Page 113 of A Thousand Painted Hours

The music changed, and we danced to that, too. His mood eased, and he kept up a happy patter of conversation about mostly nothing at all.

And then the wind knocked something down outside. With a crash, a projectile came through the window, struck me sideways and hit Peter in the ribs. He cried out in terror. I stumbled sideways, trying to see what had come through—

He slammed me to the floor, knocking the wind out of me. “Don’t move!”

“I can’t breathe! Get off me.”

“Shut up. You’ll get us killed.”

Struggling to regain my breath, I was seized with panic, struggling sideways back and forth, gasping and hurting from the weight of his body plastering me to the floor and the impact of landing on the tiles and whatever it was that had struck me. “It was the wind—”

He plastered a hand over my mouth, bending very close. “Not a sound.”

I began to weep, fearing for my life, and shoved at him with my hands against his shoulders, my knees against his legs. He pinned me harder, grabbing one arm above my head, pinning it to the floor, wrenching my shoulder.

I moved my head hard, dislodging his hand over my mouth. “Peter!” I cried. “Stop! You’re hurting me!”

“Stop resisting!” Spittle flew from his lips as he scanned the world around us. Leaning into my ear, he whispered, “They’ll hear us.”

Tears leaked from my eyes. His elbow bruised my forearm, and my lip was bleeding from his grip over my mouth. I stopped struggling, hoping he would regain his senses.

The radio played and the wind blew, and Peter kept me pinned to the floor for long, long minutes. It was the shift of the music that seemed to bring him to his senses. All at once he said, “Oh, God, Elsie. Jesus.” He scrambled backward, freeing me, and I rolled away, gasping to fill my lungs.

He bent to help me, and I waved him away, tasting the coppery blood in my mouth. “Get away from me.”

“Let me help you.”

“No.” I struggled to my feet. My hair fell in my face and my dress was twisted.

He stared at me in horror. “Jesus,” he said again. “I am so terribly sorry. Do you need a doctor?”

I waved him back with a hand and retreated to the bathroom, where I took inventory of my injuries—bloodied lip, the suggestion of bruises on my cheek, my hair askew. A bump grew on the back of my head, and I could feel the bruises on my shoulder and arm, as well.

Running a face cloth under cold water, I stared at myself in the mirror. He might have killed me. Hecouldhave killed me. Wiping away the blood, gently, I let the cold reality sink in.

Peter’s war experience had twisted him, and as long as he suffered these episodes, he was a danger—to me, to others, to himself. What could I do?

He’d been moody in England at times, but never dangerous. That had only started here. Perhaps something about Cairo triggered his memories. Perhaps—

My mother’s face floated over my reflection, as she’d tended a woman severely beaten by her husband, long ago in India. “A brutal man will never change, Elsie. Remember that.”

But Peter was not brutal. He was tortured. Was there no help for that at all?

I opened the door and found him in the living room, drink in hand, his expression bereft. As I approached, his eyes filled with tears. “Elsie, I can’t even—”

I shook my head. “No. I know you were not yourself.” I narrowed my eyes. “But I will not stay in the company of a wounded tiger.”

“Don’t leave me, Elsie. Please. I’ll find some help somewhere. Somehow.”

“I will not leave you.” I took a breath. “I owe you for rescuing me, and in light of that, I will remain your wife.” I paused to give my words weight. “But henceforth, I will be spending the night at my studio, and you will quit drinking.”

“Yes, of course. I felt so much better in the desert. Perhaps I should go back there, dry out, get my head together.”

“That is not a terrible idea.” I touched his arm. “I do think, Peter, this is not the best city for you. It seems to unnerve you.”

He looked away, suddenly looking a husk of himself.

“Do you want to talk about it?”