25

Say Anything…But Don't Say Goodbye
By: Sara Griggs

I

Monte Dollar. He blew into my life like a tornado, and went out the same way.
What happened in between is history - but maybe it's worth repeating, just
so others can know how it feels to lose yourself, over and over, drowning in
love. And all it comes down to at the end is loss, loss of yourself and the man
you love.

(1.) The year was 1982. I, Marie Cheney, was at my senior prom. Paper
streamers, strobe lights, laughter and a loud, lousy band; kids dancing,
spiked punch and a too-stuffy gym full of celebration.

I saw Monte Dollar that night for the first time. My date, Paul Watson, was
joking with Karen my best friend, but I sat silently at our table, staring at
the tall, thin boy who slouched in the doorway, looking oddly out of place.

And yet. And yet he also looked vulnerable, almost like a little boy lost. His
faded jeans and black shirt were skin tight, molding his body, a perfect
physique. Nothing was missed by me - the longish raven hair, surly lips in a
half sneer with a dangling cigarette. He stared back, hypnotizing me.

Paul saw my mesmerized eyes, and commented, "I wonder what Monte Dollar
is doing here? He flunked out last year, and I heard he was fast becoming a
cheap drunk."

"Yeah, he's a creep all right," Tommy affirmed, grabbing Karen's hand and
pulling her out to the dance floor.

I had only been at Eleventon High School for my senior year, and had never
set eyes on Monte Dollar. My folks were both career Army material, and I
was lucky to be anywhere an entire year.

Monte Dollar flipped his cigarette down, casually crushed it under his heel,
and then looked directly at me.

Paul asked, "Wanna dance?"

"Uh, not now. How about more punch?" My eyes were locked into Monte's.

Paul left and I got to my feet. It was crazy (a word that popped up often in
relation to me and Monte) but I felt magnetically drawn to Monte Dollar.

He smoothed a black curl from his forehead as I approached, then moved
from the doorway into the dark night outside.

I followed, almost trancelike.

He didn't speak, only slumped against the building.

I was nervous but managed to say, "Hi. I'm Marie Cheney and I..."

"What? Thought I might want to dance?" He snickered derisively, but his
voice was pure velvet.

"Uh..." I stammered, going silent.

He swung around, his height dwarfing my petite frame, and put a firm grip on
my shoulders. "Hey little girl, don't you know I'm bad news?"

Now I could see his face in the gym lights. I felt weak, looking into those
denim-blue eyes - like I was melting butter. The dark curl was back on his
forehead, and he swiped it away distractedly.

"Don't," I said impulsively, reaching to touch the boyish curl of hair.

He caught my hand and for just a brief second, held it to his face. Then he
pivoted away from me and said, "Go back to the prom, little girl."

I watched him leave, stalking across the wide empty yard. But when I
rejoined the group, I still felt his touch, saw his surly grin, and heard that
velvet voice.

Later, Paul told me Monte Dollar was a lost cause; the son of drunks...brutal,
abusive parents, both of whom had perished in a car wreck. A bad egg, Paul
confirmed.

And I knew he was probably right - but the lostness in Monte's denim-blue
eyes haunted me in my dreams.

(2.) Of course, I saw Monte again - only it was several months later. I'd
taken a secretarial position after high school, and gotten my own apartment.
My folks were on the move again, and as an only child, I'd decided to put
down roots in Eleventon, Georgia.

I was driving home one afternoon in late October, enjoying the brilliant
colored fall leaves, when I saw a male hitchhiker. At first, I ignored him -
but then as I came closer, my heart leaped crazily. It was Monte Dollar; no
one could mistake his tall, lean build and cocky walk, his cool, nonchalant
demeanor.

I pulled my VW off the road, and motioned to him. For one terrible moment,
he hesitated; but then, he opened the car door and slid inside. He grinned
and said, "I just need a ride to the next gas station."

I nodded, holding my breath. He didn't remember me.

I drove off, disappointed but wondering why.

The ride was short, and I pulled into a small Texaco station. "Here you are,"
I mumbled.

"Thanks," he said, opening the door.

I felt my heart pound with expectation as he walked around to my side,
leaned in the window and grinned. His eyes searched mine as though he saw
something even I was unaware of. "I do remember you, little girl. Remember
you, dreamed of you...hell, you been with me since that prom night."

I was stunned, unable to speak.

He continued, "And damn if you don't come along, fall right into my life
again."

His voice was deep, smooth with a velvet quality that reminded me of Elvis
Presley. I gulped and said, "Uh, I...I remember you too." My shyness was
legendary, and now it held me captive.

He stood, stretched his arms overhead and squinted at the dusty Texaco
building. "Better get to a phone and call a wrecker."

"Car trouble?" I asked.

