Luke Must Die

I haven’t very long to live so it’s time I made my confession. Emily and Aisha have long since left the mortal earth; their souls are now at rest in the afterlife. My only child died before she was born, denied entrance to this world by a blow to my belly, delivered like a bomb by my “beloved” Luke. So nobody will be hurt or inconvenienced by the truth.

I’ll start from the beginning, which I guess is always a good place from which to start. I was a naive country girl from Georgia when I met Emily. I had just settled in to my dorm room at New York University after kissing Mommy and Daddy goodbye and wishing them a safe trip home. The moment they left, I unpacked my victrola, placed my new Buck Owens “Act Naturally” 45 on the turntable and plopped down onto the bed. Buck was the best. I was in love with his cool new “Bakersfield Sound” and could listen to his tunes until the the grooves in the vinyl wore out. No sooner had the music begun and I lay back in my bed did the door open to admit a well-dressed blonde who looked like she must be the younger sister of Brigitte Bardot. When she heard the music and saw my belongings sloppily strewn all over the floor of the little room, her entire body tensed up like she was some Persephone about to enter her new winter home. She recovered quickly but the fleeting frown that crossed her face when she saw the little hick with whom she was to share a room told me that we weren’t going to get along. I’m sure that we each thought, simultaneously, “Oh, no, it’s going to be a long year.” We were both wrong, however. I guess that what they say about opposites attracting is the god’s honest truth; and we were about as opposite as they come. As I said, I was a country girl from Georgia who until that day had never been to a city larger than Macon, except for one visit to Georgia State University in Atlanta and several visits, as a child, to Savannah to stay with my Grandma.

I owned but one “fancy” dress which I wore to family affairs and my high school graduation; my prom dress was rented for the evening and most times I wore jeans and flannel shirts. A few weeks before I left for college, Daddy gave me a whupping for wearing too much makeup.

Emily, on the other hand, was a sophisticated New Yorker to the bone. She’d attended the Dalton School, an exclusive private high school on the upper East Side, where she’d earned top grades. She was familiar with what seemed to be every bar and club from Greenwich Village through the fashionable East Side, all the way up to Harlem. Her parents were as rich as Rockefellers and, what with their numerous trips to London and Paris and frequent vacations at their Long Island estate, Emily was usually on her own and free to partake in the city’s sensational nightlife. Her family name combined with her mature appearance to gain her admittance to even the most exclusive clubs despite her tender age. She had her choice of nearly any college in the country and chose NYU for its location in Greenwich Village.
Anyway, as I said, Emily and I were both wrong about it being a long year. We became best friends almost instantly and were nearly inseparable throughout our four years of college. She even got to like Buck Owens.

On our first night as roommates she dragged me to the Bitter End, a popular coffee house on Bleeker Street where we saw a shocking comedian named Lenny Bruce. The guy was so funny that I nearly peed my pants.

We returned to the club frequently, particularly for the Tuesday evening “Hootenannies” at which I became a fan of such legendary folk singers as Peter, Paul and Mary, Pete Seeger and Richard and Mimi Farina. My feelings were mixed the night I had to return to our room alone because Emily left the club and stayed the night with the amazing young singer who had performed earlier that evening. His name was Bob Dylan.

The night she loaned me a beautiful dress and dragged me to the Copa, she introduced me to Frank Sinatra and Joey Bishop who were family friends. After the two stars took their leave, a couple of middle-aged men joined us and bought us drinks. I think that they both had designs on Emily but didn’t know what to make of me. They may have been under the impression that I was her little sister.

One Friday a few weeks before Christmas, Emily returned from class with thrilling news. “A friend of mine said that he can get us into a private club in Harlem tonight,” she crowed. “Jerry Butler will be performing.”
“ Harlem?” I asked, timidly. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
Emily laughed. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll be fine.”
Of course, despite my initial reluctance, I went. Jerry Butler never showed up but it was an exciting time nonetheless. The music, whether coming from the juke box or performed by the group of locals who just hopped onto the stage with no warning, was aphrodisiacal with its danceable beats and seductive lyrics.

