Asta begged Heinrich to consider their marriage of more than twelve years, their own struggling but solvent enterprise, his years of seniority at the firm that employed him, and their children, their children! Was his life so unbearable? Had he no feeling at all for her?
He said, in a tense, quiet voice, “I’m leaving you.”
“Why?” Asta shouted. “Why Dora? Is it her business, the money?”
He looked at her, stunned, then advanced upon her, enraged. “Why Dora? Why do you think? Shall I show you why? Throw off your clothes, as she does! Start on your knees! Take me to mine!”
They were alone, for the children were at school, and Lavinia would not intervene. Asta tried to flee the room.
But he took hold of her, and dragged her to this bedroom. He forced her against the wall, there, by the mirror, and held her wrists above her head. He stood nearly against her, as though he would kiss or fondle her. She turned her face from him and closed her eyes, but he spoke against her throat, hissing his anger, and she felt each word enter her. “I must work, and work, and work, to even begin with you. I am a man! I am this man! I am not a villain, despoiling you. And I am not your teacher! You do not learn!”
She opened her eyes and saw that his other hand was fisted, that he shook with restraint, lest he beat her senseless. And then he turned and left the house, taking with him the valise he’d left packed at the front door.
Lavinia spoke frankly of Heinrich’s infidelity only once, late that night over tea at the kitchen table, when the children were asleep. The room was shadowy in the snowy, windy night.
Lavinia, appearing regal, kindly, poured the tea. “Asta, hear me out. In this world in which women have so little freedom and enjoy so little regard, it is not always a bad thing to share a man, openly or not, if all are happy, and it is not such an unusual arrangement among artistic people, that alliances be discreet, particularly when there are children involved, over whom aspersions must not be cast.”
“Children? Aspersions? How dare you, Lavinia—”
She held up a thin hand in caution. “I will tell you now that I counseled Heinrich, most seriously, never to tell you and wound you so, and to demand discretion of Dora, if she loved him, discretion that would have preserved your home and even your marriage. He might simply have taken the job as foreman at Hallo, maintained a room in Chicago for the sake of appearances, satisfied his passion for Dora, which would have cooled in time, I assure you, and remained a husband and father finally able to provide for his family; be the artist he was and yet allay your cares, allow you time to do your own work. That he should even think of dragging his children through such a scandal! No, I did not agree! But Dora Hulck is working-class Dutch, and childless, and older than Heinrich, remember; she divorced a wealthy, disagreeable man, and she wants my son to marry her.”
Asta steeled herself; she was determined not to weep. “I thought you would have taken the children, and gone with them.”
Lavinia shook her head, and reached for Asta’s hand. “I could not live with Dora Hulck, nor would she allow my presence. She is shrewd, but not the right sort of influence for the children, nor has she any interest in them. Oh, dear Asta. She requires his genius and is blindly, passionately in love with him, but she hasn’t the breeding or education for the discretion that might have made it all possible.”
Asta pulled away and spoke in an angry whisper; she wanted to shout and throw the tea against the wall. “Lavinia, you are wicked, wicked, to think I would live in a shell of a marriage while my husband opens Hallo Shops in New York and Boston—”
“Dora will not have children; she is obviously barren. Asta, you had only to be patient for a year, five years . . . you have every advantage to press. Heinrich’s love for these children is limitless; he’s devoted to them. You must welcome and encourage his devotion, as Dora will not—”
“Stop it! Stop it!”
She would not. “And to you, Asta. He’s devoted to you, their mother who loves them, and never deserved the wavering of his affections.”
“Then why? Why?” Emotion choked her, for she knew why, and surmised that Lavinia did not; Heinrich had allowed them, at least, the privacy of their intimate relations.
Lavinia leaned forward into the small nimbus of light and spoke fiercely, insistently. “We do not get what we deserve! Never! If we did, the world would be just! We get what we work for, or what we’re born to, if fortune does not intervene to take it from us! Talent grows if it is exercised. And passion, like hunger and thirst, demands satisfaction.”
“That is certainly your son’s assertion!” Asta could not stop herself, though the wind rattling the windowpanes seemed to mock her. “And fidelity, Lavinia? Sacred vows taken before God?”
