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in the 2009 book


Crawling
Through the Dirt



Crawling Through the Dirt
The Point

Laine Hissett-Bonard

    I heard Rob ’s fumbling, stumbling entrance into the house well before I saw him, and the sound filled me with weak dread. As it had every Friday night for the past several months, the sound of him dropping his keys, bumping into the bench in the hallway, and muttering to himself told me he had spent the better part of the evening downing beer after beer, which didn ’t bode well for how I would spend the small hours of the morning.
     “Ow – shit. ” That bone-jarring, metallic clank-thud in the front hallway would be Rob knocking over the baby gate again, the one that had stood at the top of the stairs since the day we moved into the house over three years before. I cringed, gritting my teeth, and cast an eye toward the baby monitor standing atop the TV stand; luckily, the indicator light remained steady at one bar, which meant our daughter hadn ’t been awakened by Daddy Dearest ’s drunken entrance. I would be grateful for any small miracle I could get.
    Gripping the remote control tightly in one hand, I continued staring at the movie playing on the television, although I could no longer seem to absorb the dialog. Hearing Rob enter the kitchen – the soft flump of his jacket hitting the floor, the twin thuds of his shoes being discarded somewhere near the door – I leaned my head back and closed my eyes in anticipation of his next stop in the living room, hoping with very little actual hope that if he thought I was sleeping, he would leave me alone.
    Rob didn ’t make it as far as the living room, however; I heard the telltale thump-creak of him falling into the chair by the computer desk, which, due to our cramped living space, lived in the corner of the kitchen. I knew what would come next, of course, although that wasn ’t to say I welcomed it. “Lexi! Where the fuck are you? ”
    Here we go, I thought helplessly, pressing the pause button on the remote and reluctantly pushing my pregnant self up from the couch, draping my blanket across the nearby recliner and shuffling hesitantly toward the kitchen in my sock feet. “I ’m here, babe, ” I called back softly, hoping my reserved tone of voice would prompt the same from him.
    No such luck – as usual. “Whad ’ja make for dinner? ” Rob asked as I rounded the corner into the kitchen to find him slumped casually in the chair, his pants tossed haphazardly into the corner, his brilliant blue eyes bleary and laced with red threads. His face bore that vaguely slack look that meant he had passed just plain drunk hours ago and now tread somewhere in the territory between completely shellacked and falling-down inebriated.
     “Um, nothing, ” I replied nervously, crossing my arms over my stomach and cupping my elbows. “Remember – you told me you and Jake were getting something to eat at Kelly ’s. ”
     “Well, we didn ’t. Fucking kitchen was closed, so we just had some beers. So you didn ’t cook anything? ” His words were slurred to the point of ridiculousness, and I shivered a little inside, knowing I wasn ’t likely to sleep much that night, if at all.
     “No, honey. I didn ’t cook anything. You told me you were getting something out. ”
     “Fucking great, ” Rob said, popping the top on what was surely his twentieth beer of the evening, if not more. “So I got nothing to eat. ”
     “I can heat something up for you, ” I said, avoiding his eyes by crossing the room to the fridge. “There ’s still shepherd ’s pie in there from last night — ”
     “I fucking hate shepherd ’s pie. ”
    You ate two helpings last night, I thought, but didn ’t say it aloud. Instead, I simply continued, “Or I can make you a Hungry Man dinner, or a couple hot dogs — ”
     “Yuck. ”
     “ —or some fried eggs — ”
     “I don ’t want eggs; I want a fucking meal. Is it too much to ask to come home to a fucking meal? ”
    I took a deep breath and released it slowly, glancing at the clock. I couldn ’t imagine any other man in the world expecting his wife to cook him dinner at eleven-thirty at night. “Well, honey, you did tell me you were going to get something to eat. That ’s the only reason I didn ’t — ”
     “Did my mother make anything? ”
    Living in the upper portion of a two-family home with Rob ’s parents had its advantages – built in babysitters, among others – but being expected to raid his mother ’s fridge when Rob came home drunk was not one of them. “I don ’t think so. She told me she was making frozen pizzas for her and Pop. ”
     “What ’d you and Gina eat? ”
     “I had one of my frozen dinners, and I made Gina fish sticks and mac and cheese, ” I said, and then tacked on as an afterthought, “Oh, and she had carrots, too. And strawberry milk. ”
     “Fucking great, ” Rob repeated, a hateful sneer crossing his face just long enough to register. “Fucking kid eats the same shit every fucking day. ”
     “No, she doesn ’t, honey, ” I said slowly, mustering every ounce of self control I had to keep my temper under control. “She eats lots of different things – chicken nuggets, spaghetti, hot dogs, corn dogs, ravioli, grilled cheese – but you have to remember, she ’s three. Three-year-olds are always picky. ”
     “You ’re gonna make her fat, ” he said, his eyes glinting in the way that only meant one thing: he was looking for an argument. On nights like that, he always was.
