In the Midst of the Sea

by Sean McCarthy

  “Always?”

  “Always. No beginning. No end. We don’t ever really die, in theory at least. Maybe actual death is just an illusion so that our human forms don’t get hit with sensory overload. Sounds mad if you think about it, but who is to say?” He was quiet a moment, his eyes back on her now, thinking. “So what does your husband think about your experiences?” he said at last.

  Diana sipped. Put her cup carefully back down. “He doesn’t.”

  “He doesn’t have an opinion?”

  “No, I haven’t told him. Not much anyway. And he doesn’t think. That’s half his problem. He stews but doesn’t think, not rationally.”

  Michael just stared at her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I shouldn’t say that. I barely know you—and I don’t want to start venting about my marriage.”

  “Not a problem. It doesn’t bother me. And I might be stepping over my boundaries, but if you don’t mind my saying so, it didn’t look as if things were going particularly well last time I saw you either.”

  “No. But it’s gotten better. He’s trying. He says he’s trying.”

  “Trying to what? Not abuse you anymore?”

  Diana pulled at her ear a little. Feeling awkward. She didn’t know this man. Only knew what he told her, that he liked to stay down here, dabble in several different things. For all she knew he could be just like Ford. Another one out in the fold. Ford could be charming, at least when he wanted to be. Isn’t that what people who met him often said? Friends, people who worked with him, people who didn’t live with him? She had thought he was charming once, too. She believed that he had saved her, and he still believed that, or so he said. But there was a difference between charming and kind. Charming had a glow to it, illuminating the surface, bright enough to hide everything else, but kindness was quieter, deep and still within someone’s eyes. Sometimes with charmers, you looked into their eyes, and you saw nothing, an absence of sorts. A void. They were never really listening, always plotting. The next move. One step ahead. And Michael appeared as though he were listening.

  “Well, there’s that,” she said, laughing a little nervously, “but there’s other things, too. It’s hard being married. A lot of work, a lot of give-and-take.”

  “I suppose that is true, but usually if someone’s hitting you, the giving and taking is no longer going both ways. By that point, there’s usually just a lot of taking.” He stared at her a moment. “I’m afraid I’m making you uncomfortable, though, you look like I’m making you uncomfortable.”

  “I do?”

  “You’re red. It started in your neck and spread right up through your cheeks.”

  “It’s warm in here,” Diana said.

  “Well, maybe I shouldn’t have been so bold, jumping to conclusions, I mean, but if it does happen again, I strongly suggest you take action of some sort. At least speak to someone—these days there are a lot of services, support, for that sort of thing, much different than the old days.” He shrugged. “Or maybe, and I say this with all due respect, you should just get out. I knew a woman once—she lived on the island here—whose husband used to beat her pretty badly, and it didn’t end very well. She stayed with him despite the fact that he nearly disfigured her, and he actually started, for all intents and purposes, holding her prisoner. He had been hitting her for years, but no one knew it was happening until it was too late.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Michael shrugged. “Well, he locked her in the house for a while, and then he killed her.”

  Diana felt her chest seize a little, then a tightening down through her limbs. “Oh my God. That’s awful. I’m so sorry. Was she a relative of yours?”

  “A friend,” he said. He sipped. “It was a long time ago.”

  “I hope the bastard rotted in jail.”

  “Well, nothing was ever proven. Not in the eyes of the public, anyway, the law.

  “But back then laws were more lax—concerning the abuse, I mean, not the murder. People either tended to accept it as part of married life, at least for some people, or they just tended to look the other way. It was quite disturbing.”

  Diana looked at him. “It couldn’t have been that long ago.”

  He shrugged again. “It was a while back. I was pretty young. And besides, it still happens more often than you think. The husband concocted a story, told people she left him, moved, and people believed him.”

  “Then how do you know he killed her?”

  Michael stared at her. “Because,” he said. “I do.”

  Diana felt something stirring in her stomach. Tightening again.

