Chapter 51
CHAPTER 51
Maura
I make my way into the kitchen and I’m surprised to find it in complete disarray. Dishes are piled in the sink, the good ones that Christy made me buy in Switzers. There’s a pot of something on the cooker; the lid is misaligned, and a brownish-yellow stain trickles down the side and gathers in a small puddle around the base. The floor hasn’t been swept and it’s all so out of sync with the pristine home Christy expects that I keep. I shake my crutches off and lean them against the countertop, then roll up my sleeves and set about washing up. I hum “Paperback Writer,” my favorite Beatles song, and I make good headway, but the melody hitches in my throat when I hear my husband creep in behind me like a dark cloud.
“How was the party?” he asks.
He pushes my hair aside to kiss my neck.
“Good. Yes. Very good.”
“And her family. Were they there?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I didn’t get chatting to them.”
“Any friends? Colleagues from Switzers?”
He continues dotting gentle kisses on my skin. I try to relax, but my body is stiff like a poker.
“There were a lot of people,” I say.
“Mm-hmm.”
He smells of expensive aftershave. Sandalwood and citrus. He’s smelled the same for as long as I’ve known him. It’s funny how a scent can trigger memories. I think now of the early days of our relationship. Strolling around the park, hand in hand. Sunday drives exploring the countryside. Lazy afternoons skipping stones in a lake. All with my head full of dreams of the bright and wonderful future that I was so sure awaited us. I hate his aftershave now. It makes me sick to my stomach.
“How old did you say Ger was again?”
“Twenty-one.”
Christy presses his chest closer to my back. I’m sandwiched between my husband and the edge of the sink. The cool stainless steel bites against my flesh and I want to push back. I want to straighten up and stretch my back, but Christy is heavy and he has no intention of moving. I swallow and beads of perspiration gather at the small of my back.
“And is it her birthday today, or just her party?”
“Eh… I’m not sure, really.”
His questions make me nervous. Tests always make me nervous. My ribs ache. I want to yelp.
“I stopped by Switzers on my way home this afternoon,” Christy continues, and I can feel his hot breath glide over the top of my head. “I thought it might be nice to leave some flowers for your friend. Since twenty-one is such a milestone birthday, as you say. But it’s funny…”
My chest tightens. I know whatever comes next will be far from funny.
“… that tall chap was there, Dick, I think his name was. The manager. Is that right?”
I can’t breathe.
“Anyway, I got chatting to him for a while. Lovely man, I must say. But he tells me Geraldine’s birthday is in April. There I stood with a bouquet of roses in my arms for a woman whose birthday it is not.”
Silence hangs between us. I wait for him to say more. There is always more.
“I’m sure you can imagine my embarrassment. I thought my wife was at her birthday party. But it so happens her birthday was months ago. So, I found myself asking, Where is my wife? And I realized I didn’t know.”
He pauses and waits for me to speak. I don’t say a word. Anything I choose to say will only make it worse.
“Where was my wife?” Christy’s voice is light and gentle, as if he’s simply inquiring about my day, or asking if I would like some tea and biscuits.
I can’t open my mouth. Even if I wanted to. Fear has sealed it shut.
“Where was my wife?”
I catch Christy’s arm raise from the corner of my eye. Usually, I close my eyes so I don’t see the blow. But not today. I grab a crutch and smack it against him with all my strength. He staggers back. The relief is immense as the weight of his body lifts off me, and I peel myself away from the sink and suck in deep, hurried breaths to fill my aching lungs.
He laughs. He belly laughs as if my efforts to defend myself tickle him. “What was that?” The sound of his chuckling is revolting, like a pig snorting in a pen. “It didn’t hurt me. Do you think you can hurt me?”
Christy is right. I am no match for his broad shoulders and strong arms. In the peak of my health, I haven’t been able to fight him off. I don’t stand a chance with already battered bones. Women are not as strong as men. Not physically. That’s just the science. But it does not make us weaker. If anything, it makes us stronger, because we always have to find ways to be smarter. The women’s liberation movement is prepared to fight with their words. They will write article after article after article until their words have an impact. A punch. All I have now are my words. And I’m damn well ready to use them.
“Your colleagues know what you are,” I say.
