NIGHT HAD fallen when the cab pulled up at the Marches’ apartment building. As the evening doorman rushed out from under the green awning to greet her, Mrs. March glanced up at the familiar façade. Home. Tall and imposing in dim winter night, its windows shadowed like hundreds of lidded eyes.
The sixth-floor hallway betrayed nothing unusual as she made her way across the carpeted floor to 606. The brass keys jangled on the key ring as she unlocked the door, entered, and locked it behind her. The apartment was completely dark yet she felt it was expecting her, salivating and alert in its stillness, like a bad oyster. She patted the wall, searching for the light switch, and suddenly a loud exhalation—more like a prolonged gasp—burst out in the darkness. She wanted to open the front door to let in the hallway light but found that she couldn’t move. The breathing continued, a little louder now, almost hissing at her. At the sound of a toilet flushing next door, Mrs. March relaxed, her shoulders dropping—it was just the sound of old pipes. She found the switch on the wall and flicked it quickly, in case she was wrong and could surprise whatever might be lurking there. The empty hallway stared back at her, inscrutable. Where was George? Where was Jonathan?
She poked her head into empty rooms, calling their names into the dark, half expecting them to jump out and scare her. A chilling possibility occurred to her: George was onto her and had fled, abducting Jonathan as leverage. She was flinging open closets when she heard a key turning in the lock and the front door opened behind her, letting in a slight draft and cheerful voices.
“Honey! You’re home,” said George as Mrs. March found herself rushing toward her son, wiping away with one mint green gloved finger a single tear.
“We saw a movie, Mommy!”
She kneeled to receive Jonathan’s little body in hers, and as they hugged, she settled her gaze unwaveringly upon George’s face, and she told him, with her eyes, with her cold, slight grin, that she knew everything. Was it her imagination, or at that moment did something—fear, perhaps, or remorse—stir in George’s eyes?
After her trip to Maine, from which she’d brought back nothing more than a toothache, Mrs. March found it hard to believe that she had actually done all that—that she had lied, taken a plane by herself, manipulated a grieving family into granting her a fake interview, danced against the chest of a man who had been the main suspect in a murder investigation. She must surely have dreamed it.
One thing she was more and more certain of was her husband’s guilt. She fed this conviction daily by foraging for the hidden meanings in the things he did, in the things he said. A casual allusion to his latest novel was a taunt. His retiring to his study after a mention of Sylvia on the news was glaring proof of his crime.
At some point, she resolved, he will mess up, drop a clue. A letter to Sylvia still in its sealed envelope, left in one of his desk drawers. There would be other victims, too. Someone who commits such an act develops a compulsion—she knew that much. But she needed to remain observant, stay patient. Doing the police’s job, really. Then, when the time was right, she would honorably hand him over to the authorities. George would be arrested, and she would be cast by the media as the admirable, innocent wife—naive at first but quick to catch on, and brave enough, smart enough, to investigate (what nerve! what pluck!) and bring him to justice single-handedly. She could already visualize the speech she would give in front of the flashing cameras, all looking to her for once. “In the name of the victims,” she would say—wearing her sunglasses and a headscarf in a show of humility, for it would seem vulgar and insensitive to willingly attract more attention than the victims—and then she would ask for forgiveness, but the media and public would agree unanimously that she had nothing to be forgiven for.
She would testify at George’s trial with a dignified air. George would go to prison. She’d give only a handful of interviews, then she would live out the rest of her days under the radar, knitting scarves for her grandchildren.
An altogether darker alternative scene in which she calmly coaxed a confession out of George, in which he then begged her to become his partner in crime, had also occurred to her, followed by images of her selecting and trailing his victims for him. She was proud to admit she had banished these from her mind more or less immediately. She had also considered the possibility that George might flee when confronted. Fleeting images of George as a fugitive: shaving his beard, dyeing his hair blond, eating greasy cheeseburgers in dingy motel rooms, searching the news for his face, and eventually losing himself in the bleakest, grittiest corners of the American criminal landscape, never to be heard from again, except the occasional untraceable phone call on Jonathan’s birthday.