  “In any case, I have a hard time looking the other way, especially now, especially after what happened. I’m not trying to scare you—you just have me worried. And if you ever need a place to stay again, please don’t hesitate to go to back to the inn. If Carol doesn’t have room, I’m sure she’ll make it. She’s very good that way. The important thing is that you keep safe, both you and your little girl.”

  “It won’t happen again,” Diana said, and even as she did, she wondered if it was true. She pictured Ford. Sobbing. Pathetic and small. Begging forgiveness. He was abused. A victim of abuse. It wasn’t his fault, he said. It would never happen again. Never. He promised.

  “You sure?”

  She hesitated, nodded, her fingers tight on her mug. “I’m sure.”

  Michael looked at her a moment longer, and then he smiled, hesitantly, and then he nodded.

  They said goodbye out on the street, on the corner before the large pink inn with the octagonal turret on top. Michael stood there looking at her for a moment. She liked him, and yet, she had no idea what to make of him. He seemed kind, and he seemed different, and she was afraid for a moment that he might try to kiss her. But then looking as if he had words on the tip of his tongue, he merely cleared his throat.

  “Can I ask a favor of you?” he said.

  “Sure,” she whispered.

  “Well, it may sound silly, so if it does, please feel free to say no. I mean if it makes you uncomfortable at all, I mean.”

  Diana started to smile. “What is it?”

  “Well,” he said, “I was wondering if you might let me paint you.”

  32

  Ford had started to run to catch up with her as she started across Ocean Park. Diana was heading toward the water, to look at the waves, the boats, he guessed. She liked to do that. And maybe he could surprise her, he thought, grab her by the shoulders and give her a little scare, all just in fun. Hug her after, and then take her hand, and they could walk over there together. A little romance. Maybe that is what they needed—a little romance. And then back at the house, who knew? Anything was possible. But then he stopped. How would he explain himself? Why he was following her. She thought he had been sleeping—he was almost always sleeping this time of day—and he had pretended to be at least until she left. But he needed to know what she did. Where she went. How she spent her time away from the house when Sam was at school, and he was asleep. They hadn’t been fighting much, but ever since the incident with Norman and Cybil, the fight they had caused, things hadn’t been the same. She was quieter, more distant, and if truth be told, he would rather have her bitching at him than being quiet all the time. At least when she was bitching things were out in the open, he knew what he was dealing with. And lately, that was a problem—he didn’t know what he was dealing with. No idea what she was thinking. Or worse, whom she might be spending time with.

  He had followed her down through Trinity Park, waiting for her to stop, expecting her to stop, somewhere, anywhere, and now here she was at Ocean Park. Wearing her black leather jacket and her scarf tight around her neck, hands in her pockets. Her beautiful ass. She was moving slowly, hesitantly it seemed. Heading toward …

  She was heading toward a man on the far side of the park. A man with his back to her standing at an easel. Painting.

  She didn’t approach the man right away, not even stepping clos
er until the man turned and saw her. A tall man with dark hair and olive skin. Peacoat and jeans. Ford couldn’t make his face out clearly, not from this distance; his features seemed muted, not clear at all. Ford tried to concentrate on what was happening in front of him, but at the same time his head was flashing with pictures. Diana and this man. Talking. Then kissing—he could see it all in his mind’s eye. Then somewhere quiet and alone and pulling at each other’s clothes. Ford could feel the rage, still just simmering, but building. And that wasn’t good. Not yet. No need for that yet. He was exhausted, way overtired, and his imagination was getting the best of him. He took a deep breath, cleared his head. Jumping the gun, he told himself. He practiced his breathing. More deep breaths. Good for the temper. Control. All of life was about self-control. It was just a guy painting a stupid picture, and Ford was jumping the gun. They were talking now, but not even standing close, not that close, and Ford was too far away to hear what they were saying.

