The next installment in the memoir - please let me know what you think

The washer

There was the time that he threw his circular saw across our half finished deck. Then there was the time he ripped the screen off our sliding door in a rage. There were other instances of his anger exploding into a physical act of violence against some inanimate object or another, but for some reason I never felt like I was in danger. It was more a feeling of watching a 2 year old have a temper tantrum over being told “no.” I’d usually roll my eyes and leave the area. Later he would clean up and be a little astounded at himself and the damage he caused; almost like he hadn’t been there during the actual event. Even slightly impressed at whatever he’d thrown, how far it had gone. Fortunately, I just never happened to be in the way of the tool or other object on the receiving end of the damage.

But the washer was the last straw. I knew the end was near when the washer caused him to beat it completely unnecessarily.

Leaving Massachusetts and packing up not one but two moving trucks, and doing it while I was pregnant and unable to help out with lifting, was hard on him. He’d really never lived in another place for as long. But he sure was happy to leave. At least that’s what he led everyone – even me – to believe. We literally had each other at that point; no friends came over to drink a few beers or help wrap up the delicate items with us, or talk about coming to visit once we got settled. It was just him and I wrapping, packing, taping, labeling, throwing stuff away… then loading those trucks.

Naturally we had to use an appliance dolly to get our washer and dryer out of the basement. To this day I couldn’t tell you how he got them upstairs. My memory is fuzzy on whether he might have had someone helping or not. My instinct is to say he did it himself, but you ask, how would he? He did a lot of things that made me wonder how he accomplished them, though. I just know I didn’t do it and somehow both appliances got into the truck. And of course he did some of his truck packing in a fit of anger… I know now that it was actually the manic side kicking in.

So the washer and dryer didn’t get loaded gently, and the washer’s frame got bent badly enough that once we got into our new place in Michigan, the washer always sounded like it was off balance, regardless of the size of the load it had inside. I actually entertained people at gatherings by describing the sound it would make while washing.

I tried propping it up, leaning against it while it was washing, putting in smaller and smaller loads. Finally I gave up and ordered him to call for service on it. It was at one of the points when we actually had some money to pay for a repair and I took advantage of that.

The repair bill estimate came to $420. “Yer frame’s bent,” the guy said over the phone when he called me at work that afternoon. I sighed and put my head in my hand.
Not what I wanted to hear.

“But we only paid $500 for it new,” I said plaintively.

“Well, that’s what it’s gonna take to replace the frame. So I guess you need to figure that out.”

Yeah, thanks. We’ll do that.

We dealt with the washer for a few more days, until a manic mood hit him again. This time, in the heat of the summer, he put on a loaded tool belt (and how that didn’t make him fall over, again, I don’t know) and pulled the washer out of the linen closet it was in. He disconnected the water line, and then scooted it to the left, then the right, back and forth, waddling it out from behind the bifold door. With a huge crash, he pushed it over on its side. He pulled a hammer out of the tool belt and began whacking the frame with abandon. The noise this made brought me in from outside and as I came in from the back door, I see him standing wobbily next to the washer, just going to town on it like it insulted his mother.

“BRIAN! BRIAN!” I yelled over the din. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

He stopped hammering long enough to look around for the source of the voice. Seeing me, his eyes focused a little and responded, “Fixing the washer.”

He resumed pounding.

“STOP STOP STOP.” I came a little closer, but I honestly was frightened of his eyes when he saw through me like that. “The repair guy said the frame was bent.”

Gritting his teeth he looked at me and said, “So I am FIXING—IT--!” With these last two words he hit the frame so hard that the hammer actually bounced back off and almost hit him in the face. It threw him off balance and he had to grab the frame of the washer to right himself.

Now I was truly scared. He had no idea what he was doing. I grabbed the phone and went back outside. I dialed my parents’ house. My voice actually quivered. “Dad? Can you come over? Like right now? Brian’s beating the hell out of the washing machine with a hammer, and it’s honestly scaring the crap out of me.”

“I’m on my way,” said Dad.

But of course by the time Dad got there about five minutes later, the washer had ceased to have any interest for Brian and he was back in his shop quietly doing some taxidermy stuff. My dad and I stared at the washer and its new tattoos of hammer marks up and down the outside of the frame. Dad righted the washer and took care of getting it back into place. He didn’t connect it to the water line, however.
With a frown he said, “You can wash your clothes at our place until you can get a new one.”

I hugged him tightly. “Thanks Dad.”

“Just for the record, I don’t like this… what he’s doing… you know…” Dad pointed in the general direction of the taxidermy shop. “You are worth more than that. You don’t deserve it.” This was very strong language for my dad.

Wiping away the tears that had finally burst out of my welling eyes, I said, “I know. I know.” I shook my head, and it was then that I truly did know, I was worth something. I was worth saving. And now I had to make a plan.