I can almost look at his face now without cringing. It still gives me the chills when I see the dead man staring up at me from the photograph. Why I haven’t thrown it out is beyond me. I have come close several times, but for whatever reason, I fish him out of the garbage can and put him back in the bureau drawer to wait for another rainy day when I go looking though my memories again.

Every time I stumble across his face, one that I’d like to slap, I am forced to relive every moment of every torturous day that I was married to this man.

It was a love-hate relationship. I thought I loved Sean at one time, but I hate what he did to me. He made me believe in myself and then pulled the carpet out from under me. I never thought I was good enough to be a Callen. I mean, his family owned the funeral home and a furniture store in town. They had the nicest house on the largest riverfront property. Everyone wanted to be a Callen, but no one wanted to be an undertaker.

You see, it takes a certain kind of person to do that job, separating yourself from a dead person, especially one that you know. Sean was good at compartmentalization. He could be the man who sympathized with the widow over the lost loved one, and he could take the corpse down to the basement of our home, either cremate it or drain it of blood, sew the mouth and eyes shut, put makeup on the corpse so that those who walked by the deceased would say “he looks good.” I never thought any corpse looked good. They looked stiff and painted. The whole idea of embalming and displaying a body was abhorrent to me. I have chosen to be cremated. No funeral. If there were more like me, I would have put my husband out of business. I don’t attend funerals as a rule. Most of my friends know this about me. I am usually “under the weather” when it comes to funerals. I’m not too fond of cold ham, runny gelatin salads, dried up cakes, and sweet juices that come with the meal served after a funeral.

How I ended up being with Sean, I’ll never know. I think he chose me. I was enamored with the fact that the richest man in town set his eyes on me. I was employed at the furniture store when the senior Mr. Callen hired me right out of college. I moved back to Bennington, though I swore I never would. Sean was a few years ahead of me in high school, so we never met until the day he walked in the store to pick up his coffin order for the funeral home. All coffin deliveries were made to the furniture store; there was a loading dock. The funeral home was also Sean’s family home. They lived on the second floor of the grand house. The old ballroom had become the place to hold services. I’d heard there were prep rooms in the basement, along with a crematorium.

I accepted the delivery for Callen’s Funeral Home and left word that the order had come in. Sean walked through the door wearing a dark suit. The blackness of his suit offset by his dress shirt’s crisp white collar that lay close to his tanned face intrigued me. Sean was the picture of health and youth. It was hard for me to picture him in his avocation. He was the exact opposite of his father, who looked pale and wan standing next to his son.

“I’m here to pick up the funeral home delivery. Hi, I’m Sean Callen.” He held out his hand. I wondered where that hand had been. Hesitant, I did offer my hand in greeting.

I’m Isabelle. It’s nice to meet you.” I realized this was my boss’ son, so I went through with the formality despite my misgivings of Sean’s hand cleanliness.

I had heard of Sean Callen; rumors reported that he was quite the playboy in town. A good number of women in Bennington had dated him at one time or another. I resolved to be resistant to his advances and his charms because his reputation preceded him. I watched girls in the restaurant washroom on my break at the place where I waited tables during my evening job. They would be crying over Sean leaving them. Sean always took them to a nice restaurant and would end his relationship there, thinking they wouldn’t make a scene in a crowded place, and he was right. They were in the bathroom crying. That was his signature move. If you were going to Faldwell Steak House with Sean Callen, it was goodbye to your relationship, judging by the town gossip.

Sean had a nice car, a 1968 Mercury Cougar. Light yellow with a tan landau roof. He liked to drive it fast. I imagined it was because he had to drive the hearse so slow during funeral processions. His father would ride with him in the front of the hearse to assist him when moving a body into a church or through the cemetery.

I resisted Sean for over a year. I laughed at his advances and pushed him away while watching him take another girl for a while. I was alright with that decision because it took the pressure off me. I was now the manager of Callen’s Furniture Store. I couldn’t run the risk of losing my job if we broke up.

As I mentioned before, I didn’t want to move back to Bennington, but my father died while I was away at college. My mother was the reason I returned to my childhood home. I soon found out that having two jobs and living at home wasn’t my favorite choice, but it was in my mother’s best interest at the time that I stay with her. I hadn’t expected that I would hand over my power to her. No matter how old I got, I was still in the position of being her daughter, and I was sick of it.