Christy slides his hands into his pockets, amused. “Oh, really.”
“Yes, really. That doctor, the one with the dickie bow. He knows I didn’t fall.”
“But you did, darling, you hit your head so hard you don’t remember. I told the doctors and nurses all about how awful I felt that I couldn’t catch you before you hit the ground. You know, there was one old dear there, Sister something-or-other, and she actually said she’d pray for me. Imagine that, she would pray for me because my wife is so clumsy.”
I take a cagey step back, surprised to find the cast cushions my foot and I can stand independently without any pain. Christy takes a matching step forward.
“I don’t believe you,” I say, daring to take another step back. “People aren’t stupid.” I take another step.
“Of course people aren’t stupid. But they are busy. And no one cares, Maura. No one cares about you.”
I add another step. I’m in the hall now.
“My parents care about me.”
He laughs. “They do. Your poor mother’s eyes were full of tears in the hospital. Your father has a bit more smarts about him. He knows when to keep his trap shut. He knows you have it good, Maura. A nice house, a nice car, a nice life. He knows there’s nothing more to want.”
“I do want a nice life, Christy,” I say, taking another step. The handle of the front door presses into my back. Slowly I drop my hand behind me and curl my fingers around it. “But I don’t have a nice life with you. My life is a nightmare.”
The lines of Christy’s face seem to deepen and a darkness gathers in his eyes, fiercer and blacker than I’ve ever witnessed before. I often worry that he might lose his temper so ferociously someday and kill me. Suddenly I am worried that today might be that day. I open the door. My movements are slower and more encumbered than usual and Christy’s hands clamp down on my shoulders like a vise as soon as I set foot on the porch step.
I scream. “Tilly! Tilly, call your ma!”
The children stop their playing and look toward our house.
“Tilly, quick, quick. Call your ma. Tell her I’ve fallen down again. Tell her to bring the frying pan.”
The children abandon their game and run. Each and every one of them races toward Mrs. Johnson’s house.
“Ma! Ma!” Tilly’s voice is big and loud and at odds with her small body. “It’s Mrs. Davenport. Dr. Davenport is making her fall down again.”
My eyes are on my neighbor’s house, willing her door to open, when I feel Christy’s hands release me. By the time Mrs. Johnson appears at her door in her slippers and floral apron, Christy is sitting into his car. And as Mrs. Johnson hurries onto the road with her baby on her hip, Christy speeds by her, almost driving clean over her toes.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she calls out, hurrying toward me. “Are you all right? Are you all right, Maura? Do you need an ambulance again?”
The children of the road follow her. The baby has started to cry and Mrs. Johnson’s face is as white as my net curtains.
“I’m all right,” I say, my heart beating painfully fast. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have involved little Tilly, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
Mrs. Johnson is older than me, sitting somewhere between my ma’s age and mine. She’s matronly and friendly. She’s seen a lot of young, newly married women move onto the road over the years and she makes it her business to make every last one of us feel welcome. She knows every child on the road by name. She knows what time our husbands leave for work and when they return. She knows what family cars we drive, what washing powders we use, what roasts our husbands prefer on a Sunday. She inhales tidbits and snippets of our lives and breathes them back out to anyone who will listen. Everyone listens. Gossip and rumors drive Rathmines, and Mrs. Johnson’s stories are fuel for the engine.
“Did you hear Catherine Carpenter is pregnant again? Number six that is now,” she said one Sunday as she walked ahead of me into our local church. “Psst, poor Nora Lynch’s husband lost his job. That’ll be the end of that nice car, that’s for sure,” she whispered when we bumped into each other in the greengrocers around the corner. In the park last month, she caught my eye and hurried across wet grass to say, “Guess what? Susan and John Banks are moving. Apparently to a bigger house. Well, I say my house is plenty big, thank you very much.”
Did you hear? Did you see? Did you know? Mrs. Johnson is never without something to say about someone. But as she stands on my porch, shaking like a leaf, she is lost for words. She doesn’t know what to say, because finally, she knows it’s all true. All the rumors behind twitching curtains. All the whispers behind closed doors. All the unsavory gossip about the good Dr. Davenport is true. And if Mrs. Johnson knows it, soon, so will all of Rathmines and most of Dublin.