Shattered Echoes

by B. A. Shapiro

  Babs shrugged. “So be it.”

  “Look, Babs, I’m sorry if it seems like I’ve been avoiding you—I haven’t, I really haven’t. It’s just that my life has been a major madhouse.” I stood up and hugged her thin shoulders. “Let’s plan something. Something we can do together after this big meeting I have on Monday. I’ll call you. I promise.”

  Babs finally took the hint. “Okay, kiddo, I’ve finished my drink and I’ve a million things to do today. Maybe we can go to Ron’s opening together next—” She put her glass on the table and looked down at the floor. “I could have sworn I left my stuff right here …” Puzzled, she turned and then caught sight of her jacket and purse hanging from the coat rack. “God, I’m getting more and more spacey in my old age. One would have thought it impossible.”

  “Yeah,” I said quickly, “it’s really scary, isn’t it? How the old mind just doesn’t remember the way it—”

  “Wait a second—I did put my stuff on the floor!” Babs stood completely still, looking a lot more apprehensive and a lot less excited than I would have expected. “Lindsey, you don’t suppose … ? No, no—no way.” She paused. “No way, right?”

  “Right. You hung up your things when you came in.” I swallowed hard.

  “I did?”

  “Yes, you did. I distinctly remember.”

  “Okay, kiddo, if you say so.” With a last uneasy glance and a wave of her orange and black scarf, Babs finally left.

  The sweet smell of lavender wafted through the air. I shook my head and snuggled down into the couch; I opened the journal at my bookmark. Apparently we weren’t ready to take it public after all.

  13

  May 3, 1884

  Montague has been gone almost a fortnight, and I have been able to feel safe within the walls of my rooms once again. It has been wonderful to relax my vigilance and to enjoy my own meditations. My rooms have become the boundaries of a world of my own making. A world where a woman may freely use the gifts of the mind.

  I have sought refuge here for many long and pleasurable days. I think that perhaps within these gentle walls I did find a way.

  I am now able to turn myself to my sweet Mary. I shall enjoy the company of my little daughter and of the books that line the shelves of Cousin Josephine’s library. I shall also enjoy the comforts of spring.

  May 5, 1884

  I spent the most delightful afternoon with my sweet Mary. The weather was most balmy, and Nanny and I took the tiny babe to the pleasure-ground. I let Nanny sit off by herself, and my precious Mary did smile and coo at her mama all of the day.

  My heart aches for my lost sons but glows with the warmth that is my daughter.

  * * *

  May 7, 1884

  I am thankful to hear the sharp tapping of Mother Davenport’s low-heelers receding down the stair. She is as cross as two sticks in consequence of discovering a letter from Katherine Lee Adams in the morning post. It is amusing to think how great Mother Davenport’s discomfort would be if she knew how close the Davenport family came to bearing the same shame. It is fortunate for her I do not have the strength of Katherine.

  I had such wicked thoughts as Mother Davenport spent her harsh words against my dear divorced friend. In my mind’s eye I saw pictures of Mother Davenport’s precious Lowestoft china and Derby bisque figures shattered and lying in tiny pieces all over the floor.

  I bore her anger in silence, but to you, dear journal, I say, “baah!”

  May 8, 1884

  Montague returned home today. He arrived in the morning and left immediately for his bank. The house had been cleaned and a proper homecoming meal prepared. But he had not a single pleasant word to speak during dinner. He drank far too much and seemed to grow quite ill. He retired early to his library.

  Soon a loud ruckus was heard throughout the whole house. Montague stormed from his library shouting that his port had been watered with vinegar. He called for William to ready his things, for he would leave directly for the Harvard Club. Montague said William was the sole servant worthy of trust and that they would remain at his club until the house had been cleared of all thieving servants. I was ordered to accomplish this deed. Montague is in error to blame the coachman, but I am unwilling to correct his confusion.

  I fear it may take me a very long while to determine who did commit this terrible crime.

