Three months after they brought Tabitha home, Martha caught Arlene burning paper in her room. She didn’t know exactly what was written on the paper, only the word “evil” survived the fire and smoke, or maybe she had written “devil” but the “d” had burned away, it didn’t matter to Martha, ultimately, which of the two Arlene had intended to write and destroy, only that she’d tried and failed, obviously, her failure was more insulting than the words themselves, so clearly targeted towards Martha, though she had no proof of it, no reason, other than the gnaw of guilt, not that she felt any, to think that her daughter would think ill of her, but the tangibility of proof, whether it be evil or devil, both equally problematic, especially because she was so sure her own child—her oldest!—thought things about her, sent her into a rage. She moved like a tornado through Arlene’s room, desperate to uncover more secrets, but she only found a pile of ash, neatly swept into a dresser drawer, filling it past the three-quarters mark, proof, if anything, that Arlene had a long-standing habit of thinking mean thoughts about her mama, and Arlene in her head chastising herself for her own sentimentality—Why did she keep them? What was she thinking?—while Martha fed off that old feeling, anger, her mind unable to focus on one reason for her rage, there being so many, she couldn’t even finish listing one before another, even worse, demanded her attention, her thoughts going back and back, and she listed on her fingers why she hated Simon and kept on counting past ten, twenty, she didn’t have enough digits, and Arlene, the pretty little bitch getting all the attention, fifty reasons for anger, and these new babies, Benjamin, what a stupid name, she’s going to call him Jimmy from now on and fuck if anyone tries to stop her, and Tabitha, her father’s prize, hair as golden as sunshine, not unlike Janie McDonagall, and there it is, just like that, the catapult back to Janie and oh the sweet pull of revenge, Martha disastering her way through every room, finally into Simon’s study his “office” like he words the louse, she pauses to scoff at him, then on she goes, banging her way through drawers and filing cabinets and somewhere in the debris she finds an old pay stub from the University of Georgia addressed to a certain “Dr. Simon Bowen,” How did Martha not know this about her own husband?, Good God what else was he hiding?, and just then, a key slides into the front door, Simon and Tabitha back from the park—selfish ass didn’t offer to take the other kids, just his precious Tabitha, mind you Benjamin, no Jimmy, had a fever, shouldn’t be outside, and Arlene was busy burning hate letters about her mama, not that these petty justifications reduced how selfish and asinine Simon was, would’ve been better to stick with that faggot Noah, like she had a choice—and Martha barreled assaults onto him, her husband, couldn’t stop herself, enumerated reason after reason to hate him, never even finishing one strand of thought before moving on to the next and the next, Simon couldn’t really understand what her argument was but he wasn’t dumb enough to stop her to ask clarifying questions, Tabitha hungry crying, Martha was in no mood to nurse, and Simon like a fool had to give the baby to Arlene, the only semi-responsible person in the house, to feed the baby, “Take her away,” Simon said, “you know how your mother can get,” but without Simon, her only option was to retreat to her bedroom, the boom of argument following, Martha fuming, “And you know what I found in that little tramp’s room?” she didn’t need to hear its conclusion, so she tried to calm the baby down, and together, they fell asleep, even though outside the bedroom, earthquakes were bring down the very walls of their home. She woke just an hour later—a habit she’s refined—forcing herself to rise regardless of tire, sleep for an hour then up and out of bed, rummaging, to find her journal, stashed hidden beneath something or other, always a different hiding place, which she can never fully remember especially with lack of sleep, she thought of it as exorcism, making herself get out of bed to write it all down, get it out, all those nasty thoughts about her mama, burning as she composes, only this time, she puts the pile of ash in her mouth and swallows, no evidence this way. She’s evolved, become smarter, even if the taste was unbearable, it was an insufficient punishment.

