1941

Florene was in the middle of the living room floor, holding herself and crying. There was blood all over her and bruises were already starting to form from the fury of the fists that had punched her mercilessly, leaving her in a heap, curled up into herself to avoid further attack. Tears flowed abashedly from her swollen eyes, her sobs subdued by her terror of the man who walked over her trembling form as if she were rubbish, fumbled for his hat and coat from the rack beside the door, and left, the slamming of the door crushing his wife's heart and any hope for their brief marriage.

Carrying a bouquet of bright flowers and wearing a lovely white street-length dress, Florene Olive Berrier had married the dashing dark-haired pharmacist six months earlier. Her eyes sparkled with all the hope wrapped up in their repeated vows and the little gold ring he had placed on her finger. Maypearl, Texas, and the little farmhouse where she had grown up now seemed remote as she and Mac settled into their little home in Fort Worth. Though she only attended college for two years, Florene's home economic courses served her well. She was a natural when it came to decorating and party planning. It was important that everything be just right, for her artistic eye was offended when she perceived something to be out of place. Flora, Florene's mother, had been careful to teach her children to sew; and, the young bride was accomplished enough at the skill to create her own drapes, tablecloths, napkins, and bedding.

Mac was a friend of Florene's brother-in-law, and it was he who had introduced the couple. Mac was taken by Florene's beauty and naivete. At the time, she was modeling hats and gloves at a downtown department store to supplement her secretarial work, and the young man was immediately attracted to her statuesque body, her exceptionally long legs and slim ankles. He, of course, was the debonair college graduate who had landed a great job in a downtown drug store, and his natural charisma and practiced charm were too much for the fair young lady from the farm to resist for long. Mac proposed to Florene after only a few months courtship, and, she, deeply flattered and very much infatuated, said yes. Because neither of them could afford a large wedding, they were married in a small church two months later by a Baptist minister with only relatives and close friends in attendance. The newlyweds had no honeymoon but went immediately to their little two bedroom home located near the pharmacy.

It became apparent almost immediately that Mac wore his charm and affability as he wore his hat and coat - when necessary. Florene's heart became confused by his contradictory behavior. Should she displease him in some way, her husband was quick to bark his annoyance, red-faced and unduly angry. Because Florene was unfamiliar with brute behavior, it was not her natural response to escalate the altercations. Cowed, she would escape into silence and wait for the storm to quiet. Mac was sometimes sorrowful afterward, but never asked for forgiveness, only for her understanding. Florene did not understand; the treatment was inexcusable. She did, however, forgive. Lucky Mac.

With each passing day and each ensuing argument, Florene's enthusiasm for her marriage and her budding love for her new husband waned. Afraid to say the wrong thing or look at Mac some way that set off his deep rage, Florene retreated into her own lonely world quickly. Her young husband came home later and later each evening and was surly and distant much of the time. Occasionally he would wear his charming self for a few days, and the young wife would let down her guard and question her sanity. Perhaps she'd been wrong about him. He justified his actions and words to such an extent that Florene often felt like a baited fish, lured by love to believe the illusion against the odds. Mac was good to his bride just long enough to let her hope again; then he would disrobe, leaving charisma and caring in a pile on the floor. How could she not think his actions were her fault? Her man did not treat others as he treated her. Somehow she deserved outrage, and she was too nonplussed and naive to know what she needed to do to make him happy.

Later and later each night, Florene found herself alone and waiting. Mac's dinner was always cold and she had begun to eat by herself. She dared not bring her friends or sisters into her confidence, for they would surely see what her husband saw -she was inadequate. Were she a better wife, Mac would want to be with her; so, for whatever reason, he avoided coming home.

Months dragged by and Florene, too intimidated to confront Mac about his late evening whereabouts for fear he would once again shout her down, became almost obsessively curious about her husband's activities. One evening, half a year into the marriage, Mac had not come home by nearly midnight. Worried and uneasy, Florene dressed and walked the short distance to the pharmacy. Her stomach in knots, she peered through the storefront window. All the lights were out except for the faint glow emanating from somewhere in the back. Florene felt ashamed of her espionage, but she was much too curious to scrap her mission. Was Mac in the back of the drug store? What was he doing?