Lavinia sat back, enveloped in shadow. “Yes, I know you are religious. But, my dear, you are a mature woman. Surely you have wanted, at some time, something or someone forbidden you, something your soul recognizes as its own true counterpart, for whatever reason, or reasons unknown to you.”
Asta met her eyes. “I loved Heinrich!”
“And he loved you. But he denied himself in support of you and the children. You met as artists, did you not?”
“Oh, reproach me because he works at a career—”
“It is not a career, Asta. It is a job, but he is not resentful. He accepts, absolutely, his responsibilities. And he admires and respects and loves you. I can assure you that he reproaches himself bitterly over Dora, oh, so bitterly—”
“As I reproach you, Lavinia! For not telling him never to see her again!”
Lavinia leaned forward to grasp Asta’s hand. “My dear Asta, listen to me. Love is . . . inarguable. Passion is a capability with which one is born, or not. Passion can destroy, yes, but it seeks and must have. That is its nature. You know my experience. Yet Heinrich’s father was my soul’s companion, and gave me the son I love. We maintained our home and our regard for one another. He was tortured by his own needs. Would I torture him as well? I cared for him too deeply. And he adored me. I did not encourage him to hate himself for needs he could not deny.”
Asta clinched Lavinia’s small hand in her own. “Lavinia, you must listen. I will not allow or condone Heinrich’s need for Dora.”
They were silent. The tea, untouched, was cold.
Lavinia allowed no more discussion of Heinrich’s infidelity. She spoke to her son in confidence, divulged no further opinion, and told the children their father was on a business trip. Heinrich disappeared for nearly a week. He came back on the Saturday of a snowstorm, never addressing Asta, and took Hart to the park on the pony. The animal was grown shaggy in his thick winter pelt and long mane, and neighed clouds into the air, feasting on apples that Heinrich pulled from his pockets as he led them down the street.
They were gone for what seemed hours. The snow today reminds her of that day. How heavily it fell, coating every branch and blade! And then Heinrich returned and came upstairs to their bedroom while Lavinia supervised the help, and dinner for the children. He would stay, he told her; his heart was torn but he would not leave his family; he was no longer an artist; an artist who did not work was not an artist; he was a manager, both here in their workshop enterprise and at Metropolitan Insurance and Casualty; he had let Dora go, he had lost her; she had berated him for his lack of nerve and forsaken him.
Anna flew to him and fell on her knees before him and kissed his hands and stopped his mouth, doing with him and to him all the things that he liked her to do, even those things that she often refused him. He took her again and again, wild with sorrow, and forced her response, first with anger, as though he would drive himself through her loins to the base of her spine and into her throat, and then with tears, holding her where she bruised most easily, sucking and biting at her, turning her, pushing into her slowly, hot and wet and searing, for his unnatural pleasure that was her sacrifice. He’d whispered, in past encounters petitioned or commanded, that women who’d had children must give their
men this secrecy, this tight resistant embrace that prevented childbirth yet offered complete possession; she must only open and be taken. He pulled her against him to stand as men stand, bending her forward until she held her own ankles; she urged him deeper, her gown fallen about her as he pushed it from her. They could not talk of this but it was what he most desired.
She washed him as they lay on the tile of the lavatory, sponges and warm soapy water, her hands and her mouth, until he turned her and began again, bracing them both against the hard porcelain edge of the tub. She was not herself to him thus, faceless, bent and spread to receive him. He held her weight completely in his arms, his fingers against her pubis as he fit himself slowly, urgently, inside her privacy, squeezing her mind completely from her. Silent, he worked for his paralyzed shudder of release, sustained even as he softened within her and carried her, like his own appendage, to the bed to lay against her, pressing tight into her, pulsing in some state of unconscious appetite until he slowly withdrew. She knew he wanted to sleep, holding her so, but she crept from him to pour a bath. She lay on towels beside the tub, utilizing the slender wand, the red tubing attached to the enamel pitcher she kept hidden in the bathroom cabinet. Numb and shamed, she positioned the pitcher above her in the basin, imagining the pour of water filling her, wanting the unbearable pressure that rinsed her clean.
