Wrath

This story contains depictions of substance abuse and domestic violence.

"For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God." – James 1:20

My daughter Hope and I ride in a worn-out carriage, pulled by our poor mare, down the two-mile road to our home. I still feel the shame from Joe, who runs the general store, noticing the faded yellow bruise on my cheek. My husband Tom is not a kind man when he is drunk—and he is drunk far more often than he is sober.

What began as a shared dream soon became my own personal nightmare. In the spring of 1850, we left New Jersey for the mountains of California, chasing gold and the promise of a better life. Instead, we found hardship. Tom fought other prospectors over claims, lost our supplies in a sudden flood, and failed time and again to strike anything of value. When our money was nearly gone, we moved into town and built a small two-room home in Placerville—Hangtown, as it was called—a name that felt fitting for where our dreams finally died.

During our marriage woes, we conceived a baby girl, who was the light of my world and a constant annoyance to my wrathful husband. I named her Hope, and she was indeed the image of her name.

“Mother, do we have to go back?” Hope asks me for what seems like the hundredth time.

“You know that without your father, we could never survive,” I reply, my voice flat.

“We can only hold out hope that God will one day save him, and keep us safe in the meantime." I say without any faith at all.

“I pray every single day that God will deal His judgment on him, and He still hasn’t. The only way we will ever be safe is if he's gone... for good” she says with exasperation.

I try to keep my eyes on the trail ahead, my stomach in knots at her vehement words.

“Hope, we must pray for his soul. By praying for God’s judgment, we invite His judgment on us as well,” I tell her.

She says nothing for what seems like an eternity, and when she does speak, it is both quiet and full of surety.

“Sometimes the judgment of God is rendered by the hands of men.”

I choose to say nothing to this as the house comes into view.

The lights from the house flicker ominously, as though warning me of the danger that waits. There was a time when Tom would've made sure the light shone bright, but now... it's just a representation of how far we have fallen. We park the ragged wagon and lead the mare to the falling-apart barn. She grips my hand tightly as we walk across the yard to the dog run. I hear him before I see him...

"Clarr... tha' you?" he says, words slurring like a man already waist-deep in alcohol.

“It’s me, Tom, we just got back from town,” I reply, frustration already rising. He lost his job yesterday evening after showing up drunk for the tenth time in two weeks. This just means he drank the entire day today. This means we have a long night ahead of us. I lead Hope through the doorway and into the house.

The smell of liquor permeates the air. It leaves a sweet, sickly odor, and the state of the house is in total disarray. It is as though he never left the small dining table.

“You took long enough! I expected you back hours ago. How long does it take to buy a couple of groceries?!” he snaps, his anger already rising.

“I had to be very intentional with what to buy. The money that we have isn’t enough to just buy what we want,” I say with as much care as possible, not wanting to watch the proverbial top blow.

I turn to Hope and tell her, “Go ahead and wash up. I’ll cook some dinner and try to clean up the house.”

She stares at her father slumped in his chair, in front of him the large bottle of whiskey—worth more than the groceries I just bought—half-drunk, and soon he will be done with the glass he’s drinking now. She sighs and walks to the one other room in our small home and begins to wash her face and hands.

“How about instead of worrying about her, you make me some dinner! I haven’t eaten all day because you decided to make a day of it, shopping and having a good time!” Tom shouts.

I try quickly to simmer the boiling pot that is my husband, rubbing my gold wedding band, which he forged in our prospecting days, I nervously tell him,

“Dear, it will take no time at all to cut some bread and salted ham. Just give me a couple of minutes.”

He lifts his head at me, his eyes bloodshot and wild, and I know in that instant there is no bringing him down from this level of intensity.

“Bread and salted ham! That’s what you rode all the way to town for?”

He stands unsteadily to his feet, pulls back his hand, and in a flash, his backhand catches me across the mouth, flooding my mouth with a copper taste.

I try to reason with him, knowing already it is futile.

“It’s the only money we had. It’s all you earned! You spent money on other things, and you didn't get paid for today…”

My words drift as I realize another mistake. I pointed out his vice and his shortcomings, including his alcoholism as well as his job loss.

“You’re saying I wasted my money on whiskey, aren’t you?! You're saying I'm lazy, aren't you?! How dare you, woman! I work for the money in our house! I am the breadwinner! You and our daughter are nothing but leeches, living off the money I’ve earned! All you do is cast judgment on me for enjoying a little fruit of my own labor!!”

“No! That's not what I meant, Tom, please…” The tears begin to fall from my already deep red face.

He smacks me again, this time across the cheek. A memory flashes to my mind of those hands that once held me with love and care now deliver violence and wrath. Then a fist that leaves my eye swollen and I'm sure purple and black. The last slap knocks me nearly unconscious, driving me to the ground... he finally stops, leaving me slumped on the floor.

I fearfully open my eyes only to see my daughter standing in front of me, pushing her dad away from me. He stumbles back, and I hear him say,

“You have interrupted me for the last time, you little snit!”

