Rock Accountant

The sounds of husband and wife fights in our neighborhood drew us together as a family.
Dad would turn off the TV or radio, and the three of us would sit near the window that offered the best reception.
The phone might ring with another neighbor asking us if we were listening.
Sometimes the woman would show up at our door crying with marks, mostly on her face.
She and my mother would sit in our kitchen with the doors closed. She would urge her to return to him.
Nobody liked witnessing a woman being dragged darkly back home by a muscular arm.
We had no asylum to offer. Marriages had sanctity back then.
The police were afraid to come, and they knew he would already be black with anger when they arrived. Most of us had guns.

PUBLISHED: March 17, 2017
FILED UNDER: Unnoticed in Clever Wo

I don’t talk to myself out loud. I do it silently, not because of the embarrassment but simply to cut down on the editing.