For the Children

Rachel lay still. The room was hot; the singular sheet that lay across her, stuck in sweaty patches to her skin. The sun had set long hours ago, though it had failed to take with it the heat that now weighed heavily against her.

Beside her in the bed, Shane snored softly, equally sweaty but stinking more. The large planes of his body were outlined beneath the thin covering of over-blooming flowers.

Still slumbering, he rolled toward her, draped his hairy, muscular arm over her bosom, and placed a bent knee onto her thigh. The weight of his arm squished the flesh of her breasts, a discomfort she steeled herself against.

Turning her face to his, Rachel gazed at his late-day beard growth and counted the teeth she could see within the space of his opened lips. The breath he issued was fetid and as she wrinkled her nose against the smell, she reminded herself that she had loved him once.

At one time, she had adored his slightly uneven-teeth, the way he lay limp over her while sleeping, had even found the wheezing from his nose and the crunching from his throat musical.

When the feeling of aloneness and resentment~ the life-choking clenching of oppression had started, Rachel had hoped it would pass swiftly. After all, she'd had the feeling before, albeit a fleeting one, and one born of the little things done, or left undone. It was so different now.

As she lay there with the hair of his leg poking into the smooth flesh of her thigh, she felt the licking flames of hatred. The fever of her hate brought the prickling of tears to the backs of her eyes and renewed the feeling of being lost.

With a slow cunning, she removed his arm, her index finger and thumb pinching his wrist. She then adjusted her legs so his knee flopped to the mattress. His touch was irksome, unwanted.

From the bathroom basin, Rachel doused her face and arms with cool water, soaking the front of the undershirt of Shane's that she wore. Then through the darkness she shuffled, clad in white briefs and her husband's shirt, destined for the girls' room. Sammie and Annie were undoubtedly sweltering as well.

The flip of a switch and Rachel had cast a warm glow over her daughters' faces. Funny, the light itself seemed to emit more heat into the room. Sammie's sheet was kicked into bunches at the foot of her bed, while Annie's held anchor to the carpeted floor.

They were indeed hot, both young faces were flushed the florid color of heat. Sammie's sandy strands stuck like a many-legged sea monster over her head and the sides of her face. Annie's yellow curls were awry and likewise moistened and sticky, though the ends of her hair fought back, causing the ends to poke out and away, as if the sea monster's many legs also had many feet.

Taking in the sight of her children, Rachel smiled inwardly. These were the moments that enabled her to return to her bed~ to her husband's near proximity. Without him, they would not be, and they were the motivation that moved her through the drudgery of the lighted hours of every day.

Between the beds, Rachel plucked up the misting bottle and spritzed water over the fiery bodies of her babies. Then, in the moment when she gave the drops of water flight over Annie, Rachel was minded of a time past, only a moment in the annals of Annie's history.

They had been showering, Rachel and a two-year-old Annie, at a campground communal lavatory. Women and children filled the concrete structure. As moms set to the task of cleansing their children in near primitive conditions, they issued instructions on how and where to wash. Children laughed while mothers tickled the soles of their feet with soapy cloths. Other children bawled, as they were unaccustomed to the spray of a shower. Teenagers used a language unto themselves. The steady boom of voices echoed off the stone, grey walls.

The wait had been long, but worth it to rid themselves of the smells of fish, sweat, dirt and green water. With her head cocked back, Rachel scrubbed hurriedly at the suds in her hair; one eye peeked open in constant watch of Annie. Annie stood watching and waiting her turn.

Annie's gaze traveled her mother's nakedness, a sight she'd seen before. However, some things had heretofore escaped the attention of the young girl . . . until, of course, that moment, surrounded by others who would be privy to her discovery. Annie's eyes widened as her sight lighted upon the juncture of her mother's legs. Water sluiced from that natural channel, which could only mean one thing to the recently potty-trained. "Mommy! You're peeing in the shower!"

The noise that had filled the cavernous room came to a sudden end, Rachel's face reddened. Never had Annie enunciated her words so well! Never had Rachel been as mortified.

"No, honey, it's only water. Mommy's not peeing."

"Yes! I can see that you are!"

The mist of water hit the tunnels of air and was flung about by the power of the oscillating fan. Rachel shook her head at the memory. Had she really thought that was the height of mortification?

Climbing back into bed, Rachel sought out the remote, found it, and then switched on the television. As a gemstone of "impeccable quality" turned on the screen, Rachel lay hating the turn of her love. Hating the want to flee him.

Every night she lay staring unblinkingly at the mind-numbing programs of late night, thinking in full-color pictures of how things might be without him. She'd have the girls, a small cozy apartment, and a job.

In her fantasy, she saw them as a happy trio. Saw Sammie in school, Annie in daycare. Saw them picnicking in the park on Sundays, going to the matinee on Saturdays.