"Yeah, you could say that. I lost it in a curve last night, didn't even know
where I was when I woke up in the floorboard this afternoon."

I could see he was hung-over, a bristly beard shadowing his face, his eyes
bleak and bloodshot.

I blurted out, "I could probably drive you home."

He leaned against my car. "Are you sure you want a no-good like me hanging
around?"

I looked at him then, and all I saw was the little boy lost. I thought he
needed someone to care, a sheltering warmth, love, kindness. Suddenly my
heart ached deeply, the pain swelling painfully inside me. I said softly, "Get
in, I want you in my life."

(3.) And so it began.

I took Monte to my apartment and felt as though I'd died and gone to
heaven.

Monte Dollar needed me.

He was innocently needy, never pushy. From the first, I was the one who
insisted he stay in my spare bedroom after he confessed to being homeless.
I cooked special meals, and he ate ravenously. I bought him decent clothes,
and his rough-edged, haggard look mellowed out, made him appear healthy.

I nurtured, and he accepted.

Weeks passed, and I had lost all interest in Paul who was away at college
anyway and only a letter-boyfriend.

At night, sometimes I'd tiptoe into his bedroom and secretly look at Monte.
He'd be lying on his back, long arms thrown off the narrow bed, the curly
lock of hair on his forehead. l'd stand there, almost afraid to breathe for
fear I'd awaken and it would all be a dream.

Best of all, Monte had been stone-cold sober since the day he came to my
apartment.

One day I bumped into Karen and Tommy; they were engaged, and planning to
marry at Christmas. Karen insisted I have lunch with them, and since no
excuse came to mind, I agreed.

They were deeply in love, happily planning a secure financial future with all
the conservative conventions. We ate a quick pizza, and afterward, Tommy
returned to work at his dad's insurance office.

Being Saturday, Karen and I shopped all afternoon. When we were ready to
part, she instead suggested dropping by my apartment for a beer - to
unwind and share as friends.

I could hardly refuse, but tensed up at thoughts of her seeing Monte.
Strangely though, he wasn't there - but Karen was no dummy. She spied the
razor and shaving cream in my bathroom, then Monte's dirty clothing in the
hamper.

"What gives?" She bluntly questioned, staring daggers at me.

I felt a hot blush of discomfort and tried halfheartedly to lie, but finally
blurted out all the details.

Karen was aghast; she asked shrilly, "Have you lost your mind? I knew Monte
all through school, and he's a hopeless case, just like his parents!"

"You don't know that!" I screamed, wildly defensive. After all, I was
protective of Monte! "He hasn't had a drop of liquor since he's been here!"

"Are you two sleeping together?"

The words cut me deeply; tears stabbed my eyes and I blinked them away
furiously. "No!

"Well, thank God! At least you aren't in love with him," Karen concluded.

She then proceeded to lecture me thoroughly about how impossible Monte
was - how totally, irrevocably he was locked into a downhill, destitute
existence.

While I wanted to argue, I didn't. What was the use? She didn't understand
Monte like I did; Karen didn't know what he needed, but I did.

When she finally left, I was exhausted and upset about our friendship. Karen
would never accept what I was now slowly realizing: I was falling in love with
Monte Dollar!

Monte didn't come back for a week, and I thought I'd go out of my mind
with worry. I couldn't eat, slept only a few hours before dawn, and my job
was taking a backseat to it all. Fortunately, the boss was compassionate and
told me to go home Thursday night, and take a long weekend.

Monte staggered in before daylight Friday, looking like a tramp. His clothing
was soiled and sour, like his breath, and those denim-blue eyes were
bloodshot and bleary.

Without a word, he looked at me sadly, solemnly and then big tears leaked
from his eyes. I was furious, but those eyes! Oh God, I ran to him and for
the first time, I hugged him, kissing his face, softly wiping away his tears.

Monte finally put his arms around me, and his velvet voice choked in his
throat as he said, "I saw you and Karen that day, coming up the sidewalk. I
knew she hated me, and I couldn't let her see me here. It would have hurt
you!"

My heart bled for him and I pulled him down onto the old, faded sofa. We
sat there, and I said, "Don't you realize you are more, much more important
to me than Karen ever will be?"

He remained silent, eyes downcast.

"Oh, Monte..." my voice broke and I felt helpless to express the depth of my
love in that moment.

He kept staring, disbelief written in his furrowed brow. The curl was wiped
away from his forehead, and I caught his hand; he pressed a soft gentle kiss
on my fingers.

We looked into each other's eyes; love speaks its own language.

He went to shower, and then slept all day. That night Monte took me to a
nice, but inexpensive restaurant. He had money, not much, but enough for
the modest meal of "hamburger steak."

With candlelight and wine, the food was of no concern. We saw only one
another. Later we strolled leisurely down the street, walking back to my
apartment. And I knew, I just knew this was the beginning.

