OUT NOW
Anna's Desk
Tara Brichetto
The sun never lingered past six during the dry winter months of Williston. Anna always lit the one oil lamp soon after nightfall—the weak orange flame striking the round glass was just enough to illuminate the floral pattern of the kitchen wallpaper. The designs were olive green that faded to dull brown in the firelight. Although the edges of each flower blushed gold in the daytime sun, the dim lamp could do nothing to revive them. Peter kept the other two lamps in the bedroom where he could read his paper and smoke, tuning out the clanging of pots while Anna prepared dinner. Tonight was lamb—Peter had selected the healthiest and most expensive young male from the McWilliams’ two houses down. Anna married Peter for the money as her family encouraged. There was no question about this, though she expected something else. She was young. He was charming once. It faded the first autumn after they moved here, and Anna felt her smile gradually falling each day like the tree leaves outside. But now what he refused to spend on electricity and perhaps a new stove for Anna, he made up for in his own extravagant food and wine.
To feed his obsession of expensive tastes, Peter had sent for a plum pinot noir from the vineyards in California. It had arrived this morning, a sanded wooden crate gleefully perched on the edge of the porch, greeting Anna when she ventured outside. She pried the box open immediately, slowly enough not to let all the air out. She buried her face in the bottles, taking in California’s warm smell of plum and ocean and wind. Peter was still asleep and this was the first time she had been there to greet the wine before he stole it away to the kitchen. Lifting the crate, Anna splintered her thumb on an unsanded edge. The thin sliver of wood found its way into deep tissue, exploding in shivers of warmth that spread up her arms and down her slim torso. She put the crate inside and sucked the wound, tasting and breathing blood-rust permeated with sweet California sun.
Dinner tonight had to be perfect in order to celebrate the arrival of the wine. Anna had picked the finest mint leaves from the twiggy plant she kept indoors away from North Dakota’s bitter frost. The sauce was to be delicate and light, with a slight mint twinge to complement the gently seared meat. These were Peter’s words, of course.
As the stovetop heated, Anna spotted the wine bottles resting on the table near the icebox. If dinner was prepared successfully, she would sometimes be granted a small sip. But never had the prospect of wine tempted her like this. Anna was cold, even with the stove burning. She knew nothing of wine but had read of California—the sun, the air that blanketed your skin with soothing heat. She ventured towards the bottles, catching her distorted reflection in the beckoning glass. Her lips burned for a stronger taste of that ocean sun. She sucked her finger and sighed.
She was lucky not to have ventured for a forbidden sip. Peter was insistent on opening his own bottle tonight. Anna could not help but stare as he poured. The deep maroon liquid flowed enticingly into his glass, more smoothly than the rare silk of Peter’s ties dancing against his shirt. Not a drop fluttered to the table for Anna’s tongue to retrieve later.
They sat. Anna was too focused on the glass to notice her husband bringing the first piece of meat to his lips.
He stood up, letting his fork fall and clank against his plate. His thick eyebrow raised and twitched. “The lamb is dry.”
Anna winced. She closed her eyes and braced herself.
The back of Peter’s hand did not taste like California, nor did the blood that trickled from Anna’s bottom lip down her throat. Her mouth was too swollen to suck the splintered finger in fading comfort.
Peter went to bed without her after dinner. Anna sighed with relief as he pulled his quilt over his shoulders and slept peacefully, as if the evening were one of placidity. It was in these chilled hours of the night that Anna was able to write. The Maplewood desk in the bedroom was the only piece of furniture she owned in the house. Every night as Peter slept, she sat at the desk and scribbled stories she’d invented throughout the day. She was always the protagonist, taking part in silly adventures and unlikely endeavors. On paper, Anna was frequently a daring heroine, saving the townspeople from dragons or perhaps menacing trolls. Sometimes, though, she would write of visiting her family. Often she would spend the night leaning against her mother’s soft cotton housedress in front of the fireplace. Other nights, she and her father would cook stew together—he would chop carrots while she lit the fire for the pot. They would surprise her mother with the hot dinner when she came in from milking. On sad nights, Anna would visit the cemetery and bring them lilies. A month ago, she had received a letter saying they had been buried side by side, just a week apart.