Their argument continued for a week, pausing only long enough for rest and nourishment, Simon of course always needed to sneak away for work, he had midterms to hand back and office hours and committee meetings, not to mention articles long overdue, editors pestering him daily, not that she cared, and he’d tried to tell her what he did so long ago, years ago, really, she wouldn’t even attend the parties after he’d been awarded his doctorate, said something about the impossibility of pronunciation and Simon said, no no, just the letters, it’s not a word, which sent Martha into a storm, How dare you call me an idiot?, which he didn’t, at all, hadn’t even thought it for Christ’s sake, he’d thought his fair share of unkindliness towards Martha, but her intelligence was never a question. If anything, he feared it, thought all that sharpness—and let it be known that Martha was sharp, always, nothing “got by” her, except it would seem as though both her husband and her daughter had out-witted her and with regularity, not that she could or should or ought be blamed for their sinister sneakiness, they were connivers, another reason she listed onto a finger, she stuck it out, waved it like a sword at Simon, Off with his head, and then his dick!, or maybe better to switch it up, What use is castration if he doesn’t suffer?, so she retracts, Off with his dick, then off with his head!, or even better, she’s so proud of herself, tickled even: Off with the useful head, then off with the useless head!, O and Martha laughed, truly happy, if only her finger could be a sword, her life, her suffering, would have fulfillment, but alas, a finger is rarely a sword, and a finger alone can neither castrate nor behead, disappointment fully realized—would be the end of him, that she was bound to make up some wholly unreal reason to punish him, yet again, when all he wanted was peace. Yes, the truth of it was that Simon was brutally honest to Martha, a habit he’d developed as a child, an inability to obscure anything at all, so he gave a running account of his day every evening, down to the minutia of hand washing, sentence by sentence recollections of passages he found particularly memorable, which were many in number, and he was always a mumbler, speaking too quickly to be understood too softly to be heard and his words quite literally ran together, he’d cut off entire syllables at a time, which could be efficient if he did so in a patterned way, but he didn’t. And so the truth of it was that Simon never lied to Martha, not even once, probably even told her about me in staggering detail, but it was impossible to listen to him, even more impossible to comprehend what he said, triply more impossible to want it either way, if anything, the best way to deal with him, Doctor Simon Bowen—to survive, really, or tolerate—was to ignore him completely, which was exactly what Martha had done since they were married, before they were married, closer to that first lunch together, if fair’s fair, nor was it actually her fault that she didn’t know all these things about Simon, the blame should be put squarely on him, it was his fault after all for being so boring, such an inarticulate speaker, and really, no one cared a dime what he had to say, most of the time she wished for a mute button, magic like the remote control, yes, only here’s the problem: in Martha’s reality, she never does wrong, is always the victim, and if Simon wasn’t such a yawn, sure, maybe she would’ve paid closer, better, attention when he spoke, but he was a yawn, boring beyond believe, and she couldn’t take it, it wasn’t her fault, so she did what she had to do, pretend he wasn’t talking, thereby casting him into the role of ignoring husband who never gives her adequate attention, when even the most liberal interpretations of their relationship would reveal the exact opposite: he gave her attention, too much of it, in such excess that out of necessity, her one and only option was to pretend he was negligent. No surprise and it hardly needs to mention, really, but negligent husband means she’s the poor, unattended wife. Poor Martha, so shat upon.

And then they were tired, both of them, exhausted from such fighting and fighting, it’d been a week, seven days gone by, and on the eighth day, needing rest lest he fall in some kind of tragedy, Simon came home heaving four dozen roses, orange, her favorite, begging for forgiveness, absolution, which she graciously granted. She was tired too. That night, she didn’t make him sleep on the couch, was generous enough to offer her body for his consumptive pleasure, though certainly, along the way, she expected to be sated as well, and afterwards, she held him, her husband, nuzzled him into the deep folds of her body, and together, they slept until morning.

