Julia's Chocolates. Cathy Lamb

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СКАЧАТЬ a metal clamp as his cold eyes dropped to Spot, growling low in his throat. “And goddammit, Julia, quit clinging to that dog. I’m sick of it. Sick of him barking at me, sick of him biting me. Sick to shit of him.” His other hand darted out and grabbed Spot’s muzzle, holding the dog’s mouth shut. “I am at my limit,” he said, his mouth an inch from my ear, his voice soft. “Don’t push me over the edge.”

      The next day Spot was gone. Two days after that my neighbor found him on her lawn. She brought him, shoulders heaving as she cried, wrapped in one of her own fuzzy baby blankets. His neck had been slashed. His license and collar were pink but you would have thought they were black. Black with blood. I cried for days. Still cry when I think about him. Shake, too.

      When Robert came over that night, I told him through these wretched, heaving sobs about Spot. His fury mounted by the second, and he muscled me into my bedroom and informed me that Spot was “a pathetically annoying animal,” and that I treated him like he was a child instead of a dog. “For God’s sake, get over it, Watermelon Buns.”

      Not yet making the connection between Robert and my dead dog, I had said to him, “Robert, my dog was killed by some sicko and you want me to get over it? Just like that?”

      His eyes got this weird, livid look, like fireworks were exploding in his brain, and he told me I was going to have to learn to get control of myself, that no one liked a baby, and he especially did not like to see fat girls cry because it made them look worse. “Fat girls shouldn’t cry at all in front of other people, in point of fact. It’s disgusting.”

      I thought of my poor, beloved dog in a little box, wrapped in that fuzzy blanket, buried in my tiny garden outside my apartment and felt sick. “Shut up, Robert! Just shut up! Shut up!”

      In answer he spun me around, ripped down my pants, and shoved me against the back of an overstuffed chair. “Shut up yourself, bitch,” he whispered as he bent me over the top. I fought for about thirty seconds, but he grabbed my hair, and exhaustion ran over me like a dump truck and I gave up. My non-responsiveness seemed to turn him on even more, his pants and groans coming harsh and ragged.

      When he was done, he steered me over to the bed, his breath hot and fast. I stumbled because my pants were around my ankles, and he swore and ended up carrying me, his arms around my waist. “Damn. You’ve put on even more weight, haven’t you?” When I was lying flat, he straddled me, wrapped both hands around my boobs and glared into my eyes as he squeezed and fondled them.

      “I’m glad that dog’s dead, Julia,” he said. “You paid more attention to it than you did me. You’re weird, you know that? You’ve got mental problems. Serious mental problems. You like an animal more than a real man. How do you expect me to stay attracted to a woman who’s turned on by a dog?” He got off the bed, got undressed, then leaned over me, ripping the covers back down that I’d yanked up to my chin, then shoved his fingers up my vagina.

      “You like it like this, don’t you? It turns you on.” He cupped my face with his palm, one finger gently stroking my face while the other hand hurt me. He did that often—one hand loving, one hand hurting. “Don’t you ever let some dumb dog get between us again. Do you get that, cunt? Do you get that?” His voice was low and kind. And scary. So very scary.

      “Every damn day I see that dog sitting on your lap. I’m glad it’s just me and you now. Just me and you. Only me and you. And do not”—he shoved his hand up me harder and dropped three gentle kisses on my mouth at the same time—“do not even think about getting another dog.”

      And then I had this creepy, horrible feeling, and I had to ask the question, even though I knew Robert would filet me as he would a dead fish when he heard it. “Robert…Robert, you didn’t kill Spot, did you?”

      The look in his eyes skewered me to the bed. “Oh, Julia,” he said, his voice a caress. “Oh, Julia.” He smashed his mouth on mine so hard I could hardly breathe.

      After a couple of minutes, when I began to really struggle, he lifted his head, and I could see that some of his anger had dissipated. “Why do you make me so angry? Why? You constantly provoke me. You know I love you. I can’t live without you, Julia.” He grabbed a fistful of my curls and kissed them, then kissed both breasts as I held my breath. One time he’d bitten down on me. “No, I can’t live without you, and I won’t. But this is your fault. You have to learn how to be a wife. A good wife. And you must learn to be more like my mother.”

      He lowered his head again, and this time he kissed me so sweetly, so soft, so gentle, it made me gasp with mind-numbing fear. Of course he misinterpreted my gasps.

      “I’ll do you again, don’t worry about it. You’re always hot, always wanting it, aren’t you? You have a need for constant sex. Who would guess that with someone like you?” He shook his head in wonderment as he ran his hands over my trembling-with-fright body. His cell phone rang then, and he answered it and walked out the front door, leaving me cold and half-naked on the bed.

      When he left, I resumed my crying jag over Spot, which morphed into me not being able to breathe and my heart palpitating as if it were racing a hundred miles an hour, and I figured I was going to die.

      I had found Spot three years ago, literally on the city street near to where I was living. He was sitting by a garbage can. Waiting, waiting, waiting, it seemed, for something to come his way. He was skinny and nervous and dirty, and I thought I was looking at myself in dog form, except for the skinny part. He must have looked at me and seen himself in human form because he came to me instantly. I showered him, fed him, doted on him, loved him.

      That dog was happy when I woke up in the morning, happy when I came home, happy when I walked him. He was not happy alone and was often quivering with nerves when I came in from work, which endeared him to me all the more.

      Growing up unloved and neglected is horrific. Not only because your parent doesn’t love you, but because you know your parent doesn’t want your love. You learn that your love is inferior. Unneeded. Worthless. You’re inferior, you’re unneeded, you’re worthless.

      But Spot needed my love. He needed me.

      Robert had hated Spot on sight, as he hated all animals.

      A voice in the back of my head told me that day that Robert had killed Spot. I knew the voice was right. As the days wore on after that incident, and the wedding loomed like a rusty pitchfork over my neck, I found breathing more and more difficult. I could almost see those points of that pitchfork imbedded in my neck, and I knew I had to escape it.

      Caroline grabbed my hand, bringing me away from Spot and back to her. Her right eye was almost spasmodically twitching.

      “I see clothes in a bag.” Her voice was tight. “The bag is full. I see it being thrown. I see fire. It’s hot. It smells. The clothes are burning. They’re gone. I see red. He’s furious.”

      Now I really was having trouble breathing. About two months ago, in a weird attempt to make him happy, and wanting to look better for him, I had gone shopping. I had bought two skirts that came above my knees, several lace camisoles, a bright red coat, black heels, and a halter top. The clothes were a huge departure from my usual jeans and a dull sweater and loafers.

      When he came to the apartment and saw the bag full of clothes his face had turned almost purple with rage. He had turned the bag upside down, running his hands over each and every garment as if a woman were already inside them. “You’re cheating on me, aren’t you?”

      After a long minute when I couldn’t speak, from fear, he laughed СКАЧАТЬ