something Zena did, and he struck hen-repeatedly. She was too stunned
to defend herself.
Afterward he was contrite, embarrassed, appalled by what he had done.
He wept and begged forgiveness. She was certain that his fit of
violence was an aberration, not ordinary behavior. Three weeks later,
however, he attacked her again, leaving her badly bruised and
battered.
Two weeks after that, when he was seized by another fit, he tried to
hit her, but she struck first. She rammed a knee into his crotch and
clawed his face with such frenzy that he backed off. Thereafter,
forewarned, always watching for the first sign of one of his oncoming
rages, she was able, after a fashion, to protect herself.
Zena worked hard at the marriage, trying to make it last in spite of
her husband’s explosive temper. There were two Conrad Strakers, she
hated and feared one of them, but she loved the other. The first
Conrad was a brooding, pessimistic, violence-prone man, as
unpredictable as an animal, with a shocking talent and taste for
sadism. The second Conrad was kind, thoughtful, even charming, a good
lover, intelligent, creative. For a while Zena believed that a lot of
love and patience and understanding would change him. She was
convinced that the frightening Mr. Hyde personality would fade
completely away, and that in time Conrad would settle down and be just
the good Dr. Jekyll. Instead, the more love and understanding she
gave him, the more frequently he became violent and abusive, as if he
were determined to prove that he was not worthy of her love.
She knew that he despised himself. His inability to like himself and
be at peace in his own mind, the frustration generated by his incurable
selfhatred-that was the root of his periodic, maniacal rages.
Something monstrous had happened to him a long, long time ago, in his
formative years, some unspeakable childhood tragedy that had scarred
him so deeply that nothing, not even Zena’s love, could heal him. Some
horror in his distant past, some terrible disaster for which he felt
responsible, gave him bad dreams every night of his life. He was
consumed by an unquenchable guilt that burned in him year after year
with undiminished brightness, turning his heart, piece by piece, into
bitter ashes. Many times Zena had tried to learn the secret that
gnawed at Conrad, but he had been afraid to tell her, afraid that the
truth would repel her and turn her against him forever. She had
assured him that nothing he told her would make her loathe him. It
would have been good for him to unburden himself at last. But he could
not do it.
Zena could learn only one thing: the event that haunted him had
transpired on Christmas Eve, when he was only twelve years old. From
that night forward, he had been a changed person, day by day, he had
become ever more sour, increasingly violent. For a brief spell, after
Ellen gave him his much-wanted child, even though it was a hideously
deformed baby, Conrad had begun to feel better about himself. But when
Ellen killed the child, Conrad sank even deeper into despair and
self-hatred, and it wasn’t likely that anyone would ever be able to
draw him out of the psychological pit into which he had cast himself.
After struggling for two years to make their marriage work, after
living in fear of Conrad’s rage all that time, Zena had finally faced
the fact that divorce was inevitable. She left him, but they didn’t
cease to be friendly.
They shared certain bonds that couldn’t be broken, but it was clear to
both of them that they couldn’t live together happily. She rode the
carousel backwards.
Now, as Zena watched Conrad venting his rage on the table, she realized
that most, if not all, of her love for him had been transformed into
pity. She felt no passion any more–just an abiding sorrow for him.
Conrad cursed, sputtered through bloodless lips, snarled, pounded the
table.
The raven flapped its shiny, black wings and cried shrilly in its
cage.
Zena waited patiently.
In time Conrad grew tired and stopped thumping the table. He leaned