A condolence call

"Evil becomes obvious only in retrospect."
- Gloria Steinem

My father had passed and he'd come to pay his respects. My mother had just finished mopping the kitchen floor and I was sitting at the table impatiently waiting for it to dry. "You're going to get stuck there," she'd warned as she worked toward the table, "You won't be able to walk on the floor until it's dry." I didn't care. I was six years old and couldn't imagine a better place to be than anywhere she was. At thirty-five, I still can't.

It was a humid summer day and my brothers were, as usual, outside getting dirty and climbing on everything. "Mom," I yelled, "someone's here." I'd seen his car pull into the driveway through the kitchen window and was waiting for him to get out. "Who is it," she asked as she turned off the vacuum cleaner and walked toward the front door. "I don't know," I replied with a shrug.

Though my parents had been seperated for some time when my father passed, it was unusal for my mother to receive male vistors. I was intrigued. Knowing I'd be sent outside to play with my brothers if I made a sound, I watched silently as he walked through the door into the living room. He was tall, thin, wore glasses and had a slightly receding hairline. My mother invited him to sit down and offerred him a cup of coffee. He declined and said he wouldn't be staying long. He'd only just learned of my father's passing and wanted to offer his condolences. He'd gone to school with my mother but hadn't seen her in years. He'd known my father through her and had run into him from time to time. He claimed to have liked my father and was sorry to learn of his death. Fifteen minutes later he left.

A year later he moved in.

The abuse began shortly after they married... first of her, then, quickly, of us. The years that followed were full of cruelities too shameful to describe. One cannot imagine such depravity unless they've witnessed it. If they have witnessed it, then it need not be described. He was a monster.

My mother only enjoyed a few peaceful years after the divorce before she fell ill. I still struggle to understand why she sufferred so terribly and was taken so young, yet the monster lives. He's much older now, of course, and in poor health. He's returned to our home town to die a slow, suffocating death. I no longer fear or hate him, as anger exhausts the soul. I do hope, however, that as he lay there, gasping for air and praying for death, he acknowledges and regrets the evil he's done.

I doubt he will, but I live on hope.