Monte, his velvet voice crooning, told me of his hard life, his brutal, abusive
parents, and what he thought of as his doomed future - until he met me.

"Honey, oh honey Marie...with your beauty, those tender brown eyes, that
long, long chestnut hair...you made me love you," he whispered into my ear.

I was aching with love I never knew existed, my heart, my soul; I was swept
away on a current of joyous glory.

Monte asked hesitantly, "Marie, could you ever love me?"

I had never been aggressive, but I said firmly, "Yes, and I want to now."

He stood and gently lifted me in his arms, carrying me to the bed. And oh, he
was so tender, so ardent but hesitant, so eager but afraid - and his
patience in pleasing me, as a virgin, was a sweet, endearing but searing
sensual experience.

We showered together, and made love over and over all night, as though
we'd never, ever get enough of this paradise.

Dawn lit the bedroom, a pale, pale pink promise washing over us. Monte
asked, "Will you marry me?"

"Yes," I sighed, convinced I was the luckiest, happiest girl alive.

II
(1.) We had a simple wedding, just a trip to a justice of the peace. My folks
had been unable to attend, but sent a big fat check as a wedding present.
Monte had friends in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and suggested we drive there
for a honeymoon weekend.

It was beautiful, the fall leaves cloaking mountains of Chattanooga in
dazzling, dizzying contrasted colors. We saw Lookout Mountain, rode the
incline train and stayed in a quaint old house that rented rooms to tourist. I
kept thinking I'd fallen into a romance novel - my favorite reading material.

Sunday, Monte located his two buddies, and we dropped by their apartment.
Both guys were struggling musicians, and struck me as shiftless. They
offered us some pot, but I refused. Monte's eyes revealed a gleam of
anticipation, but he quickly hid it.

Later, after we made love in the afternoon, Monte seemed restless. He
paced around, helping me pack our suitcase.

We loaded the VW, and started through Chattanooga after dark. Monte
drove slowly, being uncommonly quiet. Unexpectedly, he pulled into a small,
deserted park and stopped.

"What's wrong?" I questioned.

He looked at me, his face drawn, tense and sad. "I almost dread going back
to Eleventon...all I got there are bad memories."

I understood; no one in Eleventon would ever give him a chance. The town
judged him by his parents. Suddenly I exclaimed, "Why go back there
anyway?"

He sighed deeply, shrugged. "Your job, the apartment..."

"Sure, but I could find another job and it wouldn't take long to pack my
stuff into a U-Haul."

Monte groaned, his arms reaching for me. "You'd do that for me? Move
away..."

"There's nothing I wouldn't do for you Monte. Besides, I've lived all over the
world, so it's no big deal."

I felt his grateful embrace, and denied the tiny pain in my heart. Moving
would be difficult; I wanted roots. But we could start over fresh somewhere,
and grow our own roots, together.

(2.) And that's what we did - choosing as our new home, Chattanooga, since
we'd been so happy there. It wasn't difficult to adjust - we found a cozy
apartment in an older house, the landlady beaming at newlyweds. My job
search was fruitful, landing me in a lawyer's office as clerk to the legal
secretary, Juanita Wisener. Monte got a part-time spot as a gas station
attendant, something he vowed to improve on.

We settled into a quiet routine, happy and content - or so I thought. About
six months later, Monte didn't come home from work one night. He did
sometimes 'rap' with his two musician friends (Bobby and Joe); they had a
trio in which Monte contributed as a country music singer. However, Monte
had never performed in public - just improvised for his friends.

I'd heard Monte sing, and realized he had talent; his velvet voice was a cross
between Elvis Presley and Mac Davis, maybe even tinged with a little Waylon
Jennings. That crooning touch was unique, and I'd dared encourage him; but
he'd professed stage fright, and seemed too insecure for performing.

Anyway, I phoned Bobby, and got no answer. By midnight I was in a frenzy,
walking the floor in panic. A car screeched to a halt outside, and then
boisterous male voices erupted. Pounding on the door, and then Joe's twangy
voice, "Open up Marie!"

I saw Mrs. Hyatt's kitchen light come on; our landlady was caring, but also
nosy. I hurriedly jerked open the door and saw Monte draped between Bobby
and Joe.

They struggled inside, depositing a drunk, incoherent Monte on the sofa. I
was too relieved for anger, and rushed to Monte, smoothing away his dark,
disheveled hair from a blotched, whiskey-flushed face.

"What on earth is going on?" I demanded from Bobby and Joe.

They shuffled their feet around, looking everywhere but at me.

"Uh, Marie...it ain't our fault. Monte, he's got a big problem..."

"Don't start that business about Monte's drinking! He's been sober almost a
year, so what is this?"

