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"The . . . the police," she stammered. "They had more questions." |
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Fred Markle snorted. "That's what you get for hangin' around with a damn slut like that." |
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Rosemary Markle knew her role in these episodes. It was one of silence, of forebearance, of restraint. She was not expected to respond to his outbursts but was expected to stand there and endure. And for that, she was grateful. His abuse, as bad as it was, was usually verbal, not like what had happened to her friend next door. |
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"Damn it," he snarled, "how long you gonna stand there? How long before you get yer skinny butt out in that kitchen and start fixin' me some dinner?" |
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The woman was relieved. She picked up her packages and went to the kitchen, turned on the gas burner under the heavy metal pot of potato soup and began setting the table. Within a matter of minutes, the repast was ready and she called him. |
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Fred Markle was a man of enormous proportions. He towered well over the six foot mark and his ponderous bulk topped the scale at or near the 300 pound mark. He moved with great difficulty, suffering from a litany of maladies that he complained about constantly. When he sat down at the table, the chair offered a noticeable chorus of creaks and other sounds of protest. |
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