In bed that night, I would not give in to Rachel’s advances. She cajoled me, but I would not give in. Her sleep that night was fitful. Periods of restless breathing broken by spasmodic jerks of her body. I slept not at all.
The next day, she was laconic, speaking only to complain. I would not go near her, not touch her. When she idly caressed my face, I imperceptibly moved from her. She took out her cigarettes, smoking one after the other.
“Maybe you should slow down. I can hardly breathe in here.”
“This is my house. I paid for it.”
“Yes, I’m very aware of that.”
“I raised our son in this house.” This was, of course, her trump card. She played it at every opportunity.
“Well, our son doesn’t live here anymore, now does he?”
Rachel ran her fingers through her hair. “You don’t love me, do you? You’ve never loved me, and I’ve loved you more than I love myself.” It was true; she loved me brighter than the sun burned.
“I love you. You know I love you.” I simply said it. The same as I had said it thousands of times before. It was a statement, neither true nor untrue.
“You blame me. Don’t you? For Albert. Look at me!”
I couldn’t look. It was true.
“You hate me. Wish I were dead. I can tell. I’m not crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.”
“Yes you do! I can see it in your eyes. Right now you’re afraid I’ll do something crazy. You’re scared of me.”
“Rachel, I’m not scared of you. You’re my wife. I love you.”
“No you don’t. You can’t love me. You’ve never thought of leaving me?”
I remained silent.
“See! See! I knew it! You want to leave!”
“No. You asked me if I’d ever thought about it. Of course I have. All men think about it at one time or another.”
“Well, let me tell you, you’ll never leave me. Something bad will happen.”
She turned from me. Her shoulders were shaking. Then the stringent smell of burning flesh filled the air.
“Rachel! Rachel, what are you doing?” I turned her to me. She held the burning end of her cigarette to the flesh of her forearm. Ground the hot embers into her skin. “See! This is how much I love you! How much do you love me?”
Once again, I gave in. I held her in my arms, took her to our bed. Gave her her trophy.
At that time, I considered myself, too, to be mentally ill, so I never considered censuring Rachel for her psychotic episodes. I never thought of leaving her. How could I? What chaos might ensue? Would she kill herself? Would she acquiesce, bide her time, then hunt me down and murder me? But most of all, I knew that I could never cause her that much pain. No matter how much I had grown to fear her, I could not inflict that kind of pain on her.