The day Sean asked me out for the 50th time, I finally said yes because the thought of sitting home with my mother watching another episode of Bonanza repelled me. The doorbell chimed; Mother answered.

“Please, come in.” Sean looked uncomfortable, standing in the foyer as I peeked around the corner.

“I’m here to pick up Isabelle. I’m Sean Callen.”

“I know who you are. It’s so nice to meet you. Isabelle?” I came out to the foyer and pulled my shawl off the coat hook. Sean helped me drape it over my shoulders. He was very gallant, and I could see my mother was impressed with his manners.

“I’ll have her home by ten.” He opened the door for me. I rolled my eyes. I was 23 years old, feeling all of 15 again. Sean opened the car door for me; we drove away from my house slowly until he got far enough away, he stepped on the gas, and the cougar raced over the open road. I was both frightened and exhilarated. He appeared to be a very confident driver, and speed did not intimidate him. I began to wonder if anything ever intimidated Sean Callen.

Our first date went well. There was adequate conversation, and I did not find him boring or overly self-centered. We shared stories, and I enjoyed myself. Against my better judgment, I continued to accept his offers to go out. There was something about him that I couldn’t keep my distance. I liken it now as a moth to a flame. It knows it should stay away after being burned, but yet it is drawn to its death.

Sean courted me. He courted me hard. My mother was always in my ear; what a fine young man he was. Oddly enough, it was at Faldwell’s Steak House—which I now suspected would be the place I would get dumped—where Sean got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. I was shocked.

It seemed all eyes in the restaurant were on us. How could everyone know what was going on? Feeling pressured, I said yes—something I regret to this day. Everyone clapped and raised a toast to the newly engaged couple.

I was a virgin on our wedding night, something Sean knew about me. He sure made my first time was a memorable event. He was patient and kind, as I warmed to his touch.

No. That did not happen.

He grabbed me forced me to submit to him and told me this is what marriage is about, and that this act was my wifely duty to oblige him whenever he wanted to engage in it.

After he finished, I rolled over and cried myself to sleep. I had a romance novel idea of what my first time would be, not this nightmare. The thought of having Sean take me like that at will did not sit well with me. I think I started to plan his murder on our wedding night.

In 20 years of marriage, we never conceived a child. There wasn’t any reason for it, other than I think my body knew that bringing a child into this union was a bad idea. Sean had women on the side, something I encouraged so that he would leave me alone. I can’t tell you how many venereal diseases I had been treated for. He wouldn’t wear protection with his women or with me. I often wondered if he was sterile. I fully expected the day when some errant girl would knock on our door to accuse Sean of fathering her child.

Sean loved the power he had, and he loved being admired by everyone. Then his father died, and shortly after that, his mother, Sean was beside himself with grief. His parents had him late in life. They were in their late eighties, and the years of eating lobster thermidor and drinking Manhattans as a daily staple did nothing for their health.

He inherited the river house, which was also the funeral home. I didn’t want to leave our home in town. I didn’t want to live above a funeral parlor, nor did I want dead bodies lying below me in refrigerated drawers. But as usual, Sean got his way. I had no say in the marriage.

On Sean’s 50th birthday. I put on a party for him making his favorite foods. He invited everyone he wanted. I was horrified when I realized the only people he invited were his lady friends. How dare he shame me that way? The women wore their finery as he strutted around our home like a peacock in full display. I said something to him.

“You are the one that I spend the night with tonight,” he threatened. I can’t explain how horrible that felt. I knew he was going to debase me again. There would be no love in his act, only power. As the last partygoer left, I picked up the cups and dishes, loading them all in the dishwasher. Sean came weaving into the kitchen and put his arms around me.

“And now, for dessert,” he whispered in my ear. But it wasn’t a murmur of love. It was a threat he could take any part of me by force, and he knew this. My whole body shook. This treatment never got easier.

“Let me start the dishwasher, I’ll be right up,” I told Sean, stalling for time. He grabbed my hair and tipped my head back.

“I will wait in the living room.” I fought back the tears. How could I continue to endure this treatment; when would it end?

Everything in the kitchen was spotless. I no longer had excuses to linger, I prayed for my husband to have fallen asleep, but that didn’t happen.