Florene moved to the entrance of the drugstore and pressed her body close to the door. After glancing slowly in both directions, the young wife wrapped her hand around the chilly, gold knob, hoping it was unlocked. It did not give, and she let out her breath slowly in a long, noiseless stream. Quiet as a shadow and hugging the red dewy bricks on the outside of the building, the young wife made her way around to the back of the store where an ethereal cloud of light diffused in the late night fog as if it were smearing the line between heaven and hell. One small window had allowed a capricious stream of light to escape and illuminate Florene's path down the alley to its sill. Once there, undetected, trepidation seemed to choke her. Peering through the window could change the young woman's life forever; but, she could not see a future in living with things as they were.

The window framed a scene for which Florene was unprepared when she stood on tiptoe to spy on her young husband. Why had she not guessed his problem before? Mac was at a desk on which sat a small lamp lit by a single bulb. His head was down, resting on the crook of his left arm; his right arm hung limp beside him, fingertips reaching almost to the floor. Splayed across the table were a dozen pills which had rolled aimlessly from half a dozen uncapped, overturned bottles that must have tipped over as a result of some awkward motion of Mac's when his drug-slogged head hit the table. The enormity of her husband's addicton seeped slowly into her understanding. At first Florene felt flushed and almost electrocuted by the vision and its repercussions. Even her hair and fingernails tingled with shock and the powerful infusion of energy that accompanies a sudden, dreadful revelation. Mac was a drug addict. He had kept from her the very thing that fueled his life and drove his rages. Florene did not know her husband; no wonder he had felt like a stranger to her. "Oh, my God," she breathed. "Oh, my God!"

Just then, Mac looked up, bleary-eyed and suspicious. There was his wife's mermerized face framed in the window. Picture to picture they studied one another; she terrified, he suddenly enraged. Florene turned and ran at the exact instant she saw Mac rise and stagger from his seat. As fast as her feet could manage, she retraced her nighttime steps to her little house. Breathless, heart racing, sweat pouring out her deepest dread, she unlocked the door, latched the deadbolt behind her, raced to her bedroom and sat down hard onto the bed, shivering and completely alone in her nightmare.

"Maybe he didn't see me." But she had seen him! Her husband needed help! Florene was ashamed for him and of him; and, she could not even think what would come next. There was only this moment and it would most assuredly last forever.

A loud fumbling at the front door and the tinkling of dropped keys heralded a stoned and swearing Mac's arrival home. Florene sat very still, wringing her hands, afraid to move and afraid to stay. Ominously, stealthily, Mac came looking for his wife in their small home. Kitchen first, then down the hall to their bedroom. There she was - sitting smugly as if she did not know! As if she had not spied on him! Mac stumbled over to her; she dared not, could not, look up at him.

"So, where have you been?" he slurred.

Florene was catatonic. He had seen her! Hope slipped silently from her, vaporizing; she sat empty on the bed.

" I asked you where you have been!"


Still silence. He knew the answer.

The first hard slap across Florene's face was unexpected, and it knocked her from the bed. Unsteady from the force of his own swinging arm, Mac fell forward into the space where his wife had been sitting. Stunned and panicked, as a deer only wounded by the first round from the hunter's gun, Florene fumbled down the hall on all fours trying to reach some safe place. Unbalanced and wavering, Mac chased his prey into the living room where he pulled her up by the collar of her dress, turned her to face him, and slapped her once again, hard, across the face.

"Don't!" she cried. "Please don't!"

He could not help it. He was not Mac. Mac had been overtaken by the wicked alter ego born of his addiction. As he pummeled Florene to the ground with his hands and fists, some raging demon found great satisfaction and retribution in the conquest. She should not have spied on him! With each blow, Mac shrieked his justification at his "stupid, worthless, piece-of-shit" wife!

Spent and staggering, the young husband looked down on his new bride and for a moment seemed to see what he had just done. Florene looked up through the blood and sweat of her failed retreat and saw the confusion and panic that for just one moment passed across his consciousness. Mac was finished then. It was a small grace.