Shattered Echoes

by B. A. Shapiro

  I looked around, wondering what Isabel had in mind. Edgar’s apartment had the same floor plan as mine, but as its original use had been formal entertaining, its ceilings were higher, its fireplaces more ornate, its cornices wider and more detailed. There were bookcases everywhere: built-in, freestanding, running to the ceiling, shoulder height, tabletop height—and all overflowing with books. He hadn’t been kidding about the “scourge of literary criticism.” I followed the lavender scent to the largest case.

  I stood uncertainly for a moment, then chuckled and began pulling books from the two middle shelves. The lavender became particularly intense as I carefully replaced them—in descending order by height.

  When I finished, I stood back and surveyed our handiwork; it was perfect. I walked to the door, but as I reached for the knob, I sensed that Isabel wasn’t with me. Lavender seemed to be coming from the front of the apartment. I shook my head. No way. Enough was enough. We had had our little joke—I wasn’t staying here one moment longer.

  But instead of leaving, I turned and followed the lavender into the kitchen; I looked around a room that was an exact replica of mine. The smell was strongest over the sink, but the sink was empty. I pulled open the closest drawer; it contained silverware. I burst out laughing, grabbed five forks, and carried them to the entryway.

  Mirepoix growled but remained firmly anchored in her corner. I peeked into the hallway; it was empty. I quickly locked Edgar’s door and we sprinted from his landing. Mirepoix’s howls followed us up the stairs.

  When we got into my apartment, I collapsed on the couch, giggling like a little girl. I felt silly and clever and wild, like the afternoon Linda and I had convinced Joel and her brother, Billy, that Nancy Jennings and Roberta Golden wanted to go to the ninth-grade prom with them; Nancy and Roberta already had dates.

  I felt excited and enchanted and bewitched, like the night of my first date with Clay as we sat behind the third-base line in Fenway Park, reveling in our common adoration of hot summer nights, Fenway Franks, and the slow-moving Bill Buckner. That night I had wanted to find out all about Clay, to learn every last boring detail of his childhood, to hear his most intimate thoughts, to spend all my time with him. I touched the smooth leather of the journal that lay on the table. Now I felt the same way about Isabel Davenport.

  11

  January 1, 1884

  I sit holding my journal of two years past and read the words written by a young girl forever lost. To where has that carefree young girl disappeared? She is no longer I, and can never be again. For I have been deeply saddened, and to feel the full joy of things great or small is now forever beyond my reach.

  The source of my woe is the loss of my sweet Monty. The one I loved most dearly, the firstborn fruit of my womb, has been taken from me. As I write, my tears splash and the ink of my pen runs.

  My sweet Monty has been gone ten long months, and I cry no less today than I cried the winter past. I have truly tried to grow beyond my pain, but I falter and shake and I despair of ever seeing the thing through.

  Your pages, dear journal, are sodden and stained on this the very first day of the new year. I am wearying of all of this sadness and know I must take myself in hand.

  January 2, 1884

  I awoke today with a new determination, dear journal. It has come to my mind that I might seek refuge between your pages. That you might become the source of my strength.

  You shall be my new friend and my dear confidant. My deepest sorrows and my thoughts most vain shall be written upon your pages. I shall use the little lock to keep your covers closed tight, and all that my pen scribbles shall remain between only you and me.

  Mother Davenport tells me self-sacrifice and suffering are the proper life of a woman. I pause to wonder why, and yet I know in my heart that her words are the truth.

  She says I shall find solace turning myself to the needs of my husband and to the esteem of his family. I find these occupations help not a whit.

  Yet I must pull myself from the abyss. My two sweet children who do breathe the air of this earth deserve nothing less.

  January 30, 1884

  My dear journal, you are such a dear friend to me. With feelings of gratitude I write that I laughed yesterday. It was the first time in I know not how long, and I pray it happens again soon.

  February 3, 1884

  Again it is with gratitude that I tell you I had feelings of contentment today during my usual round of occupations and amusements. My music and note writing of this morning were not disagreeable to me, nor was the meeting of my Sewing Circle. I enjoyed the company of the friends of my debutante year. We made macrame lace and whispered of Miss Beatrice Wetherill-Jones.

