The California Wife

by Kristen Harnisch

  Before she left Friday evening, Marie was desperate to discover Matthew’s whereabouts. Her shoes click-clacked down the black linoleum of the second floor hallway. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the corridor was still vacant. When she arrived at the frosted glass door to his office, her shoulders sank. The room was dark. She turned the brass knob, hoping he’d forgotten to lock it. She longed to feel the leather of his chair sink beneath her weight, to twirl the miniature globe on his desk, to flip through the stacks of papers he’d touched, but the knob stuck. Silly goose, she chastised herself.

  “Marie?” She jumped when she heard a man’s upbeat voice. Thad stood near the stairwell. He closed the distance between them with a few long strides. “I thought you’d be on the ferry by now.”

  Marie examined the scuffed toes of her ankle boots, feeling heat creep over her chest and up to her cheeks. How much did Thad suspect? “I’m taking the morning ferry, so I can organize my notes tonight.” Her answer was truthful, although she’d also stayed in hopes of seeing Matthew.

  Thad moved closer, pointing to the office door. “If you’re looking for Donnelly, he’ll be back next week.” Thad tipped his head to the side, causing a mop of wavy blond hair to flop over his forehead. “Wait . . .” His brows bunched together, then his eyes grew wide with understanding. “Oh,” he said, clearly startled. “Oh—I didn’t know.”

  Marie shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not like that.”

  He instantly stepped back. “It’s none of my business, Marie,” Thad said formally. He gulped, and fixed his stare on the blackboard mounted to the wall. “I’m headed out for the night. Do you need me to escort you home? I mean,” he stammered, “if that’s where you’re going.”

  “I would, thank you, Thad,” Marie said softly, embarrassed about what he might think. He turned tomato-red, causing her to cringe at their mutual discomfort. “Just let me collect my things in the photographic room.”

  Looking relieved, Thad pulled a cigarette from behind his ear. “Take your time, Marie. I’ll be outside. Meet you in ten minutes?”

  “Ten minutes.” She smiled awkwardly.

  The photographic room was located on the floor above, adjacent to the anatomy room. A bellows camera, used by the faculty to record surgeries, dominated one corner. The right wall was lined with wood-and-glass cabinets that held hundreds of specimen jars. The musky odor of formaldehyde stung Marie’s eyes and turned her stomach. She moved past the long table of microscopes and microtomes, where she’d stacked her books and her notes, clipped together by subject. Marie used both arms to lift the heavy sash of the enormous window. She was rewarded with a gust of warm air, which instantly freshened the room but scattered her carefully organized papers all over the tiled floor.

  As Marie knelt down to collect them, her arms tingled with goose flesh. Her heart thumped wildly when she turned her head to spy a tall figure blocking the doorway. The afternoon light from the hallway cast a shadow over his face, obscuring his identity. “Thad?” Marie asked, but there was no answer. “Matthew?” she whispered quietly. Before she could rise, two men rushed in, slamming the door shut behind them. Marie tried to call out, but the words stuck in her throat. While John Redman propped himself against the wall, staring at her through vacant, bloodshot eyes, Larry Deaver pounced.

  “What are you doing?” Marie cried as he charged toward her. Deaver twisted his fingers into her hair, yanked her up and sent them both hurtling into the table with such force that Marie’s forehead plowed into a heavy metal microscope, sending it tumbling to the floor. The skin along her hairline split open and blood began to trickle down, forming a crimson haze over one eye and blurring her vision. He pushed her cheek onto the scratchy wood and pressed his thighs against Marie’s seat, forcing her stomach into the table’s edge. He blew his smoke-and-whiskey breath in her face. “Mathieu? Mathieu?” he mocked. “Don’t you mean Dr. Donnelly—your paramour?”

  Deaver released his grip for a moment, and Marie heard the jangle of his belt buckle. “Don’t touch me!” she shrieked, stabbing the heels of her boots into his shins, straightening her arms, trying to push back. Her head throbbed and her vision blurred, but she would not, could not submit.

  “Goddamn it, Red!” Deaver shouted. He jabbed an elbow between Marie’s shoulder blades, flattening her over the tabletop again and causing her arms to flail helplessly. Redman’s eyes brightened. He flicked open a small pocketknife and slid it across the table to his friend. Deaver pressed the cold blade to the spot where Marie’s carotid artery pulsed with fear. “Don’t move, or I’ll slice you from ear to throat, whore,” he spat. Dazed, and flitting in and out of consciousness, Marie felt his clammy hands beneath her skirt, his hot fingers squeezing her flesh. Marie panicked when she realized that she’d have to endure his assault to stay alive—if only for Adeline’s sake.

