The Pain of the Cross

The oatmeal, which in the past he had faithfully and heartily eaten each morning, sat dejected in its bowl. Slowly, hesitantly, he picked up his spoon and began to trace crosses into the meal. There was too much water in it.  But this morning, he thought, he couldn’t care less, and put down the spoon.  All too soon, the ticking of the wall clock stole his attention and scolded him with the hour; it was now 7:10. His eyes, heavy from lack of sleep, darted to the cross atop the kitchen doorway and he vowed to stay seated until at least 7:30. Lifting his hand to the table, he casually traced the pattern on the cloth with his finger nail. His head suddenly jerked up as the sound of the stairs creaking reached his ears. There, standing by the door with a concerned smile, was his wife.

“Honey? It’s already 7:15.”

She walked up to him and gently squeezed his shoulder.

“I’ve seen how you’ve been acting this week, darling. You know you can tell me anything that’s bothering you. “

Leaning down, she kissed his forehead.

“Anything at all.”

His eyes suddenly felt swollen and his lips began to quiver.

“What’s wrong? Darling, you’ve never been late to church before. You’ve always been there by 7 o’ clock! Come on,” she cooed as her arms wrapped around him and helped him up, “the congregation needs you.”

Once up, his arms wrapped around his wife’s waist. His knees had never felt this weak.

“Are you feeling sick?”


His head slowly nodded a response. It was the pure truth, anyway. He felt horrible.

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The drive back home was always an hour or so of time alone; the late afternoon traffic and the softly approaching twilight became the perfect environment for her mental escape. But as the wife arrived closer and closer to home, the pleasant images and daydreams dissolved quickly and were instantly replaced by thoughts of her husband. She was worried about him. Last Sunday, he was too sick to join his congregation and for the past week he had ignored all phone calls directed to him. He hadn’t been eating, either. And the more she pondered his situation, the more alarmed his wife grew. It wasn’t a gradual change but the most abrupt transformation she had ever seen. It had happened from one day to the next.

As she pulled into the driveway and shut off her engine, she remembered the dinner she had left unprepared in the fridge, along with the mountain of clothes she had forgotten in the dryer. Her husband’s ailment was temporarily forgotten. A turn of the key led her into the house and she walked straight to kitchen. Putting her purse down on the counter, she opened the fridge and peered inside. Locating the uncooked rice and an assortment of leftover vegetables, she quietly began dinner. Chopping and peeling kept her busy. The dull task of cooking allowed her head to clear and, finally, she was able to somewhat relax. About fifteen minutes had passed, with the pans hissing and steaming, until the image of her husband popped back into her mind.  She hadn’t seen him yet. Where was he? She had seen his car in the driveway when she arrived, but something was out of place. Lowering the kitchen knife to the counter, she turned around to inspect the house. The complete silence became apparent to her for the first time. But she knew her husband was in the house. Uneasy, she sprinted to the living room and was relieved to find the television set droning quietly and casting colorful, muted light.

“Honey? I was worried about you, I didn’t know where you were!”

Walking toward the sofa, the wife felt her head tilt just slightly in an unconscious gesture of pity.

“You know that dinner is just about ready. Come on into the kitchen and tell me what’s on your mind, all righ-”

She stepped in front of the sofa hoping to find him napping, but instead she found an empty blanket and a glass of water on its side, spilling into the carpet.  Dashing back to the kitchen, she called his name.

“Darling, where are you?”

She found herself at the foot of the stairs, looking up and leaning her head forward.

“Are you upstairs?”

She was on the second story now, checking the bathroom. The small, tiled room was as clean and organized as she had left it that morning before work. He wasn’t there, either. Suddenly, as she was about to call his name once more, the wife was stifled by a fear she had never experience before.  The abrupt urge to be completely silent forced her hand over her mouth as she walked slowly toward the bedroom. There, she peered into absolute darkness. With legs frozen in place, the wife allowed her eyes to adjust to the shadows in the room before her. It was about a minute later until when she able to discern a dark figure sitting on the bed, in profile beside the nightstand. The figure’s head was cast downward. Faintly, she could distinguish the figure’s palms over its knees.

A sharp jolt of pain seized the wife’s chest and she, immediately, suppressed a horrified gasp. Petrified with her hand over her mouth, she gazed at her husband. A full minute had passed. As the minutes passed, she became aware of alarmingly long pauses between her husband’s breathing.  Finally, she lowered her hand and stepped forward. Turning on the light in the room, she burst out,

“What are you doing here all by yourself?”

He only raised his head, slowly, a few seconds later. Shrugging his shoulders indifferently, he rose up and, walking past her, left the room.