Leverage
By Sarah Clayville
After the third power outage in two weeks, Ellen surrenders to the nagging fear that life is disappointment. She’s never heard of summer heat wreaking havoc this way, and the unbearable temperature grinds her down into a series of clumsy speculations. Maybe it’s because she is forced to live in a place where nature is unforgiving. Maybe it’s because her body craves weather cold enough to chill bones. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t love her husband.
Regardless, there is no electricity.
One hour in a crew of workmen appear wearing clunky orange vests. They surround the generator but never once touch a tool to the metal giant. Instead, they study the defunct pylon, shifting weight in heavy brown boots. Neighbors find sport sitting on their porches, criticizing the laborers. Ellen understands not all problems can be fixed with the twist of a wrench.
Two hours in she peers out at the empty streets. Soon, inside will be miserable like outside as the last wisps of air conditioning evaporate. The rental’s small windows are placed too high up, and she must stand on tiptoes to glimpse a world beside her own. Her husband picked the townhouse when he took this latest job, sending back pictures that hid all the problems. Now, they’re committed for six months.
Three hours in sweat pools in the hollow crevices of her body, soaking her bra. He is at work. The children are grown. Ellen lounges in underwear on the bed, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She resembles a quixotic perfume ad where the model is wet, sexy. Only the oppressive heat makes the idea of sex repulsive. Ellen shivers imagining her husband climbing on top of her, moaning as if he’s in bed alone getting himself off.
Four hours in the phone rings. She ignores the vibrations, crouching on the floor because heat rises. Their town is on the news. Record heatwave. Defies science. People call wanting to know if she’s ok. Ellen doesn’t know how to answer.
Five hours in the refrigerator goes warm and food turns. Things spoil here, like at the last place, and the last. Like the child in her belly that spoiled seven houses ago where she smiled beneath a camouflage of grief because she desperately didn’t want more children. Two people in a relationship doesn’t mean everyone gets a choice.
Six hours in Ellen unlocks a small blue briefcase she carried before leaving work to raise the triplets. Inside are letters from a fizzled affair. The evidence is not hidden well. But her husband doesn’t look for reasons to leave even though she’s given him many. She cannot go. Her family and faith have tethered her to him with tangled expectations. Summer’s ferocity is nothing compared to their stranglehold.
Seven hours in he comes home exhausted from work. He is happiest on the rigs. Ellen has never loved a job that much. Maybe not even a person. He collapses into his armchair to tell her the details of his day. Ellen stands in the kitchen stirring canned milk and water to fill cereal bowls. The gluey consistency makes her gag. She hands him a bowl, choking down her own mess at the kitchen counter. “Jesus,” he mutters, spitting it out. “Get the candles or we’ll be in the dark soon.”
Eight hours in Ellen decides there will never be electricity again. She pictures a world where all generators have blown, and people abandon modern notions like cars or computers or love. Everyone will have to relearn how to make fire. Build shelter. Hunt food. Survive.
Nine hours in he rummages through cabinets, swearing to himself, then at Ellen for not being prepared. His demands trip her, choke her, buzz in her ear like an alarm that can’t be silenced. He tells her she spends her days doing nothing without the children. He tells her she never bothers to make friends or look pretty. He tells her to find the fucking candles.
Ten hours in Ellen escapes to the backyard where moonlight casts her shadow onto the parched ground. The hint of a breeze brushes against her. Nature, she decides, is kind after all. He can look all he wants. She is sick of temporary houses and permanent decisions that have never belonged to her. He can find a thousand candles. She pats her robe pocket, making a little box of matches rattle. Without her, she thinks, he won’t be able to ignite a damn thing.
THE END
Author Bio: Sarah Clayville writes and teaches from the wilds of Pennsylvania. Her work can be found at SarahSaysWrite.com or follow her on Twitter @SarahSaysWrite.