On a dull Wednesday afternoon, Rachel Benson, tired after teaching all day, tired from driving home on an Indy-like freeway, even more tired of the maze she was forced to negotiate daily to enter her own house, turned toward the driveway, heard the gravel chink at her new tires, and uncharacteristically slammed her brakes, then her door.
Born into a heritage whose women knew their place, and whose men were skilled at keeping them there, Rachel, the oldest of eleven children, learned quickly the debit side of the first-born child. She was destined to become the default mother as her mother’s health deteriorated after years of pregnancies, childbirths, diapers, a husband’s instant expectations, more babies, and religious impositions.
Rachel began college in her hometown. Finished out-of-state, then entered graduate school. Became friends with Leah, her roommate from Denver, grew into close friends. They experimented. Rachel graduated with double Master’s degrees. During her first full-time teaching job, she lived alone, dated rarely. Traveled in the summer.
As the only unmarried sibling at extended family gatherings, Rachel felt the pressure of generations. Then her friend, Vivian, called; she had a neighbor, and he was single. “Rachel, you’ll like him. He lives in this delightful little dollhouse. Drives an Audi and a motorcycle. It’ll be fun for you.”
Flashes from their early dating period. A cold Saturday evening on the back of Merle’s Harley, Rachel absorbed the engine’s distinct purr, felt the winter wind against her black leather jacket, her first gift from Merle. She relished his outlaw persona. Felt warmth and excitement when they stopped at a motel. Breakfast in the room. Intoxicated by promises of distant cities, interesting people. Expected repeated experiences and emotions. Rachel committed.
Her future husband, Merle Rector, born into a family with daily interactions like ricocheting torpedoes, had been a strident child, a trait he would carry into adulthood. In and out of hospitals without physical ailments, something hidden, buried. Shots administered by multiple medical staff, their brusque manners raised to an art form, who saw their job as dispensing medications, not in dealing with a disoriented, angry boy.
Merle sought solace through reading. Found friends inside the past. Developed an early attraction to Nazi history, Hitler biographies, and G. Gordon Liddy’s triumph through toughness, a man’s path. He became a man of one book; assumed a cloak of supremacy. Felt safe and in control when he displayed aggressive behaviors. Learned “What others can’t see, they can’t take.”
A few months later, Merle presented Rachel with his home-drawn pre-nuptial agreement. More polemic than document, it detailed his view that marriage superseded the laws of state and man, followed by his version of Old Testament marriages. Added a vague description of property each brought into the marriage.
“Does this mean you’re proposing?”
Merle nodded.
“Then, yes, I will marry you.” Sensed that she was entering into a marriage with a quirky man she knew she could help.
Two years into their marriage, during their first dinner with Rachel’s married friends, Merle handed his cell phone across the table to the husband, pointed at the screen - a photo of an underage blond, bound in black leather pants, exposed breasts, black whip at her side. The husband’s sole statement to Merle, “Buddy, you are in so much trouble.”
Before the husband could hand the phone back, Rachel grabbed it. “I know you like that kind of thing, Merle, but I asked you not to show it to anyone.” Stressed the last six words.
Merle swiped his hand toward the husband, “But it’s just him”. When he saw Rachel’s face and body harden, he slumped, shot the practiced glance of a petulant child.
One month later, Rachel tried again with another couple. Merle cornered the dinner conversation with meandering, extended monologues, “The War Powers act was used to authorize the war on poverty and the war against cancer,” sprinkled in “Texas can divide itself into six different states, and secede from the Union anytime it wants. It’s in their constitution.” Overlooked the War Between the States, the 14th and 15th amendments, and the actual wording of the Texas constitution. They listened in silence as Merle presented his most forceful argument, “You won’t see any Greenpeace ships now that the CIA has pulled its funding.” The guests remained mute; their separate, but mutual decisions made.
In her attempts to settle into the marriage, Rachel revived her mother’s tradition – large meals with ever-increasing amounts of butter, salt, and sugar. She injected vegetables with butter, meats with more butter. Prepared rich desserts heavy with butter and sugar. Defended it as if a family religion. Their portions grew. Rachel’s waistline grew as her femininity shrank. Merle’s waistline out-paced hers. His blood pressure increased, he hid his chest pains and signs of arthritis, both avoided doctors. They grew into reflections of each other – scowls and all. He complained about Rachel’s weight gain, “I need more eye candy in this house.”
Rachel looked at his size forty-six waistline, and silently echoed his comments word-for-word, then regretted it.
Two summers later, Rachel searched for a geographic cure, planned a trip to Italy. Told others it was for sightseeing and to see her sister. She endured months of Merle’s turmoil about foreign threats and terrorists, “But, Rachel,” he said with increasing emphasis, “the Egyptian outbreaks will devalue the exchange rate in Italy. We’ll have to go some other time.”