Reality, though, would speed her fantasy away. The reality was that she'd be weary after a long week of work, homework, and house cleaning. That she'd not have the energy left for picnicking or movie going. She knew, too, that it was unlikely there would be money enough to pay the bills and feed the children, less likely that she'd have any extra to cover the fun stuff.

Against the headboard of their bed, her head pivoted to face him. He was to blame for this, for her hating him.

Shane had never admitted to the affair, never would. Nevertheless she knew he must have, there was just too much in the way of proof~ an unnamed telephone number he couldn't explain, receipts for feminine items he'd not brought home, and blocks of time he wouldn't account for. Add that to small changes in his behavior and her instincts . . . it all left little doubt.

Rachel fingered the stretched skin of her belly through the ribs of the undershirt. Ugly. What he'd done had made her feel ugly, repulsive. Undeserving of monogamous love. Unworthy of the tender touch of a lover who cherishes only you.

Again, the visions would descend upon her, painting stills of him with a faceless yet unquestionably beautiful woman. The poses would flash before her eyes like a slideshow; she'd see him touching the beauty in ways that were supposed to be reserved for only her; their hands caressing intimately, their lips mating . . . Rachel fought back the images of the more animal sort.

Rachel felt so old now, and tired. He'd done that too by making her suffer through the pain of his indiscretion. When she'd first known, she'd been ill. The pictures made her so. Then she'd felt hot with indignation~ how could he desire another, and then enough to act on it? She had never felt such a pull! Then she'd been fraught with anger. Finally, she was simply hurt, broken, left feeling worthless.

The ordeal had touched all four facets of her: the physical, the mental, the emotional, and most damaging, the spiritual. Shane, however, moved along seemingly untouched, adding to her pain.

Was she worth so little that losing her would mean nothing? Did his daughters mean so little that he'd willingly risk the life he now had with them?

The light from the TV cast shadows over his face, his features an atavism of Neanderthal, making him look the monster she felt he must be to have destroyed her in this way.

The months since had dragged on, the pain fading somewhat with the salve of time. Though, at any moment, bidden or not, Rachel could summon forth the pictures that haunted her, could hear the whispered words of lovers, and could fall into tears.

Now, as she gazed at his nose shadow dancing with the changing scenes on the television, she felt the clenching of her chest, the keen stab of betrayal, the punch in her abdomen and the needling of tears in dry eyes. Her throat constricted, she swallowed only to choke, meanwhile allowing a sob to escape. She flew a palm to her mouth when more threatened, though not before she could stop the first.

The sound brought him up, his eyes suddenly wide open, "What?" Shane asked, in a tone that said he was ready to jump to any emergency.

Rachel rattled her head, 'no' as tears streamed over fingers that tried to contain the sounds of the anguish that filled her soul.

"Jesus Christ. Not again." Shane punched a fist into his pillow. "When are you going to stop doing this to yourself?" Then, flopping onto his side, he grumbled something about never getting a good night's sleep again.

Succumbing to hiccups, Rachel fought the urge to apologize to him for having awakened him. It a was a marvel how he could do that.

A fresh wave of hatred bathed over her, now she fought the desire to pound him. She could imagine the satisfaction it would give her to hit him, with her fists, or maybe a bat . . . or perhaps she'd hold his ears and slam his head into a brick wall!

Breathing the breaths of the Lamaze-method, Rachel calmed herself. Forgiveness seemed utterly ridiculous at this point, but she knew for it to come she'd have to remain patient. So she scooted down, laying carefully without touching him, then eventually slept.

"I can't understand why you've stayed." Tara, Rachel's sister, said some time much later. "I don't think I would have in your shoes."

Looking beyond the window above the kitchen sink, Rachel watched as Shane galloped around the green lawn of their backyard, Sammie and Annie in pursuit. Squeals of laughter broke out here and there. She could see the wide smiles, indicators of happiness, on the faces of her children. The sight made her smile. Even caused a fraction of love for her husband to effloresce within the dark places of her deadened heart. She knew she'd love him again, knew that in some fashion, she presently did.

"I stay," Rachel replied, "for the children." An earnest smile spread across her lips as she peeled yellow gloves from her hands. She'd allowed him to love her last night, he'd touched tenderly, cherishingly. "For me too, I guess." She turned away from the scene outside and leaned against the sink. "I . . . I can't see living without him, and I've tried seeing it. . . . It would be more painful than living with him."

It was Saturday, they were due to go to the theater, and tomorrow they'd picnic, because with him they could. And with him, she'd heal, without him she'd decompose in the retched cesspool of hate and wallow in a life of self-pity.

Though her largest motive was to preserve the scene of love and happiness that was taking place in the backyard. "If I left, they wouldn't have that." She said as she turned back to watch her children play with their father.