Emily seemed to know just about everybody at the club and we had a wild time. “Here you go, sugar,” some guy told her as he passed her a joint. “Enjoy.” I can’t begin to describe my shock when Emily gladly accepted it and smoked it like an expert. It took some time before she was able to convince me to take a few hits. I did not regret my actions and after awhile, fueled by the weed, a couple of large glasses of some strong but unidentifiable alcoholic beverage, and the sexy music, I was having a wonderful time.

“Oh, my gosh,” I thought to myself a bit later while in the midst of a passionate embrace and in deep conflict with my Southern sensibilities, “I’m kissing a Negro.”


A mere two weeks after graduating from NYU, I married Luke. We had gone steady throughout high school and although I had never encouraged him, he assumed that the college girl living more than eight hundred miles away still belonged to him. I rarely went back home to Georgia; there just wasn’t enough money, and anyway I now considered myself to be a
metropolitan with no interest in the rural life. But during his occasional visits to New York, Luke ignored my big-city proclivity and insisted that one day we would return to the country as man and wife. He would usually stay in New York for two or three days, somehow establishing clandestine residence in our “women only” dorm room and causing my usually unflappable roomie to seek other lodging.

Truth be told, I was often overwhelmed by Luke’s overpowering manner. I’m not quite sure how I became his girlfriend to begin with but, suddenly, early in our freshman year of high school, we were a couple and for four years I dated no other boy. Like a character in a rock and roll song, he took my virginity in the back seat of his Chevy. Looking back, I realize that I was raped. We had just left the movies where we’d seen ”Rio Bravo,” a John Wayne film in which I’d had no interest; but of course, Luke wanted to see every John Wayne movie ever made. I spent most of the two and one half hours in the balcony continuously trying to pry his roaming hands from my breasts and from between my legs. Eventually, I surrendered and allowed him to caress my inner thighs. I even admitted to myself that his groping hands made me feel a pleasant sort of warmth.


“Why don’t you have a couple of sips,” Luke suggested as he pulled out the six pack that he’d stashed, as always, under the back seat of his car. After the show we’d driven to our regular parking spot at “lover’s lane.” It was kind of a tradition for him to try and get me to drink, but in the past, I’d always refused; I didn’t even like beer. That night, I guess I was a little bit disconcerted after our wrestling match at the movies so, after thinking about it for a moment, I shared the first couple of cans with him before he polished off the rest. If I had been paying attention, I might have noticed the triumphant look in his eyes when I’d taken my first gulp or the tremble of anticipation when I told him that I was feeling a bit tipsy. When we started making out, he seemed determined to go farther than I’d ever before allowed. Despite my protests, I somehow found myself beneath him on the back seat, my breasts uncovered and my jeans and panties on the floor. Although I repeatedly begged him to stop, he ignored my appeals and forced his way inside me. After an initial burst of pain, the only thing I felt was his hot semen, mixed with my own blood, dripping down my leg a few minutes later.

I cried when it was over, and just stared out the rain-streaked window during the silent drive home. I didn’t speak to him for a few days but, inexplicably, by the following weekend I was, once again, his girl.


The wedding was quite forgettable.The food was awful and the band arrived an hour late. They were so bad that nobody would have missed them if they had never shown up at all. Luke disappeared for awhile with his friends and when he returned he was stinking drunk. I inadvertently came upon him near the ladies’ room just as Emily slapped him in the face for grabbing her ass. (Years later I learned that this was not the first time he’d taken liberties with my friend).

When we’d left the party to begin our three day honeymoon at the 2 star hotel in New Jersey, Luke puked in the back seat of the limo. I helped him to clean up at the hotel but when I couldn’t bear to make love to him in his condition, he hit me for the first time.

We moved back to Georgia after the honeymoon. I had insisted that I wanted to remain in NYC but Luke had his job as a postman to consider. “It won’t make us rich,” he said, “but the salary is enough to buy a comfortable house in Georgia.”

The next thirteen years were like a prison sentence with Luke as sadistic jailer. Despite my college diploma, I was not permitted to seek a job. “Your place is in the home, dear,” he insisted, with a saccharine smile. “I’ll be the breadwinner in this family. You can use your talents to make our home a castle.”