Tired of his sermons and tired of her struggle, Rachel told Merle she was going with or without him. He relented. Communicated only to waiters and sommeliers. In Italy, he claimed business interests in San Marino, left Rachel with her sister. He neglected cathedrals, seashores, museums, his wife and her family.
Upon their return, he spoke only of meals eaten, gelato consumed. Answered questions with a well-rehearsed, “That was an experience,” self-responded, “Yes, it was”. Invited neither discussion nor questions.
Three Sundays after their return, Rachel had dared to joke about his mother’s driving. Without looking at her, Merle said, “If you want this relationship to continue, you will shut up now.” He stood in their kitchen, and continued to shout.
Rachel, fueled by years of his pounding, and her attempts to walk the middle path, refused to listen to his litany of her failures to live-up to his expectations, said, “Get some help or-” Did not need to finish the sentence.
After weeks of procrastination, Merle entered a psychologist’s office. Inside the office, in response to Merle’s complaints, the psychologist asked, “Merle, when that happened,” referring to the Sunday scene, “how did you choose to feel?”
Merle answered, “Angry”.
“You chose to become angry?”
“No,” his voice separated each word with his arrogance, “Rachel made me angry.”
“She made you? Your wife did what –placed a gun to your head and forced you? Just tell me what you chose to feel?” Handed him an alphabetized feelings sheet.
Merle glanced at the sheet, then let it fall to the floor, “Those are women’s emotions.” He leaned forward, eyes preoccupied with the wall, pulled out a letter from a district attorney in Idaho, read aloud, “‘your letter fails to state an appropriate cause of action for this office to proceed.’ Now, what the hell does that mean?”
The psychologist listened – eager to learn Merle’s communication patterns. “My step-father and mother kidnapped me and robbed me of my real father.” His voice rose, hands jutted forward as if delivering punches – his eyes concentrated on the far wall. Merle explained his attempt to institute kidnapping charges against his mother and stepfather.
The psychologist observed, took notes, said, “It would have been easy for your real father try to find you. He and your mother were both in the military.” He noted the uncontested divorce decree from the state of Idaho, his mother granted sole custody, then remarried and moved out-of-state with her three year-old son. Forty-two years later, Merle wrote the letter.
Merle ignored that subject, and told the psychologist his recurring dream. Ended with, “I wake-up, go to the kitchen, and beat on the counter.” Without a breath, continued, “I was put in a hospital when I was six,” presented his version, “and given shots by some stupid, fat nurse; the orderlies held me down. My mother told me I had asthma, and had to be treated.” He could not remember any difficulty breathing.
After the session, his body tight, he walked to his car, tossed the appointment reminder, never returned. Told Rachel they met weekly. She knew he didn’t.
Days repeated days. Evenings the same. His lectures, her withdrawal.
Rachel laughed less each year. Adopted a wary stance - tilted back and to one side, as if ready to dodge whatever Merle threw. Suppressed vague ideas of independence and retribution. Wondered if, once again, she had become a substitute mother. Then, determined not to shrink herself further...
into this marriage, expanded her circle of friends, revived dormant ones. She interspersed her home life with family gatherings from which Merle excluded himself. During one of these visits, she called her former grad school roommate, Leah. They exchanged weekend visits, then longer visits.
During an extended weekend at Leah’s house in Denver, Rachel, drink in hand, dressed in her newly acquired jeans with a colorful cuff and newly-purchased sweater, disgorged, “Sometimes he just talks, like a dull sound. It’s easier for me to make the appropriate noises, than to respond and hear him tell me how wrong I am.”
She outlined a decade of humiliation, secrets, denial, anger, his diatribes tightened toward malicious sex, big breasts, and oriental women, his demands that she dress like an island girl. She blurted out that Merle wanted her to have breast implants. “It’s as if I’m not enough, not what he wants.” She revealed his secret Bahamian and San Marino bank accounts, unknown business partners and clients, his frequent flights into paranoia. Told Leah that her hopes grew until four months after their wedding. When, cuddled beside Merle, she told him about her day. He listened, interrupted, “If all you want to do is talk, you’d better talk to your friends. I can tell you what to do, but I can’t just sit and listen to mindless gossip. We’re both too educated for that.”
Leah, freshly divorced for the second time, said, “How long do you plan to tolerate his crap?” Flipped her hair out of her eyes and ran her finger along Rachel’s arm, “You look and act abused.”
Rachel exhaled exhaustion, “But he tries. You don’t know him the way I do.”
“No, and I won’t. I wouldn’t. If he started any of that crap with me, he’d be out of the house.” Leah exhaled anger, finished her drink. “Hell, he’s the one who insisted on separate last names.” Inhaled, “For what? Security reasons? Bull crap, for paranoid reasons.”
