Spencerville

he was more stupid than she’d imagined. An intelligent man knew he had at least a fifty-fifty chance of talking his wife out of shooting him, and less than a million-to-one chance of drawing against a pointed and cocked shotgun. But Cliff Baxter was short on brains and long on ego. One day, she hoped, that would get him killed.
    He said, “You’re wonderin’ if I’d of killed you.”
    “I don’t really care.”
    “What do you mean, you don’t care? Of course you care. You got kids. You got family.” He smiled. “You got me.” He patted her hand across the table. “Hey, I knew you wasn’t gonna kill me. You know why? ’Cause you love me.”
    Annie took a breath and fought down a scream.
    He tapped his fork on her nose, and continued, “You see, you’re still jealous. Now, that means you still love me. Right?”
    Annie was emotionally drained, exhausted, and her shoulder throbbed. She had nothing left in her except the presence of mind to say what he wanted to hear. She said, “Yes.”
    He smiled. “But you hate me, too. Now, I’m gonna tell you something—there’s a thin line between love and hate.”
    She nodded, as though this were some new revelation to her. Cliff was always mouthing idiotic clichés and aphorisms, as if he’d just made them up, and it never occurred to him that these were not original insights into the human mind.
    “Remember that next time you’re pissed off at me.”
    She smiled, and he realized he’d used a bad choice of words. She said, “I’m going to the cleaners this morning. Do you have anything to go?”
    He leaned toward her and said, “You watch yourself.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And cut the sir shit.”
    “Sorry.”
    He mopped up his yolks with his toast and said, “You call old Willie to fix up the ceiling.”
    “Yes.”
    He sat back and looked at her. “You know, I break my ass to give you things most people in this town ain’t got. Now, what do you want me to do? Retire, hang around the house, pinch pennies, and help you with the chores all day?”
    “No.”
    “I’m bustin’ my hump, doin’ a job for this town, and you think I’m out there floggin’ my johnson all over the county.”
    She nodded in the appropriate places during the familiar lecture, and shook her head when it was called for.
    Cliff stood, strapped on his pistol belt, and came around the table. He hugged her around the shoulders, and she winced in pain. He kissed her on the head and said, “We’re gonna forget this. You tidy up a little more here and call Willie. I’ll be home about six. I feel like steak tonight. Check the beer in the fridge. Feed the dogs.” He added, “Wash my uniform.”
    He went to the back door, and, on his way out, said, “And don’t you ever call me at work again unless somebody’s dyin’.” He left.
    Annie stared across the kitchen at nothing in particular. Maybe, she thought, if she had let him get his gun out of his holster, she would have blown his head off. But maybe not, and maybe he would have shot her, which was okay, too. Maybe they’d hang him.
    The only thing she knew for certain was that Cliff forgot nothing and forgave nothing. She’d literally scared the pee out of him, and there’d be hell to pay. Not that she’d notice much difference.
    She stood and was surprised to find her legs were weak and there was a queasy feeling in her stomach. She went to the sink and opened the window. The sun was coming up, and a few storm clouds sailed away toward the east. Birds sang in the yard, and the hungry dogs were trying to get her attention with short, polite barks.
    Life, she thought, could be lovely. No, she said to herself, life
was
lovely. Life was beautiful. Cliff Baxter couldn’t make the sun stop rising or the birds stop singing, and he did not, could not, control her mind or her spirit. She hated him for dragging her down to his level, for making her contemplate murder or suicide.
    She thought again of Keith Landry. In her mind, Cliff Baxter was always the black knight, and Keith Landry was the white knight. This image worked as long as Keith was a disembodied ideal. Her worst nightmare would be to discover that Keith Landry in person was not the Keith Landry she’d created out of short and infrequent letters and long-ago memories.
    The returned letter, as well as the dream about Cliff, had been the catalyst for what just happened, she realized. She’d snapped. But now she felt better, and she promised herself that if Keith