He had not struck her. He had never struck her. Not head-on, not deliberately. He had struck the air beside her head. He had struck the wall, maimed the wall beside her head, but he had never struck her.

Better for us all if we end it now. You, and me, and them. Now.

Shrinking from him, recoiling from the fist swung in the air beside her head, the woman had lost her balance, stumbled and fell—how was that his fault? Not his fault. Everyone knew she was a drunk. Junkie. Gained weight since the first pregnancy, thick ankles, aching veins, none of it his fault. Not the good-looking girl he’d fallen in love with and married. She had tricked him. The children were not hers to take from him. He was praying with his eyes open. He prayed to them, Lucas and Esther who art in Heaven. Innocent children are in Heaven looking down upon the rest of us. Our earth is actually Hell—you look down upon it from Heaven. In a dream this came to him.

Holy Saturday is the day of liberation. Whipping his back raw with the clumsy rod he has fashioned. Blood streaming, itching, like ants streaming in open wounds.

Thank you, Jesus!—forgive me.

Another time it happens, skidding tires on black ice, the crash.

Another time, there is no way to stop it.

The truck is flung over like a child’s toy, tires spinning. Rolling downhill into the creek and into the litter sunk into the creek, and the children’s screams and his own screams mixed together in the stink of oil, gasoline, urine.

Another time, the screams, and then the silence.

Well—the children never stopped loving their Daddy, he is sure of that. They have never blamed him. They are in Heaven now and would not cast the first stone. No child would cast the first stone. The woman, she has cast the first stone. She has cast many stones. She will go to Hell. They will meet in Hell. They will clutch hands in Hell. They will throw their wounded bodies together in Hell. Their eyes will burn dry, sightless, in Hell. Their souls will shrivel like leaves in a pitiless sun, these leaves blown together across a broken pavement.

At the crossing-over time, such thoughts come to him. Between daytime and night.

For at this time he is not incarcerated in a filthy cell, but free to make his way along Strouts Mill Road. He is not driving the pickup. He is on his belly in the wet grass. He has eluded his captors, he is not what they think. The cunning of the snake, which has been the female cunning but has now become his.

Strength will come to him, the promise is he will soon stand upright, as a man is meant to stand.