At first the abuse was mostly verbal. If a meal was not prepared to his satisfaction or his laundry was not yet folded he let me know in no uncertain terms how useless and incompetent I was. “Didn’t your Mom teach you anything,” he’d ask. “Or was she as stupid as you?”

Things were as bad in the bedroom. It was pretty near impossible for me to summon up any enthusiasm for sex. Luke was as demanding and self-centered a sex partner as a Cro-Magnon man; he couldn’t care less about my gratification. The only pleasure I got from sex with Luke was that it always ended quickly; but he blamed me for lacking sexual skills; or else I’d be accused of spending all my energy on other men. That was a laugh since I knew no other men; or women, for that matter. It’s hard to make friends when you are confined to your house except to do the food shopping. I had even lost touch with Emily. For awhile we’d spoken often on the phone. I avoided talking about my marital problems and Emily never brought up Luke’s name. Those phone calls were one of my few pleasures and Emily always seemed happy to speak with me but every time I invited her to visit, she came up with an excuse. Gradually, the phone calls stopped and our only contact was a Christmas card each year.

My life had become lonely and pointless. I felt as if I were a mound of clay that had once had the potential to be molded into a beautiful sculpture of curves and arches, but instead had been crushed flat beneath my husband’s boot; but I never dreamed that things would become even worse.


The physical abuse began innocently enough. In an attempt to spice up our sex life, Luke suggested that we experiment with spanking. I agreed to give it a try in the dubious hope that it might repair our ruined relationship. Luke got off on it the first time we tried; me, not so much. As days went by, the spankings became more intense and more painful but the more I let on that he was actually hurting me, the more excited he got. Pretty soon I had collected a bevy of bruises on my butt and sitting had become somewhat unpleasant.

Sitting became nearly impossible when, after a time he needed something more stimulating. I guess that since he’d been so excited by smacking my rear, he thought that the logical progression would be to enter me through the back door. When I resisted, it only aroused him further. The butt rape caused me unbearable pain and humiliation which proved to be an enormous turn-on for him and motivated him to seek additional means of titillation. Getting in touch with his inner Christian Grey, he became quite imaginative in devising a vile variety of physical and psychological assaults.

Weeks later, when, after a long session of demeaning role playing, I refused to take him in my mouth, he smacked my face hard enough to loosen a tooth. After that, I learned to submit to all of his perverse demands.

Soon, the violence spread outside the bedroom. I could be smacked for preparing a dinner that didn’t meet his approval; punched for talking back; battered for any imagined wrong. When I told him that I would leave him if he continued to hurt me, he calmly informed me of what would happen if I did. “I’ll kill you if you ever try to leave me; and you won’t be able to hide,” he said. “I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth and I’ll kill you in the most painful way possible.” And then he told me how much he loved me. So I stayed, and through the years, I suffered an assortment of bruises, black eyes, loosened teeth and even some broken bones.

Shortly after I turned 35, after 13 years of marriage, I was stunned to learn that I was pregnant. I was thrilled by this miracle. My child would become my best friend and perhaps even a shield against the violence. As if to prove that I was right, Luke went through a transformation. He suddenly became the doting husband, showering me with love and treating me like a queen. For six months or so, I was actually happily married, although I guess that in the back of my mind I knew that it wouldn’t last. It all came crashing down one night when he arrived home from his 9 to 5 job at 1 A.M. “Where have you been,” I screamed, the pent up nervousness and frustration getting the better of me. The moment those words left my mouth I knew that I’d made a mistake. The left hook only grazed my jaw but the straight right that immediately followed crashed into my belly and sent me tumbling down the stairs. The broken ankle that I suffered was nothing compared to the loss of my child. Although he was sorry for the “accident,” he made it perfectly clear that I had better tell the authorities that I’d tripped and fallen down the stairs. Fear caused me to stick to that tale.

