by Chip Cheek
“I’ll never forget you,” he said.
“I know you won’t.”
Later he would try to imagine the scene as Effie saw it. He would never know for certain what she saw, or for how long. From the sliding-glass door they would have been barely discernible, their bodies blurred together but unmistakably there. The moon hadn’t risen yet, there were only the stars, which were out in the millions. The cold air swished through the trees. They never heard her—Henry didn’t hear her—step out onto the deck and come close enough to touch them. Until she cried, in a high, choked voice, “Oh my God.”
He tore away from Alma. “Effie,” he said. “You’re up.”
She covered her mouth, and through her fingers said again, “Oh my God. Oh my God.”
He held his palms up as if to ward off a blow. “Effie, this isn’t…” He changed tack. “It’s Alma,” he said. “She’s still here.”
Alma had backed away from them. “Hey, honey,” she said.
Very calmly, it seemed, lowering her hand from her mouth, Effie turned and walked back across the porch and into the house. Henry was too stunned at first to move.
“I guess this is goodbye,” Alma said, and he glared at her. “It doesn’t have to be,” she said. “I can wait for you.”
He left her there without a word, and went to follow his wife. He felt his way into the den, calling Effie’s name, but she wasn’t there. “Effie, baby?” He ascended the stairs, and at the first landing saw the closed door of the yellow bedroom, the sliver of light beneath. He ran up to it. Of course she’d bolted it.
“Effie,” he said. “Please, baby, please let me in. Let me talk to you. Effie, baby, please, I love you so much. Let me in.”
She didn’t answer, not even to tell him to go away. He could hear her moving things around. He gripped the doorknob and rattled it. “Effie!” he shouted, and struck the door several times with his palm until, giving up, he slumped his shoulder against it and slid to the floor.
He cried. All the pent-up guilt and shame and longing, all of his exhaustion, the nights without sleep, his frayed and exposed nerves—all of it broke inside him, and he lay against the door and cried. He wasn’t thinking—not grasping for a defense, not imagining what was to come, not even considering what he’d done. All of that would come later, when the shock faded and he was left, horribly, alone in his head. For now he was only a creature of feeling. He cried, and the only word in his head was please—please, please, please.
Finally Effie slid the bolt back and opened the door and he sat up straight. She wore her tan overcoat and her stockings and heels. From her shoulder hung a large paisley bag he didn’t recognize. She looked down at him. She hadn’t been crying. She’d put her makeup on and pinned her hair up. Her calmness was unnerving.
“Effie,” he said. “Can we talk, baby, please?”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said. “I don’t want any explanation from you. I don’t want to be in the same house with you.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going out,” she said. “It’s none of your business where. If you come after me, if you touch me, Henry, I’ll kill you.”
She stepped over him and started down the stairs into the dark.
* * *
He got to his feet and went into the bedroom. Whatever he was going to do, it seemed important that he get dressed. He was pulling his trousers on when he saw, lying on Effie’s side of the bed, the drawing—his drawing, in all its vulgar detail, an exact image of himself, like a reflection of his deepest shame.
Thanks for the memories, it was signed. Love, Alma.
Fourteen
He had ruined his life. As he dressed and went downstairs, turned on all the lights in the den and the dining room and the kitchen, poured himself a scotch and then put it aside, disgusted by the taste of it now, he felt as if he’d betrayed every object in the house and everything he owned, even his own clothes. They were reminders of what he’d destroyed. His argyle socks made him want to cry. He’d imagined happier times for them.
So much had happened, and it wasn’t yet eleven o’clock. He wished he had cigarettes. He stood out on the front porch, antsy to roam the town in search of Effie, in spite of her warning, but worried too that he’d miss her if he went out. The lights were on down at Clara’s. The thought that she was there—that she’d gone to Max, if only for revenge—made him panic for a moment, made him want to run down there and stop it—but then he couldn’t believe she’d actually do such a thing, he was sure he knew her that much: she’d be sickened by all of them. And she’d assume Alma was there, anyway, and would want to avoid her. Unless she wanted to tear her to pieces. (Against Effie, he thought, Alma wouldn’t stand a chance.) But in fact Alma wasn’t there, as Henry knew, because there were lights down at the Bishops’ house too.
An hour passed. He imagined Effie wandering Cape May, letting herself cry, now that she was out of his sight, or going down to the boardwalk. Yes: that must have been where she was, not crying at all, but sitting on a bench and watching the waves roll out of the dark, one after another, trying to decide whether or not to leave him.
He thought he knew the verdict already. A long line of tribulations had queued up in his near future. The trip back to Signal Creek by himself, the cavernous stations full of strangers. His solitary homecoming, and his explanation, to his mother and Uncle Carswall, of what had happened, or some version of it. How they would look at him. The inevitable confrontation with Effie’s father. There is a special place in hell for you, son. Word would get around—it would probably get around before he made it home. He’d be shunned by the town, even by his friends, because what he’d done was unforgivable. There’s that Henry Faircloth, who was married to Mayor Tarleton’s pretty little daughter. You know he cheated on her—on their honeymoon? He’d have to move away. To Macon, where, with Uncle Red’s recommendation, the railroad would probably take him. But he would do better to go farther. Maybe he wouldn’t go home at all. Maybe he’d go up to New England—Maine—Prince Edward Island, like Anne of Green Gables—and become a fisherman. Let everyone back home think he was dead, like he deserved.
