FICTION   |   By Audrey Austrin   

“Dear Rolland, There was a moment when things were somewhat placid in our lives.  A moment when I thought that nothing was more beautiful, more inviting or more calming than our existence. I’m so sorry about what happened but, if this makes sense, I’m even sorrier that it didn’t happen sooner…”

“Claptrap!” I shout at the TV screen. “I’m sick to death of listening to all this corny romantic babble!  I can’t tolerate five more minutes of this garbage!  It’s just drivel; a waste of air space so advertisers can pedal their detergents!”   I push the off button on the remote plunging the living-room into sudden silence.

“Hey, I was watching that!”  Harvey yells.

“It’s crap!  I don’t want to watch it!” I yell back.

I turn my head and look over at Harvey wrapped in his lazy-boy chair. He’s holding a bag of Smart Pop in one hand and a can of Molson’s Canadian in the other. I love my Harvey but I wonder whatever happened to the good looking guy he used to be?  That fellow left a long time ago and I have no idea where he went. The large lump in the chair is a sad caricature of the man I thought I was marrying.

I wonder if there’s ever been a moment when things were somewhat placid in our lives. Maybe many years ago but today nothing comes to mind. 

“Geez, Harvey, you’re getting your popcorn all over the rug.  I just vacuumed this morning.  What a slob!” I shout as I bend my large body over and reach down to pick up the popcorn bits sprinkled all over my new yellow carpet.  

“Francesca, you sound just like your mother; rude, crude, and offensive!  I was in the middle of watching that movie so turn it back on!”

“Leave my mother out of it!” I shout. “You sit there with your beer belly hugging your knees and you’ve got the nerve to call me offensive?  Give me a break!”

“Francesca, I’m telling you to turn the TV back on.  Next time I won’t be so nice about it!”

“Ha!  You’re all mouth!  You’re full of hot air!  If you want the stupid TV on then turn it on yourself!”  And I throw the remote control across the room.   I don’t know it’s going to hit him in the face.  It’s not like I’m aiming.   It’s a fluke; a phenomenon, an accident!   I don’t mean to hurt him.

“Good gravy, woman!  What have you done?”

Oh, my!  What have I done?  I see the blood on his face. It’s dripping down his cheek just below his right eye.  I pull myself out of my lazy-boy chair and nearly trip over my feet getting into the bathroom where I grab a clean facecloth out of the cupboard.  I run the cloth under the warm water tap, give it a quick wring to stop the drips and then hurry back to the living room.  I don’t want the blood to drip onto Harvey’s chair.  It cost us a small fortune to have the lazy-boy chairs recovered.  It was only a month ago that I had the living-room all done up and I’m not about to have him leave it in a bloody mess.   I’ll never be able to get blood stains out of the fabric.   

“Stay still, Harvey!  Let me wipe the blood off your face!”

“Be careful, woman!  Take it easy! That hurts!”

“I’m sorry, Harvey.”  

That’s when I remember the line from the old movie, “I’m so sorry about what happened but, if this makes sense, I’m even sorrier that it didn’t happen sooner…”

 “No, no, no, I don’t mean it, God.”  I pray in silence so Harvey can’t hear me. “I didn’t want to hurt Harvey sooner. I really am sorry this happened at all.”  I bow slightly in genuflection then to Harvey I say, “Hold the cloth against your cheek.  Keep the pressure on it to stop the bleeding.  I’ll go get a couple of band-aids out of the medicine cabinet.” 

In the bathroom again I grab the box of bandages out of the cupboard.  I’m about to leave the room when the fat woman in the full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door stops me in my tracks.   I have to admit I don’t like the look of the person staring back at me.  I decide Harvey can wait.  The bleeding had pretty well stopped and if it hasn’t he can hold the cold beer can up to his face to stop any flow.  I try to remember the last time I saw Harvey without a can of beer in his hand.  He sure didn’t have that beer belly when I married him thirty-five years ago.

I’m transfixed by the mirror.  Who am I to talk about Harvey, I think, as I stare at the sloppy woman in the mirror.  Whatever happened to Francesca Fabbrini?   Where did I go?   One minute I’m my father’s Italian princess and the next I’m Francesca Miller, wife of Harvey Miller, mother of four kids, chief cook and bottle washer for a lost tribe of ungrateful, unappreciative freeloaders.   One minute I’m a devout Catholic kneeling at the foot of the cross and the next I’m a converted Jew who secretly sends her Jewish children to catechism classes. I am not a good person.

