Bitter Truth

by William Lashner

  We took our vows before the excited throng on the back lawn. The minister’s service was short and full of love. Between us and the audience was that plot of flowers whose colors seemed brighter than life. I said “I do” as firmly as a banker but Christian acknowledged his love for me with a squeak that brought welcome twitters from the guests. In front of everyone he was becomingly shy when it was time to kiss but I put my hand on his neck and brought his face to mine and his lips to mine and we kissed again as sweetly and as powerfully as when we kissed that first time.

  The revelry was subdued, of course, with my sister absent, but it was celebratory nonetheless and there was much to celebrate. Christian and I will surely have the finest of lives together, and the restructured Shaw Brothers Company, which my father has saved from the terrible jaws of bankruptcy, will be signed into existence within a very few days. All has come together as I planned the summer last upon first hearing of the Shaw family’s distress.

  So I am now Mrs. Christian Shaw, a name I will cherish into eternity. Christian is snoring loudly on the bed, the result, of course, of the brandy. Our first night of passion will have to be delayed but that could not be helped, what with the way Charity’s disappearance has affected all of our nerves. But enough of her. We are embarking on a long voyage to Europe, leaving on the boat tomorrow, traveling all the way from London to Istanbul in the grandest of styles, and for the whole of that time I don’t want once to discuss my ungrateful sister. The future belongs only to me and my dear dear husband.

  III

  March 4, 1914

  My Dearest Charity,

  It has come again like a flood of red death to curse me in my sorrows. Need I be reminded of all that has gone wrong in the past years of my life? Must my agony continue indefinitely? Must I never be forgiven? It is no surprise that it came, of course, as my husband prefers the leather chairs and narrow bunks of his club to our marriage bed, and when he does touch me it is only from the twin spurs of anger and drink, but still I prayed this month, as I pray every month, for the Lord to grant me some surcease from my lonely misery, and so it is with profound bitterness that I see my prayers fall uselessly upon the ground like empty seed.

  The questioning has stopped, thank goodness, but that doesn’t make the hole any less deep. Ever since Mother passed away Father has stopped asking about grandchildren. Instead, he stares at me sullenly over dinner, as if I were the cause of his heartbreak. His glower is little different than the brooding darkness of my husband’s countenance and I wonder if they are not conspiring against me for some devilish purpose. I think it may have been a mistake, dear sister, to insist that my husband and I should reside at Veritas, but I couldn’t bear to be away from it and all it carries, including my memories of you. Christian, by the time we returned from Europe, had ceased to care about anything but his brandy and so he went along with the decision, but I fear our being here has not helped our marriage. My only remaining comfort is my family.

  I couldn’t survive without Hope and I spend hours each day by her bedside, reading to her, feeding her the broth I’ve prepared. Christian too, when he is at home, spends much of his time with her, confiding, I fear. I think only Hope is able to ease the secret burden that seems to so weigh down his heart. I would be jealous of her evident closeness to my husband except that Hope is the nearest thing I shall meet to a saint in this world. I am sure she is my champion and won’t tolerate even the smallest hint against me. She is grace incarnate and always full of patience for my woes. I gain strength from her, and strength from my thoughts of you, wherever you are, making your way in this world. You are my inspiration, dear sister, and every day I await the mail for some word of you. It will come, I know it will.

  I don’t know if I can bear another spell like this one. I must do something to fill the yawning chasm within me, I must be strong, as strong as you, sweet sister, because you chose your path as only I can choose mine.

  March 12, 1914

  My Dearest Charity,

  Our sister Hope climbed out of bed today, put on a frock, and walked unassisted down the stairs. Dr. Cohn says if she watches herself and avoids drafts and too much exertion she can live a normal life, which is what we all have prayed for the many years since she became ill. Father was in tears as she made her way down the staircase, I was clapping, and your spirit, dear sister, was hovering over us all. She sat at the piano and let her fingers drift across the ivory. The smile on her face was painful in its gratitude to the Lord for giving her this recovery. It was an unseasonably warm spring day and the sun was bright and I insisted Hope come out to the yard, to my garden by the statue of Aphrodite. The barberry hedge is now almost waist-high and the daffodils and tulips are bursting forth as if summoned by the warm kiss of the spring. The intricate design I planned is now fully evident and in the center of everything is that glorious oval of good black earth from which the perennial stalks have begun to rise. When she saw it, Hope’s eyes glowed with a joy that told me the hours I have lavished on the garden have not been wasted.