Joe grunted and shifted his bloodshot eyes over me. "Monte done it. He got
up there at the joint, and laid out a song."

"Yeah, them gals was creaming their pants when he sung that old Waylon
Jennings song, 'Rambling Man.'"

I stared at them hard, then said, "Help me get Monte to bed, and then tell
me how he got like this."

We managed to settle Monte, and the boys told me the whole story. After a
couple of sets, the club had offered the trio a permanent spot on weekends.
They'd all celebrated with a drink, only Monte didn't stop with just one -
he never did.

After they left, I sat alone pondering the situation. I knew Monte was a
talented singer, but couldn't ignore his alcoholism. To be in bars, clubs and
booze-filled places while performing was a dangerous risk...but maybe AA
could be the answer?

(3.) "Oh Monte, please," I implored, gazing into his anger-burned blue eyes.

"No way Marie! I'm not a drunk, and damn sure ain't joining a bunch of bums
to...to..." He jumped to his feet, balling his hands into clenched fists. "You're
just jealous cause I got a gig!"

I couldn't believe this irate, insulting stranger was my Monte! What
happened to the vulnerable boy I married?

He was suffused with righteous indignation, and started pacing restlessly. "I
need to get out of this, this little box!"

"Box? I thought you wanted a home, and now it's just a...a..." Tears
threatened, and I swallowed to keep my voice from breaking. "Monte, please,
AA has helped others...it's no shame to seek help."

In a flash, he lashed out and slapped my face; I reeled from the blow, falling
back onto the sofa.

He growled, "Leave it be, I'm not a drunk!"

With that, he wheeled around and stalked out the door.

I didn't see him again for a week, during which time I veered between
disbelief, grief, hate, love and finally, denial. Monte had hit me, but it was
only because I provoked him. Maybe I deserved it?

Oh Monte came back - yes indeed. He was dressed well, clean jeans and
checked shirt, cowboy boots and hat. When I opened the door that Sunday
morning, my heart melted all over again. There he stood, the unruly black
curl on his forehead, a twinkle in his denim-blue eyes and a contrite smile
curving his surly lips. He lowered his head, saying, "Marie I'm sorry for what
I did. I, I...miss you honey."

Suddenly he produced a beautiful, fragrant bunch of red roses, holding them
out to me as a peace offering. A boyish grin lit his face, and I opened my
arms to him.

We spent that Sunday making love, over and over, all forgiven and forgotten.
Monte could melt me with his love, his passion - his neediness too. I was
sinking into a kind of quicksand; Monte Dollar was a grasping, engulfing,
mesmerizing wave I was riding down into my own surrender of self.

(4.) A year passed, and Monte's weekend gigs turned into week long stints
at rundown, lowdown dives. The trio was dubbed, "The Dollar Blues" - Bobby
and Joe taking backup roles as instrumentalists, reluctantly allowing Monte
top billing as the singer. Monte had the charisma, the oozing charm that
brought women in by the droves.

I sat at home alone most of the time; Juanita came over to keep me company
sometimes. She was in her 30s, single and lonely, so we built an easy
friendship.

My folks visited during our second Christmas; Monte was a big hit with them,
but of course, he was sober, and exuded that boyish charm, winning both
when he sang daddy's favorite country song, Merle Haggard's "Okie From
Muskogee."

I occasionally watched Monte perform but it always made me anxious.
Without fail, he topped off each set with a rolled joint and vodka. Most
nights, he slipped in so late I never saw him smashed, but the times I did
were horrible. He'd hit me several times when I'd mentioned AA, and once
he even knocked me down. That brought a rash of nerves and fear - but I
eventually rationalized it away.

Oh sure, I knew it was wrong but Monte still had a deep, deep need for me.
Sometimes he'd be sad, so blue...and he'd lie in my arms, crying, sobbing
about his past, the misery he'd suffered from abusive parents. Once he
confessed his dad had held him in a clinch, a knife to his throat.

I mean, no wonder Monte was mixed up, sometimes losing control. But I knew
I could help him, even without therapy or AA. He just needed my love, like he
so often told me.

That spring, Monte had an offer in Nashville. It was another low-class honky
tonk, but being in "Music City" made it tempting. The night he told me, I got
sick...sick at heart. Was this going to end up as a traveling stint? I wanted
roots, one place for all time! That had always been my dream, to settle down
in one place. But the excitement in Monte's blue eyes, dancing with hope,
made me weak. I fell under Monte's spell, weaving his web of hypnotic sexual
rapture.

He left, stayed gone two weeks, and returned for me. I quit my job, telling
Juanita the news. She seemed sad - and later I found out why.

I had been busy running errands, getting all the loose ends of our move tied
up, and dropped by Juanita's apartment to say a final farewell. After ringing
her doorbell several times, I turned to leave. Suddenly I heard music...and it
was Monte's velvet voice accompanying it!