Rachel, second drink in hand, said, “But he’s got-”
“He’s got nothin’.” Leah interrupted, “Except his resentment at something that may or may not have happened decades ago. He chooses to relive it, and hit you with it whenever he thinks you get out of line. Reminds me of our grandfathers. Do what’s necessary; be a dutiful wife.” Referred to their shared heritage four generations deep, and the inbred legacy of their families – don’t talk, don’t trust, don’t make mistakes, there’s nothing wrong here, and don’t you dare tell anyone about it. “Do what you’re told, Sister Rachel. Tow the line, woman.”
During dinner, they reviewed their plans for Houston, followed by spring break in Cabo. Rachel sampled. They revived experiences.
During an oft-postponed dinner with Rachel’s new friends, Merle sat hunched at the table, dressed in his expando black pants, swollen black sweater and black leather jacket, and finished yet another harangue.
After dinner, while standing inside a yogurt shop with the couple, Merle, in a theatrical whisper, repeatedly asked Rachel how she would feel if they were driven to the yogurt shop in a Bentley, and he sent his chauffer for the dessert while they waited in the car. Ended his monologue with, “I hate waiting in line. We’re too educated for this”, then placed his yogurt and coffee order. “We don’t serve coffee,” replied the clerk.
“No coffee?” Merle’s voice rose. “No coffee? I refuse to eat yogurt at a place that doesn’t serve coffee.” Left the shop, turned an immediate right, plunked himself into a metal chair on the sidewalk, stood, pulled the chair into a doorway between the yogurt shop and an office building, sat, crossed his right leg over his left, folded his arms, smiled, and glared at the street.
Rachel’s friends looked at her. She said nothing, sat calmly with the couple at an indoor table. As if in a foreign country, knowing neither customs nor idioms, Rachel heard echoes of commands from religious texts proscribing female behaviors. Silence fogged the air.
When they finished their yogurt, Rachel said, “I’ll meet you two in the car.”
On that dull Wednesday afternoon, Rachel opened the back door, stomped into the kitchen, grabbed a plastic bag, threw together her chicken sandwich for the evening. Their cat, who remained outside as much as possible, circled toward her dish, careful to avoid being grabbed by Merle. Without making eye contact, Merle walked past Rachel, sliced some beef, ladled it into a pita half, spread pats of butter, squirted horseradish, added more butter, microwaved it to a melted state, added jalapeños, and ate. Neither talked. Rachel drove off without a word.
Two hours later, Merle collapsed into his chair. Gray, wet, and slack-eyed, his speech slurred; minutes later, he drove himself to the hospital.
While in the hospital, Merle refused to take his medications, tossed aside the hospital’s educational materials. He de demanded that Rachel tell no one about his cardiac procedure. Developed rationales to avoid his heart medications, “What if there’s an earthquake, and I can’t renew my prescription for thirty days.” Told his doctor, “I don’t want to get addicted to the pills. I know addiction. I saw my grandfather die from alcoholism.”
Days later, Merle, for the fourth time, tapped his speed dial. His call went to Rachel’s voice mail. “I’m getting out tomorrow. Call me.”
During class, Rachel, her barber-cut hair complimented thick shoulders, heavy legs, wide ankles, a waistline that camouflaged any hints of femininity, heard the military march ring tone Merle insisted she install. She shoved back her hair, squinted, shuddered. Walked the walk of an injured middle-linebacker toward her desk, pressed the mute button, returned to her students.
After a solitary dinner, Rachel listened to her voice mail for the first time, “I’m getting out tomorrow. Call me.” Angry at Merle for calling, angry with herself for ignoring his earlier calls, she dialed. Felt relief when the call went to voice mail.
As she cleared the table, Rachel saw her future. Plans, friends, and travel subsumed by her life as Merle’s personal attendant. He would become even more of a little boy - at his age, akin to senile dementia. She decided to visit Merle in the hospital that evening, endure his blather, then make her announcement.
She stopped at the hospital entrance, then walked through the main hallway to the elevators. Stopped, rehearsed again. Rediscovered a spirit preserved from a past long abandoned. Now all I have to do is-
She advanced into the hospital room, looked at Merle, and, for a moment, listened to his recurring bellowing. Cleared her throat, “I’m going to Oregon. I bought the ticket last month. They’re non-refundable. You’ll need to get your own ride home. Call Vivian.” Looked at him, “I’m going now.”
Rachel Benson walked straight down the Denver airport concourse. She had not gone to Oregon. Leah ran toward her, hugged her, smiled, then said, “It’s all set-up. Our house is ready. We’ll like it.”
With Vivian, in late afternoon traffic, Merle Rector‘s memories seared, he pointed to his right, “You know what Rachel said when I was in that hospital?” Told the same story yet again, “That she was going to Oregon instead of bringing me home from the hospital, what could I say?”
Well, what could he say? His wife had said everything any husband needed to know. His life inverted. Further questions would have been redundant. To Merle, it was as unpredicted as he was blameless. The primary cause as hidden as his own culpability.
