Out of Her Chrysalis
She placed her hot hand on the cold wood. The hinge squeaked in protest as the porch door flapped open. Linda Julip stepped out into the night and a raging storm. The rain pelted her face, soaked her hair, and made her white silk blouse translucent. The left heel of her pumps sank in a puddle and twisted. Linda went down and cried out as she fell. Now mud-covered, she lay in the nonstop rain. She sighed, and tears started to fall.
The thud of work boots hammered through the kitchen, into the small entrance, and out onto the porch.
"Linda!" The broad-shouldered man yelled. He scanned the back yard, his truck still sat where he parked before dinner. He looked toward the neighbor's house, lights still off. Their fight had not woken Jim and Gloria. This time. Then a movement caught his eye. There in the small flower garden by the porch steps lay his wife. Rain-soaked, and mud covered. "Linda, why would you say those awful things?"
He bellowed this last phrase as if it were her intention to hurt him. When in fact, she had come to the realization that this was not her life. Not the one she wanted. Not the life she was going to live another night.
"Awful? Making something of myself is awful," she said. The time to ask for his thoughts was over. Tonight's blow-up told her all she needed to know about Ned Julip. "I find something that fills me with joy. A few friends who want to spend a day at the park. Grab a drink. Or God forbid take a trip to Los Angeles." She squatted now and attempted to gain her balance. Instead, her lithe form lilted left and she caught herself, then stood. She brushed at her soiled dress and shrugged at the bare form her blouse revealed.
"That." Ned pointed at her chest. "That! There between your breasts. Right on your chest, over your heart for God's sake Linda. How could you have done that to yourself? To me?" Lightning flashed and he lifted his hands in desperation. A final plea for her to see reason. As thunder rolled in the distance, he pulled at the band of hair which circled his bald scalp. "Ahhhhhhhh! This ink man you visit. These friends you talk about. You think they are better for you than me? Better than your husband. Get back in the house Linda! We'll talk this over. You'll come to see how things are."
Mr. Corday was not some common ink man. He was an artist. Ned would never understand. She was just beginning to grasp this side of herself. The facts seemed to fall like raindrops and fill the space between them then. She had rushed into marriage with Ned because she hadn't known herself. All her friends had married, and some had given birth to their first child. She had believed marriage was the proper thing to do, according to her Mother and Father. The last five years of her being dissolved away with these truths, like her blouse going sheer against her cold skin in this relentless storm. She was now bare. She felt nude as a newborn babe. She felt fresh and new and alive. For the first time in years.
Without a word, she gave Ned a simple polite smile, turned on her broken heel, and hobbled toward the sidewalk. Her ride would arrive in a moment. They would drive through the night to Ben Corday's studio in L.A. to begin her transformation. Linda was gone. Lydia was coming.
THE END