She made The Mistake five years earlier. She learned of it when he carried her across the threshold and stood her in the arctic entry and she still in her full wedding regalia. The first blow landed on her left cheekbone because he is right-fisted. A few inches in one direction would have fractured her eye orbital. In another, her jaw. In another, her nose. But her zygomatic bone held up. That’s what a cheekbone is called, zygomatic bone, she looked it up later. 

     That first blow felled her like an inanimate thing—a log, a fence post. She hit the floor hard, on her belly, sliding until she hit the wall. With one hand he grabbed her by the hair, her blonde French roll making an easy handle. With the other hand he grabbed the bustle of her gown. She, a small woman, he a tall man, he was able, in one sweep, to pull her away from the wall and flip her on her side. Down on one knee, he grabbed the gown’s lace bodice with both hands and pulled her torso toward him. At first her head lolled and rolled. But her neck was not broken and she regained control of her head. when she was able to hold her head up she looked into his face. 

     “Everything will be different from now on,” he said. His voice was matter of fact. His facial expression serious. “Know this. From here on, nothing will be the same.” He stood up. The first kick hit her in the groin. The second on her breast and was hard enough to slide her back against the wall again. Struggling onto all fours. Vomiting. Trying to crawl. By the hair again, this time he pulled her to her feet. Her legs buckled. He let go of her hair and used two fistfuls of her wedding bodice to press her back into the wall, holding her upright. He repositioned his hands so that his left hand grabbed her right bodice and his forearm leaned across her chest—pinning her back into the wall while holding her upright. With his right hand around her throat and under her jaw, he held up her head, forcing her to look at him. 

     “You ever tell anyone, and I will kill you.” His voice was calm. 

     Her one eye was already swollen shut. Through the other she could clearly see his face. He was emotionless.

     “The police can’t protect you from me.” He was barely winded. She was gasping for air. 

     “You tell your cunt of a mother and I will slit her throat in front of you,” there was no anger in his voice or on his face. 

     “You behave yourself and this need not happen again. We will never speak of this again, you hear?” he tightened his hand around her throat. 

     “Now tell me you understand what I’m saying to you. You don’t tell. You behave yourself. And you’ll be alright. You tell, you make any trouble, and you and everyone you love is dead.” He released the pressure on her throat and then tightened it up again. 

     “Tell me you understand.”

     “I understand,” her voice a hoarse whisper. 

     “Good.” He let her go and stepped back. She slid down the wall, landing in a seated position, back against the wall, legs splayed out before her.

     “Good, then we’re clear. Now clean up this mess,” he waved his hand carelessly toward her and the vomit and blood, and walked away. 

Thus she learned of The Mistake.

CHAPTER 2: Irene, The Meat Hammer 

Not his favorite meal, but his third favorite meal. When she first took the job at the nursing home, just down the block, she’d arranged her work schedule for early morning shifts so that she could be home in time to prepare his dinners. So tonight will be his third favorite: cordon bleu, fresh steamed asparagus and dinner rolls made with milk. She reasons that his first, or even second favorite meals might tip him off. She does not want him to know the depth of her desire. She does not want him to think she is buttering him up because she wants something. She suspects she’s probably overthinking. But better safe than sorry.  When it comes to The Mistake, she plays it very, very safe. 

     “He is not the sharpest psychopath in the shed.” That’s what her aunt said about him. Aunt Irene was the only person that she has ever told. This was about a year after she’d made The Mistake. And before Aunt Irene had her stroke. Because ever since the stroke, Aunt Irene has not been able to talk. Why did she choose to tell Aunt Irene of all people? Because she judged The Mistake told the truth when’d he said the police could not help her. She figured her mother would turn white and begin crying. Her women friends, although outraged and panicked, would not be able to come up with a functional plan. But Aunt Irene—she was something else again. There was something about that woman. . . Her white porcelain skin contrasted with hair so black it seemed, at times, to be blue. She filled rooms with her laughter—from the gut and a little too loud. Aunt Irene grew quiet and thoughtful when she was angry. And Aunt Irene, her godmother, her name sake, was in her corner. She’d been born knowing Aunt Irene was in her corner.

