She glanced over to a corner of the bedroom, where she met her own eye. Another Mrs. March was standing there, in her fur coat, pantyhose, and loafers, arms hanging limply. Next to her stood the naked Mrs. March from the bathtub, breasts sagging, dripping onto the carpet. Followed by Mrs. March in her nightgown, beaked Venetian mask clamped tightly over her face, her eyes blinking through the cutout holes. And then, the blood-drenched Mrs. March she’d spied on through the window, her mouth slightly agape, her eyebrows buried under the blood. A Greek chorus of Mrs. Marches, all standing before her in a neat row in her bedroom. Silently, simultaneously, they pointed at George. Mrs. March looked over at him. He was gesticulating as he spoke, glancing at the floor, adjusting his glasses.
She looked back at the Mrs. Marches. In unison, they raised their right hands to their faces, covering their eyes. Mrs. March smiled, enjoying the game, as she followed their lead and she, too, lifted her right hand, and cupped it over her eyes.
When she lowered her hand, the morning sun was glaring through her bedside window. Her head ached, and her body—apart from the dull pain of dental surgery—was sore in the oddest places: her neck, her upper arms, her fingers. She silently cursed the dentist and his anesthesia.
“George?” she called out.
She started to pull on a robe, then remembered that Martha was not expected, nor would she ever be expected again. She could roam the apartment uncovered, free of judgment.
She ate her breakfast in the dining room—cold cereal and stale croissants—without bothering to comb her hair or wash her face. She had expected an apologetic George to walk in with some flowers, for she faintly remembered some kind of awful quarrel they’d had the night before.
The silence in the apartment was interrupted by a sharp buzzing. She looked down. A fly was stuck to a croissant. Legs spinning, one wing torn off. Was this the same fly she had heard, and failed to find, during the snowstorm? It couldn’t possibly be, she reasoned. Ordinary houseflies didn’t live that long.
There was no sign of George throughout the entire morning. He must have stepped out, but he needed to be back soon. They would be celebrating his birthday tonight. Fifty-three, the age at which George would surpass his father. There was no way he would miss it because of some silly words uttered in the heat of the moment.
Feeling a little more optimistic, Mrs. March made an appointment at the hairdresser’s for one o’clock. She watered the ficus in the living room until she realized it was artificial. She chewed on cold sticks of butter, something she never would have done when Martha was around to see the bite marks.
She attempted to make herself an early lunch, taking a piece of meat from the fridge, but it had gone bad. She washed her hands thoroughly, but the putrid smell lingered on her fingers for hours, settling in the air, on the upholstery.
She set out under the vaguely comforting impression that things would somehow resolve themselves before she returned.
THE HAIR SALON was busy, the air humming beehive-like with chatter and the piercing whines of the hair dryers.
Mrs. March was greeted warmly (but not warmly enough, she thought) by the receptionist. Once seated, she asked for a fancy updo and, in an uncharacteristic fit of whimsy, highlights.
She had never summoned the courage to get much more than a basic trim done. She did ask for an elaborate style, once, inspired by a patron who was leaving as Mrs. March was entering the salon, but the intricate curls framed her face unflatteringly, like a cheap clown wig. She had feigned approval only to leave and unmake the hairdo at home, plunging her head under the bathtub faucet. Today, however, as she sat in a plain white smock, she felt hopeful.
The task of washing her hair was assigned to the only male hairdresser. He was polite but tentative, signaling that he was new to the job. It riled Mrs. March, to be cast off to the new hire. The young man rubbed her scalp clumsily, as if he were petting a dog. He used far too much soap and water that was too cold, but Mrs. March said nothing to express her discomfort and instead chewed the inside of her mouth until it bled.
Hair washed, cold water dripping under her smock and down her back, she was led by a stylist to a chair, and on their way, Mrs. March spotted a woman under a hair dryer reading George’s book, holding it with both hands as the dryer sucked on the top of her head. As Mrs. March looked to either side of the woman, a complete row of dryer-hatted ladies came into focus. They sat, legs crossed, eyes down, all clasping a copy of George’s book in their manicured hands.
“You know her husband wrote that book,” said the hairdresser as she settled Mrs. March into a chair facing a lighted mirror.
The ladies under the dryers turned their heads in unison toward Mrs. March.