     “Right, ” I snapped back, momentarily forgetting my resolve not to engage him. “It ’s me who ’s going to make her fat, not her daddy who gives her candy and doughnuts at six o ’clock in the morning when he gets home from work. I feed her very well, all right? She always has all four food groups on her plate — ”
     “Yeah, all that fried shit. ”
     “Nothing I give her is fried. ” I finally caught myself. “Anyway, back to what we were talking about before – what do you want to eat? ”
     “There ’s nothing to eat, ” he said petulantly. “As usual. ”
     “Robbie, I gave you a bunch of choices — ”
     “Make me spaghetti. ”
     “I ’m not making you spaghetti. ” I stared incredulously at him. “I need to get some sleep tonight. In case you ’ve forgotten, I ’m eight months pregnant and our three-year-old will probably be up by six a.m. ”
     “Make me spaghetti. ”
     “Rob! ” I exclaimed, throwing up my hands. “I said I ’m not making you spaghetti! I ’m going to make you something else, and if you ’re hungry, you ’re just going to have to eat it. ”
     “Bitch. ”
    I opened the refrigerator, shaking with anger, and yanked out a carton of eggs and a loaf of bread.
     “I ain ’t eating eggs. ”
    You ’ll eat what I cook and like it, I thought, but of course, I didn ’t dare say it. “Then I ’ll make them, and you don ’t have to eat them, ” I said instead.
     “Fuck you. Fine, I ’ll eat ‘em. I ’m fucking starving. ”
    I turned to the stove, setting a griddle pan on the burner and cracking three eggs onto it, along with a chunk of butter. At over three hundred pounds, Rob certainly shouldn ’t have been eating the way he did, but there wasn ’t a soul on earth who could tell him that, and I wasn ’t about to argue with him any more than I had to. Besides, a well-buried, very dark part of myself almost hoped his eating habits would ultimately cause him a massive, fatal heart attack. It would sure as hell make my life easier.
    By the time I finished frying his eggs and buttering his toast, I could hear Rob snoring softly behind me. Praying he would stay asleep – or, more accurately, passed out – I quietly placed his plate on the desk in front of him, but just as I was about to tiptoe away, Rob ’s eyes fluttered open and he looked groggily up at me. “I ’m not hungry. ”
     “Then don ’t fucking eat it! ” I said, exasperated. “Let it sit there on the counter and get cold – I don ’t care! ”
    Rob ’s hand shot out and grasped my wrist with far more dexterity than I expected from someone as drunk as he was. “C ’mere, ” he said, yanking me toward him. “Kiss me. ”
     “Not right now, ” I said, clutching at the first excuse that popped into my head, no matter how lame. “I want to brush my teeth first. ”
     “Just fucking kiss me, ” he said, annoyed. “I don ’t care if your breath smells like ass. I don ’t care if you ’re wearing your frog-eyes, either. Get over here. ”
    I knew I shouldn ’t have changed into my glasses, I thought, clenching my teeth. Just one more thing for him to pick me apart about. “Just a minute, Robbie, okay? ” I said, wrenching my arm out of his grip and stepping out of his reach. “I ’ll be right back. ”
     “Don ’t fucking bother, ” he said loudly. “I don ’t want to fuck you, anyway. You haven ’t fucked me in three weeks; what ’s the difference? ”
     “Shh! ” I hissed, pausing in the bathroom door. “Please don ’t wake Gina! ”
    Rob opened his mouth and let out a loud, wordless bellow, grinning when he saw my expression tighten. “Then get over here and kiss me. ”
    Knowing I was merely bolstering him, I nonetheless returned to the kitchen in the hopes of allowing our daughter to remain asleep. “Please, Robbie – don ’t wake her. I need to get some sleep tonight. I ’m exhausted — ”
     “Try working my hours, ” Rob said, picking up his plate and forking an entire fried egg into his mouth.
