slowly made their way back to Kansas, only the radio keeping them company.
         “We can’t be married anymore Marcy.  We just can’t seem to do it.”
         “YOU can’t seem to do it, Lance.  I don’t have a problem with making this marriage work.”
         “How can you say that?” Lance queried, in awe that she didn’t recognize the same situation that he did.  “We can’t even have a civil conversation lately!”
         “Oh, so we fight a few times and you want to run away and call it quits, huh?  Real childish.  What’s the matter, Lance?  Who do you want to run to, Lance?” she drilled.
         “You know there isn’t anyone else involved here, Marcy.  This is about me.  This is about you.  We can’t get along.  We simply can’t.”
         “It’s because you can’t let down your precious “wall” long enough to let anyone in.”
         “You know better than that.  See what I mean?  Everything comes down to who can hurt the other the most.  Is that what you want to live with?”
         “That’s not what’s happening.” She replied, evidently touched by the realization that maybe that was the truth.  She could feel the icy shards of tears welling up in her eyes, burning there. 
         “Marcy, I want a…”
         “Divorce, Lance?  Is that what you want?  Then just say it.”
         “I want, I think we need…I want a divorce, Marcy.”
         The words were in the air like a storm, swirling around, bubbling, gathering strength.  As strong as she wanted to be, Marcy fell into deep sobs, those frozen tears now burning trails down her cheeks.  Crocodile or not, Lance fell for them every time.  This last chance to keep him from acting irrationally.  The rains began.  She monitored him closely through half closed eyes, through a blur of tears, and didn’t see what she wanted to see.  He wasn’t coming over to comfort her.  Nor was his body language changing a bit.  He still sat there, on the edge of that old blue divan, looking out the window.  Damn him.  The storm wasn’t subsiding like usual.  He wasn’t giving in this time…yet.  Her pain was welling up inside her, disguising itself as hatred.  Hatred at him for denying her this marriage.  She would not lose control this time.  God save her, she wouldn’t lose control.
         “Fine, fucker, you want a divorce?  Fine.”  She spat, glaring at him.  He closed his eyes, squinting against the harshness of her voice, the crudeness of her words, and heard the chair’s familiar squeaks and groans of someone either entering into or climbing out of it’s comfort.  Lance’s muscles tensed in unison, ready for the usual physical assault that always came whenever he either disagreed with her or had an opinion that didn’t mimic her own, although he knew that this was bigger, much much bigger than a simple disagreement.  He was ready to defend himself from whatever she may throw at him.  To his astonishment he heard her footsteps going away from the living room, down the hall towards the bedrooms.  What now, he thought, am I going to catch all my clothes out here?  Or maybe a few of my books?    Lance opened his eyes, muscles still tight, adrenaline now coursing through his bloodstream.  Why did he pick this late hour to confront her?  He was so tired, not only physically, but emotionally as well.  He supposed, however, that no time would be a better time with her, and with the divorce thing.  I guess tonight there will be no sleep for either of us, he thought as he scanned the room with his eyes and strained his ears for any audio clue as to what she was doing.  He didn’t believe it would be a good idea to follow her right now, hell, he made it this far without being pelted by something, why invite it?  His attention was drawn to the fish tank by the wall, making shimmering reflections on the ceiling from the rays of light it caught from the outside light.  The few goldfish that lived there oblivious to the storm that was brewing in their captor’s home.  Oh, how Lance longed to be one of those fish right then, no worries, no problems, no destructive fishy relationships to deal with.  Then his ears picked up a small noise from the back room.  A small noise that was the largest noise he could think of at the moment.  A small whine, the wine of an infant waking up from sleep.  That bitch.
         He could hear her footsteps rapidly approaching as well as sniffles and sobs from Andrew, Andie-pie as he was usually referred to for the last year or so, and Lance stood, all thoughts of the aquarium washed away.  Now he could make out her form coming towards him from the darkened back hall, could see Andy’s little peachfuzz head glowing faintly as he wriggled in his mother’s arms.  She was walking quickly, stalking thought Lance, like a mother lion stalks her prey.  Christ, I’ve never felt more like her prey than I do right now.  Again his muscles tensed, every sense heightened with the adrenaline he could feel beginning to coarse through his body.  Every instinct told him to go, just leave, then his brain and past experiences overrode the instinct.  Many times in the past during a confrontation he tried to leave, to just get away and get some fresh air, some space if you will.  Never once had that happened.  The space he needed was continually denied, the ability to process and reason and deal with the situation never attained.  Each time he tried he was blocked.  Blocked both emotionally and physically by her and her need to control his actions, his thoughts, his words.  It was torture even when their baby wasn’t involved, and now here she was, waking him up and using him as a shield, as a last ditch effort to control this situation that she knew should not continue.  Is this her perception of love?  Can she be that naïve to think that holding him there would make things better?  That the love could return if she held Andy in between their harsh words, their erratic behavior?  For the love and sake of that poor child, his parents should not be together and put him through this.  Lance had a brief but powerful insight of his child’s future were he to be raised in this.  He could see the arguments, often ending in some kind of abuse, be it emotional, physical or mental, could see Andy first being held by his mother during them, then as he grew older saw him sitting in a corner watching, learning what a child should never be allowed to learn.  Lance knew that he was as responsible as she was in the destructive behavior.  That was precisely why he knew he had to be the one to leave, to not put Andy or himself or Marcy in this situation any more.  He thought that this would be the best way for his son to grow up, maybe not being raised by both of his parents in the same household, but definitely not being exposed to these kinds of destructive tendencies.