“You must be so proud,” said one.
“I’ve almost finished. Please don’t spoil it!” another pleaded.
“He certainly has a dark imagination,” said the one nearest to Mrs. March.
“Oh, you have no idea,” said Mrs. March, turning to face herself in the mirror.
EVEN THOUGH her highlights streaked her mane in questionable, skunk-like stripes, she accepted the hairdressers’ compliments gracefully and, inspired, picked out a lovely peach lipstick from the shelf behind the counter.
“Would you like to get your makeup done professionally by one of our resident artists?” asked the woman at the register. Mrs. March checked the time on the clock on the wall above the counter. Why not? A party was an occasion, she told herself. “Yes, I think I would,” she said, and she was led, once again, to a chair facing a mirror.
AND SO it was that Mrs. March came to find herself, hours later, sitting in her dining room, her face creamy and pastel-colored like a cake. The table stretched out in front of her as the grandfather clock ticked away the seconds.
She had arrived to an empty apartment, somewhat surprised that her problems hadn’t disappeared in her absence. She couldn’t believe she was to throw an entire party on her own. The shelves were undusted, the bed unmade. The living room had to be spotless. The food and wine delectable. She had called Tartt’s to order the meal, which had been promptly delivered by a rather pricey express delivery service (she rattled off George’s credit card information over the phone). The waiters were to arrive at five-thirty sharp. She had bought the latest issues of their favorite magazines—or rather, the magazines she wanted everyone to believe were their favorites—and filled the magazine rack next to the fireplace. She had wheeled the television out of the living room and into the bedroom. She turned it on to keep her company as she tidied. The photograph of Paula had been exiled again to the highest shelf, facedown.
The grandfather clock struck five. The waiters would be arriving soon. She looked down at her abandoned game of solitaire upon the cedar dining table. A fly sat fatly upon the queen of spades. She considered swatting it, but instead let it walk onto her freshly manicured thumb.
She stood up—the fly flew off—and tried reaching George. She had called his mother—under the pretense of asking after Jonathan—his barbershop, where he often trimmed his beard, and even Edgar—under the ruse of confirming his attendance. She dialed the private men’s club he sometimes frequented, copying the number from a business card she had found in George’s desk.
A flat male voice answered.
“Yes, hello—this is Mrs. March. I’m phoning to see whether my husband is at the club. George March? I—he said he might be there this afternoon.”
“Certainly, madam, let me see if he’s here,” said the man, his tone betraying an almost intrinsic boredom. Mrs. March suspected he must be quite used to jealous wives calling to ask after their husbands. He might even be trained to return with a rehearsed excuse on behalf of the club’s members. She pictured George drinking a whisky, his face flushed and moist, his eyes glassy in the manner they always got when he was tipsy. The bored man saying, “Your wife is on the phone, sir. What should I tell her?” And George pausing, contemplating their argument, deciding to punish her a bit longe
r: “Tell her I just left. No, better yet—tell her I haven’t been here at all today.”
“He hasn’t been here at all today, madam.”
There was a pause on the line as Mrs. March took in this information. “Ah,” she said. “All right then. Thank you.” She hung up.
Mrs. March wrung her hands, and, for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she made her way toward her bedroom, toward the sound of the television.
The room smelled stale, like bad breath. She opened the windows to let in fresh air, as Martha would have done, then stood, regarding the tousled mass of sheets on the bed. She had never liked the sight of an unmade bed, but something about this scene nagged at her. She had avoided the rumpled bedclothes all day, not giving them a second glance, but all the while, they had been buzzing in her deepest thoughts, like the fly. She put one tremulous hand to the bedsheets and pulled them back. They seemed to be stuck to the mattress. She tugged harder until they peeled away.
Dead for less than twenty-four hours, the body already sported a subtle, greenish sheen, and the skin appeared to have loosened, like an ill-fitting ironing board cover.
She had stabbed him. She remembered it now. She had stabbed him. Almost tenderly at first, then more forcefully, faster, the wooden grip of the butcher knife chafing the skin of her hand. She had blisters on her palm; the manicurist at the salon had commented on them.
A warbling scream bubbled out of her, and she slapped her hands against her mouth.