     “Nobody ’s saying you don ’t work hard, hon, ” I said, struggling to keep the pleading note out of my voice. “All I ’m saying is, I work full-time, I have Gina to take care of, and you, and the house, plus I ’m eight months pregnant – with your son, by the way – and it ’s really important that I get my sleep, okay? ”
     “You don ’t even have to work tomorrow! ” Rob mumbled around a mouthful of egg.
    Sometimes, I wished wholeheartedly that spontaneous combustion was real and would occur immediately to the man I misguidedly married eight years before. “No, honey, I don ’t, ” I said carefully. “But like I said, Gina will be up around six — ”
     “So why do you stay up all night, watching your fucking gay Netflix? ” Rob countered. I couldn ’t tear my eyes away from the glob of egg yolk at the corner of his mouth.
    I let the obvious barb pass, focusing instead on the broader question. “I only have like ten minutes left, and I was hoping to finish this movie tonight so I can send it back tomorrow. ”
     “Then it ’s your own fucking fault you don ’t get enough sleep. ”
     “Babe, it ’s going to be your fault if you don ’t let me go to bed! ”
     “Who ’s fucking stopping you? ” he asked loudly, and I cringed, glancing toward Gina ’s bedroom door and willing it to remain closed.
     “Okay, then, ” I said finally, when I was reasonably sure Gina was still asleep. “I ’m going to wash up and go to bed. I ’ll just finish my movie tomorrow; I don ’t care. Just please, babe – please keep it down, okay? Let her sleep. ”
     “Go away, ” he said, waving a hand curtly at me. “You ’re dismissed. ”
    I wanted very badly to smash his plate of half-eaten eggs over his head, but instead, turned silently and closed myself in the bathroom, where I turned on the water in the sink, braced my hands on the counter, and sobbed quietly, staring at my pathetic, red-faced reflection and wondering when I became so goddamn weak.
    After washing up, I spared Rob only a quick glance on my way into our bedroom, but he didn ’t appear to notice me. When I slipped under the covers and rolled onto my side, I had just barely gotten my pillows situated – one between my knees, one under my belly, another behind my back to prevent me from rolling over in my sleep; oh, the joys of late pregnancy – and closed my eyes when they sprang open again at the sudden blare of music coming from the kitchen. It was a Billy Joel song, generally inoffensive, except when played at top volume at nearly midnight. To my great chagrin, when the piano man began singing, so did my inebriated husband – at the very top of his lungs.
    As gracelessly as only a waddling pregnant woman could, I pushed myself out of bed and hurried out to the kitchen to find Rob watching a music video on the computer. “Robbie! ” I cried, my voice lost beneath the roar of the music pouring from the computer speakers. I waved my hand in front of his face, and he glanced at me, his patented “who, me? ” expression splashed across his face.
     “What? ” he mouthed, and I threw my hands in the air again, gesturing wildly at the computer.
     “Turn it down! ”
     “What? ”
    I knew he was messing with me, but at that point, I was too tired and too furious to care about trying to best him in this bout of mental mind-fuckery. I turned the volume knob on the speaker to the “off ” position and glared at him, sure there were actual sparks spitting from my eyes, but all I got in return was a semi-amused stare. “What ’s the matter, Lexi? ” Rob asked, as innocently as a drunken man could.
     “You need to keep it — ” My voice faltered at the sound of a door opening at the end of the hallway, and I fixed Rob with one more helpless glare before turning my gaze toward the sound. The door was cracked, and in the sliver of darkness that lay beyond, I could see one green eye – identical to my own – peering sleepily down the hallway at me.