  March 18, 1914

  My Dearest Charity,

  I have sent word to Christian’s club that our sister is failing and he should come home at once. In truth, a comforting color has risen to her soft cheeks and Dr. Cohn says that as long as her spirit remains steadfast her chances for improvement are real and our prayers for her recovery might yet be heard. Still, this was not a time of the month for Christian to absent himself from his adopted family and his loving wife. If am being reckless then the Lord will forgive me for my purpose is noble and in furtherance of His ends. I would be surer of my path if my husband didn’t frighten me so. Father is in Pittsburgh for the week, meeting with the Heinzes and the Carnegies, and so there is no protection for me here should things take a turn that I cannot now gauge, but desperate needs breed desperate means.

  I know how he will behave when he comes home; I can imagine the scene as clearly as if it were in one of Mr. Belasco’s theatrical productions. The automobile will let him off in front of the house and he will charge in, his rain cape splaying blackness in his wake, and he will leap up the steps, two at a time, to get to sister Hope’s room. I will be in the center hall, hands clasped before me, but he will ignore me as he climbs to the one person in this family who still has some claim to his affection. And in that room, with all the melodrama he has sucked this night from his bottle, he will fall to his knees and clasp dear Hope’s cold tiny hands in his own and place his head on her stomach and allow his tears to drip upon her blanket, only to be startled by Hope’s irreverent laughter.

  He will spend a few moments more with her, grateful for her condition, and he will be forced to hear the kind words from our sister’s lips about me that this very afternoon I implored her to speak to my husband at her first opportunity. In her faltering voice she will tell him of her fervent hopes that Christian and I can reconcile our difference and be husband and wife in more than name and create for ourselves an heir. He will keep his smile through the speech, and try to show only love for the saintly convalescent, but his face will redden and his eyes darken and when he takes his leave there will be only anger, anger at my scheming and the deceptive note that cut his precious evening short so that he could be forced to hear a lecture. My dear husband Christian hates to be lectured to and hates most of all to be lectured to about his manly duties. I have noticed that it is after lectures of that sort by my father or Christian’s Uncle Sullivan that my husband’s anger is most aroused. I only pray he had enough time to guzzle his stomach’s worth at the club before the note came, that his mind is suitably enraged and his sensibilities suitably dulled.

  I hear his car rattling with desperation up the rain-slick hill of our drive as he rushes to our sister’s bedside. I must leave my room now, must take my place on the stage as the curtain rises and the drama is about to be unleashed.

  June 24, 1914

  My Dearest Charity,

  I feel like a blindfold has been lifted from my eyes
and finally, for the first time in my life, my path is visible. I won’t dwell on the selfishness of my history except to say that suddenly I see it as a wasteland, full of regret and lost opportunities for grace, and am grateful to the heavens that I have come through it alive and with child. This life within me, still as yet unformed, contains the roots of all meaning for me now. I am as blessed as the Mary herself, and certain every mother feels this same sense of divinity. Father is delirious with joy, Hope fusses over me for once, and everyone moves about the house as if in a dance around the soon to be crowned king, including my dear husband.

  The shock of the announcement has worn off and, though he tries to hide it, I can see the excitement in his eyes too. Whatever dark and heavy load it is he carries, it seems to have lightened with the news of his impending fatherhood. He can bear once again to touch me with a gentle hand, caressing my swelling stomach. Sometimes, at night, we stay up late together and talk of the future, almost as it was on those long nights of our innocence before the tragedy of our wedding. Just last night he told me, with all his earnestness, that everything must be done to secure our child’s future in every respect. His devotion is an inspiration. Everything I do from here on to forever, every breath I breathe, will be devoted to nurturing that life to fullness and ensuring its blessed future.

