The suitcase lay open upon the foot of the bed devouring the clothes he had removed from drawers and hangers. He was pushing clothes into the suitcase when she came to the door.
“I’m glad you’re leaving! I’m glad you’re leaving!” with greater emphasis the second time. He did not turn to look at her or even respond.
“Do you hear?” she added with more energy, hoping to elicit a reaction. In her frustration she raised her voice and pitch:
“Son of a bitch! I’m so glad you’re leaving!”
Tears retraced the streaks already painted down her cheeks. Words escaped between her lips along with intermittent breaths:
“You can’t even look me in the face, can you?”
Why would he? Every feeling came pouring back when their eyes locked. Love had been replaced with anger, sorrow, fear and even hate. Forgiveness seemed foreign and unnecessary. Yet, something continued to pull at him. He wanted to turn toward her and look at her - he didn’t know what to say. He kept putting his things into the case.
As he began to reach for the picture of their newborn son he heard the familiar padding of her bare feet across the floor. In seconds she had crossed from the door to the bed snatching up the image of her baby. Surprised, he turned slightly toward her. Using her sleeve she wiped her eyes and then stared at him, half expecting him to say something. His reflection staring back at him from her glassy eyes left him speechless. With a heavy sigh, she turned from him. He watched her as she strode into the living room and then realizing he yelled after her:
“Bring that back!” Echoing from the other room she responded:
“Just get your things and get out.”
He was going to leave - that was already decided. With nothing left to pack he fastened the suitcase, put on his coat, looked around the bedroom. Standing at the bedroom door he looked again, pausing at the bed and then the nightstand and then the dresser. A sigh of release escaped as he reached for the switch turning the light off as he vacated their room.
The living room felt cold and damp. Scanning the room, he noticed that the baby was no longer in the playpen. Like a spotlight across the night sky, he traced the room until he spotted her standing in the doorway leading to the tiny kitchen with her arms folded about his baby boy. Welling up from the pit of his stomach, rage and jealousy emerged and then revealing his intentions and in the tenor of a petulant child he erupted:
“I want the baby.”
“Are you crazy?” Her eyes widened in astonishment and then slowly sunk into fear.
“No, but I want the baby,” determined to get what he wanted he began to move closer to her and the baby. Then more softly he added:
“I’ll get someone to come by for his things.”
Who was he going to send? Is mother? Over my dead body, she thought. Maybe he would send his sister. He wouldn’t dare send Her… the thought of Her filled her with rage causing her to wrap her arms tighter around their son. Beginning to cry again she blurted out:
“You’re not touching this baby!”
As the last syllable left her mouth the baby began to cry. She loosened her hold and uncovered the blanket from around his head looking into his face and gently hushing. Adding soft melodic and soothing breaths of “Oh, oh…”
When she looked up she noticed that he had moved in closer with his hands and arms reaching toward their son gesturing for her to release him into his custody.
“For God’s sake!” horrified she stepped back into the kitchen.
“I want the baby,” he continued to advance.
“Get out of here!” screaming back at him she turned moving to the corner of the kitchen. Facing away from him she desperately held the baby over the empty space behind the stove. But he came up. Reaching over and around her across the stove he grasped the baby- flesh like clay between his fingers turned pink then red and finally purple.
“Let go of him,” commanded her to release.
“Get away, get away!” hysterical gasps and a flood of tears howled in the space between them like a fierce winter storm. Her cries were joined by the distressed cries of the baby.
In the scuffle, they knocked down a flowerpot that hung behind the stove. Shards of terracotta clay scattered across the linoleum as dirt bounced and skipped like dirt released from a mourning hand upon polished mahogany. His heavy warm breath stole fresh air as he pressed in against her and into the wall. Hands moving from the baby he dug his fingers and palms into her arms pulling them away from the baby. She tightened her hold. He shifted again pressing the full weight of his body against her as he moved his hands around the baby and pulled.
“Let go of him,” he growled baring his teeth and expelling steamy hot air upon her bare skin.
“Don’t,” continuing to sob. “You’re hurting the baby.” Hesitating, he could feel her trembling beneath him. The baby continued screaming in his ears. Suddenly aware that he was losing,, he snapped out and back:
“I’m not hurting the baby.”
The rain-drenched trees, black lace against a misty shroud stretched across the kitchen window. All-natural light extinguished, the walls and floors void of dancing shadows. Feeling his way in the darkened space he worked on her fist fingers with one hand. He wedged his other hand under the tiny space under and around the tiny shoulder of the screaming baby.
She felt her fingers being forced open and the baby quickly slipping from her hold.
“No!” she screamed just as her hands came loose.
She would have it, this baby. She grabbed for the baby’s other arm. She caught the baby around the wrist and leaned back. Like the stitching of Raggedy Andy pulled in the heat of sibling rivalry the baby popped and screamed. Still, he would not let go. He felt the baby slipping from out of his hands and he pulled back very hard.
A deafening silence filled the space and settled in a heap upon the floor next to the crumpled and crushed remains of the winter violet surrounded by moistened earth.
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