  But then after a moment, she did move closer, with relaxed body language, and the guy was looking for something in his bag, showing something to her. She knew him, Ford thought. It wasn’t just a stranger she had stopped to watch paint. She knew him. Ford tried to think back. How many times had she slipped out without a good excuse as to where she was going? Not many times, he thought, at least not many without Sam. And it didn’t make sense, didn’t seem like her style. But what was her style? Did she have it in her? And when did she start acting different, getting cold toward him? He had to piece it all together, make sense of it. Needed more to go on before outright accusing her.

  Ford’s head slipped to tunnel vision then. Nothing else around him. Just Diana, and the man. Now walking ahead. When they approached the bed-and-breakfast, he almost lost it, ran at them and clocked the piece of shit in the jaw. They were getting a room, he was sure of it. Going somewhere to fuck. But then something stopped him. Who went to B&Bs just to fuck? It wasn’t like it was a cheap motel. And then Diana didn’t go in with the guy, she waited outside, the guy soon coming out, buttoning his peacoat high. And then they were off walking again, heading toward Circuit Avenue The sun had broken free for a moment, but then passed again behind the clouds, casting the street in dark shadows. Ford took a breath and shut his eyes. When he opened them again, Diana was alone. He looked twice, and then again she was with the man. And then she was alone.

  33

  March 28, 1872

  I almost believed a ray of light, of hope, had entered my relationship with Hiram, but then as soon as it appeared it was gone. The madness and darkness and melancholy that has become our lives together overtaking it all. I should know better by now. Know not to hope.

  I had met him at the wharf to welcome him home. It was Wednesday, he had been delayed by two days, but his spirits were high; the land transaction had gone well, and as he put it, he had attended a service on Sunday in Boston. We took a carriage home, rather than carrying his bags all that way, and he requested relations nearly immediately after we had passed through the door. This took me by surprise for it was just after three, and the sunlight was still streaming through the window; in the past, Hiram has never requested relations until the sun has long set. He took off his hat, and smoothed over his hair. He felt fertile, he said, strong, and time could not be wasted. He had a vision while he was on the road, he said, a vision of an angel, and the angel had shown him his son, the child we were to conceive, and the angel had said the time was now. Hiram took my hand, his eyes deep, vacant, but happy—I could not remember ever having seen a look in his eyes such as that—and he asked me a question. “And do you know who that angel was, Elizabeth?” he asked.

  I tried to look happy myself, but was unable to keep my thoughts from moving back to the Saturday evening before. Mr. Randolph. Shame. I swallowed my breath and shook my head.

  “The Angel Gabriel,” he said.

  “Gabriel?” I said.

  “Gabriel,” he repeated. “He of the annunciation. The harbinger of the Messiah.” He took a breath. “He who will blow the horn to wake the dead on the final day. The time is now.”

  He took me to his room and asked me to remove my garments while he watched. I hesitated, but he nodded.

  “Go on,” he said, “it will be all right. It has been written.” I removed my dress, and then my brassiere. I felt quite exposed, ashamed. Throughout our entire marriage I had never stood like this in front of him, never in front of anyone. I folded my arms, and looked away, covering myself, and Hiram, for a moment, just stood there, staring, and then, he, too, removed his things, completely. I had never seen him like this either, and it startled me at first, the size. I had felt it many times before but never seen it in the light of day, and it scared me a little. His chest is covered in coarse hair as are his legs, and without his clothes, he just didn’t look like Hiram. I’ve always identified Hiram with his clothes, always neat, proper, covered.

  He stepped forward and touched me, his hand going lower, and then he tilted my chin, raising it so he could kiss me. It has been years since Hiram kissed me. I could feel the full length of him pressing against me, throbbing, and he ran his hands down over my shoulders, my back.

  “I don’t think God will be pleased,” I said.

  “We are doing it to please Him,” Hiram said. “I would not act in such a way unless He directed specifically to do so. The child must be created through love, beauty, not through practicality. The Lord has seen that we are good, innocent, as were the first man and woman to walk this earth, and He has chosen to reward us.” He kissed me again.