She would often dwell on the morality of her choices, of living with—and exposing her son to—a dangerous psychopath, but she reasoned that there was no use in leaving George now, when nobody would believe her claims without sufficient proof. Especially when his literary status had been cemented around the world. In the past Mrs. March had reveled in his burgeoning fame, when strangers would approach them in restaurants to shake his hand and ask him to sign their books. Nowadays, however, every time a stranger approached—which she was experiencing less often now because they rarely ever went out together—she steeled herself for fear this would be the person who’d finally ask George about Johanna in front of her. And George would snicker and stall and get away with it. Just like he’d gotten away with murder.
SHE WAS on her way home from running errands one morning, clutching a paper bag of olive bread and sucking on an ice chip to ease her toothache. George’s birthday party was coming up, and she was contemplating the ways in which she might surpass the previous soirée—string quartets, a menu inspired by the political dinners hosted by Jackie Kennedy—and also how she might snub all those guests who had disrespected her that last time.
There was a hint of green on the trees, despite the cold, and she was clasping her fur coat shut with one hand. She had left it unbuttoned in a bout of optimism; that morning had felt fresh, ripening. The sky was a deeper, stronger blue; it had finally lost the sad, bruised look of faded linen that has been washed too many times.
She dawdled as she neared one particular establishment. It boasted a large window with lush burgundy curtains that were often drawn. She had passed by it many times, and had often played with the thought of going in. The word Psychic hung on the brick façade in golden cursive. She didn’t believe in this fortune-telling thing, of course. When a young Mrs. March had confessed to her mother that she thought a ghost was haunting her at night (referring to Kiki, although she hadn’t specified at the time), she was taught to dismiss concepts beyond those taught by the church. Her mother had tutted and held her by the shoulders and said to her as she leaned over: “There is no such thing. You understand, right? Don’t start believing in such silly things or everyone will laugh at you.” She said this as if the knowledge came from experience, leaving Mrs. March to wonder whether it was her mother who had been laughed at, or whether she’d been the one to laugh at somebody else (a much more likely scenario; it was impossible to picture her mother being victimized).
Still, as she stood in front of the psychic’s shop, she let out a small sigh. It might be fun, to receive some good news about the future.
She clutched the crinkled bag of bread to her chest, the oil from the olives staining her coat through the paper, and pushed open the shop’s French door.
Inside, it was quiet and strangely bright despite the thick curtains. She stood for a moment in silence, contemplating the crystal ball on a small round table. She closed her eyes, and for a few seconds experienced something she hadn’t felt for so long that the exact word escaped her.
“Good day,” said a scratchy voice beside her.
Mrs. March turned to face a short woman with absurdly long, thick black hair. It coiled around her head in several braids, then slithered down around her neck, falling all the way down her spine, where it ended at her waist in a burst of split ends.
“Certainly,” said the psychic, in an exaggerated Eastern European accent. “Hands? Deck?”
“Ah … deck.”
“Any preference? Rider-Waite?”
Mrs. March didn’t understand the question, so she answered, simply, “Yes.”
“This way, please.”
The short woman led Mrs. March through a pair of velvet curtains into a smaller, darker space. The walls were papered in a screaming shade—somewhere between red and fuchsia—patterned with ornate flowers. Mrs. March avoided focusing her vision there, for fear of the migraine it would no doubt give her.
The psychic drew the curtains closed and they were left in near darkness, illuminated only by a few scattered candles. The abrupt light change caused Mrs. March’s vision to blacken momentarily, as if she were on the verge of fainting.
With a dramatic air the fortune-teller gestured to a small table topped with green felt, like a poker table, and Mrs. March sat on a tiny wooden chair crowned with a plush embroidered cushion, leaving her purse and olive bread on a nearby stool. The slight chair didn’t so much as groan as she sat down, which relaxed her considerably.