  February 12, 1884

  I went for a sleigh ride today with Cousin Josephine, Cousin Amy, and other Cabot and Lyman cousins. The sun was shining brightly as we flew down the Brighton Road, snuggled warm under our lap robes. My spirits were uplifted and I dare hope I am beginning to recover from my loss. My dear sweet Monty shall always be with me, but I think I shall cry not quite so often.

  * * *

  February 15, 1884

  Oh, my dear journal, I am unable to write it here, so fearful am I. My fingers do tremble and tears soak your pages as I tell you that both of my babies are ill. It is the bronchitis again. It is the same horror that stole my sweet Monty, and now I fear it shall steal from me once more.

  Please, dear Lord, I do beg of thee, please, please do not allow this to be true.

  February 17, 1884

  I know not how long since I have slept. Both day and night I do sit within the tent, holding my poor choking Gideon. I clutch him to me and beg him to breathe the wet air. My tears make it more damp and I fear I shall cry for all of eternity. I feel ill from the terror and exhausted from pain, but the terror and pain and the need to be with my child allow me no retreat into sleep.

  Nanny, too, sits with the infant Mary. My sweet baby daughter is so weak and so tiny, and I fear for her so. I am filled with such terror that I, too, am unable to breathe.

  February 19, 1884

  My dear sweet son is gone. It is almost a year to the day that my first son was taken from me. And now I must bear the loss of my second. I know not where I shall find the strength.

  I shall never forget my sweet Gideon, who struggled and choked and yearned so for his last breath, and who died in his mama’s arms as did his brother before him.

  My heart is clamped by such sorrow and pain that I know it shall always be so.

  February 21, 1884

  The snow is so deep and the ground is so cold that we cannot bury my sweet child. Neither he nor I shall be allowed to find peace. I am empty, save for the pain.

  My grief is forever and my cries fill all of the rooms. I care not who hears my sorrow.

  February 23, 1884

  Doctor tells me baby Mary shall live. I am unable to feel joy. Elizabeth Barrett Browning once wrote, “Hopeless grief is passionless.” It is so.

  March 30, 1884

  It has been six weeks since my sweet son was ripped from my grasp. So deep and horrible has been my pain that I have been unable even to speak with you, dear journal.

  I have taken to my bed. Some days I am so weak and despondent, I do not ring for dinner. Other days I undress without the aid of Pollie.

  Mother Davenport tells me that she, too, has lost sons and that sorrow and loss are the life of a woman. She says I must keep my sadness within proper bounds and assures me that good breeding shall come to my aid. I am certain she thinks me less of a lady, so beyond her bounds have I strayed.

  Prudence forbids me muse too long on her displeasure. I fear I care little that I do not attain Mother Davenport’s standards of comportment.

  April 4, 1884

  In the first act of Romeo and Juliet, Benvolio speaks to Romeo about suffering.

  One fire burns out another’s burning,

  One pain is lessened by another’s anguish.

  I thought that p
erhaps through the sharing of our sorrow, my dear Montague and I could help each other bear the unbearable.

  I tried. I tried to comfort my husband. I tried to seek comfort from him. But all was for naught. He pushed me away. My attentions were as a drop of water to a stone. My husband is cold and distant and hardly himself.

  My hand trembles as I write these words. As I write that I fear Montague blames me for the deaths of my sweet babies. No, my dear journal, it cannot be so. Please, dear Lord, make it not so.

  April 6, 1884

  Last evening Montague sat late in his library and then entered my rooms. I could smell the port and Madeira about him and was made ill by the odor.

  His temper was bad and he poured the most awful accusations upon my bent head. He told me proper mothers do not allow their children to die, that proper wives do not allow their husband’s sons to be taken. He told me I killed Monty. That I killed my sweet Gideon too.

  I was without power to silence his cruel words, without power to end the terrible pain. I bore his reproaches as best as I could, but I have never felt such sorrow and grief.