  August 29, 1914

  My Dearest Charity,

  Our sister has relapsed into a crushing illness. She has taken once again to her bed and lost all strength. The news from Europe has disturbed everyone but it appears that our dear sister’s sensibilities are finer then the rest of us and it has affected her more, weakening her defenses against whatever beastly curse has been afflicting her all these years. We hired the finest nurse but still I insist on making her broth every morning and spooning it past her quivering jaw. I can feel the power of this life that swells within me flowing into the broth I cook each morning for our sister and in my heart of hearts I feel that power will be the key to her recovery. Her eyes are as ever alive with goodness and strength but there is about her body a feebleness that is frightening. I spend hours with her, reading her the latest novels and some poetry from the collection in your room, I hope you don’t mind, and her spirits are buoyant still, but there is about this spell something deeper and darker then previous bouts. Dr. Cohn patted our shoulders but his eyes were the eyes of worry.

  September 18, 1914

  My Dearest Charity,

  As I was making the broth this morning for our dear sister, I felt the life inside me contract. With each stir of the spoon my baby twisted and turned and then the contractions sent me to the red tile floor with a scream. It isn’t time yet, it can’t be yet. The nurse rushed down and seeing what had happened helped me to the parlor couch where I stayed until Dr. Cohn came. He gave me some medicine and prescribed rest and so I have been banished to the bedroom for the time being. When Christian heard he rushed home and clasped my hands and we prayed together for the health of our child. I have never seen him so devoted, never seen him so full of love.

  October 9, 1914

  My Dearest Charity,

  Hope was well enough today to sit up in her bed. Due to my condition I cannot spend the time with her I would but Christian is by her side for hours every evening, reading and talking. She is goodness incarnate and it appears the ministrations of dear Christian have delivered to her another measure of strength. Christian is a saint, doting on dear Hope’s every wish. It seems my pregnancy and Hope’s illness have finally turned us into the family I’ve dreamed we could be.

  November 15, 1914

  My Dearest Charity,

  While under Christian’s care Hope relapsed into her deep illness and fear has now replaced whatever good cheer had been extant at Veritas. The doctor has allowed me to rise from my bed and I do so with the gravest concern for our dear sister. This morning I was back in the kitchen, chopping the vegetables by hand, butchering the chicken, spooning off the scum from the bones and stirring the sweet, clear broth that I pray will cause the wishes I hold most dear to become realities. I work with all the will passed to me by my father. She barely takes a drop, but it is enough, I pray, to do its work. It is uncanny but with each stroke of the long wooden spoon this morning I again felt my child turn within me, to kick out, and I again felt my stomach contract around my fetus, but still I continued, in silence, wanting nothing or no one to get in the way of my sacred duty. Our father is desolate with worry, Christian wrings his hands with pain and dulls his sense with drink through the long evenings while she sleeps. That tragedy should swipe at us again is unthinkable. If only you were here, dear sister, to encourage us with your loveliness and give us the strength to bear the future’s pains.

  November 19, 1914

  Struck numb with heartbreak, I can barely lift the pen. What have we done to deserve such misery? What? What? Why are we so cursed? It seems that from the moment I first laid eyes on Christian Shaw tragedy has stalked me on clawed paws and I can’t yet figure out why. Why? All I know is that life has become too much to bear alone.

  November 20, 1914

  The cook came into my room as I was still wracked with tears and showed to me a metal canister filled with a soft white powder. She found it, she said, among the tins stored in the great wooden cabinets in our kitchen. It was not hers, she assured me, but the scent was reminiscent of what the gardener has put out in the basement for the rats. I told her to throw it out and to tell no one, ever, of what she found. What mistake could have brought such powder to our kitchen cabinets? I can’t bear to even consider the possibilities of what other tragedy might have befallen us. The gardener will be fired, immediately, I will see to it. To be forced to contend with the daily concerns of this house while my sweet sweet sister lies so peacefully in her coffin is impossible. I pray even that the life inside me stops its ceaseless battering so that I can lose myself in the strong and welcoming arms of this abject grief.