The psychic sat down opposite, in a chair draped with a paisley sheet. Her left hand was malformed: several of its fingers were underdeveloped, twisting into each other like tree roots. Her right hand was flawless, stemmed with long, elegant fingers. She used both hands to shuffle the deck, clearing her throat as she did so. She looked at Mrs. March and said, “You have been on a trip recently, yes?”
Mrs. March, refusing to feel impressed or to show amazement—both amateur mistakes—shifted a little in her chair and said, as dispassionately as she could, “Yes.”
“It has given you what you were looking for, this trip.”
“I expected a little more from it, I think,” Mrs. March said, choosing her words carefully.
“You know in your heart that you did find what you were looking for on this trip,” said the psychic. Had she just winked at her? Mrs. March’s thoughts flashed to the signed copy of George’s book on Sylvia’s shelf.
“Maybe you wished to find something else, but the truth is hard to face sometimes.” After a pause, she continued, “But there is more to discover, and you will discover it. Your instincts, your suspicions, were correct.”
How full Mrs. March felt at receiving those words. She had cramps all over, as if she’d just eaten too much baked Alaska. The wallpaper loomed over her in all its bordello-like glory, and she looked down at her hands, which had begun to sweat. Her breathing grew louder.
The psychic finished shuffling the deck and began placing the cards facedown on the table. The backs of the cards were printed with a crackled brown design to mimic smashed glass. Mrs. March wrung her wet hands as, one by one, the twenty-two cards of the Rider-Waite Major Arcana were arranged before her.
The psychic took a deep breath, then closed her eyes. Her hands hovered over the cards as she hummed (to Mrs. March’s growing embarrassment). She continued producing sounds for a few more uncomfortable seconds, before opening her eyes and saying, “Please choose a card.”
Mrs. March, who had not been expecting to be an active participant, fussed in her chair. At random, she patted the card nearest to her. The psychic slid the sleeves of her caftan up her arms and, with exaggerated importance, turned it over. The card portrayed a squatting monster composed of a human upper body and hairy goat legs. It was flanked by two chained, naked humans, both sporting horns and tails. THE DEVIL, said the card, matter-of-factly, in big block letters.
“Well, I believe I’m in trouble,” said Mrs. March, hoping for a humorous tone. When the psychic remained silent, she leaned forward and in a whisper asked, “What does it mean?”
“Well, you see the card is reversed,” said the psychic. “The reverse devil can appear when you are retreating into your deepest, darkest places, or when you’re hiding your deepest, darkest self from others. You don’t want to trust your soul to others because you’re embarrassed, filled with shame, so it’s grown deformed in the darkness inside you”—Mrs. March envisioned her soul as a hairy, misshapen creature chained in a dark cellar, and pitied herself—“and now you think it’s too late for anybody to see your true self.”
What followed was a silence so powerful it almost reverberated off the hysterical red walls. “Well, that’s silly,” Mrs. March said.
Undeterred, the psychic continued. “I am going to tell you how to fix this. Usually I don’t use two cards. Very unusual for me. I use the one, only. But you need all the advice you can get. Special moment, yes? You understand? I help you.”
She cleared her throat again, and again closed her eyes, and once she had performed her humming theatrics, she asked Mrs. March to choose another card. The card the fortune-teller turned around this time was THE HIGH PRIESTESS. The dark-haired figure, severe-looking in her horned crown, sat with her hands in her lap, a large cross on her chest. Behind her hung a tapestry embroidered with lush palm trees and pomegranates.
“High priestess is guardian of the subconscious,” said the fortune-teller. “Everything you do not say, everything you keep deep inside here and here”—she tapped her chest and her temple simultaneously—“is guarded by her fiercely. She appears when you need to access this knowledge deep inside your subconscious mind.”
Mrs. March looked at the two cards—one reversed, the other upright—on the table. They were cartoonish, like drawings for children. “Aren’t you going to turn a third one?” she asked.