  I also felt the stirring of anger. Anger is not a lady’s emotion, and is most unacceptable for a wife to feel against her own husband. But, dear journal, his harshness was so cruel and so. hard-hearted, and his judgment so wrong. He is a man without compassion. A man without mercy.

  He is not the man I married. I know not who he is. I know not what he may do.

  April 10, 1884

  Montague spends every evening sitting alone in his library. He is drinking far too much port. I hear him yelling at his manservant, at Cook, and at the parlour maid. I fear Montague shall do some terrible deed.

  I am without power to stop him.

  April 11, 1884

  Montague came to me last night. He was full of port and Maderira and anger. He told me I must give him more sons. From somewhere deep in my sorrow I found strength to ask why he desired sons of the woman who murdered his others.

  His anger increased and his cheeks turned bloodred. He told me I have no right to question my husband, that I have only the right to do as my husband commands. He slapped my face.

  I stood firm. There were no tears in my eyes as I told him I can have no more sons. I can bear no more pain. I cannot bear the pain that I have. He slapped me again and stormed from my rooms.

  I fear this is far from the end.

  April 15, 1884

  Cousin Josephine has told me that Montague has begun to drink liquor east of Park Street and before the stock market closes. She says he has been unfair to his employees and has been heard to be angry with gentlemen at both the Harvard and the Porcellian Clubs. She says it is the talk of the town.

  He is disgracing us all and besmirching the Davenport name. He is a man who cares for no one, save himself.

  April 18, 1884

  Cousin Josephine has told me that Miss Beatrice Wetherill-Jones was making herself most agreeable to Montague at the Thomas Preston Clarks’ last evening. She told me that just at present Miss Wetherill-Jones is out of a job as her name has been separated most definitely from that of Mr. Jared Pemberton.

  Oh, my dear journal, as I was without power to save my choking babies, I am without power to stop either Montague or the wagging of tongues.

  I told Cousin Josephine that poor Montague is not himself from all of the pain. That he is only in need of time and understanding and that this, too, shall pass. But as soon as she departed the parlour, I went into his rooms and opened his wardrobe. I used my sewing scissors upon a few of the seams of the pants I found within.

  * * *

  April 20, 1884

  The moment I have feared most has come to pass. Montague came to me last evening, and may I never have such another struggle. He pushed me against the door of my room and ripped the bodice of my gown. He called me hurtful names and caused me great pain. I cried and he wronged me again.

  I know not how he could do me such harm. He is indeed a man without heart. He is a man with the soul of the devil. I only pray there shall be no child.

  April 21, 1884

  Last night I dreamed of my dear, departed Papa. He came to comfort me in the darkness of my sorrow. He brought me the gentle poems of Elizabeth Barrett Browning and the sonnets of Shakespeare. He spoke to me of love and kindness and goodness. He spoke to me of forgiveness. But even Papa could not touch the depths of my anger and pain.

  He did not despair. He continued to speak his sweet words and to stroke my bowed head as I cried and I cried. Then I felt his soft touch no more. I called out and I looked upward to see my sweet Papa drifting away, drifting further and further away. I called out again and I raised my arms to grasp him to me. I need you, Papa. I cannot bear it if you go. I reached and I reached and I tried to bring him back. I tried with all of my soul to keep him with me.

  But it was for naught. It was just as in the Odyssey of Homer. It was just like Ulysses’ descent into hell. For when Ulysses reached for his mother’s ghost, his poor arms came back empty. And just as Ulysses, when I tried to clasp the ghost of my Papa, I could not, and he

  slipped through my fingers,

  like a shadow, like a dream.

  * * *

  April 22, 1884

  My most fond wish is to be a young girl once again. A young girl of twelve. To live once again the warm, lovely summer that was to be Papa’s last. The summer he and Mama showed me the museums and operas of Paris and the cathedrals and castles of the French Pyrennes. The summer we sat in his library reading A Midsummer-Night’s Dream and Paradise Lost. If only I could be back in that summer.

