Chapter Forty-Six #2
“What is that in your pocket?” I ask, speaking louder.
Hal looks at me for the first time, and his pale eyes appear vacant, confused, even.
I point in the direction of his trousers, and he glances down, opening his pocket wider.
My horrible suspicion is confirmed. “Why are you wearing a gun?” I ask, my voice strained.
“This? Yes, my trusty little toy.”
“Oh, it’s a toy?”
“Of course it’s not a toy,” he says, nearly laughing. “Though I have many toys that look just like this one. Such fine quality. You would not be able to tell the difference, booful girl.” He titters, and I resist the instinctive urge to wince.
He pats his pocket affectionately. “Oh, but no, this beauty here is as real as they come.”
“Then why…Hal, why must you wear it around the house?”
My husband meets my gaze again, and I’m struck by the icy, blank expression behind his pale eyes. Something inside me hitches. Then he gives me an unbothered shrug. “Never know who might be following, right?”
I swallow, saying nothing, though I’m confused by this remark. By his entire demeanor. Do I even want to know more? Before I can decide, he asks: “Coming to dinner, booful girl wife?”
“No,” I say, breaking from his stare.
“Why not?”
“Your mother”—what do I even say?—“kicked Miranda.”
Hal glowers at this, finally seeming to follow at least a thread of my distress. “She did?”
I nod. “After tea with her friends. I’m not up for a family dinner.”
“My poor booful wife.” Hal’s voice turns soft, the off-putting iciness in his expression from a moment ago suddenly replaced by tender warmth. “I shall speak to her. An affront to you is an affront to me, and I won’t stand for it.”
—
Hal does not come into my room after dinner, so I decide to go to bed.
Settling in, I hope that he’s spoken to his mother on my behalf.
Perhaps she might even feel a small touch of penitence, if not for her behavior toward me, then at least for hurting the poor pup who committed no offense.
I fall asleep, allowing myself the dim hope that perhaps we have finally reached our lowest point.
Surely, it can’t get worse. Maybe now we will all be able to move forward into some sort of détente.
But then, in a deep slumber, I’m roused. “Evelyn?”
This time I don’t need to pretend at sleep. “Yes?” I respond, my mind and my voice fuzzy. I lift my head from the pillow, squinting.
It’s Hal, holding a candle. “Are you awake?”
“No…I wasn’t. What is it? Can’t it wait until morning?”
He plops down on the bed beside me, clutching the lone candle up near his face. He seems erratic again—I don’t know if it’s wine, or something else. “What is it?” I ask again, eager for this to be over.
“She said terrible things.”
My mind spins, trying to make sense of this as he goes on. “She told me that you were being indecent. Talking about the stage in front of a large crowd of her friends.”
Ah. Mother Thorne. I exhale a long breath, steeling myself, feeling the last wisps of sleep fly away.
“Hal, I had no interest in getting on the stage.” It’s a lie.
In truth, some very real part of me was excited, simply by Mrs. Fletcher’s one mention of Broadway.
And something deep inside me had thrilled at the thought of participating in such a festive evening.
Just a few hours of diversion, one last chance to experience the feeling of an audience held in thrall before me.
But once I saw my mother-in-law’s horror, I meant it completely when I said I would merely help with the planning.
And I explain to my husband now, “The ladies were speaking about a charity event, a church supper with a variety show. I merely hoped to help plan.”
Hal’s response is sharp: “You won’t ever mention his name again.”
My entire body tenses, and I sit up taller in bed. “His name?”
“If, for some reason, you ever need to bring him up, call him the Beast.”
“Are you referring to Stan?”
“What did I just say? I don’t want to hear that name!” Hal puts his hands over his ears like muffs. In the glint of the flickering candlelight, I catch sight of that sparkling shape again: the revolver is still tucked into the pocket at his waist.
I lean back, away, feeling as though I’d like to melt into the bed.
Disappear from here. I glance around the vast, dark space, seeing only shadows and glimpses of dead Thornes hanging on the walls.
The doorway is so far away. Summoning everything I have, I attempt a calm, conciliatory tone.
“My dear, there’s no reason why I’d ever bring up his name. ”
“The Beast,” he says, his words like a hiss.
“The Beast, yes. Let’s not even speak of him.”
“Good, good.” He’s looking directly into the flame of the candle, which he holds only a few inches from his face, making it appear as though his pale eyes are ablaze. “Good girl,” he says, nodding. “But you must tell me once more what happened.”
“What happened?”
“What the Beast did to you, booful.”
I grimace. “You just told me never to bring him up.”
“But I’m asking you now to tell me the facts!” The candlelight quivers in Hal’s grip as I notice how I, too, am trembling.
There’s no reasoning with him, no placating him, not when he is in such a state.
So, with a feeling akin to a choking cord at my throat, I do as he orders.
I tell my husband about the night Stan unvirgined me.
I tell him the facts that I’ve already said aloud to him on multiple occasions, at his request. I revisit the moments with a rote, toneless voice, but Hal clings to my every word, rapt.
As though hearing it for the first time.
When it’s all done, I feel exhausted and like I might be sick.
But Hal, energized, rasps: “Don’t you see what a wicked beast he is? ”
“I do,” I answer woodenly.
“I should have killed the bastard while I had the chance.”
“Hal.” I shudder. I study his face, hoping to see that he meant the remark in jest or at the very least as an exaggeration, but I find his feverish expression hard to read.
“It would have been a service to society. Think of all the girls he’s hurt. All the girls he still will hurt. And you, worst of all. He was wicked to you, girl wife.”
“He was.” My throat still feels painfully tight. “And that’s why I’m not with him. I’m here, with you.”
“Yes, yes. That’s right.” That manic glint still kindles Hal’s gaze as he leans close to my face, and I can smell the booze on his breath. “I saved you from him, booful.”
I cannot bear this a moment longer. Kicking my legs over the side of the bed, I make to rise, saying, “Hal, I’m sorry, but I have a headache.”
“Oh!” he exclaims. “Just thinking of him makes you ill.”
“That’s correct.”
“Poor wife.”
“I need a bath.”
“You do,” he says, agreeing heartily. “You need to get clean, booful.”
I can’t help but grimace at this, but I make my way across the room without another word. Hoping, desperately, that he will leave. Once inside the bathroom, the space wrapped in darkness, I close the door and lock it. I’ll stay here all night if I need to, until Hal has left.
And that’s when I remember her. Mary Thorne. The eerie portrait I take such pains to avoid at night for fear of her haunting visage, her haunting story.
Tonight, it turns out, I prefer her company. I’d rather hide here in this room where the tragic woman ended her own life than face my husband on the other side of the door.
I turn the golden knob and let the water pour into the marble tub.
I lower myself in, and I sit, motionless, as it fills around me.
I can’t help it—my eyes are drawn up toward the oval visage of dead Mary Thorne.
When the water is high enough, I slip down and submerge my head, finding that blank and quiet oblivion that water alone can give me these days.
I pop up only once I need a breath, then sink below the surface once more.
When my aching lungs can bear it no longer, I pop up again, catching Mary’s unblinking gaze. She hanged herself with a towel, in this very room…. Can you imagine?
I stare back at the Thorne lady, as the water drips down my face, hair, eyelashes.
She who felt she had no choice, no other way to leave this house.
What have I done? Learn to swim. And then you’ll survive.
Slipping down once more into the water, I close my eyes as the image of Mary’s face dances through my imagination.
And, along with it, something that feels akin to an idea’s ember.
Or, at the very least, a primordial desire—a glow, weak, yet unwilling to go out—the deepest desire of my soul, yearning simply to survive.