He yells, and I see him stumbling for the wood axe that leans against the wall behind the door.

I get up, half-stumbling, as I grab Hope and we run to the room. I slam the door shut as she locks it.

He walks up to the doorway and tries to open it.

“Open the door, Clara! Right now! Open it!!”

I motion to Hope and whisper, “Grab the chair and bring it here.”

He yells obscenities the whole time as he tries to blow through the locked door. For a second, I see the old Tom, fending off prospectors with a pickaxe handle to protect me. How things change…

Hope brings me the chair with fear and tears in her eyes. I grab it and brace it against the doorknob, hoping it will keep him out at least for a little bit. I look at Hope, through swollen eyes, at the fear in her face, and know only one thing she can do. I whisper to her, “Hope, you must run and get help. Take Nell and ride her as fast as you can to town. It won’t take him long to break down this door. Tell the first person you see. If no one is out, then run to the store and go get Joe.”

She whispers in reply, her voice broken up by fear.

“Mother, I can’t leave you here. He will kill you!”

I look at her with compassion.

“But you can. And you must. I can keep him from killing me. He’s never gone that far, and he won’t now. If you leave to get help, by the time you get back, I’ll have calmed him down. He will change his tune when he sees you brought help.”

I tell her this, but in all honesty, I am very unsure if I can stop him from killing me. I’ve never seen him go this far.

But for now, I must put on a brave face. I must get her to leave.

“Hope you can do this. I love you, and I believe in you,” I whisper to her.

I hear him slam against the door again, and Hope moves quickly. She is out the window in moments.

“If you don’t open this door in ten seconds, then the door is coming down, wench!” he shouts.

“And if I break down this door, you’re dead!”

At that moment, I knew he meant it. His wrath knew no bounds, and I wasn’t sure I could hold the door much longer.

“Please, dear, Hope was only trying to stop the fighting. Please calm down. We can fix this!” I plead.

“You’re right!” he screams. “I will fix this—once and for all. I’ll be done with you both! I’ve worked hard and tried to provide, and all you do is complain. I’m sick of you! When I get in this room, it’ll be the last thing you ever see! You hear me?!!”

Suddenly, the axe slams into the door. I see its keen edge sticking through the wood.

Another thunk as it hits again. That’s when I remember: he keeps an old pistol under the mattress.

I run, lift the mattress, and find the pistol. I check the chamber—it’s loaded, with one bullet.

It’s my only rescue. If I miss, I’m dead.

It takes only four or five swings before the door splinters.

I hold the pistol in front of me, my back to the wall, as he walks in.

He takes a deep breath, almost sober, watching me—waiting to see what I’ll do next.

My hands shake so badly that I can barely hold the gun.

He sees it and laughs, a cruel sound that cuts deeper than his blows.

“Look at you,” he sneers. “Always so weak.”

He steps forward. I raise the pistol.

“I will do it, Tom. I don’t want to, but I will!”

His eyes scan the room.

“Where’s Hope?” he growls.

“She’s gone. I sent her for help. You will not touch her, Tom. It’s one thing for you to abuse me—but not her.”

He looks at me. For a moment, I think maybe the old Tom is returning. But then his eyes harden with hatred again.

“Then I’ll start with you.”

He lunges forward, raising the axe. I know he means to kill me.

One, my mind felt unnaturally calm. Two steps, I squeezed the trigger, and three steps, he lifted the axe to take a swing at me.

I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger.

BOOM.

Silence.

I open my eyes. Tom’s eyes are wide in shock. The axe slips from his hands. Red blossoms on his chest, the blood suddenly dripping to the floor.

I shot him in the heart.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” I whisper, tears falling.

I catch him in my arms as he slumps forward. I cradle him.

“I loved the man I married—but not the one you became.”

His eyes stare, unseeing.

I wonder what fresh hell he has now awoken into. For a second, I feel grief, but it doesn't last long; my eyes fill with tears of relief.

“For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God.”

I quote, closing his eyes for the final time.

“I had no choice. His wrath was his undoing. He thought he was strong—but he was weak.”

I stumble into the kitchen, grab the whiskey bottle, and walk outside.

I pour it out onto the ground and, along with the last of my tears, drop the golden ring he had made for me in the first few years of marriage.

Then I lie down in the grass, feeling at peace for the first time in my life. I hear the sounds of horses and a wagon, and look up at the road. The silhouette of Joe and Hope up the hill from me against the moonlit sky, their voices calling out to me. Hope sees me lying on the grass and runs to me, crying with fear, thinking I'm dead, I'm sure, while Joe runs up to the house. I watch from my position on the grass as he takes a look inside. He doesn't say anything but instead runs up, checking me for wounds. He sees how bad off I am and immediately wraps his arms around us both.

"It's okay, Clara, everything's going be okay. You and Hope are safe now..." He told me.

And this time... I really believe it.