George remained still. His head, George’s head—cross-eyed and hollow-looking, like the head of the suckling pig they had once been served in a restaurant in Madrid that specialized in offal and giblets. She remembered the taste and texture of the braised gizzards and tongue and ears, the cartilage crunchy in her mouth. And the pig’s head, cooked in its own fat, so much like George’s, the teeth protruding awkwardly from the gaping mouth, the vacant stare. Its face had given way as they had stabbed their forks into its surprisingly soft flesh, which seemed to melt right off its skull.
She ran into the hallway and threw up, leaving a trail of vomit on her way to the guest bathroom. The painting over the toilet now featured the bathing women with rotted, sagging breasts, their mouths contorted, eyes bleeding. She could hear them screaming.
Mrs. March heaved one last time, spewing out bile that was black and thick and gleaming, like tar. She felt something dislodge from her body like a loose stone as she panted, grasping the edge of the toilet seat, her wedding band clinking on the porcelain.
Hearing the neighbors’ movements through the wall, she clasped a hand over her mouth to mute her ragged breathing. She flushed, twice, and stumbled into the hallway.
There was a knock at the door. Mrs. March swung the front door open and was surprised to see a group of uniformed waiters, who all filed past her, ignoring her as they settled into the kitchen and began unwrapping the prepared food.
She looked over to the grandfather clock, ticking brazenly, like a wooden telltale heart. Its smiling moon face winked at her. “What?” she asked it. At this, the television in the bedroom erupted into joyous peals of laughter. She followed the sound, with some trepidation, into her bedroom. On the screen was The Lawrence Welk Show, where a choir clad in canary yellow—taffeta gowns for the women, polyester suits for the men—swayed from side to side, smiling, as they sang “Although it’s always sweet sorrow to part … you know you’ll always remain in my heart …”
The voile curtains undulated, ethereal, in the breeze through the open window. Mrs. March sat at the foot of the bed, George somewhere behind her, his swollen, detaching flesh hidden among the stained pearly sheets.
She checked her watch. The guests would be arriving at any moment. All right, she thought, all right. I can do this. I can handle this. Like Jackie Kennedy, graceful and dignified in her mourning, witnessing Johnson take the oath of office on Air Force One, her husband’s blood speckling her skirt.
She slouched—her knees together, her feet pointing in opposite directions, as if in a half-formed ballet position—and as she waited for the first guests to knock, the TV choir smiled at her and, accompanied by a playful flute, bade her good night, and farewell.
The sound of knuckles on the front door punctuated the end of the song. The party was about to begin.
What have you done, she asked herself. Agatha March, what have you done?
Acknowledgments
MY FIRST BOOK IS DEDICATED TO MY FATHER, WHO WAS my first storyteller, and to my mother, who was my first reader. Thank you both for supporting me, in all senses of the word, since birth. Please stop paying my phone bill.
Thanks to my wonderful, obsessive brothers. To Dani, who put up with many prolonged, shaky-voiced phone calls. To Oscar, who taught us to follow our dreams (albeit a little grumpily).
To Kent D. Wolf, whose commitment to this book (and to its author) is so unwavering it’s frankly alarming. Mrs. March would only exist in a drawer if it weren’t for sharp, hilarious, incredible Kent, who, incidentally, can also pull off a zebra print.
To my delightful editors: Gina Iaquinta, who soothingly coaxed the best out of me, and Helen Garnons-Williams, who always encouraged the maggots. Our three-way conversations in the margins are some of the most fun I’ve had with this book.
To the rascally bunch at Liveright, who fought for me from day one; I felt immediately comfortable in your midst. To Anna Kelly and 4th Estate. To María Fasce at Lumen for her passion, kindness, and enthusiasm. To Teresa, who touchingly always laughs at my jokes. To Lizzie and Lindsey for championing Mrs. March and for giving me the chance to envision this story from a different angle. To Mr. McNally, reader and critic since I was fifteen, who “graded” the very first draft. To Charles Cumming, who always offered to help (even though I’d already helped myself).
To Moni, who sent the flowers, and Pacheco, who opened the champagne.
Por encima de todo gracias, Lucas. Todo es por y para ti.
About the Author
Virginia Feito was raised in Madrid and Paris, and studied English and Drama at Queen Mary University of London. She worked as a copywriter until she quit to write Mrs March, her debut novel. She lives in Madrid.
About the Publisher
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