         “Marcy, jeez, c’mon.  Put Andy down, okay?  He doesn’t need to be in this.” Pleaded Lance
         “No, Lance,”she hissed, “You look at your son and tell him that you don’t want him anymore.  Tell him, Lance, go ahead.”  The cold tears were back in her eyes, some of them spilling down her cheeks.  He wouldn’t leave her, not with their son there.  This would work, it had to work.  I’m not going to lose.  She held little Andy out in front of her, facing Lance.  “Tell him, goddamn you!” she spat, her voice beginning to break.  “Tell him you’re leaving us!”  At this she began to openly sob, and Lance saw his chance to take his son from her clutching grasp.  Marcy let Andy go and sank to the floor, her breath hitching in her chest, making a raspy hollow sound.  Just a few more blinks and the tears would really be flowing.  Those same cold crocodile tears that had worked so well in the past, that had bent him to her will innumerable times.  She looked up from the corner of her eye to see if her will would be done this time as well, but was denied the pleasure.  He was not there, was not, in fact anywhere in the living room.  She could, however, hear his light footfalls trailing down the hallway.  Okay, he’ll put the baby to bed, then come back here and we’ll talk like we usually do, then we’ll kiss, make love, and I’ll have kept him here.  Small price to pay to win.  Marcy drew her knees up to her chin and sat there, blinking and rubbing her eyes, insuring that the tears would be real to him and her eyes would be puffy as if she were truly upset.  As she sat in the dim glow her mind wandered to the past, to the ramshackle trailer she used to live in with her parents as she and Lance were dating, of the problems they had.  He was going to break up with her then, she knew it, and thank heavens for that tornado.  Without that disaster, she may have continued life without him, without her baby, and without someone to control. 
         She remembered clearly how he had come out to her parents house early in the afternoon, shortly after he’d gotten off work at the local grocery store and they’d both driven back into town together to rent a couple of movies at the video store.  The day had been so hot and still and his car didn’t have air conditioning; she let him know many times during that drive about the heat and how he needed to do something to his car if he expected her to ride anywhere with him as she was not going to burn up while she was with him.  At the video store she had wanted a light comedy or something romantic, and he’d wanted something with a little action in it, something scary, or some completely stupid comedy that she’d just die if she had to sit through.  They left the video place with two romantic comedies, of course, he didn’t stand a chance against her.  A few bats of her eyelashes and an innuendo of sex and she had won the video choice for the night.  It seemed that he had tried to tell her something important the whole trip, but with a quick witticism here and a carefully placed hand there, and the conversation swayed away from what could not have been too important—to her, anyway.  The movies were started, and the two sat on the couch to watch, her mother in the armchair off to the side, also interested in the movies they had chosen.  Luckily for Lance, her father had to work late at the aircraft plant.  For some reason her father didn’t care too much for Lance, nor did Lance harbor any good feelings for her father.  She had orchestrated that early on, as it was very nice to play one off the other.  That way she always had someone to run to, to stand behind her, to tell her that yes, Marcy, you are right.  She loved being right.  As a matter of fact, she would be right at any cost, whether she was right or not.  That is how a person stays in control of things, to never admit that they are wrong.  Admitting she was wrong was something Marcy refused to do, no matter what the outcome.  If it appeared she was wrong, she would convolute the issue to such degrees that she would come out being right, even if it contradicted her original position.  She would not be wrong, and as long as she had someone to turn to if the other thought she was, then she was sitting pretty in the drivers seat.  Daddy thinks I’m wrong about something?  Well, I have Lance to tell me I’m right, just to spite Daddy.  Lance thinks I’m wrong?  Well, hello Daddy, you’ll tell me I’m right just to spite Lance.  How sweet it is.