“Come here,” he said. There was no love in his voice. It was an order, and I must obey. I stood before him when his leg struck out and hit me in the knee. It was something he’d learned in the service. I fell to the floor.

“Did you know you can break a man’s leg like this, or in your case, a woman’s?” I tried to move my leg; it was not broken. But something broke inside me; I was done.

“Get downstairs,” Sean ordered. I begged my husband not to make me go down to the prep room. I was scared and never went down there unless forced. He seemed to take pleasure in my fear.

***

I called the police the next day, late in the afternoon. I told them of my missing husband. I thought he was downstairs working all day as he was gone when I woke up, which was not unusual, but when I called Sean for lunch, he didn’t come upstairs, nor did he answer his cell; his car was in the garage.

The officer took my statement and searched the house. He asked to go down into the prep room and crematory. I told him that was fine, but I was afraid to go down there. He searched the area by himself while I remained upstairs.

Then the officer went outside while there was daylight left. He walked the property; there, he found Sean’s clothes folded in a neat little pile next to the river on the bank.

“He must have gone swimming in the river,” the officer deduced.

“Sean isn’t a strong swimmer. Oh my God, while I was sleeping, he went swimming?”

“We’ll get a dive team out here,” the officer assured me. There were some perks to being the wealthiest family in town. You got action for your tax dollars.

I poured on the tears, allowing the officer to walk me back to the house. In the 20 years I suffered Sean’s abuse, I never told a soul, not even my mother, God rest her soul. I knew that someday I would reach my breaking point, and I didn’t want anyone to point a finger.

Everyone in town knew Sean was a cheater, and when the police detective said something to me about Sean’s infidelities later in the investigation, I told them I had given my husband a surprise 50th party that night and invited all his girlfriends to the party, and that the detective was welcome to call them. I would put a list together of the ladies, as I was okay with our open marriage arrangement. I think I stunned the officer.

A boat with a hook dredged the river while divers with underwater lights searched. I played my part perfectly, begging them not to give up; I had to find my husband.

Many months later, Sean was declared dead. I sold the furniture store and the funeral home. What was I going to do with it? With the money from the sales, I bought a lovely home far away from Bennington.

***

I touched Sean’s picture that lay on the dining room table, remembering that night so long ago. Reliving the nightmare once again.

“Sean, please don’t make me come down here. I hate this place. I will go upstairs with you.” He told me to lay on the prep table. There, he tried to violate me. While he was preoccupied. I took a scalpel from the instrument tray next to the table and plunged it into his neck. I let him bleed out and crawled out from under him. After my panic attack subsided, I forced myself to calm down, remembering where I was and how Sean had forced me into all of those many ugly, debasing scenarios. All those scars embedded in my psyche.

The crematorium. This was the temperature gauge, this was the temperature to set it on, this was the crush bar to break up the big bones, this was the pulverizer, used to render the bones into dust. He used this speech to scare me as he abused me. All this waited for me if I “accidently” died.

I moved down the tunnel to the crematory. I turned on the furnace burners to 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit, letting it heat up to temperature. I rolled Sean off the table onto the rolling cart and wheeled him down to the oven. I put on a heat suit and watched as his body was pulled into the flames. Bright red and blue fire shot from above and below his body. The oven door closed once he’d been swallowed into the chamber.

It takes three hours to burn a human being. During that time, I cleaned up the blood and replaced the scalpel on the tray. I had three hours, and I used them wisely. When I opened the oven, the outline of Sean remained in the burned skeleton. I crushed his skull and rib cage with the iron tool, then scraped him into the cooling pan. When he cooled down, I put him into the bone pulverizer, watching as he was ground into a fine ash.

I felt guilty, but relieved. Sean was gone. I said the Lord’s Prayer knowing that I had taken Sean’s power, and he would be glorified by the many people who thought he was a nice person. It was the last funeral I attended.

I put the picture back into the bureau drawer. Sometimes I need to remember how bad it was so that I can forgive myself for what I’ve done. Sometimes I still chuckle when I think about the detective who stood before me in the formal living room with his arm draped over the fireplace, asking questions yet again on where I thought my husband was.

Sean was sitting on my mantle in a cheap vase inches from the officer’s elbow, right under his nose. If the officer had known anything about the funeral business, he would have noticed the cheap container and would have questioned why anyone running a funeral business would have the cheapest urn on their mantle, but it was all that Sean deserved.