  * * *

  May 9, 1884

  Mother Davenport tells me idleness is the mother of mischief and that I must accompany her to the daffodil show at the Horticultural Society, where the Davenport daffodils always meet with great success. I wear my sea green lace and I nod and I smile. And I wonder.

  I wonder, do the ladies love flowers because they are flowers or do the ladies love flowers because Emerson and Thoreau love flowers?

  May 10, 1884

  I paid a call on my dear Katherine Lee Adams while Mother Davenport was attending Cousin Margaret’s illness in Milton. It was such joy to see the friend of my girlhood and to speak of true things.

  I cried as she told of all she has lost, of her life as outcast and leper, exiled to the distant farmlands of Lexington. But my dear, brave Katherine says she does breathe so very free, and I ought not feel sorrow for her sake. Katherine feels sorrow for me.

  May 11, 1884

  This evening I sat upon my narrow chair embroidering crimson wool on pale linen. As always, Mother Davenport sat upon her purple satin with Evening Transcript. There is little she loves more then her genealogy column and her obituaries.

  I was enjoying my own meditations when I was obliged to listen to all of those who were nice that had died. She told me of the genealogical lines between Montague, Benjamin Cabot Ingersoll, and the great silk merchant Prescott Otis Appleton. She told me to sit with more erect carriage, and although I remained seated, she cautioned me to always walk with firm step.

  I fear I shall go utterly mad if I must spend another evening with Mother Davenport’s ancestors and copybook axioms.

  * * *

  May 12, 1884

  I slipped a note into Mother Davenport’s newspaper today. It was a quote from Emerson.

  The music that can

  deepest reach,

  And cure all ill,

  Is cordial speech.

  May 13, 1884

  My sweet Mary has a tiny touch of the cold. I sat with her all of the afternoon. Nanny complains she is idle too often. I don’t care a straw.

  May 20, 1884

  Mother Davenport let the coachman go, and Montague has returned. So, too, has my antipathy and fear. Oatmeal breakfasts are once more, and his library is again filled with smoke and the worldly discussion of men.

  This morning Mother Davenport suggested that he summer abroad. He asked, “Why ought I travel when I am already here?” He was quite pleased with his cleverness. I was most disappointed.

  When we are seated at table, his conversation is most charming. When we go to the opera, his manners are most courtly. I eat my quail and look through my opera glass and suffer his presence in silence. I bide my time in fear.

  May 20, 1884

  I do not believe that people can change that which is most basic to their natures. He who would not allow me to give one of Mary’s coats to Cook’s poor, sickly niece, he who refused William’s plea to go to his father’s deathbed, he is the devil. I tremble when I hear his foot on the stair.

  It is most difficult to bear. But I do it for my sweet Mary.

  * * *

  June 6, 1884

  I fear Montague knows who did slash the crest. I tremble to think what he shall do to the poor soul. This evening he stayed late at his club, and when he arrived home, he roared and he bellowed and did carry on so.

  I hid myself behind the doors of my rooms, but I fear I am not safe.

  June 7, 1884

  I sat in my rooms last evening reading the sonnets of Shakespeare. I was lost amidst the lines of poetry and I was at peace. Then I heard the slam of the library door. I heard the lou
d words of Montague’s Madeira and port. I heard him stumble on the stairway. I heard an oath most vile.

  I ran to my door and tried to turn the key from within. But my fingers were not quick. Montague pushed it open with all of his strength and stood like a madman before me. He cursed me and lifted my legs from the floor. He shook me and shook me. He was hideous to behold.

  He was quite drunk, and I managed to get free. I ran from him and out to the stairway. I stood on the landing and tried to think of where I could run. I had nowhere to seek refuge, nowhere to go. There was only Mother Davenport. I had little choice; it was either Montague or she. I went to her.

  Mother Davenport sat in the parlour with her Evening Transcript and refused to listen to any of my words. She said it was my great shame that Montague was in such hasty temper. She chastised me and told me I was a most wicked girl. A girl who refused what was her husband’s right to demand. A girl undeserving of the name Davenport.

  The scene was extremely painful. Almost as painful as Montague’s grip upon my two arms.

