Self Incrimination

By 10:00 p.m., Trish Bannister was worried sick. It was Friday, so she didn't expect him right after work. If he made it by seven or eight, the night would be tolerable. Nine o'clock would mean he had broken his promise and had been drinking. There would be shouting and cursing, but nothing physical. But it was now ten. It had been two months since James had been this late on a Friday. It would be ugly. For a moment she pondered the irony of it. Her husband picks Good Friday to come home drunk. The day of the Crucifixion, the suffering of Christ. Why do they call it Good Friday anyway? Dinner was beyond cold. She would pop it in the microwave as soon as she heard his car, but the steak would still be dry and the rolls would be too hot. Two months ago she had used the microwave, and he had backhanded the plate across their formal dining room table. She scrubbed the carpet for half an hour. He stood over her, pointing out spots she had missed. The next day she almost left. She stayed for the kids. And she stayed because she wanted to believe his promises. No more drinking. He would get counseling. Things would change as soon as he could pull the company out of its nosedive. The company. She remembered the banquet a few weeks ago, how the booze had flowed like water but James had never touched a drop. She remembered how she felt when it was his turn at the mike. He paused, choked back the tears, then thanked her for being his strength. She stayed because there were some things worth fighting for. She paced the front foyer, nibbling at the fingernail on her right thumb, oblivious to the extravagance she called home. She stood in the midst of carved white pillars on a marble floor. From her position next to the front door, she could see most of the first floor, every spacious room flowing into every other room. The family room opened to a cut-stone patio and an Olympic-sized pool. She glanced again out the front windows to the circular drive. No sign of James and his Town Car. No sign of sixteen-year-old Tara and her Explorer. She prayed that Tara would get home before James. After all, Tara was supposed to be grounded. But Tara had left earlier in a huff, after Trish had nagged her about her progress report. Trish couldn't stop the kid. She was sixteen years old and strong willed. Trish would deal with Tara tomorrow. "Jamie, turn it down!" Trish yelled toward the general direction of her eleven-year-old's room. There was no chance he would hear. She glanced again out the front window, then hurried up the steps. She pounded on his locked door. "C'mon, honey. Dad'll be home soon." No response. "Turn it down! Now!" The volume lowered to a softer roar. But the carpet in the hallway still vibrated with every beat of the bass. Trish rubbed her forehead. The pressure was building, the migraine forming. Jamie's progress report had been the only bright spot this week. A fifth grader, he had been diagnosed with Tourette's syndrome and attention deficit disorder less than two years ago. At times, despite heavy doses of Ritalin, clonidine, and haloperidol, Jamie was hard to control. But his teacher was understanding, and his classmates were, for the most part, accepting of him. Unlike Tara, Jamie was at least trying. Trish walked quickly to the master bathroom, listening for the sound of car engines. She opened the top drawer under her sink, found her migraine prescriptions, and popped two Fiorinal tablets and two Imitrex. She stopped and stared at her reflection. The lines on her face ran deep, creeping farther each day from the corners of hollow eyes. Too late she heard the sound of wheels on asphalt. If it was James, she would not be at the door to greet him. There would be no time to slide his pSinger, Randy D. is the author of 'Self Incrimination', published 2005 under ISBN 9781578567775 and ISBN 1578567777.