I was released from the hospital after a couple of days and did my best to stay clear of my husband while we were both at home. I did a lot of thinking during that time and decided that I needed to escape no matter what. When my ankle had pretty much healed, I decided that I would leave the following Friday morning, immediately after Luke left for work. He had taken to staying out all night after work on Fridays, sometimes not returning until Sunday evening. I suppose that since I was laid up and avoiding him, he had little interest in being home and had found himself a little chippie on the side. Good for him and good for me but I felt sorry for that poor girl, whoever she was. At any rate, my escape on Friday morning would give me a possible 60 hours before he know I was gone.

Friday finally arrived and I headed for the Greyhound station, constantly wondering if I was making a mistake. I couldn’t get his threats out of my head and at times I felt sure that he would find me and deal me a painful death. My head was on a swivel, turning this way and that, on the lookout for my vengeful husband who, I was sure, had figured out that I was leaving and was ready to pounce.

I boarded a bus headed for upstate New York. The last Christmas card I had received from Emily bore a return address in Cooperstown. I remembered her writing a few years ago that she lived on a pretty little farm not far from town. I felt certain that if I made it to Cooperstown, I would be able to find Emily’s place, although I was not quite as sure that I would find her still living there. I was desperate enough to risk that because, after all, where else could I go?


When I disembarked from the bus, I half-expected to find Luke waiting, ready to fulfill his murderous oath. Instead, I found groups of tourists strolling through a picturesque, one-stoplight village, the centerpiece of which was the National Baseball Hall of Fame. A warm, buttery sun shone above the green hills in the distance; Lake Otsego, large and beautiful, filled the landscape to the north. The bucolic setting so relaxed me that my nerves melted away like last winter’s snow and I proceeded to hire a cab. I gave the driver the address that I had memorized and had kept muttering to myself since I had fled Georgia, and after a five or ten minute drive, I was dropped off in front of a charming little farmhouse on a gorgeous plot of land. As I walked the path to the front door, fear stealthily reentered my head. “What if Emily no longer lives here,” I thought. “What will I do?” I tried my best to calm myself as I stepped onto the porch.

The door was painted purple and a string of amber beads hung from the door knob. I knocked, nervously, at the door, not knowing what to expect. After what seemed to be about 15 years but was actually about 15 seconds, the door opened and I was greeted by a tall, lovely woman with an electric smile. Her dark brown complexion certified that she was not Emily and seemed to confirm my fear that Emily no longer lived here. I stood motionless as a mannequin for a few seconds and said nothing.
“Yes, Miss?” the woman asked. “Can I help you?”
“E...Emily,” I stammered, feeling like an idiot. “Is Emily here?”
She looked at me askance but then turned her head and called, “Honey, it’s for you.”

The years had been much kinder to Emily than they had been to me. She was as beautiful now as she was when she was 20, only, somehow more vibrant. I could tell that she was taken aback by my appearance, what with the weariness that was etched into my face like battle scars, the faint purple shadows under my eyes and the little layer of flab around my middle. She recovered after a few seconds, though and we embraced in a tight hug that told how much we had missed each other. “Oh, honey,” she cried. “It’s been way too long. Come on in and let’s catch up.”

She introduced me to Aisha, spontaneously caressing the dark-skinned woman’s cheek then the three of us went inside to talk. The house was bright and airy with numerous windows offering breathtaking views of the landscape. The ample space afforded by its many large rooms belied its outer appearance as a cozy little cottage. The most impressive of these large rooms was a magnificent library whose shelves were stacked with books on cosmology, healing, herbology, magic and mysticism.

Emily spoke first, catching me up on her life since college. She had spent the first two years or so after graduation, drifting from job to job and from man to man. At about the time her phone calls to me ended, she set off with some guy on a hitchhiking trip across North America.They split in Indiana but for a couple of years she kept on, determined to see the world. She found her way to most of the larger cities where she continued her carousing. “For most of that time I was little more than a drifter and a Bacchanalian,” she admitted. “But while hiking in the Canadian Rockies, I had what can only be described as a revelation and I decided to clean up my act. When I got back East, I decided to join a commune near Syracuse, where, among other things, I learned about the cultivation and medical uses of herbs.” It was at the commune that she met Aisha and after a couple of years the two women decided to buy their farm in Cooperstown.