I slipped around to a window, and peeked inside.

Monte was crooning to Juanita, both of them stark naked in bed!

Something snapped in me; I ran to the front door and when I discovered it
was locked, I went to the back door. I got in and walked quietly down the
hall, and then boldly flung open the bedroom door, making a dramatic
entrance.

Monte was drunk, and Juanita was nibbling on his ear; she looked up at me,
frozen in shock.

Then to my utter horror, I burst into a torrent of tears. Shaking madly, I
crumpled to the floor, mumbling, "How...how long has this been going on?"

Juanita recovered enough to throw a sheet over Monte, and wrap one around
herself. "Oh God Marie, what are you doing here!"

Monte moved awkwardly, drunkenly to gaze at me sadly. "My Marie," he
managed to say. And then he fell back, out of it altogether.

I jumped up and ran, ran, ran, hysterically wondering what was happening to
my life? I was numb for the several days Monte stayed away. By the time he
returned, I was heavily into denial (my ever-constant companion of late).

Oddly, Monte and I never mentioned the incident; we couldn't discuss his
affairs, even though I had long been aware of his many admiring female fans.
I told myself that it was Juanita's fault, that she'd betrayed me. Monte had
been dead drunk, and I used that as an excuse for his behavior.

(5.) We moved to Nashville, Bobby and Joe our only known friends. At first,
we rented a room in a boarding house. The band was earning only a meager
sum, so I looked for work. But I didn't find anything. Worse, the gig was
going sour within a few weeks. Bobby and Joe apparently tired of Monte's
popularity at their expense, and walked out on him.

Alone, Monte was lost, as always. He sang a few nights with other backup
bands, but quickly faded. Within two months, we were penniless in Nashville,
having sold our furniture for cash flow.

I wanted desperately to return to Chattanooga - and yet the sordid memory
of my trusted friend's betrayal was a bitter barrier. I just seemed lost
myself, and this somehow angered Monte.

One morning we awoke and didn't even have money to eat breakfast. Monte
was in a raunchy mood, and snapped at me a few times, then left the cheap
room we'd taken in a fleabag hotel.

I sat in that stark room all day, finally realizing we would soon be on the
street, homeless. I was a wreck, thin and nervous, a pale shadow of my
former self.

Monte came in that night roaring drunk - but he also was enraged. I'd never
seen this side of him; he was furious, and cursing.

I tried to soothe him, but my actions only served to provoke him. He flung
his lanky frame on the shabby bed, cursing, "Godamn this shit!"

I lay down near him, and suddenly he leaped atop me. Almost in a frenzy, he
jerked my blouse hard, then ripped it off me. His wild eyes chained me, and
he tore off my pants.

Rape was a word that ricocheted through my mind as he savagely, brutally
forced me into sex; and when I resisted, he slapped me repeatedly.

Afterward, Monte fell off me and I was whimpering; he then towered over
me, still enflamed. I wanted to hide, but he frantically seized me, throwing
me bodily against a wall.

The last thing I heard was his rage-choked voice: "I'm going to kill you,
bitch!"

"Marie, Marie..." the male voice prodded, "are you..."

"She's unconscious," a crisp, precise female voice declared.

I drifted in dark doom, somewhere beyond hope, going under, under...unable
to fight.

Sharp pinpricks of stars lit my deep dark, and gradually I pried open my
eyes.

The dazzling sunlight forced me to blink, over and over, and then I slowly
focused on the room: white, and antiseptic-clean. Hospital.

"Oh honey Marie," a sob, a choked muffled cry and then Monte came into
view.

I'd seen Monte at his best and his worst, but here stood a man clearly
wasted. He was unshaven, bleary-eyed and groaning, moaning in a guttural,
agonized voice.

I slowly moved my lips but words didn't come out, only another moan like
Monte's.

A nurse appeared, bending over, touching my forehead. "Mrs. Dollar, you've
had a bad fall and were unconscious. Can you hear me?"

I nodded, my mind wrapped in fuzziness: A bad fall?

By the time I was dismissed from the hospital, I'd finally accepted my dire
situation. I was an abused wife! Somehow, I had to get away from Monte.
But HOW?

It wasn't as if I didn't love him - I DID! With all my heart. Before I could
ever escape my situation surely I'd have to stop loving Monte Dollar? Oh, I
pleaded with him about AA, and he promised to attend meetings. In fact,
he'd even gotten a job as a mechanic, and found another decent two-room
apartment.

I had hope, and besides Monte had sworn it would never happen again, that
he'd lost control because of our financial problems and his inability to find
work. I believed every word he uttered...because I wanted to believe him.

The first night I was out of the hospital, Monte clung to me desperately,
begging, "Oh my honey Marie, I need you so bad. You're my world, the only
one who ever believed in me..."

