You're Not in Kansas Anymore

There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.

Myra clicks her heels together, although she feels quite foolish doing so; but the part of her that desperately wants to believe in miracles reasons that if it worked for Dorothy, it will also work for her. 

“Damn it,” she hisses and clicks her heels one last time. “There’s no place like home.”  Sighing, she then looks out the window over the sink. It rained again last night, and today was going to be hot. What did the weatherman say? Ninety-eight? But what should she expect—balmy temperatures? This is South Louisiana, after all.

The grandfather clock in the hall begins to strike the hour.

Seven o’clock and all is hell.

“I can’t believe the dean would call a meeting this damn early,” her husband says as he enters the room. No good-morning kiss. No hello. But John detests mornings, and when he absolutely must get up early, he vents his displeasure upon the world. “I don’t know how soon I’ll be home either. If it’s like the last meeting, it’ll drag on forever.”

Poor baby, Myra thinks. Ain’t life a bitch?

He walks to the table, glances down at the front page of the newspaper.

Myra recalls a time when her love for him was all consuming. When she could not breathe in his presence.
         
He says, “Classes start tomorrow, so why didn’t he schedule the meeting for then? Hell no, he had to ruin the last day of my summer break.”
         
It’s his fault I’m in this Godforsaken place, Myra thinks. Him and his career. She did not want to leave West Virginia. He did. She did not care about having more money. He did. And that lack of consideration for her feelings had marked the beginning of the deterioration of her love.

“Crap,” John says, “And I’m so close to finishing my book. A few more chapters and I’ll be done.”

Oh, yes, Myra thinks, your book. The one he’s been working on for a year now, a year during which she has tiptoed around on eggshells, keeping her discontent bottled up inside until it now festered like a raw, gapping wound.
 
“You know what it’ll mean, don’t you?” he asks but doesn’t wait for an answer. “When it’s published, I’ll become a full professor.” He smiles, pleased with himself. 
         
And I’ll be condemned to remain in hell, Myra thinks. She glances back out the window. It’s September. Back home, days are getting cooler, nights chilly. Soon the leaves will be turning, and the mountains aflame with crimson, orange, and gold. There is no autumn here in South Louisiana—only a brief hiatus when vegetation dies, heat diminishes, and the world turns as gray and dank as dirty linen.   
         
John walks to where she stands. “Gotta run,” he says. He brushes her cheek with his lips. “So what’re you doing today?”
         
Myra shrugs. “I’m not sure,” she says. But she suspects she is going home.