I told them the grisly story of my marriage. Aisha shuddered upon hearing the details; Emily cried. “I always knew that Luke was bad news,” she said. “I was afraid of him, especially after he tried to have his way with me. I never said anything to you because I hoped that marriage would straighten him out and I wanted you to be happy. It was a dumb mistake forged by youth and wishful thinking and I felt guilty about it for years. I do want you to know that I never stopped thinking about you and that it was my fear and dislike of your husband that kept me from you.” We all had a good cry but then for the next several days we discontinued the discussion of my troubles. During that time the two women nursed me back to health and happiness with a variety of herbs that they grew right outside the house and strange tasting potions that they concocted in the kitchen.

After about a week, my mental and physical pains had magically disappeared. A healthier diet than I’d ever adhered to, including a variety of mystery herbs as well as an exercise plan designed by Aisha, had transformed me, also like magic, into a lean and lively fitness queen.

“It’s time to talk about Luke,” Emily announced one morning.
“I don’t want to talk about him,” I replied. “I just want to forget him.”
“You can’t do that. I do believe he will come after you like he promised.”
“Then what can I do? Run?”
“No, honey. You needn’t run. I have a plan. We’ll lure him here and then he must die.”

It was decided that Emily would phone Luke and inform him that I had been staying with her these past weeks but had now seen the error of my ways and would like for him to come for me.
“Oh, I will definitely come for her,” Luke told my friend in a barely controlled, anger-laced voice. “I’ll be there a week from today. What the hell was she thinking, anyway?”

For me, it was an agonizing week of waiting. “Don’t you worry about it,” they kept telling me. “We’ve got it all worked out. That creep will never bother you again”
“You don’t know him,” I whined. Not only will that bastard kill me, he’ll probably kill you, too”
“Won’t happen, baby,” Emily replied, confidently. “Believe me, Your nightmare is over.”
No matter how certain they seemed, I didn’t believe that they knew what they were in for.

Before I knew it, the appointed day had arrived. The entire house seemed to tremble when he pounded on the door. I scurried to my predetermined hiding place in the attic, cowering behind a drab, gray curtain as my two friends answered the door. Emily was dressed in a white lace tank top which almost totally revealed her perfectly formed breasts, and a pastel skirt which left her long, shapely legs bare to mid-thigh; Aisha had on a long, diaphanous gown that clung to her statuesque body like saran wrap. The two women each wore a sweet-smelling perfume that they had concocted for the occasion, consisting of jojoba oil and drops of numerous exotic oils. They laughingly called the brew “Love Potion #9.” Its honeyed aroma hung, like forbidden fruit, throughout the house.

“Who is it?” Emily inquired sweetly.
“It’s Luke,” he hollered. “Open the damn door.”
“Gladly,” she replied.
He stormed inside then stopped dead in his tracks, enchanted by the supernaturally sexy ladies in his sight and intoxicated by the cloying aphrodisiac in the air. In a trance, he followed the two temptresses to their bedroom.

Mere minutes later, he wordlessly followed the women back down the stairs and as Emily reopened the front door, he left the house, like a sleepwalker, without even a nod in their direction. He got into his car and drove off, having never even inquired about me.

“It’s safe now, honey. You can come out,” Emily called.
“What happened,” I asked. “Where did he go?”
“He’s gone, in more ways than one,” Aisha replied, cryptically. “You won’t have to worry about him anymore.”
In response to the skeptical expression on my face, the women looked at each other and began to giggle.

The following morning, the local newspaper carried a story about an automobile with Georgia license plates that had been dragged out of Lake Otsego. The driver who had drowned behind the wheel was identified as my husband, Luke.

I never returned to Georgia and lived happily ever after with Emily and Aisha. Their souls have now gone to their rest in the Summerland, but before they passed, they shared with me their store of ancient knowledge and secrets of the occult. Over the years it became a well-circulated rumor around Cooperstown that three beautiful witches occupied a farm somewhere on the outskirts of town.