He was shivering. After a while the lights at Clara’s went out. At the Bishops’ house they shone on—through the side door at the second-story balcony, and through the windows downstairs.
He’d torn the picture into little pieces and flushed them down the toilet. Alma had intended to hurt him, even before she’d seen him tonight. Maybe she’d only intended to leave the picture in the bedroom, for Effie to discover, but when she’d seen him there she’d been unable to resist waking him—to confront him, or to see, if only for the sport of it, if she could tempt him away. In fact he had no idea what her intentions had been, what had been in her heart. He could only speak for himself, and he was a fool.
Love. He didn’t know her at all.
He couldn’t sit still any longer. He left the porch and made his way toward the Bishops’ house. He would tell Alma she had ruined his life. He would strike her with the back of his hand. Then, maybe, they would run away together after all. What else was left for him? They could be exiles together. His thoughts were muddled. He ran up the porch steps and threw open the front door and shouted her name.
A lamp was on in the living room, but she wasn’t there. “Alma!” he shouted again, so strenuously it hurt his throat and strained the tendons in his neck. It felt satisfying. He stormed across the living room and back into the kitchen, where the lights were on, shouting her name again and again. She wasn’t in the kitchen, and she wasn’t in the dining room, and when he entered the living room again he stopped short, halted by the sight of a small old man at the foot of the stairs, in his bedclothes and slippers, pointing a gun at him.
“You stop there,” the old man said. “You stay right there and don’t you move.”
Henry held his hands up. “Sir,” he said. “There’s been a mistake.”
“I’ll say.”
The stairs popped and he looked up to see an old woman standing in her nightgown, looking down at him in terror, her hand to her chest. “Oh, Francis, do be careful.”
“Call the police,” the man said, not taking his eyes off Henry. “And don’t come down here until I tell you.”
The woman hurried back up the stairs.
“Sir,” Henry said, “there’s no need to do that. I’ll just go. I came in here by mistake. I’m sorry.”
“You’re the one’s been in here,” the man said. “You and this—Alma?”
“I’ll never come back here again, I swear. I’m not a bad person.”
“You stay right there,” the man said. “I have shot a man before, and I am not afraid to do it again.”
* * *
The police arrived in minutes. Two officers, who left their blue-and-red lights flashing outside, and who had to tell the old man to set his gun down. The old woman watched from the stairs. Henry was made to sit down. The officers, one of whom was much younger than the other, almost a boy, were polite, even jovial. They called Henry sir. Questions were asked, answers were given. The old man and his wife had arrived from Philadelphia that evening and found the place a mess. No, nothing had been stolen, as far as they could tell. Yes, Henry confirmed, he’d broken into the house multiple times. No, he said, he hadn’t stolen anything. Yes, he’d had an accomplice, a friend, whose name was Alma. He didn’t know where she was. They’d only been looking at things. No, that wasn’t all, they’d been having sex too. The old man was appalled. The officers’ faces turned beet red, they cleared their throats. He was from Georgia. He was on his honeymoon. No, not with Alma. His wife’s name was Effie—he spelled it. No, he didn’t know where she was either. He could have lied and made things easier for himself, but he felt too miserable and penitent to say anything but the truth.
“Heck yes, we want to press charges,” the old man said.
The officers placed Henry in handcuffs and led him outside and into the backseat of the squad car, and as soon as they were on their way, they laughed.
“So let me get this straight,” the young one said, turning in his seat to look back at Henry. “You’re on your honeymoon, but you and this sweetheart—not your wife—you just break into that house every night—to screw? Oh, Mack, we can’t arrest this fellow,” he said to the other one, who was driving. “We should give him a medal. He’s my hero.”
Cape May swept darkly by outside. He rested his head against the window. It was a short trip: the police station, along with the City Hall and courthouse, occupied a building on Washington Street, near the town center, a stretch he and Effie had passed many times. They led him into the station, where the lights were bright and the air smelled like burnt coffee. Only one other officer was on duty, manning the front desk, and he seemed to enjoy the story even more than the other officers had. “I bet you’re glad you’re in here, aren’t you, pal? We can tell your wife we never heard of you. You’ll be safe here.” It was probably the most excitement they’d seen in months. They uncuffed him, took his information—reluctantly, he gave them his address and phone number back home—and took his prints and his picture. They told him the judge would be in first thing Monday morning, to set bail.
“Monday?” he cried. It was only Friday night—or rather, early Saturday morning. The clock on the wall read half past one.
“Sorry, Romeo. Next time, get nabbed on a weekday.”