“She is telling you how to fix it,” said the psychic, tapping the high priestess’s face with one twisted finger. “There is no need for third card. Don’t you understand?” When Mrs. March did not respond, the psychic sighed and said, “You are in danger. The danger is getting stronger. See?”
Mrs. March, who was beginning to see, leaned forward, pinching at the skin on her throat.
“If you’re not careful …” the psychic continued, “this danger, this will be terrible for you. You understand what I mean?”
“Yes, oh yes,” said Mrs. March, forgetting all her mother had warned. “What can I do?”
“You have to protect yourself. Separate yourself from what is hurting you.”
“He will hurt me, you mean?”
The palm reader looked at her with her dark brown eyes. “You are hurting already. But … maybe it’s not too late. Don’t let it hurt you more. More hurt is—dangerous. Over the limit.” She held her hand flatly in the air and waved it upward, representing the limit that was not to be passed. “You understand? Don’t let it hurt you.”
“I won’t,” said Mrs. March. “I won’t.”
“If you sense the danger, ask for help.”
“Help?” Mrs. March looked down at her ugly, cracked hands and ugly, cracked nails, and wondered why no amount of French hydrating cream ever seemed to do the trick. Even the psychic’s mangled fingers seemed prettier than hers.
“If you sense that the danger is crossing that line,” continued the psychic, her voice louder as she noticed her client’s attention dwindling, “ask for help immediately.”
MRS. MARCH had expected to leave feeling uplifted, and she did indeed feel relief—a relief brought about by the unwavering conviction that her husband was guilty, and that she was right to suspect him, and that, most importantly, she was not at all crazy. As she closed the French door behind her, shocked by the sudden sunlight, she felt she had been granted permission, in a way, to continue harboring these feelings of rage and mistrust toward him. She did not dwell on the fact that the fortune-teller might just as well have been talking about a tumor, for all the vagueness of her words. She would not question it later in the apartment either, where she quietly took a butcher knife from one of the kitchen drawers and hid it under her pillow.
It was r
ather exhausting, shadowing George. After trying to keep up with him for a few days, she promised herself she wouldn’t follow him out into the street anymore, trailing him up and down Manhattan—carefully stalking him in and out of bookstores where he signed stock, hiding behind clothes racks at the department store where he purchased a new cardigan, and pressing herself against a brick building in the numbing cold for hours, waiting for George to finish a leisurely meal with his private banker.
She resorted to observing him whenever he was at home with her. She tensed as a reflex whenever he entered a room or said a word; she studied the way he spoke to Jonathan, the way he generally avoided Martha. She looked through his study for clues as often as possible and one time even listened in on a telephone conversation with Edgar (during which, to Mrs. March’s frustration, they only discussed news of George’s film deal).
Whenever George stepped out, Mrs. March adopted another role: Sylvia. Within days of returning from Maine, she had gone back to the store on 75th and Lexington to buy the black velvet headband. She’d also purchased Sylvia’s brand of perfume—the one she had seen on her bedroom dresser—at the department store. It was on sale, so she could hardly pass up the opportunity. To complete the transformation, she’d bought a wig from a costume shop downtown, and once a week she’d buy peaches, the same size and color as the one Sylvia was holding in the newspaper photo.
At home, with her bedroom door locked, she had taken to becoming Sylvia. She’d walk, back straight, feet pointed, across the carpet. She’d eat the peaches in front of the bathroom mirror, trying on smiles in between bites, watching the juice stream down her chin. She read beauty magazines as she imagined Sylvia would, licking her finger to turn the page, or just lounged, looking at the wall, contemplating her own death. She discovered that Sylvia grew bored and impatient when she lounged, that she felt more sensual when wearing a silk slip than when fully undressed. Sometimes she’d smoke, too—the last of the cigarettes from the stolen cigarette case—tilting her hand the way Gabriella did, holding the cigarette languidly between her index and middle fingers.
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