Breaking the Pattern

By Jay Greenstein

Life has been unkind to Linda. Born dirt-poor, her dreams of love dashed by the men she trusted, she is alone, without friends, and haunted by memories so terrible they must be suppressed. But seeking a place to stay brings a chain of events that will propel a country girl with no future into a world she could never have imagined. Can she outrun her haunted past and find the love she’s been denied? Her life may just depend on doing that.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Greenstein
• Release date: Apr 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463359594

Jay Greenstein

I'm a storyteller. My skills at writing are subject to opinion, my punctuation has been called interesting, at best—but I am a storyteller. I am, of course, many other things. In seven decades of living, there are great numbers of things that have attracted my attention. I am, for example, an electrician. I can also design, build, and install a range of things from stairs and railings to flooring, and tile backsplashes. I can even giftwrap a box from the inside, so to speak, by wallpapering the house. I'm an engineer, one who has designed computers and computer systems; one of which—during the bad old days of the cold war—flew in the plane designated as the American President's Airborne Command Post: The Doomsday Jet. I've spent seven years as the chief-engineer of a company that built bar-code readers. I spent thirteen of the most enjoyable years of my life as a scoutmaster, and three, nearly as good, as a cubmaster. I joined the Air Force to learn jet engine mechanics, but ended up working in broadcast and closed circuit television, serving in such unlikely locations as the War Room of the Strategic Air Command, and a television station on the island of Okinawa. I have been involved in sports car racing, scuba diving, sailing, and anything else that sounded like fun. I can fix most things that break, sew a fairly neat seam, and have raised three pretty nice kids, all of who are smarter and prettier than I am—more talented, too, thanks to the genes my wife kindly provided. Once, while camping with a group of cubs and their families, one of the dads announced, "You guys better make up crosses to keep the Purple Bishop away." When I asked for more information, the man shrugged and said, "I don't really know much about the story. It's some kind of a local thing that was mentioned on my last camping trip." Intrigued, I wondered if I could come up with something to go with his comment about the crosses; something to provide a gentle terror-of-the-night to entertain the boys. The result was a virtual forest of crosses outside the boys' tents. That was the event that switched on something within me that, now, more than twenty-five years later, I can't seem to switch off. Stories came and came… so easily it was sometimes frightening. Stories so frightening that one boy swore he watched my eyes begin to glow with a dim red light as I told them (it was the campfire reflecting from my ...

Book preview

Jay Greenstein

Jay Greenstein

All rights reserved

Copyright 2019

Published by Continuation Services at SmashWords

Other Titles by Jay Greenstein:

Science Fiction

As Falls an Angel

Samantha and the Bear

Foreign Embassy

Hero

Monkey Feet

An Accidental War

Starlight Dancing

Wizards

Trilogy of the Talos

(Sci-fi)

To Sing the Calu

Portal to Sygano

Ghost Girl

Sisterhood of the Ring

(Sci-fi)

Water Dance

Jennie’s Song

A Change of Heart

A Surfeit of Dreams

Kyesha

Abode Of The Gods

Living Vampire

An Abiding Evil

Ties of Blood

Blood Lust

Modern Western

Posse

Romantic Suspense

A Chance Encounter

Kiss of Death

Intrigue/Crime

Necessity

Betrayal

Hostage

Young Adult

My Father My Friend

Romance

Zoe

Breaking the Pattern

Short Story

A Touch of Strange

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictitious and created by the author for entertainment purposes. Any similarities between living and non-living persons are purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

° ° ° °

Chapter 1

Linda sat, hunched forward in the rocker, chewing her lip and trying to ignore the pain that came with each breath as she studied her husband.

Jack lay sprawled across the bed, in a stupor brought on by a night of drink and the effort of beating her. She could undress him, but that might wake him and bring a renewal of the anger. In the morning, sober again, he’d be apologetic—a model husband. But not now.

Killing him would be easy and satisfying, and she thought about that for a long time. The pleasure those thoughts brought offset the pain. But if she wasn’t able to do it quickly enough, and he got free...

Hands clenched in her lap, she mouthed the words she didn’t dare speak—the feelings she could never express aloud.

She thought on past mistakes: about Travis—the first man to treat her as an object on which to vent rage.

How stupid she’d been, but how lucky she’d thought herself in finding him, her knight in a Navy uniform, who provided a way out of the battle-torn shack her parents called home.