     “Hi, baby, ” I said softly, forcing a smile onto my face and kneeling on the floor to open my arms. Pulling the door open, Gina padded out of her room, her pink pajamas rumpled, her blond hair in disarray, and her little feet bare, and burrowed into my embrace, burying her face in my neck. “What are you doing up? ”
     “Daddy woke me up, ” Gina said frankly, her soft voice muffled against my neck.
     “Daddy woke you up? ” I repeated, narrowing my eyes in Rob ’s direction.
     “You told her to say that, ” he retorted, and I rolled my eyes. Apparently, I had telepathic powers now that I didn ’t even know about.
     “Come on, sweetie, ” I said, rising to my feet and taking Gina ’s hand. “Let ’s go lay on the couch. You can sleep with Mama. ”
     “Hey, baby! ” Rob said cheerfully as we walked slowly past him. He reached for Gina, but she wrenched away from him.
     “No, Daddy! ” she said crossly.
     “No, Daddy! ” he said, mimicking her tiny voice. “Sure, Lexi – get my daughter to hate me, too, you fucking cunt. ”
    I stiffened, ushering Gina into the living room and closing the door behind us, only relaxing – slightly – when I had turned the lock on the doorknob. “That ’s not a nice word, ” Gina said, crawling up onto the couch.
     “No, it ’s not, baby, ” I said, powering off the DVD player and changing the channel on the TV to PBS Kids. “You don ’t say that word, right? ”
     “No. ” Gina snuggled up to me when I curled up next to her. “Sometimes Daddy ’s not very nice. ”
    That broke my heart, but I chose not to reply, stroking her hair and kissing her on top of her head instead. “Go to sleep, baby. Mommy ’s here. ”
    Through the living room door, I heard the music begin again, and turned up the volume on the television a little in a vain attempt to drown it out. “Too loud! ” Gina complained.
     “I know, baby, ” I said helplessly, tears forming in my eyes. “But don ’t worry; Daddy will go to sleep soon. ” If there ’s a God in heaven, I thought.
    Nearly an hour and several songs later, a loud thump just outside the living room door roused me from an uneasy doze. Gina popped right up – once she was awake, it usually took several hours for her to wind down enough to fall asleep again – and beat me to the door, which she deftly unlocked and opened. When I caught up with her, she was standing next to her father, who had fallen out of his chair and lay sprawled on his stomach on the kitchen floor, moaning pathetically.
     “Daddy ’s silly! ” she cried, giggling, and, before I could stop her, leaped onto Rob ’s back. He let out a yelp of surprise and pain, and I hurriedly lifted Gina off of him.
     “No, honey, ” I said gently. “Daddy ’s not feeling well. Why don ’t you go watch Elmo, and I ’ll help Daddy get into bed? ” As if I could lift his sorry drunk ass, I thought, anger bubbling up inside me.
    Complaining, Gina nonetheless returned to the living room, and I knelt next to Rob, shaking his shoulder. “Get up! ” I hissed. “Your daughter does not need to see you like this! ”
     “I ’m fine, ” Rob mumbled, his face pressed against the floor. “I ’m just so tired... ”
     “You ’re not tired; you ’re drunk off your ass, ” I said exasperatedly. “What ’s it going to sound like if she goes to day care on Monday and says her daddy fell asleep on the kitchen floor? ”
     “I ’ll get up in a bit... just lemme lay here for a minute. ”
     “Rob, get... up! ” I exclaimed, grabbing his hand and ineffectually trying to yank him to his feet. I had a better chance of lifting the washing machine. Finally, I dropped his hand and stood glaring down at his prone form. “This is fucking pathetic, ” I muttered, pitching my voice low so Gina wouldn ’t hear me. “You know what you ’re doing? You ’re setting your daughter up to do the same thing you do. Do you think she should see her father passed out drunk on the floor? Ever? No, she shouldn ’t. Get your pathetic ass up off the floor and go to bed, Rob. You won ’t remember a thing about this tomorrow. ”
    His only response was an incoherent, snoring mumble, so I returned to the living room, closing and locking the door behind me again. As I wrapped Gina in first my arms and then my blanket, something finally clicked inside my brain, something that took over eight years and hundreds of identical nights to hit home: I didn ’t have to live like this.
    God help me, I had finally reached the point... and my only challenge now was refusing to back away from it in the morning.



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