break from the pursuit.
“Hello—Angela? Sweetheart, you can’t go on running forever,” he’d said. Not: “I love you, forgive me.” Not: “Angela, I’m going mad and I need you so badly. I can’t live without you.” Not: “I’m sorry. It doesn’t have to be like this. Let’s try it this way: do your own thing for three months and then see me. And if you see no change in me, then we’ll go our own ways. And if we do, then no hard feelings, only soft ones.” If he’d said any of those things … she couldn’t think how she might have reacted. For she had loved him desperately—once. But he didn’t, just:
“Angela, sweetheart, you can’t go on running forever.” And there’d been that in his use of the word “sweetheart” which had told her a lot, and a threat in his words that said, albeit obliquely, “And when you finally stop running, I’ll be right there behind you.”
“Rod …” she’d at last answered. “Rod, I—”
“Where are you, sweetheart?” he’d cut in. And God, she’d almost told him! But saving her: “Who is he?” Rod had continued, his voice cold, lacking the emotion she might expect in any normal man. “Who has taken my place, Angela? Does he love you any better than I did? Does he make love to you any better?”
And that was when she’d slammed the phone down, for she’d heard that loathsome leer creeping into his voice, and she’d recognized that, too.
“Love?” Rod didn’t know the meaning of the word. “Sex,” he knew, and “lust.” But looking back, Angela could only remember a handful of times when Rod had actually made “love” to her. In the early, tender times, when he’d courted her, and in those few short weeks after they were married. But then there had been difficulties with his new boss, and Rod couldn’t hack any sort of competition or threat. He’d had trouble with the bottle before (Angela hadn’t known about that) and now leaped right back on the hook. Toss tenderness out of the window! With a drink inside him, Rod was an animal. Since when, with only the occasional, merciful break, Angela’s life had become a long unending nightmare.
Make love to her? He had once upon a time, yes, but not anymore. Now, when the bottle hadn’t killed it in him entirely, it was no longer love but rape in the ugliest, fullest meaning of the word! Instead of lashing out at his boss, he lashed out at her. Instead of tearing up his files and his contract, she’d thought he was trying to tear her. And it had become a matter of survival—and of pride, for her parents had tried to warn her off him—to recognize his every mood, sense the slightest imbalance in his emotions before it could go right out of kilter.
But his drinking, his rages, and worst of all his insane accusations hadn’t improved; finally Angela had woken up and asked herself, “Do I need this?” She hadn’t, and so she’d run.
Yes, and now she was running again. But she promised herself, this was the last time.
Her parents had their place in Perth, where they’d retired early. From Edinburgh she’d gone there—or rather, she’d come here—and her folks had done the sensible thing and “gone off to visit friends down south.”
“We’ve had it planned a long time, my dear,” her father had told her—lying in his teeth, the darling. “And now that you’re here to caretake for us …” They’d known what was best for her: to be on her own with plenty of time to think things out. Then she could be herself, without worrying what they were thinking, or about them worrying about her. But before they’d left Rod had called them on the phone, and Angela’s mother had taken the call. So that Angela had discovered how both of them could lie if it was important enough.
With the voice of an angel her mother had told Rod that Angela was in the southwest of England, Torbay, with friends of hers. That was all she could say; Angela hadn’t told her any more than that; why
“Hello—Angela? Sweetheart, you can’t go on running forever,” he’d said. Not: “I love you, forgive me.” Not: “Angela, I’m going mad and I need you so badly. I can’t live without you.” Not: “I’m sorry. It doesn’t have to be like this. Let’s try it this way: do your own thing for three months and then see me. And if you see no change in me, then we’ll go our own ways. And if we do, then no hard feelings, only soft ones.” If he’d said any of those things … she couldn’t think how she might have reacted. For she had loved him desperately—once. But he didn’t, just:
“Angela, sweetheart, you can’t go on running forever.” And there’d been that in his use of the word “sweetheart” which had told her a lot, and a threat in his words that said, albeit obliquely, “And when you finally stop running, I’ll be right there behind you.”
“Rod …” she’d at last answered. “Rod, I—”
“Where are you, sweetheart?” he’d cut in. And God, she’d almost told him! But saving her: “Who is he?” Rod had continued, his voice cold, lacking the emotion she might expect in any normal man. “Who has taken my place, Angela? Does he love you any better than I did? Does he make love to you any better?”
And that was when she’d slammed the phone down, for she’d heard that loathsome leer creeping into his voice, and she’d recognized that, too.
“Love?” Rod didn’t know the meaning of the word. “Sex,” he knew, and “lust.” But looking back, Angela could only remember a handful of times when Rod had actually made “love” to her. In the early, tender times, when he’d courted her, and in those few short weeks after they were married. But then there had been difficulties with his new boss, and Rod couldn’t hack any sort of competition or threat. He’d had trouble with the bottle before (Angela hadn’t known about that) and now leaped right back on the hook. Toss tenderness out of the window! With a drink inside him, Rod was an animal. Since when, with only the occasional, merciful break, Angela’s life had become a long unending nightmare.
Make love to her? He had once upon a time, yes, but not anymore. Now, when the bottle hadn’t killed it in him entirely, it was no longer love but rape in the ugliest, fullest meaning of the word! Instead of lashing out at his boss, he lashed out at her. Instead of tearing up his files and his contract, she’d thought he was trying to tear her. And it had become a matter of survival—and of pride, for her parents had tried to warn her off him—to recognize his every mood, sense the slightest imbalance in his emotions before it could go right out of kilter.
But his drinking, his rages, and worst of all his insane accusations hadn’t improved; finally Angela had woken up and asked herself, “Do I need this?” She hadn’t, and so she’d run.
Yes, and now she was running again. But she promised herself, this was the last time.
Her parents had their place in Perth, where they’d retired early. From Edinburgh she’d gone there—or rather, she’d come here—and her folks had done the sensible thing and “gone off to visit friends down south.”
“We’ve had it planned a long time, my dear,” her father had told her—lying in his teeth, the darling. “And now that you’re here to caretake for us …” They’d known what was best for her: to be on her own with plenty of time to think things out. Then she could be herself, without worrying what they were thinking, or about them worrying about her. But before they’d left Rod had called them on the phone, and Angela’s mother had taken the call. So that Angela had discovered how both of them could lie if it was important enough.
With the voice of an angel her mother had told Rod that Angela was in the southwest of England, Torbay, with friends of hers. That was all she could say; Angela hadn’t told her any more than that; why
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