Later, he made sweet, sweet love to me, and then sang, 'Are You Lonesome
Tonight,' ending it with tears.

How could I deny Monte another chance?

III
(1.) The following summer in Nashville was a roller-coaster ride; Monte
peaked and bottomed-out so often I lost track. My emotions simmered like
the hot city air - bottled up steam, unable to escape.

I managed to get hired as a check-out clerk in a downtown grocery; my
meager salary kept the wolf from the door, but little else. Monte would
bring in money when sober and working, then beg on streets for a drink when
he was hooked on booze again. All the while, I grew more restless, reckless
and rattled.

The nasty scenes were countless and continuous: a drunken, mean Monte
slapping me around. Then a sober, controlled, contrite Monte - a vulnerable
"little boy lost" pleading on bended knee.

I admit candidly I was a fool. Everyone who came in contact with us sooner
or later took me aside and pointed out my idiocy. And deep down, I agreed
with their wise counsel. But then I'd look into those denim-blue eyes, wipe
away the errant lock of hair on Monte's forehead, and drown in his promises.
He'd melt me like a flame held to a candle, and my reasoning was nothing
more than a puddle of wax at his feet.

One night in late August, Monte got a spot at a little dive downtown. He
insisted I come down and watch; a new group in town had invited him as their
singer.

Reluctantly, I dressed in my only good yellow linen dress, and caught a taxi.
Actually, I was surprised by the place - it was rather charming, a real hard-
core country music smoky cavern, but clean and well-managed. A neon sign
proclaimed, DAD'S TAVERN.

When I sat down near the small stage up front, Monte came from the back
and brought me a tall, frothy beer. He was completely straight, but hyper.
Monte always got stage fright.

I sat there and listened to Monte's velvet-Elvis voice croon for over an hour.
The band was perhaps the best backup ever; they had a unique sound which
enhanced Monte's talent.

He ended the set with an old Mickey Gilley song, 'Stand By Me,' and he
sang it directly to me, as though we were all alone. His charismatic persona
was overwhelming; I wasn't the only woman who longed to be in his arms. But
I was the only one who got to be later that night.

You see, when Monte was high-rolling he was like a spring dream and any
woman would surrender willingly. And that special magnetic magic was worth
all the down times, cause I always knew they would return.

Or so I thought so.

(2.) It was a tough winter; Monte lost his sparkle and hit the skids real bad.
Once he didn't come home for a whole month, and I finally found him at the
city's homeless shelter.

God, what a mess he was! Foul breath and foul looks - hair past his chin, all
down on his forehead, a scraggly beard and soiled, unwashed clothes.

I took him home naturally, and got him off the booze and on his
feet...fortunately in time for Christmas. My folks visited, and somehow
Monte and I convinced them everything was fine with us. My dad did keep
teasing me about having a baby, and mom's eyes shone with expectation. But
I knew only a moron would get pregnant in such a marriage. I merely grinned
mysteriously at their hints.

Somehow, that topic must have sent Monte into another black spin. The
afternoon my folks left, he went out and brought back liquor, lots of it. He
proceeded to drink, drink and drink, almost falling into a stupor. I kept quiet,
not daring to provoke him.

Around ten, he fell asleep; I went to bed. Then he woke me during the early
morning hours, and he was crying, his voice sad and hurt.

"Honey Marie, I'm still no good for you. Can't give you kids..." He lay beside
me, his sobs deep and tortured.

I tried to reassure him, but he said, "Don't you get it Marie? All those
people in Eleventon were right about me. I'm just like my rotten folks!"

"No, you're not!" I began, but he rolled over and silenced me with a kiss.

"Yes I am, but you are the only love, the only joy in my life. I wouldn't want
to live without you Marie."

Then he wove that sensual spell around me, and we spent the next day
enraptured by sex and our powerful erotic attraction to each other.

(3.) By the next fall that night seemed like a faraway dream. We were both
unemployed and living in a city shelter.

Monte had been drunk so long I'd forgotten him sober; I'd lost my job, and
couldn't find work. We were at rock bottom.

Or so I thought.

But the blackest time came in winter. I tried to leave Monte, and after an
especially brutal beating in front of the other shelter people, was admitted
to a home for abused wives. I didn't want to leave Monte, but the lady at
'Safe Haven,' Mrs. Ramsey, convinced me I had to - for both our sakes.

I missed Monte, especially his neediness, his dependence...but with daily
counseling, I was gaining some perspective. I felt a bit of my self-esteem
returning. Maybe my life could be restored alone, I thought.

Then Monte found me. Brandishing a switch-blade knife, he burst into the
home, and threatened to cut a woman's throat if I didn't go with him.

So it was sealed - our fate. I went with him, and he told me, "Marie, say
anything, but don't say good-bye."