  I had never heard Hiram speak this way. Relations were meant for the dark, most of our clothing still in place, and never ever to be spoken of. To speak of it was to fall to the Devil, and even as he spoke of God, I had to wonder if indeed it was to the Devil we were falling. Perhaps I had opened the door with Mr. Randolph, and now, somehow, Hiram was slipping through with me. I never would have believed any of it, and I wondered if it were a dream, a hallucination. Had Hiram now fully and completely taken leave of his senses, his mind? Or had I?

  He kissed my neck, and then below my ear, and he whispered, “I’d like you to turn around.”

  I froze.

  “Please,” he said. “I will be gentle.”

  When I still didn’t move, he placed his hands back on my shoulders, assisting me, and then when I had turned completely, he pushed against my upper back so I leaned over, my hands supporting myself on the foot of the bed.

  “A position such as this is conducive to producing male offspring,” he said, “and the child must be male. Of course.”

  He was confusing me, but I did not want to question him, not while his mood was elated. The wrong word, the wrong tone, or movement could make things change quickly, and I knew that all too well. He moved inside of me, and as he did, I bit my lip to stifle a cry. I thought of Mr. Randolph. His eyes, his hands, his touch. I tried not to, tried to clear my head, but I could not help myself. He was everywhere, all around me, and it was him behind me, not Hiram. Hiram, his hands grasping my hips, picked up speed, mumbling something beneath his breath, something that almost sounded to be the words of a prayer, and then suddenly I felt something tensing in my legs. Up through my spine, my shoulders, out through my arms, and flooding my insides. I had never felt anything like it before. I arched my back, and my body bucked as Hiram pushed further. I had lost complete control, but the flooding of warmth, tension building and releasing, was like nothing I had ever experienced, not once. Hiram tensed himself, and then I felt him releasing inside of me. He grunted quietly and then he was done, but I was not. I wanted to be, but could not. I couldn’t control my movements. I collapsed on my side on the bed, my muscles still twitching, and I was unable to get up. I felt Hiram take a seat on the bed beside me, and I felt his eyes upon me, but I dared not look at him. I could hear him still catching his breath.

  “Elizabeth,” he said at last. “Are you not well? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  I
shook my head, and my legs twitched again. I wrapped my arms around myself, covering my breasts.

  “Are you sure? Are you having any chest pain?”

  I shook my head again.

  “Are you—?”

  I shook my head, and forced a small smile. Hiram was quiet a moment, completely still, and once again I heard his breathing begin to accelerate.

  “Dirty,” he said at last.

  I opened my eyes. He stood now, glaring at me, the rage boiling in his eyes. “You, dirty, dirty whore,” he said. He raised his hand, and I started to back away, inching away on the bed. “The Lord entrusts me with a glorious task, sends his messenger to greet me in person, and you turn it into an outing fit for the Devil! Dirty!” He shouted again, and then he swung at me. “You dirty, filthy whore!” Hiram slapped me again, and then he kept slapping, I covered my face and started to cry, and then I backed up so much I fell off the bed to the floor.

  April 2, 1872

  The worst has happened. Hiram has forbidden me to leave the house, even if to just to step outside to hang the wash on the line. There are outside forces, he says, penetrating me, changing me somehow, and he has become quite concerned. He says it is not like me to behave in the manner in which I have behaved. I have been corrupted, he said, and he wonders if it has anything to do with my passing through Trinity Park, passing by “his” dominions, he says. He says he will need to conduct an investigation, make some inquiries as to whom I have been speaking to, and whom I may have been seeing. I told him no one, but he lowered his eyeglasses, and looked at me skeptically. “I love you too much to ever believe you, my dear,” he said. “And I’ll do what I have to, take whatever course of action, no matter how severe,” he added, “to ensure that you are saved.” I volunteered to take another route during my sojourns to town, but he will not have it. “Perhaps it is this island, after all,” he said. “Perhaps the Devil has at last taken it for his. And perhaps,” he added quietly, “that is why the Lord has chosen to place me here.”