  June 8, 1884

  I had the strangest dream last night. I dreamed of my dear Papa. Papa came to me at Abigail Hickling’s School, the school where Mama sent me to learn to be a lady and wife. The school I was sent after Papa had died.

  I thought it odd that he stood at the front of the classroom, right next to Miss Shippen. Neither Miss Shippen nor any of the girls saw Papa, but I surely did. I heard him too. “My dear Belle,” he asked, “why is there nothing of Shakespeare or Homer at Abigail Hickling’s? Why do you learn only dancing and manners and the art of the curtsy?” I told him there was some music and Miss Shippen taught French.

  He walked to the window, and together we did watch through the panes. I felt so comforted and happy to have my Papa with me again, although I did think it odd that the scene beyond our window was not of Abigail Hickling’s but was of the Back Bay.

  I reached for his hand, but he pulled it away. “Belle,” he demanded, “why do we watch nothing but the Perkinses’ Nanny giving little Charles his airing? What happened to the gifts of the mind?”

  I hung my head in shame.

  “Do not forget the words of the great Aeschylus,” he said. “‘Destiny waits alike for the free man as well as for him enslaved by another’s might.’” Papa’s voice became soft and he touched my cheek gently. “Remember, dearest daughter, it is upon you to secure your own destiny.”

  June 9, 1884

  Montague has instructed Mother Davenport to keep me always occupied. He says I shall only be separated from mischief by activity.

  He says I may not sit at my little desk and write upon your pages. He says I shall decorate the house in Nahant and take up archery. And in these things Mother Davenport shall always direct me, for I am far too foolish to be trusted to get on by myself.

  My dear friend Katherine is quite correct. It is difficult to breathe.

  * * *

  June 15, 1884

  Montague has not been home for five days. Cousin Josephine tells me that he has been seen drinking east of Park Street once again. She had it straight from Cousin Lawrence Cabot Adams that Montague is not the man his father was, that Lyman Adams Davenport III would never have allowed his bank to fall into such troubles as has occurred as a consequence of Montague’s attentions.

  I tremble at what this might mean for my poor daughter and for me. Thank the Lord we shall be leaving for Nahant next week.

  June 20, 1884

  The windows are shuttered and the couches are draped. Nanny has packed all of Mary’s things. Pollie sits in the vestibule with the trunks and boxes. We wait for Montague to return from his bank so he may take us to Nahant. He shall just stay the night and return to town in the morning.

  He said he would arrive at noon, and now it is past three. If he does not come soon, we shall have to remain here until tomorrow. He is indeed a selfish soul.

  October 8, 1884

  Oh, my dear journal, I have missed you so. When we arrived in Nahant I discovered Montague had ordered you removed from my trunks. I feared for your life the whole summer long and was filled with great gladness to return and find you safe within my little desk.

  The heat was most ghastly, and the season’s entertainments excessive. The tedious dinners were filled with far too many courses of fowl and beef. The oppressive scent of potted roses and orchids and lilies made the garden parties difficult to bear. The dull talk was of worked ottomans or Assemblies or dresses with tulle skirts.

  The summer was most long and lonesome without your comforting presence. My only joys were with the absence of Montague and watching my little Mary find pleasure at the sea.

  It still seems so strange to be the mother of only one child. I thought much of my lost babies.

  October 18, 1884

  I watch Montague twirling his precious walking stick as he steps from the house dressed in frock coat. I fear he shall be more present now that we have returned to Boston.

  Last evening he looked at me with such a strange face. I fear what evil he may do.

  October 25, 1884

  It was my first Tuesday at home of the season. I shook hands with the ladies as they arrived in their new gowns. Each wore a hat of ostrich feathers or of black velvet, and a dress covering fewer petticoats than in years past. I nodded and smiled and said, “Good morning, so good of you to come.”