Tonight, though, Anna would be in California. She sat at the desk, trying to recall the aroma of the crate from that morning. She inhaled and felt the wind—the hot wind of an open oven filled with new bread. Her skin gleamed in the sun, bronzing instantly like the swimmers her father had told her about before moving to Williston. Her taut bun shook loose in the salty wind, and she squinted to see the ocean. She sprinted towards the infinite blue, clutching the sides of her sundress. The sand collapsed under her toes, lining her nails with white grains that shimmered as she ran. Around her were the brown swimmers—men lounging on sun-blankets in the sand coupled with the most beautiful dark women she had ever seen.
Anna paused where the sand flattened with wetness. She had never actually seen the ocean before, but the salty mist of the water tasted familiar on her suddenly healed lips. A swift wave rushed over her ankles, startling her and sending chills up her legs that were brushed away by the sun.
Peter coughed and rolled over in his sleep. Anna froze. Her pen had been too loud. She lifted her paper and found deep scratches in the soft maple of her desk. She was sweating—moisture from her arms darkened the wood next to the scratches.
Peter didn’t awaken but it was too late. California was fading. Anna tore the tips of her fingernails off in shreds between her teeth and glared at her husband. He hated sleeping with an oil lamp, but he insisted that her desk be kept in the bedroom. She shouldn’t be wandering the house at night; he was intent on keeping an eye on her—even in sleep.
Anna knew she should go to bed, but hesitated. California still lingered—it wasn’t fair to return home so soon. Even in sleep. She grimaced and stood up. The sun had dehydrated her and she tiptoed into the kitchen to fetch the water pitcher.
But in the kitchen was the wine. Nearly half of the first bottle remained from dinner. Eyes wild, Anna uncorked the bottle and brought it to her injured mouth. The plums weren’t as sweet as she expected and retained a slight tang from fermentation. The texture was smooth and warmed her. She felt the heat tingle over her ankles—a crisp sting like the ocean water that was surmounted by the soothing blanket of the hot wind. Anna knew nothing of wine, but she craved more. Ignoring the sting of her lips, she drank until the bottle was empty.
Peter would notice the missing wine immediately. Anna grabbed the water pitcher and filled the empty bottle, placing it behind the remaining dozen. Breathing heavily, she uncorked a second bottle and brought it into the bedroom. California had returned in full force—she decided to sit on the beach and sip her wine in the sun. Half the bottle was gone by morning. Sadly, Peter didn’t make it to California with her. He’d suffered a heart attack on the train ride and, grief stricken, Anna decided to continue her travels anyway.
“You’re up early.” It was Peter—he hadn’t noticed her side of the bed was untouched. Anna’s head was pounding—she could scarcely make out the clock’s hands pointing at 6:30. “Writing your mother again?”
“Um…yes. Yes.” She looked around frantically for the wine. Wait, she had returned the half bottle to the kitchen, hadn’t she? Everything about the night before was a blur. She’d fallen asleep beside the ocean, drunken at her desk. Attempting to ignore her throbbing head, Anna stuffed California into an envelope and addressed it to her mother. These “letters” she buried—a weak alibi, but somehow he never cared to question her.
“I’m tired of buying you stamps.”
“I’m tired of you hitting me.” Her forehead pulsating, she didn’t realize she had said it aloud until she saw Peter’s face. His eyes were wide, surprised, and quickly narrowed. He was not a handsome man, Anna observed. She thought of the brown swimmers. Peter was pale. His eyebrows were thick and elongated—they were the same size and shape as his mustache, as if he had three. Even when he woke up, his hair was greasy enough to appear freshly combed. Although his arms were thick and sturdy, all the fine foods had taken a toll on his mid-section.
“Go get breakfast started.” He spat the words.
