One Thousand Words

Why does he force her to think these things? His pinky finger is staring at her as she glances through the door to check on him. Damn his huge hands. It would take her largest kitchen knife to get through his bone. The knife would never be sharp again. It will be a colossal pain to cut off the finger of a man who’s never had a broken bone in his life.

If he would just do what she tells him, she wouldn’t have to resort to brutal measures. He only has to write one thousand words and he will still have all ten of his fingers. Otherwise, he will have only nine. That was the threat she made; scratch that, it was a promise. This house wouldn’t run without her and everyone who lives here knows it. They also know that she does what she says she’s going to do. Testing her is rarely successful.

Promises are made to be kept; that’s what her mother told her when she was young. A strong woman keeps the promises she makes; she keeps her vows. A marriage is a promise and a strong woman keeps it. Bringing a child into this world is a promise to the child and a strong woman keeps that promise and cares for that child. A strong woman keeps her promises.

-I’m tired of listening to you talk about how you want to be a writer and you don’t write. I don’t think you want to be a writer – I think you just want to have already written. It doesn’t work that way, you know? You actually have to do the work to get a story published.

-I’m writing right now, aren’t I? I have a goal of one thousand words today. I’m going to write until I get there.

-One thousand words a day? When’s the last time you made that goal?

-I don’t know; I’ll do it.

-Yeah, you will do it. Because if you don’t, I promise you I’m going to cut off your pinky finger. And if you don’t do it tomorrow, I’ll cut off the other one.

-Whatever….go away.

For years, he has told her he wants to be a writer. He’d had a dozen jobs and they never work out because he feels “compelled” to be a writer. If someone wants to be a writer, all they have to do is write. Unbelievable.

What the hell will I even do with one of his damn fingers? She reaches into the cabinet above the refrigerator and pulls down a quart mason jar full of clear liquid. There are more of these jars in the basement.

Before her father-in-law passed away two years ago, he had come to live with them. One day she came home from work and opened the garage door to find him sitting in a rocking chair that he had pulled into the garage. As he rocked, he was monitoring the homemade still he had crafted to make moonshine. He was actually making moonshine in her quiet suburban neighborhood; in the garage of her lovely brick ranch home.

How appropriate that she should drop his son’s finger into one of these jars of moonshine. As she moves her hands and brings the jar closer to her chest to unscrew the lid, some of the cool, but hot liquid sloshes onto her hand. As she licks it off and enjoys the heat of the brew in her mouth, her head clears just a little.

She’s had to keep miserable promises before and he knows there is absolutely no way she is going to break a promise. A strong woman just doesn’t do that and she is certainly a strong woman. She works full time. She cares for her home and her family. If she promises to be at a meeting on time, then she’s there. If she promises to help a friend move, then she does. If she promises to cut off the sleeves of his favorite sweatshirt the next time he puts it in the laundry wrong-side out, then that’s exactly what she’s going to do.

There is certainly no reason to break promises; no reason at all. If she didn’t intend to keep a promise, she wouldn’t make it. There have been times when she has flippantly made a promise. She has been genuinely distressed at having to maintain her integrity and fulfill the commitment. It was a mess to fill his dresser drawer with cat shit when he forgot to clean out the litter box for the second week in a row. Unfortunate, but necessary.

She starts to walk to the screened back porch of the house where he sits at his dead father’s laptop trying to finish his one thousand words, when the dryer buzzes. God bless, there is too damn much laundry to do in this house. She sets the moonshine jar on the kitchen bar and goes to switch another load. Coming up the stairs with a basket of laundry, she hears him enter the house.

-Are you finished already?

-Yes.

-How many words did you write?

-One thousand and eleven.

-Great, baby. That’s awesome. I’m proud of you!

-Thanks.

-Why did you stop?

-I got my word count, so I’m done for tonight.

-Okay, good for you.

Son of a bitch probably only has twenty more words in his blank head and wants to save them for his count tomorrow. Wouldn’t want to push himself or anything sensible. If he ever gets a book published, I promise I’ll slit my wrists!

-What did you say?

-What? What do you mean?

-I thought I heard you say something about promising to slit your wrists if I ever get a book published.

-Really? Did I say that?

-Yeah, I think you did.

-Well, fine. I guess I did say that. What of it?

-Nothing. I think I’ll go back out and write.