Travis, with his military swagger and imperious manner, had the worldliness of someone who’d traveled beyond the county of his birth. He represented an escape from so much that was hateful. But it was an escape to a marriage that lasted only two tearful years, all of it downhill, leaving her alone, frightened, bruised, and with pennies in her pocket—limping along a rural highway in Mississippi.

This second marriage, begun in 1980, mirrored the first in all but having lasted an additional year. There’d be no third.

With a sigh, she leaned back into the old rocker, wincing at a twinge of pain from a new bruise. Like the other beatings, this one had its beginnings in events over which she had no control.

° ° °

Jack came onto the porch, the hesitation in his step announcing the reason for his lateness. She gave thought to hiding in the shed till he slept it off. But he was reaching for the door. And, drunk or sober he’d been fairly well behaved since the last time, nearly a month before. The one time she had hidden, he accused her of being unfaithful—of being out of the house with another man—and had whipped her with his belt until she’d prayed to die.

Jack, angry and sober, was worse than when under the influence of a few beers—enough so that she should have done more than just packing, then returning everything to its place before he could notice. But without money or skills, and with Jack’s promise to track her down and kill her if she left, options were limited.

But regrets accomplished nothing, and Jack was opening the door, so she forced a smile when he came into the living room, saying, Hi, honey. How was your day?

He was five hours late for dinner, now long cold in the refrigerator.

He growled something unintelligible and sank into the easy chair, blowing out a cloud of beery breath and scratching his stomach. Given his condition, she breathed a prayer that he wasn’t in the mood for sex. After a few beers, he lost what little consideration he normally had for her pleasure, using her as he might a drunken slut, rather than a beloved wife. Sometimes, she wondered if he actually knew the meaning of the word love. Sober, he was a passable, if unimaginative lover, but drunk, he became an unfeeling brute, demanding things of her as he might a prostitute.

She studied him, seeking some clue as to his mood, so she could adapt to it and get through the night.

He muttered again. Missing his words a second time, she said, What was that, Jack, honey? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.

He swiveled his head toward her, mouth turned down in disgust. I said I lost the fucking job, you deaf bitch! I lost the fucking job.

Oh shit! She clamped hard on the urge to run for the door. That would be suicide. Running triggered his hunting instincts, and he was sitting between her and the door.

The problem wasn’t the loss of that job. He was a good mechanic—could be a better one if not for the drinking. The problem was what that loss might mean for her.

Forcing the chair around with a shriek of complaining wood, he pointed a grease-stained finger at her.

Let me tell you, something, baby. That Jew-bastard Koch—the fucker who owns the god damned agency—he wouldn’t know a good mechanic from a dumb nigger, but he’s gonna pay for this. I’ll tell you that. He’s gonna pay real good!

She kept her voice mild, and hopefully, inoffensive, as she said, What will you do, Jack?

He stared for a long moment, then mimicked her voice, bringing his own to the nerve-jangling falsetto screech she despised.

What will you do, Jack? What will you do, Jack? What the hell do you think I’m going to do? I’m going to kill that bastard. That’s what I’m going to do.

Her shock must have shown, because he abruptly stood, overbalancing and stumbling against the footstool, which he kicked out of the way with a crash.

Don’t you fucking look at me that way, you bitch! The whole thing’s your fault anyway.

Wise enough to keep her mouth shut, she said nothing, simply poised herself to flee. With a growl, he waved a backhanded blow at her, mumbling, Pow! I ought to do a job on you, but you’re too fucking dumb to change. Were you not prettier than them other bitches around here I’d not put up with your shit.

With that, he stumbled into the darkened bedroom, accompanied by her sigh of relief.

Unfortunately, he was only passing through it, making a toilet call. He returned to the living room far too soon, then headed for the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator, bracing himself against the door as he scanned the inside.

She got to her feet and began easing toward the front door, but before she could take more than a few steps, the door of the old refrigerator slammed shut, accompanied by the crash of jars spilling from the door compartments.

There’s no beer, you stupid bitch. I told you to buy some beer!

She thought of telling him the truth: that he hadn’t remembered to give her money for the beer. But that would only make him angrier.

I’ll go now, Jack, she said, hurriedly. I’ll run down to the store right—

Any further words she might have said were stilled as his hand clamped on her windpipe, nearly lifting her from her feet. The rest was a blur of pain and fear as he vented his rage on her, the cruel blows raining on her body like some demented parody of a boxing match. Only the fact that he’d begin kicking her, should she fall to the floor, kept her on her feet, saying please, over and over in a litany of fear. When he threw her to the bed and began to tear at her clothing, it was a relief.

