Rose Madder Read Online Free Page A

buzzing, which had now spread to her entire body. It was anger she was feeling, rage, and realization brought wonder.
    Get out of here, that deep part of her said suddenly. Get out of here right now, this very minute. Don’t even take the time to run a comb through your hair. Just go.
    â€œThat’s ridiculous,” she said, rocking back and forth faster than ever. The spot of blood on the sheet sizzled in her eye. From here, it looked like the dot under an exclamation point. “That’s ridiculous, where would I go?”
    Anywhere he isn’t, the voice returned. But you have to do it right now. Before . . .
    Before what?
    That one was easy. Before she fell asleep again.
    A part of her mind—a habituated, cowed part—suddenly realized that she was seriously entertaining this thought and put up a terrified clamor. Leave her home of fourteen years? The house where she could put her hand on anything she wanted? The husband who, if a little short-tempered andquick to use his fists, had always been a good provider? The idea was ridiculous. She must forget it, and immediately.
    And she might have done so, almost certainly would have done so, if not for that drop on the sheet. That single dark red drop.
    Then don’t look at it! the part of herself which fancied itself practical and sensible shouted nervously. For Christ’s sake don’t look at it, it’s going to get you into trouble!
    Except she found she could no longer look away. Her eyes remained fixed upon the spot, and she rocked faster than ever. Her feet, clad in white lowtop sneakers, patted the floor in a quickening rhythm (the buzzing was now mostly in her head, rattling her brains, heating her up), and what she thought was Fourteen years. Fourteen years of having him talk to me up close. The miscarriage. The tennis racket. Three teeth, one of which I swallowed. The broken rib. The punches. The pinches. And the bites, of course. Plenty of those. Plenty of—
    Stop it! It’s useless, thinking like this, because you’re not going anywhere, he’d only come after you and bring you back, he’d find you, he’s a policeman and finding people is one of the things he does, one of the things he’s good at—
    â€œFourteen years,” she murmured, and now it wasn’t the last fourteen she was thinking about but the next. Because that other voice, the deep voice, was right. He might not kill her. He might not. And what would she be like after fourteen more years of having him talk to her up close? Would she be able to bend over? Would she have an hour—fifteen minutes, even—a day when her kidneys didn’t feel like hot stones buried in her back? Would he perhaps hit her hard enough to deaden some vital connection, so she could no longer raise one of her arms or legs, or perhaps leave one side of her face hanging slack and expressionless, like poor Mrs. Diamond, who clerked in the Store 24 at the bottom of the hill?
    She got up suddenly and with such force that the back of Pooh’s Chair hit the wall. She stood there for a moment, breathing hard, wide eyes still fixed on the maroon spot, and then she headed for the door leading into the living room.
    Where are you going? Ms. Practical-Sensible screamed inside her head—the part of her which seemed perfectly willing to be maimed or killed for the continued privilege of knowing where the teabags were in the cupboard and wherethe Scrubbies were kept under the sink. Just where do you think you’re—
    She clapped a lid on the voice, something she’d had no idea she could do until this moment. She took her purse off the table by the sofa and walked across the living room toward the front door. The room suddenly seemed very big, and the walk very long.
    I have to take this a step at a time. If I think even one step ahead, I’m going to lose my nerve.
    She didn’t think that would be a problem, actually. For one thing,