  Mother Davenport poured while I passed the rum cake. Cousin Josephine Cabot spoke only of Miss Wetherill-Jones. Mrs. Lowell Ellerton Ames was most frosty to Cousin Amy in consequence of her daughter’s behavior last week. Mrs. Charles Homans Winslow remarked on the folly of new dresses each season. Everyone said “good morning” though all knew it to be well into afternoon.

  I wonder, would the world stop its spinning if one Tuesday I were elsewhere?

  November 15, 1884

  I have just changed my books. They now are arranged with the tallest at one end of my case and the shortest at the other. If Mother Davenport is offended, she shall have to enter my rooms and move them herself.

  November 25, 1884

  I fancy I think no more of Montague than he thinks of me. His posture is poor, and the red mark from birth upon his hand most distasteful. He has not nearly the accomplishments of his father or grandfather before him.

  His life is quite dull as his activities never waver. He reads no news save in the London Illustrated and eats no breakfast save oatmeal. He abides friendship from only those who attended Harvard and thinks himself better than all.

  I confess to you, dear journal, I care for Mother Davenport even less. Her voice is grating and nasal, and she keeps the drawing room so hot, it is difficult to breathe. She is always opening and closing her little dark eyes.

  Oh, my dear journal, why have I not the strength that I need? I fear I am too weak to be an outcast as Katherine or to walk barefoot as Belle. I am trapped like a caged lion. I am beginning to understand why the lion is so angry.

  December 8, 1884

  Montague is truly the devil. He has barred me from the nursery save for a few moments each day before dinner. I shall not be allowed lovely afternoons at the pleasure-ground with my precious Mary. I shall not be allowed quick kisses before morning calls. There shall be no sweet smiles between dressing and tea. Oh, my dear journal, my heart aches in torment and anger. I live only for Mary, and she only for me.

  There is a black place deep inside of me. It is ugly and hateful and filled with snakes. The blackness grows.

  December 9, 1884

  Pollie tells me that Montague’s gold-tipped walking stick has been broken! The carved ebony stick that has been passed through three generations of Davenport men! Pollie whispers it is in so many pieces, it shall never be whole again.

  Such a hideous and ghastly crime against my dear husband! I fear neither he nor his mother shall ever recover from the loss.

  * * *

  December 10, 1884

  I hear Montague pacing and I hear him yelling for
William. I hear him leaving the house. Now I shall be able to sleep.

  December 15, 1884

  I find I am unable to take any of my usual pleasures. Even Shakespeare and Browning do nothing for me. When Montague is not at home, I imagine the sound of his steps on the stair. I imagine him to be at my door.

  December 22, 1884

  The fear and the waiting have taken their toll. I have no more strength. I am unable to breathe with comfort, and cough quite a bit.

  Doctor tells me I shall be unable to attend the Lowells’ Christmas night party. I fancy it ought be amusing to tell you, dear journal, just how much I do care about missing the gala event. I am too tired to feel amusement.

  The only thing I am able to feel is fear. Even when I try to sleep, I am still afraid. I hear his voice and his steps in my dreams. I feel the pain always.

  December 23, 1884

  What I knew would occur has finally occurred. It was even more ghastly than before. Why must I be the possession of a man who thinks so little of me? Why must I be without power to stop the horrors he wrought upon my poor body? I am glad that my sons shall not know this man to be their father. I shall protect Mary from him always.

  He came to me last evening and was full of drink and vile temper. I ran from him, but the walls held me prisoner. He pushed me and did such unspeakable things. He is much larger and stronger than I. I cried and I cried and he still hurt me so. I have never known hatred as I know it this night. Now I shall know it forever.

  I swear upon the souls of my dead children, that man shall never step foot into my rooms again.

  December 31, 1884

  It is with relief that I sit at my desk

  and bid this cruel year “adieu.”

  It is with sadness, dear journal,

  that I must also depart from you.

  14

  Holding my plastic glass—an oxymoron if there ever was one—of champagne above my head, I flattened myself into a corner of the stairwell as three leggy women pushed past me; they were on their way up to the third floor to view the huge rock that approximated art at this oh-so-avant-garde gallery on Newbury Street. I was on my way down to get away from it.