One Summer Night

When I was seven, my father killed my mother. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it was an accident, maybe he blames himself for her death out of some overabundance of love and chivalrous need to protect her. But it’s nothing like that. When I say my father killed my mother, I mean he wrapped his monstrous hands around her throat and squeezed. I remember because I was there.

I had heard my father come home that moonless evening. His 1985 Volkswagen GTI idled in the driveway for quite a while before I heard the car door slam followed by the crunching of the gravel beneath his size 10 black Derby dress shoes. I remember my mom glancing at me as she nervously adjusted her sundress, decorated with bright, happy yellow marigolds, before scanning the room to make sure nothing was out of place. Vases were set around the house with arrangements of fresh flowers my mom had grown in her garden. I had looked into the dining area and saw that the table was set, complete with two white long tapered candles the flames tethered and dancing upon the wicks and flashing gold off the silverware. My mom must have sensed something because she suddenly strode to me and knelt. She placed her warm, soft hands on each side of my face and looked into my mahogony eyes, the same eyes that I stared back into, and she quickly whispered to me.

“Baby girl, I need you to hide. I need you to stay quiet. You cannot make a single sound. Do not come out; no matter what you hear, no matter what you see - you stay hidden. Do you understand?”

I nodded dumbly, not able to speak, barely able to breathe. We both looked at the door as we heard his keys hit the cement steps just outside followed by his slurred cussing. I moved to do as my mother said, but stopped when she grabbed my wrist. I turned back to her, tears swam in her eyes. She reached up and smoothed my chestnut hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear, and kissed me gently.

“I love you so much, baby. Never doubt that.” Her voice had been shaky, barely controlled, her eyes troubled and scared.

I felt her grip fall from my wrist at the same time we heard the jingle-jangle of my father scooping up his dropped keys. I turned and hurried toward the small coat closet. Once inside, I buried myself in the clothing that littered the floor: old t-shirts that would be “perfect for drying off cars,” coats that no longer fit but he could “sell at the upcoming garage sale” that never happened, old jeans that my mom could “repurpose and make some money for once.” By the time my father opened the front door, I was well concealed, except for my eyes. I used the space between the bottom of the closet door and the hardwood floor to peer out into the living room where my mom now stood, a nervous smile plastered on her pale face, her hair done perfectly. It was 1990, but she looked like 1950’s housewife Margaret Anderson. After all, in this house, “Father Knows Best.”

The front door had flown open before my father slammed it shut again, rattling the door in front of me. Fear had frozen me in place: I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t blink. I could only watch.

“You could have opened the damn door for me!” my father had shouted as soon as he entered. “Why are you so fucking useless?”

I saw my mom flinch as if his yells were physically slapping her. Then, I couldn’t see her anymore. Her small frame had disappeared behind my father’s hulking body. I could only hear her scared, shaking voice, “I’m so sorry, honey. Please, let me make it up to you, I have din…” My father’s hand came down across my mom’s face so quick and hard that it made her stagger backward. He grabbed her arms, pulling her forward, making her stand on tip-toe, and leaned towards her. She had turned her face aside and pleaded with him to let her go. My father swung her around and threw her from him. She hit the closet door and slid to the floor, “Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please…” she had repeated over and over.

My father didn’t stop, he was suddenly on top of her, straddling her body. He hit her again and I saw a trickle of blood run from her nose, down her cheek, and drop onto the floor. She looked towards the closet in which I hid, tears streamed down her cheeks as she looked into my eyes, and then he reached for her neck.

“Are you sorry now!?” He had screamed at her, his hands engulfing her thin neck, “Are you sorry now!? You are sorry! You’re a sorry excuse for a wife,” with each insult my father squeezed tighter, “a sorry excuse for a mother,” tighter… “a sorry excuse for a woman!”

My mother’s arms flailed around, hitting and scratching my father’s face and arms. Her feet kicked, I could hear the knocking of her heels as they pounded upon the wooden floor. I could see the tears running down the side of her face. I could hear the gurgling sounds she made as she fought to take a breath, and then I heard the soft pop as her hyoid bone gave in to the pressure. Her arms dropped, her legs stopped kicking, her body stilled.

I closed my eyes and I prayed that he wouldn’t find me. I heard him walk across the room, heard the squeal of cupboard hinges, the thunk of a glass onto a tabletop, the tinkling of ice, the pouring of liquid. My heart had nearly stopped when I heard his footsteps come back across the room and stop in front of the closet. He had only stood there for a moment, then continued to the back of the house. I heard the bedroom door slam.

I didn’t move, I lay there hidden amongst the discarded clothes. For the first time, I was glad I wasn’t even a thought in my father’s head. I stayed hidden, each hour was counted off by the chiming of the wooden clock my mother had gotten from her father. When the clock chimed 12 times, and I had heard nothing from my father’s room, I arose from the clothing. Turning the doorknob, I slowly, quietly inched the closet door open until I was just able to squeeze through. I glanced around the room, seeing the once long tapered candles were half as tall as they once were.

I knelt next to my mom, reached out my hand to touch her cheek, “Momma?” I whispered hoarsely. But, she did not respond. Tears fell softly from my eyes. I stood up and quietly tiptoed to the front door. I eased the door open so slowly; I didn’t want to wake the sleeping giant. Once open, I ran, stocking footed, to the neighbor’s house.

This is the story I told the police that arrived that night, it is the same story I told the jury during his trial, it is the same story I told during his parole hearing. This is the same story that I relived as I listened to the voice on the other side of the phone line.

“Yes, hello, this is Lieutenant Deveraux at the Wyoming State Penitentiary. You are listed as next of kin for inmate Walter Arnold. I regret to inform you that he was found dead in his cell this morning. The event is still under investigation and I am unable to give any more information at this time. I wish to convey my deepest sympathy…”

“Stop. Just stop. You don’t need to be sympathetic for that man’s passing. The world is a better place without him in it.”

The other side of the line was silent.

“He murdered my mother in front of me. It is something that haunts me to this day. I have nightmares where I relive this entire event nearly every night for the past 30 years. My mother died for me that night.”

“Ma’am we would like to know what you wish done with his remains? When might you have them picked up?”

“I will not be picking them up. My father went to prison 30 years ago, he can remain there.”

I hung up the phone and sat silently for a moment a small smile creeping over my lips. I stood and went to my garden shed. There I filled a pot with soil and grabbed my hand shovel. I walked through my yard admiring my beautiful flowers. Thanking my mom for my green thumb as I went. I passed the roses, the daisies, and the daffodils. Stopped to smell the gardenias and the lilac. Traveled on to tulips and passed the peonies before I knelt upon the earth. I carefully used my hand shovel and dug out a beautiful yellow marigold plant which I tucked safely into the pot.

I drove out to the cemetery and walked to my mom’s grave where I dug a hole next to her gravestone and planted the marigold.

“Hi, momma.” I said as I cleaned off her gravestone, “I wanted to tell you that he will never be remembered, forever interned behind prison walls. But you, my mom, will never be forgotten.” I reached out and caressed the soft petal of the yellow marigold, “Did you know that marigolds symbolize remembering and celebrating the dead? Momma, you will always be remembered and celebrated, and now, you can rest in peace.”