  December 29, 1914

  My Dearest Sisters,

  Early this morning, just past the stroke of midnight, my son was born. Whatever pain we have suffered these last few years pales beside his magnificence. He is robust and pink and when he first cried as he gulped the air outside my body it was the sound of life itself asserting its glory against the tragedies of our days gone past. The labor was exquisitely painful, I shouted for hours and bit the nurse’s hand until it bled, but I welcomed the agony too, in a strange part of my soul, as expiation for everything that came before it. My son exists for all of us, dear sisters, and your spirits will be as real a presence for him through his childhood as my own. He was born of violence and tragedy and death but his cry is regal and he will inherit the whole of the Reddman empire and so I have named him Kingsley. Kingsley Reddman Shaw.

  To see Father’s joy as he held our baby, dear sisters, his sole heir, is to be lifted to the heavens. His life has been one of continued grace, and the fame of his philanthropy has outstripped the notoriety of his business acumen, but still he has lost so much in the past years, not the least your companionship and love, that he was starving for some new victory over loss. He sees in his grandson that victory, I believe, and a justification for all he suffered as he fought to make his mark.

  Christian has been absent from the house since Hope’s death, grieving deep in his soul for the purest life to ever touch this earth, and so my husband has not yet seen his son, but word has been sent to his usual places and I expect him shortly. I can imagine him leaping the stairs two at a time to reach his child and that vision fills me with sublime hope for the future. Our child is all the hope we need. He will be the redemption of the Reddmans, the savior of us all. He will honor your legacy and your sacrifices, dear sisters. You can be certain that Kingsley will carry on the greatness of our father as the Reddman family is once and forever reborn.

  IV

  March 28, 1923

  My Dearest Sisters,

  A mountain cougar has been spotted in our county. It has slipped down from t
he heights north of us in search of food as this long wearying winter continues or has simply lost its bearings, but the effect is either way the same. A dog was mangled on a farm not far from us and one of Naomi Scott’s famed dairy cows was found dead in a far pasture, its haunch chewed to the bone. The presence of this wild beast has cast a pall upon the spring and the men are out with their guns, combing the hills in search of its tracks in the soft earth.

  Christian has gone out with Kingsley hunting for the cat. He has taken his father’s shotgun out of the case and given it to our son to carry, against my objections. Kingsley is too young to handle a firearm and Christian is obviously unable to handle it correctly, but as always, as regards dear Christian, my objections went for naught. It is as if he does not even hear me as I speak. There is for him only his son and the pond and the woods, where he sits for hours on end with nothing but the birds and the tiniest creatures to keep him company. His unhappiness is so evident it crushes any attempt to reach out to him. We have almost passed through his fourth year back and still he acts as if the battlefield is just behind him. Sometimes I think it would have been kinder had the jagged piece of metal that severed his arm slipped into his throat instead and saved him from the misery he has come home to.

  Seeing them walk off together, the quiet boy with the oversized gun cradled in his arms and the crippled man, I marveled again at the relationship they have forged. Kingsley barely speaks two words together, so shy and withdrawn he has become, and Christian’s wretchedness infects with melancholy all with whom he comes in contact, but together they seem a natural whole, like two wild animals perfectly at ease with one another. I had hoped that Christian would help me speak to the boy about his studies, for Kingsley obviously fails to heed my importuning, but Christian refuses to hear one word ill against his son. Kingsley’s newest tutor has failed to connect with the boy and reports that his pupil is still unable to read even the most simple-minded passages or add his figures correctly. I suspect, though I dare not breathe this to Christian or Father, that the problem is with the boy, not the pedagogue, but even so I am searching again for a more rigorous teacher.