The next day, she prepared a feast for her family: eggs benedict with biscuits made from scratch, the only way biscuits were edible to a good Southern woman like Martha, and ham and bacon and french toast and strawberries soaked in sugar and orange juice, from a carton not freshly squeezed she had to make some concessions, sure, be kind please she’s not a superhuman and this breakfast was entirely impromptu mind you, and french roasted coffee, show Simon she too had class, a high class broad don’t be confused, and she put out cloth napkins, not the cheap paper towels they usually used, the only problem being they didn’t have real silver, not that she could be faulted there by any means, served on Prussian blue plates, sunflower napkins, she had an eye for decoration, she’d risen earlier than usual to prepare, hours actually, delirious with excitement, and her family woke, their noses drawing them from the comfort of bed and linens and pillows and fantasy, their lips already damp from salivating, the smell found its way into their dreams, calling them into the kitchen, unbrushed teeth and hair all amuck, no one cared there was no judgment, after all the food!, it had taken Martha two hours to make breakfast, she was a slow worker but precise, in the kitchen she was nervous: everything had to be measured just so, a recipe follower to the extreme, ordered and orderly, though she always left a trail of slop behind her, Simon was her opposite, looked at recipes superficially, adding this and taking away that, didn’t even heed oven settings, cleaned as he worked, whereas Martha would time everything, even vegetables boiling, which made them soggy most of the time, everyone always praised Simon’s meals, What is that spice? I can almost put my finger on it, it pulls the whole meal together, what is it?! tell me your secret, Simon, O this is simply divine!, while Martha received only perfunctory compliments, O this is very good, Martha, thank you, God how she hated condescending remarks, why didn’t they just say they thought her cooking was mediocre, plain, nothing special, but this breakfast was special, she’d learned to add a few extra spices herself, following her husband’s lead of course, but the most special ingredient she reserved for Benjamin’s meal alone—Benjamin: her husband’s choice in name—and her family relished in delight, savoring and complimenting between chomps, their mouths full of yolky hollandaise, leaking from the corners of their smiling lips, eating beyond the point of full, so happy were they, so grateful, Simon and Arlene actually offered to do the dishes and tidy the kitchen, only they were both late for school!, so satiated were they that they’d neglected time, asking, no begging, for seconds and thirds, and she, the good mother, said, No no, and ushered them out the door, Tabitha eagerly gumming at her breast, no it was her pleasure to clean up this mess and goodness what a mess it was! No more than five minutes after they left, she threw Tabitha onto her bed and gently laid on top of her, using the fleshy part of her mid-back to evacuate air from her baby’s fully suckling body. Unlike Jimmy, Tabitha cried, but the sound was muffled, her little tongue pressing into her mother’s back, wet, then dry, then limp. Afterwards, Martha went into the kitchen, leaving Tabitha on the bed, and cleaned, scrubbing the dishes, then the counter, then the sink, the table, all the pots and pans, o and she can’t forget the oven and the stovetop, that’d be a real travesty! Exhausted, she went back into her room, sobbed for half an hour, then dialed for help.

Tabitha was three months old, plus a couple weeks. She was a real gem of a baby, not demanding like Jimmy 2, Benjamin whatever, never fussy, ate with as much vigor as her mama, real dedication. You’d think she would’ve developed some sort of kinship there, but no, her thirst for revenge so urgent, noting short of a miracle could’ve prevented what happened, and even then, I’m not entirely convinced a miracle of any proportion would’ve been enough to stop her, the seeded desire for revenge akin to an addict’s drug, the mere thought of it, if not strictly controlled, always enough to ensure a relapse. Addicts, at least, have the support of twelve step programs, sponsors and friends, or rehabilitation centers, hospitals, I mean: they have options, places to go for help if they’re serious about it, safe spaces where judgment is withheld because everyone else is the same, facing equivalent hardships and sufferings, afflictions, but tell me: where can a murderer go, a person with the desire to kill, to take another person’s life on whim on whimsy? A person who kills must remain alone, this predictably boring morally judgmental public ever ready to point their moral pointy fingers, anything to defer their own sins, any way for them to say, At least there’s someone out there worse than me, at least I’m not that bad, and a murderer like Martha, fuck, she killed her own children, what a monster!, anyone in comparison an upright citizen to the umpteenth degree, because suddenly, she’s a monster and everyone else a saint, and that’s what they want most, it’s what you want most, to be told that you’re good, nor should anyone be confused: Martha just want the same thing, to be good, but what between Simon and Bernice, those babies, only to grow up and out and betray her like Arlene, the little bitch, she could go on and on, reason following reason, each one equally searing, how can she be the bad guy?, no, not her, the whole world hated on her, she had no choice, no choices, this was her only option, her way of expressing autonomy and empowerment, after being so crushed, no pun intended, for so long, so disempowered, she had no other options, can’t you see?, and when she gets that itch that runs deep below, where can she go to share these feelings, to receive absolution, for help? This assuming she actually wants to share, which yes, of course she does, if only to show everyone, the world at large if they’re willing to listen that Look! Even Martha has some power, they all thought—you all thought—she was just some pig, some animal, to be beaten to the ground, down to insignificance, but she wasn’t. She wanted people to acknowledge her, what she had done, what she could do, why else would she have done it if not for some payoff?: Simon’s pathetic sobbing wasn’t enough, he was just a prop in the grand tragedy of her life, a tragedy to rival even the most tragic, she’s a better protagonist than Lear or Hamlet, Odysseus or even Elektra. But she could have no confidants, couldn’t even do what Arlene did, no way of getting her feelings free, her anger hardly an adequate expression, a shame. She was hardly religious, but she knew any priest would have to turn her in, moral responsibility, nor was she the type to be so weak as to need a therapist, though again, their moral obligations would demand they divulge her secrets to the police, morality, what a joke!, the irony evident in that all these characters lacked morality in their own lives, ready to indict others with a snap, those hypocrites. And such is the fate of a murderer, hungry for that feeling of power again, to bear that weight in silence and shame, destined to kill again, because no one is willing to bestow their generosity upon her, she doesn’t want to kill again, not really, but she lacks options, can’t you see?, there are no choices for her, she’s shackled to this fate, these are her babies after all, from her own body, nourished and cherished, housed within her for nine laborious months, it’s cruel to even consider this rationally, what led her to do these deeds, gross though they are, someone has to be accountable, and we play judge and jury everyday, everyday, we scream, Guilty! Guilty!, when what we ought to be doing is whispering these very same words at our own reflections, accept some of the weight of blame, feel it pressing down on our shoulders and chest, the air squeezed out slowly, at a drip, we weren’t willing to listen, to help, we should be the ones suffering, not Martha, not her babies.