     Irene pounds the chicken breast with her grandmother’s meat hammer. The old wooden handle was tightly jammed into the weighted aluminum head generations ago. She holds the meat with her left hand and pounds hard and fast with her right. The hammer hits precisely where she aims. As she moves her blows up and down the breast, she recalls Aunt’s last words to her. 

     Irene had gradually, subtly, over several months, convinced The Mistake that her family would become suspicious if they did not make the trip to visit them. Her family would become worried that something was wrong. They might even end up making an unannounced trip all the way from the midwest to Alaska to make sure she was okay. In the end, he allowed the visit, but insisted, of course, that he go with her. He let her know that he would be watching her. That he would know if she tried to tell them, or ask for help, or tried to escape. He pounded the warning into the flesh around her torso, where the bruises would not show. Just to jog her memory. Just so that she would not forget.  

    Irene revisits, in her memory, her aunt’s farm-kitchen. The two of them sitting at Aunt Irene’s kitchen table. They were alone. The farmhouse was empty. The Mistake had been persuaded to make a quick trip into town with Uncle Pete. There were a few odds and ends that needed to be picked up for the family barbecue later that day. Irene knew that because the grocery list included beer and whiskey, The Mistake would want to go with Uncle Pete. The Mistake was particular about his liquor. 

     The Aunt’s eyes teared-up when Irene told her. The farm-wife bowed her head and pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. She remained in this position with her forehead resting on her hand for what seemed an endless time to Irene. Endless because Irene remembers wishing that time would end right there and right then. She would have given anything; she would have given everything, just to stay with this woman in this kitchen for all eternity. Even now as she pounds meat, Irene yearns to return to that very same kitchen table. “But that is not how time works,” she says out loud to herself. “Instead I am in my own kitchen preparing a meal for The Mistake.” 

     When, at last, Aunt Irene lifted her head, and removed her hand from the bridge of her nose—her eyes were not tearful. She reached her two hands across the table and laid them palms up and open, waiting for Irene’s hands. Irene reached her hands across the table and placed them inside of her Aunt’s. The two women held hands, and locked eyes as the Aunt spoke. 

     “You must fix The Mistake yourself. Do not rely on anyone else to fix it.” The aunt’s pupils were pinpoint in her blue, blue eyes. 

     “The police cannot help you. Do not try to find another man to help you. For God’s sake don’t tell your mother. Only you can make this Mistake right.”

    Irene flips the meat, lands one blow with the hammer and freezes in that position as she leaves her own kitchen and returns to the kitchen of her Aunt.

     “Take your time. Play the long game,” Aunt Irene told her. “You need to succeed the first time. There will be no second chance.” The aunt removed her hands from Irene’s, rose and pulled her chair around and sat next to Irene. Irene turned her chair and the two seated women faced each other so close their knees were touching. The Aunt leaned in, her face just a few inches from Irene’s. “Kill him clean. Kill him clear. And with no ties to yourself. No ties.” The older woman leaned back again, closed her eyes, bowed her head and let go of Irene’s hands. Irene balled her hands into fists and pushed them against her own forehead. 

     As she relives this moment, Irene lays down her hammer, balls up her fists and presses them against her forehead. She holds them there, pressing, while she relives the remainder of their conversation.

    The Aunt’s voice was barely above a whisper, “First, keep your eyes open for people you can trust. You will know them when you meet them. Some might be kind. Some might be angry. Some might have skills you need. Some might even have magic. But all will have one thing in common—these are bold people They are people who do not just think. They are people who do not just talks. They are people who act.” The Aunt held up her right hand with her index finger pointing upward toward the sky. “There are people in the world that you can trust. Bold people. Find them. But do not confide in them. Not yet.” Then the Aunt leaned forward and placed her hands on Irene’s shoulders, pulling her in closer. “Listen to me. Do not get pregnant,” she said. “Do not get pregnant. Because you cannot bring a child into a world where The Mistake still lives.” She released Irene’s shoulders and both women leaned back. “There is not a world in which both your baby and The Mistake can exist.”

     Irene steps out of the memory of her Aunt’s kitchen and back into her own. She finds that someone has pulled her hand down, flat and open and placed it on her belly, just above her pubic bone. She says out loud the last meaningful words her Aunt spoke to her. “There is not a world in which both your baby and the Mistake can exist.” She removes her hand from over her womb and picks up the hammer and pounds meat.