  I can go there in my dreams. No one can take my dreams away from me.

  April 24, 1884

  I tried to dream of Papa and Mama last night. But I could not. I could not dream of pleasant times, I could only dream horrors. I cannot go back. I can only go forward. Or go nowhere at all.

  April 25, 1884

  I cannot pretend that I am different than I am. I must look at myself and take stock.

  I am now a grown lady without mother or father to love and protect me. I have only myself. I may be a grown lady with a mother-in-law who forbids me visit a museum or a library, but I am also a grown lady with a daughter.

  I am a mother. I am a mother who has a daughter who needs her mama to love and protect her. I must cease thinking only of myself and begin to think of Mary.

  April 26, 1884

  Emerson wrote much about freedom. He wrote of freedom from the tyranny of kings. I came upon some words of his today.

  For what avail the plow or sail,

  Or land or life, if freedom fail?

  I think that tyranny is not only from kings.

  * * *

  April 27, 1884

  I sit at my little desk, watching the ladies in their family landaus roll down Beacon Street on their morning calls. While the ladies are busy with their tea and their talk, I must try to form schemes. Papa always said I possessed the gifts of the mind. I must use these gifts to find a way. To find a way for Mary and for me.

  April 28, 1884.

  It is impossible to live if one cannot breathe. It is impossible to remain alive without air. Montague should prefer it if I cease breathing. But I shall not.

  I shall find a way to live. I shall find a way to insure that Montague never hurts and humiliates me again. I must find a way, for if I fail, I shall die. And this I cannot do.

  I must remain alive for my sweet Mary’s sake. And for my own.

  12

  I “couldn’t” read another entry. I couldn’t read anything because I couldn’t see anything; my tears were turning Isabel’s words into distorted scribbles. I put the journal down and wiped my face with my sleeve. I walked into the bay and looked through the window where, more than one hundred years ago, Isabel had watched the landaus roll down an unpaved and dusty Beacon Street.

  I knew more than my fair share about angry men who drank too much, but to lose a child, to lose a second ch
ild, to be cornered and raped by your own husband! The tears welled up again and spilled onto my cheeks. And Isabel had only been a child herself.

  I heard the faraway cry of a siren and leaned my forehead against the chilly pane in search of the source. But I saw nothing. Nothing but the false revelry of New Year’s Eve partiers. They came in waves and in bunches and in couples. They wore rain hats and raincoats over their heavy sweaters and bright parkas; one even wore a garbage bag, his head and arms sticking out of the green plastic. They hurried and laughed and pretended it was pleasant to be out on this cold, rainy night. They knew it was obligatory to be happy on New Year’s Eve.

  New Year’s Eve is such a sham. Even when things were better—even when Linda and I danced all night at the Hatfield Masquerade Ball, even when Clay and I partied with those crazy skiers at Killington, and even the first time I was allowed to stay up until midnight with Joel and David—even then, New Year’s Eve felt phony and false and filled with forced gaiety and excess. As if it were trying too hard.

  Another siren wailed out its song of impending calamity. I leaned far into the bay again, but all I could see was a swarm of fraternity men pouring beer all over one another’s wet, frozen hair. How could it be so cold and not snow? I bet Isabel didn’t like New Year’s Eve either.

  Isabel would understand why I turned down Babs and Joel and why I couldn’t go to First Night with the cute blond guy with the big biceps who was on the JX-110-10 team. It wasn’t that I was especially sad, it was just that I didn’t feel like pretending I was happy. Isabel would understand why I didn’t want to get involved. She understood all too well what happens to you when your trust is betrayed.

  She had trusted Montague with her life, she had trusted him to care for her, to keep her from harm. He had betrayed this most sacred trust; he had hurt her worse than any stranger ever could. He did have the soul of the devil.

  My tears came again, but now they were hot and they were fast and it seemed as if they would never stop. That poor girl, so lost and so alone. She was so young to have had such pain. I cried harder, a deep-down sad, almost grieving cry. I sobbed and sobbed, as if it were I who had been the victim, as if it were I who had lost so much.