This is not the way of the world though.

Let’s just face it, shall we?: Martha and I are in here, sisters behind bars, our freedom erased, and you, what are you doing right now?

The front door was ajar when the paramedics arrived and so they let themselves in, following the mourning wails and found Martha curled around her baby’s body. She was hysterical, immovable, she used her fat hands to swat the paramedics away like gnats, said they wanted to kill Jimmy, screamed it loud enough that the whole town could hear, she accused them of attemptive murder, these men wanted to murder her precious Jimmy, again, like she’d forgotten it was Tabitha in bed with her, not that anyone noticed, and she threw things at them, anything handy and hard, lamps, clocks, books, actually did some damage to a few of them—John in particularly thin skin, literally, ended up with bruises that swelled into pussed welts, cuts that wouldn’t stop bleeding—they had to resort to tranquilizers, twice the usual dose, for the sake of safety of course, she’d proven herself a dangerous woman not to mention absolutely impossible, illogical they said, not one to be reckoned with, and two tranquilizers later—poor Stewart, the new guy, was the sucker who administered the shot, but not before she bestowed upon him a bloody nose and a black eye, even after he’d successfully squeezed the syringe, she wouldn’t be calmed, they’d considered giving her more, then, like magic, she grabbed Stewart’s arm, pulled him close to her face and whispered, “Why?” before passing old completely, mouth agape, still holding Stewart’s forearm highly, so much so that when the medicine finally took effect, the jarring violence in movement actually created a hairline fracture in his radius, but Stewart, the new guy, was so embarrassed he neither indicated any pain nor did he ever get it treated, moronic machismo if you ask me. Eventually, the fracture would grow and grow, until he could no longer hold even a spoonful of muesli, only by then, it would be too late. Lucky for him he’s ambidextrous, although a paramedic with only one useful arm isn’t all that useful at all—it took a whole crew to pry her baby from the nest she’d made of her body, obviously dead, and they put extra sedatives in her IV drip, not that she needed the liquid but as a safety precaution, just in case she woke up during the ride from house to hospital, there was no being too safe in this situation. Of course, they also put her in restraints.