And the kids never tell on me.  Harvey never finds out about my deception but I know the kids grew up confused not knowing whether they should celebrate Chanukah or Christmas.  Now that they are all grown up with careers and families of their own none of them have any religion at all.  Who’s to blame?  Me?  Harvey?  What did we know?  We did the best we could.  They are all good kids and I don’t blame them if they don’t visit more often.  Who wants to listen to me and Harvey fighting all the time?   Nobody wants to be here.  I don’t want to be here.  I don’t recognize that fat woman.  Enough with the mirror!  

I carry the box of band-aids out to the living-room.   Harvey’s face has stopped bleeding and I see that the remote’s crash landing left a very minor cut on his right cheek.  I take a band-aid out of the box and apply it over the cut on his face. 

 “It might swell up, Harvey!  The bleeding’s stopped but it could leave a bruise.”

“Yeah, so what’s your problem?  You don’t want to witness the results of your own abuse?”

“Abuse?  You’re calling me an abuser?  Now, if that isn’t just the limit!”

“Aah, go soak your head!” Harvey shouts. 

He gets up out of his chair and lunges toward me.  Is he going to hit me?  For the first time in more than thirty years I feel scared.  Harvey raises his arm then roughly reaches out, leans down and grabs the remote that is lying unbroken on the yellow carpet beside the coffee table.

“Rolland, my dearest Rolland, will you forgive me.  Can you possibly forgive the unforgivable?”

“I give up!” I shout.  “What do you get out of this drivel anyway?”

“Francesca, to you everything is drivel!  Shut up and let me watch my movie!”

“Who talks like that?  Harvey, name me one person we know who talks like that?  Can you possibly forgive the unforgivable?  Who says stuff like that?”

“Not you, that’s for sure!” Harvey bellows.  “You’re so perfect!  You don’t need to be forgiven for anything, eh?  What about the time you broke the broom over my head?  What about that night you poured all my beer down the toilet?  What about that, eh?  And what about this cut on my face?  You threw the remote at me.  You did it on purpose!  Who does stuff like that?  You! That’s who does stuff like that!” 

“For Pete’s sakes, Harvey, to hear you talk a person would think I was a mass murderer!”

“Yeah, well, who knows what’s coming next?  No wonder I like these old movies.  Women knew their place in those days.  They knew how to hold their tongue and make a man feel good about himself; something you know nothing about.  No, Francesca, you and your hot Italian temper are so perfect you never do anything that needs to be forgiven!”

“Big bag of wind!  Watch your stupid movie!”

“I would if you would shut up for five minutes, Francesca!”

I leave the living-room and walk out to my sunny kitchen with the blue daisy wallpaper and the matching blue ceramic floor.    I sit at my kitchen table and think about what Harvey just said.  It’s true.  Since marrying Harvey I never ask for forgiveness. It’s his fault I don’t practice my Catholic faith and it’s his fault I never apologize for anything.   

I try to remember the last time I said the words, “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”   It was a long time ago.

And just like that I make up my mind.  I’ll go to confession; better late than never. 

I leave the kitchen and walk past the living room door.  The movie has ended at last. I see Harvey has finished eating his popcorn and has made a good start on some pretzels.

While he sits in his chair, beer can in one hand, pretzels in the other, watching the football game; I climb the stairs and go to my bedroom.   I do a quick change out of my jeans and sweat shirt and climb into my best tailored suit.   I kick off my scruffy slippers and become a circus acrobat getting into the unfamiliar pantyhose.  I scrunch my toes into the black heels; give the shoes a quick wipe to remove the long-collected dust then make my way into the bathroom.

I pull the cosmetic bag out of the cupboard; unzip the bag and rummage around in it looking for some blush and a lipstick.  As I do so I try to remember the last time I wore lipstick.  Perhaps Harvey is not the only one who has let himself go?  

And then I try to remember when Harvey last looked at me; I mean really looked at me and saw a woman?  When is the last time he said he loved me and meant it?  I should be a TV set.  Maybe then Harvey would pay some attention to me.  I apply pink blush and comb my hair.

At last I’m ready.  I call out as I head for the front door.  “I’ll be back in an hour, Harvey!”

“Yeah, yeah!”  he mutters.

It’s a short walk to the church.   I stand outside and read the words over the door, Church of the Purification.   Yes, I’m in the right place.   I’ll seek forgiveness. I will be purified.