° ° °

The beating hadn’t lasted long, nor was it as bad as some, but it finally broke something inside —a dam of pent-up anger and self-loathing that had been filling for years. First came the endless years of warfare between her parents, with their insane and unpredictable alterations between passion and hate—with her used as both a weapon and target. Then came the stupidity of her first marriage, and the death of her dreams of romance and escape. Now, it was Jack.

As she sat watching her husband, hatred for him and disgust at her own stupidity filling her, she wondered how she could ever have put up with him. Certainly, he was the one who took her in when Travis pushed her out of the car and drove off, though she’d repaid that kindness with the only coin she possessed: her body. Certainly, when he wasn’t drunk, he was a decent enough person.

He was even handsome, when his face wasn’t flushed with anger. But at best, he treated her as an appliance, as though wives were bought at the discount store and had only certain, well-defined functions: keep house, tend the small crop fields, wash his clothes, satisfy his sexual needs, and absorb his rage when necessary. It was assumed that her needs would be taken care of without his help. That he neither loved nor respected her was all too obvious.

Reaching a decision, she limped her way to her battered old suitcase. He’d thrown it away, snarlingly informing her that she’d leave at his convenience, not hers. But she’d retrieved the case, wiping away the mud stains before hiding it in the storage closet, tucked behind stacked cartons and hidden against her need.

Clearing the top of the dresser she opened the case, leaning the top against the mirror to hide her battered face from view. Moving quietly enough not to disturb him she began to pack, taking only what fit into the case.

Finally finished, she moved to the bed and began the most difficult part: getting to his wallet. Lost job or not, this was payday, and he would have two weeks’ pay in his pocket, maybe even something extra as severance pay. He’d been on that job for seven months.

Her own money, saved penny-by-penny, amounted to less than fifty dollars, and would take her no further than the next man like Jack. But there’d be no more like him, and for that, more than a few dollars were needed.

Jack grumbled under his breath as she got into the bed, then settled down to snoring as she leaned against him, as though cuddling in her sleep. He never stirred as she removed the wallet.

Nine hundred dollars! He had nine one hundred dollar bills in the wallet, plus fifty in smaller bills. She didn’t take the time for an exact count, but there was enough to get her out of the county, even the state. Enough, perhaps, for a new start.

Slinging her bag over her shoulder and picking up the suitcase, she cast a longing glance at the old sewing machine in the corner. Through the bad times, it’d been her companion and her solace. Leaving it was like leaving a dear friend. Everything in her wardrobe had been made on that machine, copied from the dresses worn by models in the newspaper and in the magazines she took from trashcans. Jack wouldn’t let her buy patterns for the clothing, grumbling over the expense of the cloth she used.

Unable to simply pass by, she bent her footsteps toward the old machine, stopping to run her hand over its smooth curves, stroking the cool metal of the drive wheel and thinking about how useful it would be for sewing a shroud for her husband.

About to leave, at last, she turned her head for a last look at his sleeping form, then stopped, fingernails tapping the metal of the machine—wondering. She stood for a time, lost in thought. Then, with the beginnings of a smile, picked up the suitcase and headed for the front door.

The night air was soft and filled with the growing smells of late spring, symbolizing, for her, a new beginning, one that would take her from this place and this life. Never again would she submit. Never again would she permit a man to dominate her life. A line had been crossed, and there would be no going back. The flame of anger had been hard to ignite. Life before this saw to that. But now it burned with a clear and steady glow as she loaded her suitcase into the rear seat of the car. She placed her worn old shoulder bag on the front passenger seat. Sliding out of the car, she closed the door only far enough to extinguish the overhead light, in case she might have to get into the car on a run. Then, she headed back to the house.

First, she bathed, flinching at the new bruises and scowling in disgust at the yellowed remains of the older ones. Then, she dressed in the best of the clothing remaining in her closet. Finally, she headed toward her sewing box for needle and thread.

There was anger in her hands as she sewed, and anger in the teeth that bit off the ends of the thread she used to sew the legs of his pants together. It wasn’t the kind of anger Jack knew. His was unreasoning rage, destructive and wild. Hers was cold and controlled, serving her purpose. Moments after she began, her lips turned up in a grim little smile at the realization that he had little chance of stopping her with his legs immobilized, even should he wake.

That complete, she rolled him onto his back and sewed his sleeves to his shirt at the sides, using heavy-duty button thread. Even should he wake, getting free would take more time than for her to reach the waiting car.

There was no need to run. He never woke as she freed the sheets from the mattress and lifted them over him from either side, to create