BREAK HERE

IV
(1.) There was no denying our relationship had changed now; I felt more
captive, confined. Oh, Monte made a big show of apology, feigning regret
about his violent threat at the shelter. But I sensed we were walking a
tightrope, and the slightest imbalance would result in catastrophe.

Monte got a singing gig from midnight till dawn - a rough honky tonk outside
Nashville. However, it paid steady, so we rented a room at an old motel that
had been turned into apartments. The main highway lost its traffic when an
interstate bypassed the area, so this motel was forced out of business.

Spring blossomed, but the beauty of nature did little to enhance the sordid
motel room. I was cooped up during the days while Monte slept; but
sometimes I'd take a walk outdoors.

It was on one of these walks through the nearby woods that I met Max
Brenton. He was around thirty, an avid nature lover and hiker: our paths
crossed by accident. Somehow, we got to talking and spent the entire
afternoon together. Mostly our conversation was general, about spring
beauty, nature - nothing personal. I found myself relaxing for the first time
in months.

Max was personable and outgoing; he was, I suppose, handsome in a
wholesome, blonde all-American way. He told me he'd been divorced a couple
of years - his wife was a career gal, ambitious to advance in the PR field.
She'd left him for a promotion in California. I thought he looked sad, but
also not the brooding, melancholy type. He cheered me up, and yet I never
confided my own marital problems.

Over the next few weeks, the afternoon walks became meetings, and turned
into a nice escape for me. I liked Max, I really did - but there was no spark
of physical attraction on my part, although he did flirt with me, which
helped my self-esteem.

One day we were sharing a friendly chat, Max sitting on a fallen tree limb,
and me on my favorite big rock near the creek, when a crashing sound
interrupted us. Max halted in mid-sentence and looked around. Suddenly
Monte came tearing through the woods like a wild bear on the loose, cursing
loudly. He made straight for me, jerking me to my feet and slapping my face
with a resounding whack! Max leaped to my defense, pulling Monte off me
and grabbing him in a dead-lock.

"You asshole! This is my wife" Monte growled, twisting and kicking.

Max let go of him, stunned. He paled slightly and asked, "Marie, are you
married?"

"Yes," I mumbled, shamed.

Max stood his ground though, saying, "Well you have no right to hit Marie,
even as her husband."

Monte was seething, his face flushed and furious. He exclaimed hotly, "Let's
go Marie!"

I dreaded what was ahead, but I certainly had brought it on myself.

Max pleaded for me not to go, but I put him off by saying. "Good-bye Max.
It's been nice knowing you, but we won't be seeing each other again."

Sure enough, Monte beat me within an inch of my life. He had turned into a
violent, dangerous man - someone I feared. For good measure, he tied me to
a chair, and gave me a stiff, uncompromising lecture.

"Marie, you make me crazy sometimes! Hell, I don't like having to do this,
but it's your fault. You are my wife dammit, and I ain't putting up with no
shit!"

I couldn't speak. My mouth was too swollen from the blows; my eyes were
tiny slits in black circles.

"You married me honey Marie, and it's a lifetime deal! You ain't saying good-
bye to me!"

He left me tied in the chair, and I spent a tortured night while he was gone
singing. What would become of us? Although I'd never really wanted to leave
Monte, I was now aware I couldn't. His implied threat of killing me held sway
through those miserable hours.

By daylight, I had cultivated a sense of urgency. Somehow, some way I had
to get away from Monte before one, or both of us, wound up dead.

(2.) The prime consideration was how? How could I leave Monte, and rid
myself of his hold on me?

I'm sure I wasn't the first woman stuck in this mess; domestic violence had
come out of the closet, and former abused wives, husbands, children, sat on
TV talk shows discussing their harrowing ordeals as if immune to the
insidious violence again.

But I was different - I had practically asked for such a predicament by
luring and marrying Monte! Hadn't I been warned by Karen, Tommy and many
others in Georgia? My stupidity was only surpassed by my gullibility, I was
trapped!

And then one day the answer came like a flashfire in my mind: I would have
to kill Monte before he could kill me. It was the only way, the only out.

So, I set about working on a plan. Immediately I realized lots of abused
wives got off scot-free after killing their husbands in self-defense, and
hadn't lots of people been witness to my abuse at the hands of Monte?

I thought about it so much Monte finally started questioning me about my
silences - as if he thought I might be going off the beam. But I pacified
him before he got wound up enough to beat me again.

Monte wasn't unappealing; quite the contrary, when sober he was the same
'little boy lost' I'd fallen for. He'd even surprise me occasionally with sweet,
tender gestures - like buying me roses or singing a romantic song to me and
then making love so passionately that I lost all murderous ideas.

