The Hand, part 2

          My husband appears at the end of the bed, a handsome man with his black hair combed straight back and his shades, like a bit player in The Sopranos. A vain man, not for him a white cane to signal his disability: an ebony cane with a silver handle in the shape of a sharp-­beaked griffin.

            His long fingers grope for the edge of the curtain and he pulls it across.

            We’re alone.                                               

           `I’ve not brought you grapes, Joy. They're difficult to digest.’ His voice is strong, mellow. I’m sure he’d have a beautiful singing voice, but I’ve never heard him sing, even in the shower.

            `The Grapes of Wrath,’ I say. This will annoy him; he does not care for books.

            `Just ordinary grapes. Seedless.’

   He purses his lips, so full and sharply rounded I wish they were mine. I’m a secret smoker, outside the house, but my lips betray me with their faint, radiating lines. Not that he can see them.

   `So, when are you coming home?’

            I do not answer and he walks along the edge of the bed, trailing his fingers over the bedclothes. And then he is standing over me. The supple fingers move up over the thick cotton of my gown and grasp my neck. Pressing tightly, he leans down and whispers in my ear.

            `I want you to understand exactly what it feels like to lose your sight. Lose everything, because your stupid cow of a wife left the chip pan on.’

            It’s true that I left it on. I was summoned and left the kitchen without hesitation. Did I know what I was doing? Did I know what it meant, when I smelled the smoke? These are questions I often ask myself. I certainly knew enough not to mix troubled oil and water. Knew my husband wouldn’t listen to my panicked screams.                                                               

          I wonder what he has in mind, but I’m not able to speak. The pain is intense. My right hand pulls ineffectually at his fingers. I’m making strange sounds, like a turkey. My left hand does nothing apparently helpful, but decides to rub my breast. As it does so, my elbow brushes against his groin.
            I wish I’d thought of that. He relaxes his grip immediately, distracted by what he cannot see.

            `What are you doing, you sick cow? I’m trying to have a serious conversation here, trying to make you understand.’

        I’m still not speaking, I’m bent over, coughing, drawing ragged breaths, rubbing my throat with my right hand.

            `Please,’ I manage, finally. `I just need the toilet. Please let me past.’

I fling back the bedclothes and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I’ve got strange, thick stockings on my legs, are they afraid I’ll develop deep vein thrombosis, lying in this bed? At least it means I don’t have to put my bare feet on the floor, which looks like it needs a more vigorous clean. The kind my husband likes me to do, down on my hands and knees, with a toothbrush.

            It does mean that these white legs don’t feel like mine, as I raise my knee. My husband moves towards me and I flick out my arched foot. I’ve often dreamt of being a Ninja, moving silently about the house in black silk. He lands on his knees at my feet and the cane clatters to the floor. I reach down and pick it up.                                                                 

       `Clumsy cow,’ he groans. `I’m the one who’s blind here.’ He places his hand on the edge of the bed to help himself upright. His shades have fallen off, exposing the shiny scar tissue around his eye sockets.

I toss the cane up high, feel the rush of air, as if the griffin swoops down.  I catch the end of the cane like I’m a gentleman in a film, trying to impress a lady and we will both shortly burst into song. Then I swing the head towards my husband’s face.

         `The grapes of wrath,’ I sing to cover his scream.  `He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword. His truth is marching on.’ I like a nice hymn.

        The curved beak smites him again.

`I’m in charge now.’ And then I sit down on the bed and wait. I can hear shoes squeaking on the lino beyond the curtain, coming closer.

         I’ve already switched the cane to my left hand. The consultant was right, it helps to have something to hold on to.