Anna found her way to California every night that week. Peter had never participated in her travels before, but now he played a major part in their satisfaction. One day he was swallowed by the ocean—even the tanned expert swimmers failed to save him. Anna watched helplessly from the sand, sipping pinot noir. The next day he was trampled by a young horseback riding couple at the edge of the water while Anna swam.
Tonight she would purchase a house next to a vineyard. Two vineyards, even, one plum and one grape. The house would be small with a fireplace in every room. There would be a barn in the back like Peter’s, still without animals, but with a place for her to write outside in the shade.
Anna kept her distance from Peter that week, and thankfully he had done the same. Today she fixed sandwiches for lunch, pulling back the curtains in the kitchen so that the wallpaper glowed. She imagined looking out the window to the ocean, out the other to the vineyard.
“ANNA!” Peter’s voice erupted from the bedroom. The view outside the window turned back to Williston’s frosted grass. Anna crept into the bedroom and froze. Peter was standing, eyes glazed and wide, clutching the axe from the barn.
“What are you doing?” she shrieked.
“You thieving whore!” He pointed at her desk, screaming. “How much did you drink?”
Anna saw it. There was a purpled stain on the wood—the wine. She didn’t know how to respond. Peter lifted the axe over the desk.
“No, don’t!” Anna lunged at him. She imagined Peter hacking through her only possession—California splitting in two under the blade. She drove her palms into his chest, knocking him to the ground. The axe pierced the floor next to him. Peter stood up and reopened her lip with his fist. He pushed her into her rescued desk—her stomach drove straight into the corner. She gasped for air but found none. The room became speckled in black as she sank to the ground. Peter offered her a blurred hand that she ignored, and finally left the room.
Blood dripped from Anna’s lip, pooling in small droplets on the hardwood floor. Blood. Anna stopped breathing, realizing, allowing the sight of the blood to remind her. She hadn’t bled in weeks. Six, maybe seven. She had never been that late before. Anna clutched her blackening stomach in horror. She couldn’t be…and if she was? What he had just done…
Shaking, Anna pulled herself to her feet. She watched Peter out the window, dragging the axe back into the barn. A rush of hot air filled her throat. Her temples throbbed and heated. Even her hands shook in anger. What he had just done…
Anna found herself in the vineyard house that night. Peter was there—Anna had run out of accidents for him. He sat in her new California chair in front of the fire, all of her oil lamps circled around him. She was cold, bruised in the dark corner of the small house. She wrapped herself in a shawl and went outside to fetch a plum. Maybe a few grapes. The night air was cold—California was always so warm, but Peter had caused the grass to frost, the leaves in the vineyard to shrivel. Anna bit into a plum but it had frozen and made her teeth ache. She sighed. She started towards the house again but noticed the barn door was slightly ajar. She wrapped herself tighter in her shawl. Peering into the barn, she squinted to adjust her eyes to the night. Everything was black except one corner of the barn illuminated with moonlight through a hole in the roof. Something was in the corner—the axe. Its edge gleamed. Anna picked it up—it was light, almost weightless in her hands. As she examined the rusting blade, she heard footsteps. Peter.
“What are you doing out here?”
“I have something to show you,” Anna stammered, “Come inside.” He hadn’t set both feet in the door before the axe penetrated him again and again. Anna felt warmth seeping from the handle into her flesh. She looked down. Peter wasn’t Peter—he was blood and tissue and cracked bone, a heap on the barn floor smelling of plum.
Anna blinked and the heap disappeared. Her axe was clean. She blinked and blinked again, confused. She looked outside the barn and she was in Williston, shivering in her nightgown. She couldn’t remember leaving her desk, yet she clutched the crumpled paper of her story in one hand, the axe in the other. There was a dim light leaving the front porch from the house. Peter’s lantern. He had awoken. He staggered into the barn, his legs still slow from sleep. His eyes narrowed as he looked her up and down. Anna felt her stomach churn as though the bruise were spreading.
“Anna, what are you doing out here?”
“I have something to show you,” she said.