Of course, then would come his falling, failing mood, resulting in another
beating, and I'd be all fired up again. Finally, Monte did something that
pushed me over the brink and into action.

It was my mom's visit that done it. She came to our hovel that summer and
was appalled. She saw clearly what had recently transpired; I was all black
and blue, and she went white with fury. Vowing to take me away, mom
marched down to the dive where Monte was singing and gave him a piece of
her mind. Monte, all tanked up from the booze and flirtatious women, just
ignored her completely. But later when he got home, all hell broke loose.

Mom was asleep on the sofa, and Monte crept in, two floozy women crawling
all over him. He locked me in our bedroom, tying me to the bedposts. Then he
proceeded to parade those women in front of mom, and even forced her to
watch them have sex. Mom left the next morning, threatening to return with
my dad. I knew I had to prevent their involvement, so I put my long-labored
plan into action.

(3.) My only financial assets were a wedding ring, and a gold locket my
parents gave me for Christmas. All my other jewelry had been hocked, and so
I took these two items to a pawn shop in Nashville - a long, hot bus trip
both ways. The sleazy owner looked suspicious when I wanted to work out a
trade: my two pieces of jewelry for a .22 caliber handgun.

I finally convinced the old guy I was afraid of burglars, since my husband
had divorced me. He bought that bill of goods, but then as easy as it is to
get a firearm, I probably should have just walked into a gun store. I did want
the gun without waiting, so the pawn shop was my best bet.

I held the gun that night, getting the feel for it. I loaded it and would have
target practiced, except for fear of arousing attention. All night I stayed
awake, getting up my courage. By daylight, I was ready. Only Monte didn't
come home, and I was thwarted again.

That afternoon, I phoned my mom out in California and told her I'd be flying
out to join them soon. At least that stalled my folks' involvement.

Midnight then. I dressed in faded, tight jeans and flimsy t-shirt...a sure way
to provoke Monte.

Around 2:00 AM I sauntered into the smoky, noisy beer joint. Monte was
crooning an old Ricky Nelson favorite, 'Garden Party.' He saw me instantly,
locking eyes. I walked seductively through the hazy room, finally settling at
an empty table near the front. Monte ended the song, lit a cigarette and
nonchantly pushed the black curl from his forehead. He winked, at me, and
began, 'Are You Lonesome Tonight,' his velvet voice enveloping me.

For one split second, I melted inside: How could I kill Monte? I was still in
love with him! And yet, as I sat there I became aware of several young girls
giving Monte blatant come-ons. It nauseated me, and I ordered a drink - for
courage.

As the waitress set my beer down, a guy slid into the empty chair. "Hi ya
sweety. You alone?"

I saw Monte stiffen, almost losing the beat; this was going to be easier than
I thought. The young guy began chatting, and I played up to him.

Monte clenched his jaw: a muscle tensed in his throat.

I laughed, joked and teased the young man, but when he requested I join him
later, I leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Sorry, but I'm married."

He nodded, and left quietly. I'm sure it looked to Monte as if we were
arranging a rendezvous.

You see, Monte was constantly accusing me of infidelity - whether out of
his own low self-esteem or out of guilt at his own affairs, I didn't know.

Anyway, when Monte sang the last note of his set, he hurried to join me.
"Marie," he exploded, "what in the hell are you doing?"

"Oh, just payback time I guess," I replied tartly.

His denim-blue eyes widened in shock; I'd never dared to deliberately
provoke him before.

"How does it feel?" I asked.

Monte narrowed his eyes, and said between clenched teeth, "You're asking
for it!"

I stood and he jerked me back down: I stood again, and it brought him to his
feet, snarling, "Now you're gonna get it, bitch!"

The booze and my provocative behavior had worked - he came at me like an
unleashed tiger, and everyone in that bar saw it.

I fumbled in my purse. Pulling out the gun, I yelled, "Stop or I'll shoot!"

People ducked and some screamed.

Monte had a momentary flash of disbelief on his face, but kept right on
coming at me, probably convinced I'd never shoot him.

But I did, over and over and over...

V

Yes, Monte died. I'll never forget his stricken, sickened blue eyes - full of
disbelief and finally, betrayal.

Yes, I had the perfect alibi - a bar of full of people who saw Monte lunge
for me, and my self-defense with the gun.

Yes, the cops were understanding.

Yes, the DA wanted to go light on me, probation only.

But, you see, I couldn't carry out my final part of the plan: to go free.

I'd plotted and planned, and so I confessed to premeditated murder.

Why?

Because I brought it on myself - and I took an easy out. I killed Monte in
cold blood, and I deserve this life sentence in prison.

Sometimes it's lonely in here, but I cope.

After all, the only man I'll ever love is dead. There's no reason for me to be
free.

And I, Marie Cheney-Dollar, asked for all this...

Didn't I?