The hospital called Simon, but he was in the middle of lecture so he couldn’t answer the phone, wouldn’t have been able to hear it ringing anyways, the classroom was located in a different building than his office, but luckily, Sally, the department secretary, always re-routed calls back to her desk if a faculty member didn’t pick up, even if the call was made directly to his office—she was serious about her job, didn’t want to blame of not receiving messages thrust at her, no way—that way, she said, she could be sure whoever it was had the option of leaving a message with a real person, not some machine, eww. Sally was old-fashioned. Even more than that though, she was a snoop and a gossip. All those department secretaries were, always eager to swap stories, a bunch of hens they were, a bunch of useless hens. At this one particular juncture, however, Sally’s desire for all the insider information actually proved useful, even if she turned out to be utterly useless. The doctor, Jones let’s call him, no that’s too generic, how about Butler?, no, it’s impossible to use that name in Georgia without nodding to, or at least acknowledging Rhett Butler, which I have no desire to do, how about Parker? What, a Jew transported into this shithole Southern town?, well, he’s not practicing, and it fits, I like it, so sure, let’s say this doctor, Dr. Parker, phones Simon and he’s unavailable because he’s teaching and so the line re-directs to the secretary, who picks up and says, “Department of English, This is Sally Templeton,” to which the person on the other, friendly enough, not urgent, responds, “Hello, Sally, this is Dr. Parker from Clayton General, Is Simon Bowen available?” and Sally just can’t help herself, “Do you mean Dr. Bowen?” and Dr. Parker isn’t even paying attention, unthinkingly responds, “Yes, I’ll hold, though I have surgery in thirty,”—Impressive, don’t you think, Sally? Dr. Parker has surgery soon, better hurry up!, but she doesn’t—she continues playing along, “Sorry, Dr. Kern was it?, but Dr. Bowen isn’t available right now, I believe he’s in class, his office door is closed, but I can go knock if it’s urgent, can I take a message?” and she grabs a pen, her notepad ever ready, and jots down, “Emergency. Accident. Daughter, Tabitha, dead. Wife, Martha in hospital. Come asap,” and you’d think with a message like that maybe Sally would rush into Simon’s class, stop everything, but no, instead, she calls up Mary Beth, the secretary for the History Department, who calls Susanne in Political Science, while Sally calls Jenny in Chem, and Jenny calls Rebecca in Bio who calls Joanne in Mathematics while Susanne calls Meredith in Sociology who calls who calls who calls, until the whole network of campus secretaries knows all about Simon’s tragedy—O poor Dr. Bowen! How will he ever recover? We should send flowers, or a fruit basket? At least let’s circulate a card, or do you think he’d like a nice apple pie?—before he’s even midway through his lecture. One of these women, not Sally Templeton mind you, was kind enough to barge into his class, after knocking politely of course, this is Georgia not New York!, People have manners here!, whispering Dr. Parker’s message, and Simon had to steady himself at the podium, his knees suddenly loose, his belly engorged, he thought he was going to faint but vomited instead, right there in the lecture hall, three hundred students watching, and just imagine how the student rumor mill works!, although let’s be fair: whatever they come up with, no matter how exaggerated it can get, is nothing even close to the tragedy of his life, the real tragedy, the monstrosity of his every day, so he stands in front of the class, and he wants to tell them to say whatever they want, he could care less, and he’d rather live in the very worst of their stories than accept the reality of his own existence, instead, he walked out of the room, didn’t even bother taking his notes or his briefcase, hailed a cab—he was in no position to drive—smoked cigarette after cigarette, even though there was a sign explicitly declaring “NO SMOKING” right in front of his face, it was like Simon couldn’t read, and it took nearly two and a half hours for him to get to Clayton General, Dr. Parker long gone, his shirt was over as soon as he finished that last surgery, a success by anyone’s measure, yes he had a sweet life that Dr. Parker, people applauding him and thanking him at every turn, not that he didn’t deserve it, the long drive gave Simon time to reflect on his failures, what had led to two of his children dying—ok, so Jimmy wasn’t biologically his, a mere technicality really, he’d done far more than Noah, was more of a father than Noah would ever be—and Simon suddenly saw a connection, no no, a coincidence, the implications of the word “connection” were too heinous to be true, no there wasn’t any connection, wrong word! I said, merely a coincidence, yes, that two of his children suddenly died right after he and Martha fought was a coincidence, no doubt about it, besides, they fight all the time, it’s nothing new and they certainly don’t have enough kids if she offed one every time they had a fight—he pauses the thought, puts the glowing butt of one cigarette up to a fresh one, puffs a few times to make sure it’s lit, hurls the old one out the window, in the backseat he lowers himself, slouching so low he’s practically lying down but he’s still sitting, alert, contemplating—yes it was just a coincidence, Simon suddenly ashamed for even thinking it, though he could readily admit those two fights preceding the deaths were particularly toxic, but, but, she’d forgiven him both times, both times they’d made up, why just this morning that serene breakfast—if only he knew the fluster she’d experienced while making it—what was he thinking?, just this morning, eggs benedict and coffee, no he was wrong—another new cigarette to hip lips, dangling, the old-new butt to light the new-new one, then catapulted out the window, it looks ridiculous, the effort he puts into throwing it out, a simple flick would suffice, his movements exaggerated, he looks like a clown in plain clothes, he wishes he had the courage to put one of those out on his skin, something to alleviate his pressing pain—he had to be, and then, he’s there, Clayton General, he asks first for Martha Bowen, up in Psych they say, and then for Dr. Parker, who they must page but Simon is already gone by the time he calls back, on his way not to Psych but down, down to the morgue to see his daughter, his Tabitha.