That Hot Summer Night

That summer of 1979 was a scorcher.

I'll always remember it because we were both dead broke and hardly spent no time together.

James worked third shift and was barely home weekends since he wanted to catch up with old friends down the block.

He'd never let me run the air conditioner unless he was home and he deemed it truly too hot for comfort.

Just imagine 85 degrees in our one bedroom hot house with no escape from the humidity inside or out.

It always seemed worse inside than out because I was always busy running the washer and dryer, cooking, cleaning or ironing his pant suits and dress shirts.

I never truly got a minute to relax myself, since he had me running around town with a list of things to do while he was away.

His philosophy was to keep a woman busy so she wouldn't stray.

I didn't seem to mind too much.

I had a roof over my head, no kids to take care of and I stayed out of trouble. An accomplishment in my families eyes since most of them ran themselves into the ground in debt, infidelity or alcoholism.

I managed to sneak an hour into my day when the husband was away at work to read or write.

I hid all evidence of my idleness from him of course.

I don't particularly recall the specific date or month of this story. Maybe July, due to the insistent heat, but it was sweltering.

I had my hair pinned up and a rag to cover it from the sweat beading down from my hairline.

James was out with some friends.

I was left alone to clean up dinner and finish pressing his shirts for the upcoming week.

The air conditioning was banned due to the climbing electric bill.

He didn't like the idea of me working so he had been working over time to make up for our extra expenses.

I learned to trick my body by taking slow breaths through my mouth to stop the heat from taking over but every once in a while I had to escape to the kitchen and stand in front of the open freezer door to cool off.

I cracked an ice cube from the tray and ran it over the back of my neck and across my chest for more relief.

It seemed to melt instantly in my hand before I could enjoy it.

A bang from the front door slamming shut startled me.

There, was James, slipping a 45 on the record player.

Aretha Franklin starts to belt out "Ain't No Way" from the speakers.

He motions for me to come to him.

I tell him I have too much work to do, but he insists.

Most of my work was almost done, but I could never tell him that I hated seeing him after his trips to the bar.

He strips his shirt off and sways to the music in his work pants and an under shirt.

He throws a few "c'mon baby"s at me so I amuse him and take his outstretched hand.

He twirls me and pulls me close.

"It's too hot" I tell him, but he just pulls me closer and pushes my head on his shoulder.

He begins to profess his undying love for me and how he misses me, but I know where this is all headed.

I tell him it's too hot, but he won't let go.

When he kisses me I taste vodka and cigarettes.

"Please" I insist.

He lets go and steps back.

I know what's coming so I brace myself.

He slaps me across the face and belligerently tells me off.

I try focusing in on the song and tell him "I'm sorry," hoping he will let up.

He grabs my shoulders and shakes me a second before pushing me to the floor.

I fall into the record player causing the music to skip back to the beginning.

He stumbles toward the bedroom.

I collect myself and reach for the needle when I really hear Aretha.

I listen to the rest of the song and stop the player.

James yells for me to come to bed.

At that moment I contemplate. I can continue his abuse or walk out that front door and disappear forever.

I look toward our long dark hallway with light pouring out from the bedroom and then at the bedroom.

I hold that record in my hand, clinching it tightly.