Of all the things that Melinda Warren was capable of doing, loving someone was not one of them. She was very good at keeping her home, she prided herself on her cooking skills, and she had excellent manners. But love? No. While Melinda had once claimed that she married for love, that emotion had long since left her body and the effort of pretending it was still there was too much for her to deal with.
Her husband, Gregory, had wooed her in their younger years with his accounting degree and his budding career on Madison Avenue. He was going to be an ad executive, he said, and he was going to bring home the big bucks (his words, not hers). They would have a little family of their own, live north of the City so as not to feel congested, and theyâd have a wonderful life together.
Melinda, who had gone to college and had made an aborted attempt at a fashion degree, believed him. But she never truly loved him. No, she married him for the money, and she was sure that he knew it. They moved into a tiny apartment together at first, but once Gregory landed the partnership of a lifetime, they were able to afford a house, an actual house in upscale Riverdale, NY.
It was in Riverdale that their two sons were brought upâNicholas first, and then four years later, Michael. Their lives were straight from a story book; they went to the nicest schools, had the nicest clothes, and always had birthday parties where everyone in their class was invited. And Melinda thought things were different; maybe her heart had softened, because she felt something for these two boys, her sons. Was it love? She wasnât sure, but she hoped it was.
Things were great for the longest timeâuntil suddenly they werenât.
Gregory stumbled in the front door, reeking of alcohol and a pink slip between his outstretched hand. His firm, the one that had given him the job heâd always dreamed of, had fired him amidst a spectacular collapse that would eventually leave the firm (and Gregoryâs career) nonexistant. Heâd been given his notice, had packed up his car, and driven straight to the bar, where heâd gotten spectacularly drunk.
Melinda took the slip, her nose wrinkled in distaste, and set it on Gregoryâs desk, rolling the top down to cover it so that the boys wouldnât see. Then sheâd gone into their bedroom to pull her husband off of the bed, slapped him on the cheek to get him out of his stupor, and sat him down for a talk.
And so the charade began. Gregory would leave in the mornings as he always did, seeing Michael and Nicholas onto the bus that would cart them off to school. Heâd come back soon after, spend his day searching for another job, and then would leave again so that he wouldnât be home when his sons climbed off the bus and ran into the house. Heâd return hours later, usually smelling faintly of beer, but Melinda never said anything about it. It wasnât her business.
But no one wanted to hire one of the senior partners at a firm that had been cheating people out of money. No one wanted a man who had been fired instead of being allowed to stick it out til the end of the firmâs days. No one wanted Gregory to work for them, because they worried that he would do to their business what it appeared that he had done to his previous employerâs (no matter that he didnât have a hand in any of it).
Soon he didnât bother leaving when the boys woke up; soon he didnât bother pretending to come home late. He sat on the couch, a beer bottle in hand, watching daytime television and slowly growing more and more bitter. As much as Melinda resented him for it, a small part of her understood why he was upset. But she had a reputation to maintain.
The neighborhood that they lived in was an upscale one, and on a weekly basis Melinda walked three houses down to sit around a glass dining room table with a glass of wine and chit-chat about the latest neighborhood gossip. And Melinda knew that when a local family collapsed, their story was spread around the dining room table the next day, voices raised to be heard over the moving trucks as said disgraced family moved to a cheaper part of the City.
She wouldnât become disgraced.
And so she spent her husbandâs moneyâor lack thereofâas if he was still employed. New shoes ($89.99), new purses ($175.00), a few trips to the salon ($85.00)âŠ
It shouldnât have been a shock, though, when her husband snapped. Heâd been drinking, of course, and the mail had comeâand he had seen his account statement. She was glad that the boys werenât home, and she was thankful for her good foundation ($57.99) to cover up the bruises.
The next time, though, she hadnât been so lucky. Michael, twelve now, had dropped a glass of water and pieces went everywhere. His eyes had gone wide and heâd gone for a broom, but by the time heâd come back his father stood over him, face turning colors. âPick it up,â heâd said, his voice dark and terrifying, and Michael quivered and nodded jerkily, unable to make eye contact with his father. Melindaâs manicured nails ($45.00) dug into her palms, and she watched her husbandâs hands tighten into fists. Please donât hit him, Greg, oh please donâtâŠ
This time he didnât. But when Nicholas talked back to his father two days later, he did. Melinda flinched at the sound of the back of her husbandâs knuckles as they collided with her sonâs cheek, and Michael broke into tears. Nicholas, though, sat still, as if he was in shock. As if he couldnât believe that his own father had just smacked him across the face.