After, she lay in the deep bath in steaming, fragrant water, easing her soreness, weeping with relief and gratitude. He would not leave her. She would do as he asked whenever he asked and pose no questions and it would be as though he had never left her. Daily, she changed their sheets, scrubbing the pale gold stains with bleach. Her complete dependence was established anew between them. The safety of her home and children and her only hope lay in his hands that bruised and caressed and demanded an animal intimacy. They must be creatures feasting on one another. His desires demeaned and humiliated her; she performed base actions and lost all sense, for he dissolved all boundaries by which she kept herself apart. She could only surmise, throbbing in the hot bath, that childless Dora pleased him in all ways, that Dora welcomed and encouraged him, while Asta had forced him to deny himself, had evaded and denied. She would never again deny him.
The accident was four days later. A streetcar, in the Loop, in darkening, swirling snow. Instantaneous, she was told. He did not suffer.
Suffer? A chasm opened before her and she stood on a precipice, surveying vast dimensions, for there was no way to cross over. His life insurance of two thousand dollars was smaller than expected, for he had taken his commissions in cash and not reinvested a percentage. Lavinia’s funds were set aside to educate the children. The house, free and clear, was their only other asset. They would borrow against it, even as they rented out rooms and lowered expenses.
Mr. Malone at the bank was most kind. He first met with her in the week after the funeral, leaning toward her over his broad desk. “Mrs. Eicher, may I ask the ages of your children?”
“Why, Annabel is four, Hart seven, and Grethe, the eldest, is nine.”
“Yes, and the life insurance has been paid you, and how long can you make it last?”
“I think, a year or more.”
“His firm offered no other help?”
“They paid the funeral expenses, which they stressed was a generosity. Heinrich was engaged in the commission of his work, but it was after hours, the accident.”
“I see. Are these your account books?”
“Yes, my husband’s account books. I’m sure you are far more familiar with the figures than I, as Heinrich did not share such details. We had a very traditional marriage . . .”
Here she blushed, in remembrance of her own actions the afternoon Heinrich returned to her, and in the nights following. It occurred to her now, sitting opposite Mr. Malone, that perhaps Heinrich had pretended she was Dora, that he missed Dora and wanted Dora.
“Yes.” Mr. Malone looked at her intently, as though to focus her attention. “The traditional arrangement of finances is quite common, Mrs. Eicher, though I’m not sure it’s wise. Heinrich was in excellent health and, like many men in their prime, had no reason to suspect a shortened life. He was an athlete in his youth, wasn’t he? A boxer?”
“Yes. He won trophies, in Europe, at twenty, before we met.”
“Yes, he spoke of it.” Malone took off his glasses, folded his hands. His eyes were brown, warmly golden, his thick dark hair silver at the temples. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Mr. Malone. I do appreciate your frank advisement.” Her voice caught slightly, and he rose to get her a glass of water. He was tall and broad in the shoulders; Heinrich had said Mr. Malone rode horses, that they sometimes saw him in the park, cantering a long-limbed roan, as they walked the pony. Lavinia said he was Catholic, and childless; his wife was not well.
He set the glass of water, poured from a covered glass carafe, before her. “I do advise my clients to set aside far more than life insurance, but Heinrich looked forward to full-time engagement in your mutual design business, and he put monies toward it, understanding there would not be immediate return.”
She pushed the account books toward him. “I know the books show expenses for my business, which was only breaking even. I shall finish my present commissions, curtail my work, and try to rent the studio space. We will also rent rooms, to gentlemen exclusively, and provide board. That will be our income, and will allow us to stay in our home.”
“Yes,” he said carefully, “initially, at least, but let us think forward, beyond this next year. I’m aware that your daughter Grethe requires special consideration.”
Anna nodded. “Yes, a childhood fever left her compromised. She is trusting and good, but not perceptive. She needs protection.”