And then it’s happening.  I’m sitting in the confessional and I can hear my timid voice almost whispering, “Forgive me Father for I have sinned.  It has been thirty-five years since my last confession.” 

My memory isn’t what it used to be and after a while I begin having some trouble remembering the error of my ways.  Thirty-five years is a long time and there was definitely lots of room for error.  I begin with the present and then start to work my way back.   I confess throwing the remote at Harvey. 

 “But I didn’t mean to hit him, Father.  I was just venting my frustration,”

I confess that I was insincere in my conversion to Judaism. 

“But, Father, how else was I going to get Harvey to marry me?”

I confess that I have a hot Italian temper and I confess that I secretly sent my Jewish children to Catholic catechism classes. 

“But, Father, how could I do otherwise?”   

I am in the confessional for over an hour when the priest speaks up.  I hear his long drawn out sigh and then, “Mrs. Miller, are you nearly finished?”

“Well, Father,” I say, “I’m back to 1985 so I still have a few years to go.”

“Can we save the rest for another day, Mrs. Miller?” 

“But, Father, I need forgiveness for thirty-five years full of sins.”

“Mrs. Miller, you have waited thirty-five years to confess.  I assure you God will understand if you wait another day to continue.  Go home now and come back tomorrow.”

I feel insulted but I say, “Yes, thank you, Father.  I’ll do that.” 

I’m out on the sidewalk and on my way home.  I feel much better.  They say confession is good for the soul and now I know that more true words cannot be said.   I feel much lighter. I decide that as soon as I get home I’ll apologize to Harvey for hitting him with the remote even if it was an accident.

I must have been away longer than I realized because when I enter the house the football game has been replaced by another old movie. Ignoring the dialogue I go upstairs to change back into my jeans and sweatshirt.  Then downstairs again and into the living-room I’m ready to make my apology.  

Harvey is still stuck in his lazy-boy chair.  Ida Lupino is whispering sweet nothing garbage to somebody but I don’t pay too much attention to anything except the pretzel bits and potato chips all over my new yellow carpet.  

I forget all about apologizing.  

“Harvey Miller!  Look at the mess you’ve made this time!  What’s the matter with you anyway?   Do you ever stop eating?  And will you ever stop being such a slob?” 

He doesn’t answer back.  I bend down on my knees and begin gathering the scattered chips and bits.  There are too many to transport to the garbage can in my hand.  I’ll have to pull the vacuum cleaner out to clean up the mess. 

 “I swear, Harvey, you’re worse than any five year old!” 

Still he doesn’t answer back.  That’s odd.

Still on my knees, I turn to look at him.  All he does is watch TV, eat and sleep.  He’s fallen asleep in his chair.  “Wake up, Harvey, for heaven’s sake!” 

But Harvey doesn’t wake up.  He doesn’t move. 

 “Don’t play games with me Harvey Miller!  Wake up!  Oh, my God!  No, no, no! Oh, my God, no. Please don’t let this be happening!”

The police listen to my confession.  Unlike the priest they don’t ask me to return another day.  They arrest me when I tell them I hit Harvey with the remote.  

“But the bleeding had stopped,” I insisted.  “It was just a little cut!  I put a band-aid on his face.  You can see that, can’t you?” 

But the internal bleeding had not stopped. 

For a short while the police allowed my wrists to remain uncuffed while I attended Harvey’s funeral.  Tomorrow morning I’ll give my testimony.  Surely the members of the jury will understand and believe that it was an accident.  Once they have heard my story it will be obvious to them that I loved my Harvey.  Why else would a woman put up with so much crap for thirty-five years if not for love?  Yes, I loved my Harvey.  Soon I’ll be going home, won’t I?

• This story was previously published in a story anthology titled Penpourri, Anthology of Stories and Poems. Audrey Austin is founder and secretary of Elliot Lake Writers’ Workshop.  In addition to publication of poems by White Mountain Publishing and short stories by Wynterblue Publishing Canada, over the past three years she has worked hard to create and have published four books. Sara, a Canadian Saga and Reawakening are novels. Sara is now also available as an E-book through Amazon.com Audrey has also published an anthology of short stories titled The Silent Star plus a dozen and, in addition, a self-help manual titled Keeping it Simple. Audrey writes regularly for CommuterLit.com and is a contributing writer for Suite101.com. She is currently working on her third novel titled Ellen and the Hummingtree. To learn more about Audrey and her books, visit her blog.