They said he could make a phone call, and dully he searched his mind. There was no phone at Aunt Lizzie’s, and anyway, Effie probably wasn’t there. It would do no good to call home. Clara was his only choice. He asked for a phone directory, and the officer at the front desk slapped it down in front of him, a slim volume. He flipped through it, expecting nothing, but—a bit of luck, finally—found “Strauss, A.,” with a New Hampshire Avenue address. He connected to the number and waited, and waited, until Clara’s voice came through. He could tell she’d been sleeping.
“Clara,” he said. “It’s Henry.”
She paused for a long time. “Henry,” she said, drawing his name out. “Henry, Henry, Henry. Have I heard a story about you.”
“Is Effie there?”
“No, dear, I haven’t seen her. I suppose she’s left you?”
“Oh,” he started, but his voice broke, and he began to cry. The officers looked at him with real pity. “Clara,” he said, “I’ve been arrested. I’m at the jail.”
“My God, what did you do?”
He explained what had happened, turning his back to the officers. He said nothing about Alma, but he guessed he didn’t need to.
She laughed. “Oh, Henry. You are in a pickle, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know what to do,” he said, and when she didn’t respond to this, he tried again: “What am I supposed to do?”
“How should I know, dear?”
She wasn’t going to help him. And why should she? But he had to try. “I mean, can you … is there any way you could bail me out?”
“Oh, Henry.” She sighed loudly into the receiver. “Dear, sweet Henry. I’m afraid money is a sensitive issue at the moment.”
“You mean you can’t…?”
“Listen,” she said, “I’m going home tomorrow. But if I see Effie, I’ll tell her what’s happened. If I don’t, I’ll leave a note for her. That’s all I can do.” She sighed again, and clucked her tongue. “Poor Henry. I feel terrible for you, I do. You and I are a lot alike, you know. We want everything.”
* * *
The block of cells was tiny, only four of them in a square, separated by bars, with a passageway down the middle. One of the cells was occupied, by an old man in a pea coat sleeping on a cot. They put Henry in the cell diagonal from him, against the back wall. He had a cot, a sink, and a toilet bowl. No privacy, of course. No windows. Another wall clock hung at his end of the passageway, and when the officers left the block, he could hear the second hand ticking.
He held his head in his hands and cried, quietly, until the man in the pea coat said, “Quit your blubbering,” and he looked up to see him glaring at him over his shoulder. “Fucking prep-school pansy,” the man said, lowering his head again.
Henry looked down at his trousers and loafers and supposed an old drunk could see him that way. But his life had veered in another direction. He’d be an old drunk himself soon enough. He curled up on his cot, facing the cinder-block wall, and closed his eyes tight. The light in the block remained on, which seemed unnecessarily cruel. He’d always felt generously about himself, but now he knew what he was. A liar, an adulterer, and a criminal. He could never go home again. He could never face his family.
The hours passed slowly, one second at a time. He fell in and out of consciousness. He dreamt that he was wedged in a coal chute and was suffocating, and he woke with a loud breath. The cell was silent, aside from the old man’s snores, and the second hand of the clock, and the faint buzz of the light. He couldn’t hear the sea. He could have been anywhere.
Seven o’clock looked no different from one thirty, except that now a new officer entered the block, bringing oatmeal and water for breakfast. Henry drank the water but had no appetite, and set the oatmeal aside. He felt bloated, but he couldn’t have relieved himself here if his life had depended on it. He curled up again and tried to sleep.
* * *
Just after noon an officer woke him, kicking his cot, saying, “Up and at ’em, kid. Time to leave.”
Behind him the cell door stood open. Henry sat up, baffled, and put his loafers on.
He followed the officer out of the block and down a short corridor into the lobby, where Clara was standing at the front desk in her sunglasses, a white scarf tied about her head. Right then, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“My
poor dear, there you are.” She kissed his cheeks and hugged him, and he breathed in the scent of her Chanel. He didn’t understand what she was doing there. “I’m a sorceress,” she said. She’d paid the Bishops a little visit that morning, she explained, and convinced them to drop the charges. They’d called the station before she came over. Didn’t he remember? They’d been old friends of her mother’s. They’d been enchanted with Clara when she was a little girl. “Actually, I groveled,” she said. “I’ll probably hear it from Mother.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing,” she said. “I feel like I owe you one.”
He didn’t ask what for. He collected his wallet from the officer at the front desk, and just like that, he was free to go.
It was a bright fall day. Leaves skittered along the sidewalk. Clara took his elbow and they started down Washington Street. He was free, he thought. All hope wasn’t lost. She asked if he was hungry, but he only wanted to get back to the cottage. He asked if she’d seen Effie, and she gave him a sympathetic look, and shook her head. “Maybe she’s at the house,” she said. “I thought of looking in, but I have a feeling she doesn’t want to see me.” She took his hand, entwined her fingers with his. “Don’t worry, dear. I bet she just went to a hotel to sleep it off. She’s a devoted girl. You’re both so young, you know.”
He nodded. They walked on, and turned right onto Madison Avenue.
Max and Alma were gone, she said. They’d left first thing that morning. “There was quite a scene last night, when Alma came back. Max wanted to kill you.”