Malone paused, and continued. “We must think in terms of the next fifteen years, until such time as your son reaches adulthood, and will I’m sure provide for you. He must be educated. I will of course grant you a mortgage on your house, but I suggest you consider selling Cedar Street and buying a smaller home with less land, a town house perhaps, and live off the capital until such time as—” He saw her stricken look, and went on. “Or you could sell the parcel of land behind the house; there’s frontage on the street back of the property, adjacent to Mayor McKee’s home, which makes the land attractive to an investor or builder.”
“Fifteen years,” Anna said. She reached for the water, but could not bring herself to raise the glass to her mouth.
“It’s difficult to make decisions now. Unfortunately, it will be necessary at some point. Mortgaging the home incurs debt, while selling it could provide you with careful income.” He waited, observing her. “Would you like some hot tea?” His gaze took in her untouched water glass, and her gloves twisted in her hands.
“No, thank you, Mr. Malone.” Shame suffused her like a warm glow. She probably seemed quite stupid, to cling to a house she could not afford. Odd, the clarity of her thoughts that day, which concerned not this meeting, for which she had tried to prepare, but Heinrich, whom she saw as clearly as though he were beside her. He would stand at the window in their dark bedroom. Moonlight bathed his face and bare chest. He was just her height, and the muscles of his arms and thighs stood out like ropes. He tensed as though bearing a great weight, then came to her for his solace. He began, knowing she would not limit, hinder, resist. Nearly faint in a banker’s office chair, she could feel Heinrich lift her off her feet, and saw in his eyes the complete desolation she’d refused to acknowledge.
Yes, he was desolate, desperate.
“Mrs. Eicher?”
Asta forced herself to meet Malone’s gaze. “Yes, Mr. Malone?”
“You’re a silversmith, aren’t you, Mrs. Eicher, as was Heinrich. You are an expert on silver and design. Given that Heinrich’s mother lives with you and can help with the children, might you consider inquiring about employment in that realm? Perhaps with a firm downtown?”
“My mother-in-law is nearly seventy, Mr. M
alone, and my children are young. When I worked at our own enterprise, I was near them, in the backyard studio, always supervising.” Others never understood that Lavinia entertained the children but indulged odd enthusiasms. She was shattered by Heinrich’s death, and would make a martyr of him; she needed distraction. Asta planned to rent both back bedrooms, have nice young men coming and going, provide board. Lavinia would go on with the children’s piano lessons and theatricals and walks, and help with the cooking. “No, I shall simply have to try to make it work.”
“I see. Well, then, I shall do all in my power to help you.”
When she took her leave, Mr. Malone clasped her hand in his two hands, which were deep and fleshy and warm, and dwarfed her own. He was soft-spoken, gentle, as though, being a big man, he took care not to overwhelm. The unwelcome thought that his wife was fortunate flickered in Asta’s mind, for a man that size possessed of Heinrich’s appetites would surely kill a delicate woman.
She flees her thoughts by reciting Cornelius’ letters; he writes of women with deepest respect and admiration. Particular lines are her comfort. The cadences run like rhyme, familiar, assenting, protective, assuring her that her correspondent respects her widowhood, believes women worthy, holds Christian attitudes.
Woman’s holy courage was first revealed to me in my mother. I first saw it at my father’s deathbed. . . . Dear, love can never be a light thing with me with such memories. My boyish heart was thus early impressed, sealed by the enduring strength of love. I shall never forget . . . the profound seriousness of the right love of the one man for the one woman, and vice versa.
He is truly fine. How fortunate that he, of all others, found interest in her words. The American Friendship Society, located in Detroit and possessed of good reputation, was the only firm to which she’d sent a carefully worded request for “correspondence, leading to true friendship, fidelity, and matrimony.” Some who responded listed motherless progeny or a frank need for a helpmate. None reflected Cornelius’ education, ideals, or means. She had not mentioned love in her initial notice; she wanted to communicate modest virtue and discourage philandering opportunists, who might use the mails to prey on women. Neither had she mentioned her children or her name, or even her correct initials. She must secure lives for her children, and stability, and she dared hope, at last, for her own soul’s companion, a man for whom no sacrifice was necessary, to whom she could turn openly and trust as she had trusted no one.
Quiet Dell: A Novel Page 6