Two weeks later it was Michaelâs turn, after burning toast. This time, it resulted in a bruised eye, and Melinda dutifully tended to her sonâs face as he sat on her bathroom counter, tears running down his cheeks as he asked her why his daddy hurt him. The poor kid didnât understand, and she couldnât tell him why.
It continued like this for yearsâMichael and Nicholas grew up, becoming Mike and Nick, and the two learned how to keep out of their fatherâs way. They tended to stay out late, or not even come home at all, preferring to stay at a friendâs house instead of coming home to deal with their father. They would go to Melindaâs fatherâs house on most weekends, her parents driving down from the Adirondacks to pick the boys up and then would return them Sunday night before school the next day.
And Gregory⊠he was⊠trying, at least. When he was sober, he was a good father. He came to the boysâ sports games and cheered them on, he would take the family out to eat, and most importantly: heâd found another job. It didnât pay as much, but it was enough for them to get by and that was all that mattered.
But when he drank, things got bad. Keeping her sons away from her husband meant taking the brunt of the aggression herself, and Melinda couldnât help but be selfish; sometimes she didnâtwant to feel like a human punching bag, and if Mike or Nick was around, she could retreat into herself and pretend as if this was all a bad dream.
When Mike was fourteen, Nick moved to New Jersey to go to college. Melinda couldnât help but sigh in reliefâthey qualified for some financial aid (not like sheâd tell the women in the community) and Nick would have the loans on his own back and not hers. It was a relief to know that she wouldnât be responsible for this debt.
Living with them, his mother who just stood by and did nothing, turning the other cheek when his father had too much to drink and punched him in the gut a few times, and his alcoholic mess of a father, was almost too much for Mike to take. He begged his grandparents over and over to let him move in with them, to let him stay thereâheâd cook for them, heâd clean their house, whatever it took so that he didnât have to go home to his parents.
When his grandmother reached out to set a hand on his shoulder and he flinched, they knew that something was horribly wrong. It took one look at the bruises littering Mikeâs torso for his grandfather to open his safe and hand Mike a locked box. Inside was a gun, a small gun but a gun nonetheless, with the instructions to never use this unless it was absolutely necessary.
(Meaning: if your father is going to kill you, you need to kill him first.)
Two years later, Mikeâs grandfather died in his sleep. It was unexpected but he went peacefully.
The next morning, Melinda awoke to the sound of her phone ringing and her motherâs quiet sobs in her ear when she answered. She collected herself, her own emotions, and hung up the phone after speaking with her mother for what felt like an hour. She had to tell her son, and she didnât want to.
For the past few years, the relationship between Melinda and Mike had been almost nonexistent. The boy only spoke to her when he needed somethingâand even then, heâd find other ways to get what he needed, mostly. Heâd call up a friend for a ride, heâd work at the store down the street for pocket change, heâd do something other than ask her for it. And as much as she didnât want to admit it, she didnât mind the quiet around the house. Gregory got drunk less when Mike wasnât home, mostly because Melinda had learned how to walk around on tiptoes around her husband and how not to set him off on a rampage.
She got out of her bed and slipped her feet into a pair of socks, then walked slowly down the hall to her sonâs room. Heâd spent the night at home for once, and she knocked twice on his door lightly before pushing it open.
His bedroom was painted blue, and all of his sports medals and trophies were displayed on the walls. Gregory had raised an athletic sonâwhile Nick was more of an analytical type, Mike was athletic, and played football, baseball, golf⊠Gregory was the most proud of him for the golf, as it was something that he had done growing up, but had never gone far in. Seeing his son succeed in the sport enough to have him be considered for going professional was enough to make the manâs chest swell with pride.
Mike lay in bed, his phone pressed to his ear, and his eyes squeezed shut. His grandmother had beat Melinda to the punchâin the time it had taken her to summon up the energy to get out of bed and walk down the hall, her mother had dialed her sonâs cell phone number and got there first. But maybe that was a good thing. Melinda knew that Mike would want to hear the news from his grandmother first, over her, and while that should have made her heart ache, it simply felt like it was one less burden she had to bear.
âBye, Grandmaâ" Mikeâs voice shook as he ended the call, and he opened his eyes to see his mother standing before him in her designer nightdress and her Louis Vuitton slippers. His face was red, eyelashes clumped together from the tears that flooded his eyes.
âMomââ It was all he had to say before she hurried over to the bed and gathered him into her arms, a sudden rush of maternal instinct telling her to hold him as tight as she could. She rocked him back and forth as he sobbed in her arms; it was the first real death that heâd experienced, and of the most important people in his life, and he was falling apart.
She felt her own eyes, damp with tears, and she tightened her grip on her son. Maybe she did feel love, after all.
