by Dorothy Sander

The river lies ahead. Dark. Fierce. Swirling from last night's spring rain. The downpour has jolted it from its deep, contented sleep.

Drops of mud kick up from my hiking boots and splatter the bottom of my jeans, as I make my way down the trail. Grabbing a tree limb, I catch myself as I began to slide on a moss-covered rock.

My heart is racing. Not from the hike; I hike the river every day. I know every inch of the path, the mossy slope, and the tree halfway down the second turn that greets me with its alien face of knots. Sometimes it makes me laugh. Sometimes I see sadness in its eyes.

Today there is anger, and fear spills forth from my wooden friend, reflecting my own. I heard Glen's truck attack the driveway, gravel kicking up behind the wheels, acid rock pulsing to my heartbeat, and then a split second of silence before the door slammed.

"Going to go for a walk," I said hastily, moving toward the front door.

"Wait, Katherine! Come back! I want to talk to you!"

I hesitated briefly but the shuffling sound of his alcohol-laden body bumping down the hall pushed me forward.

"Sorry, Glen. Be back soon."

He lunged for my arm, dousing me with hot, dark, whiskey breath. My stomach lurched. He ended up in a heap on the couch.

Running down the drive, I bathed in the cool, damp air that washed over me. It soothed the tender flesh that has not yet recovered and enjoyed a moment's respite knowing he would not follow me. I could move and breathe without fearing the hot sting of his hand across my face, or the volcanic rage that would pummel my gut.

I crossed the street and took the sidewalk; it was a block to Route 501. The traffic was heavy; kids getting out of school, mothers driving daughters to ballet, sons to baseball, so oddly normal. Shift workers heading home-Glen is a factory worker, his shift ending at three p.m.. His second shift at Last Chance Tavern ends whenever he runs out of money or his friends cart him home.

When we first got married he rushed home to be with me. We'd curl up on the couch and watch TV together before tumbling into bed and into each other's arms. He stopped touching me when I was three months pregnant. It wasn't that he didn't want the baby-he was desperate for a son for all the reasons a man wants a son-I guess he just didn't like what being pregnant was doing to my body-it wasn't yet a child to him.

I worked really hard at not gaining weight but he couldn't hide his wandering eyes. He began to smell a stranger's perfume and I knew I'd lost him, at least until the baby was born.

But I lost our baby, miscarried our boy at eight months. In the instant Conner took his last breath, Glen's love was replaced by rage. He told me it was my fault the baby died. I felt his fist for the first time on the first anniversary of our baby's death. Drunk and belligerent, he screamed obscenities at me and worked his anger out on my body. A dark cloud settled over me and it has stuck like a parasite ever since.

* * *

In the beginning, I tried to defend myself. But Glen was louder and I began to believe I had no defense. I thought I deserved the beatings and they became an antidote to my own pain. Conner had been in my body. He had been my responsibility.

Five years now Glen's anger has laid over me like a hot, suffocating blanket. Five years we have not made love. He's made war on my body instead. I wear long sleeves and turtlenecks to cover the bruises and he's quit punching my face because he wants my paycheck.

Lately, however, something has made me start running, leaving before he can unleash the poison on me that is tearing him up inside. I walk along the river. There I feel safe.