  Shouting erupted in the doorway, and suddenly the wooden legs of the table squealed, scraping against the tile below. Deaver let go, and Marie fell to the floor. Out of her one good eye, she saw Thad wrestling with an incapacitated Redman. With one punch, Thad sent him careening into the wall. Deaver thrust the knife at Thad, but Marie’s friend ducked, grabbed Deaver’s arm and bashed his wrist against the table until he released his weapon. Deaver tackled Thad, driving him into the cabinet and sending specimen jars flying through the air to smash at Marie’s feet. The shattering of glass and the sudden sharp formaldehyde smell revived her senses. Unable to find the knife, Marie picked up a microscope and launched it at the back of Deaver’s head.

  He dropped like a stone. Marie thought her heart would explode. Her knees collapsed and, as she sank, Thad, bleeding and ruffled, caught her up in his embrace. He offered Marie his handkerchief to stem the flow of blood at her scalp and, with one arm locked around her waist, guided her toward the door. Behind them, Deaver stirred and groaned, attempting to rise. Thad gently leaned Marie against the wall. “Wait here,” he instructed. He rushed back into the room and kicked Deaver’s torso repeatedly, surely cracking ribs. “You piece of shit!” Thad’s voice was gruff. Marie’s lip trembled and she began to shake, not only for what she’d endured, but because God had blessed her with a brave friend at the very moment she needed one.

  Thad tucked in his shirt and then guided Marie down the stairs. He paused only to forage for alcohol and clean bandages in the supply room.

  Once they reached her apartment, Thad lowered Marie down on the edge of her bed. She felt as though freezing water was running through her veins, chilling her limbs and causing her to shake. As Thad knelt down before her and dabbed her forehead with alcohol, she winced. “The swelling is worse,” he noted, covering the wound with gauze. He pulled some ice from her small oak icebox and pressed it to her head.

  “How did you know?” Marie whispered.

  He shrugged. “I was standing right below the window. I heard you scream.”

  She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Thad.”

  He frowned. “Marie, I need to find Donnelly.”

  “No.”

  “He can treat your wound better than I can, and we need to report this to the administration.”

  Marie gripped his forearm. “Please, don’t. They’ll fire him if they find out about us.”

  “Is that what you’re worried about?” Thad said with disgust. “Who cares? We need to make sure you’re protected—that Deaver and Redman don’t hurt you again.” He sighed deeply, blotting the blood from her hair with a cloth. “God, Marie, look what they’ve done to you.”

  She stood up, still wobbly, and peered into the mirror above her sink. Her lip was split, her cheek purple and the smooth skin of her neck stung with red nicks from Deaver’s knife. She peeled off the gauze to examine the two-inch gash beneath her matted hair. Though it wasn’t a deep cut, it had bled for the last half hour. “Will it need stitches?” Marie wondered aloud.

  “Probably not, but it might leave a scar.”

  Marie spoke to his reflection in the mi
rror. “Thad, Donnelly and I . . . we only started courting this summer. Just courting—nothing more.”

  “Even if it was something more, Marie, that doesn’t excuse what they did.”

  “I know.” She shuddered and returned to sit on the bed opposite her friend. Marie suddenly wanted Adeline, and Sara. She wanted to feel the Napa sunshine on her face—to flee this dark, dingy apartment.

  Thad must have read her mind. “At least allow me to take you back to your family tomorrow.” Marie agreed. He unlaced and removed her boots, but left her to slip off her stockings. She wanted to bathe, but couldn’t fight her body’s need for sleep.

  Marie gently laid her head on the pillow. “Sit with me until then?” she pleaded.

  “Of course, Marie,” Thad whispered, and covered her with the cool cotton bedsheet.

  Philippe took the early ferry into the city Monday morning. He’d been camped outside Donnelly’s office for half an hour by the time he arrived.

  “Lemieux!” Donnelly exclaimed as he approached Philippe. He looked the part of the stylish physician: fashionable navy suit, gray silk tie, shined shoes and not a stray hair on his head. “I was planning on paying you a visit soon,” he said, his expression filled with hope.

  Marie’s battered face flashed in Philippe’s mind. He wanted to throttle the bastard, but knowing how deeply Marie cared for him, he shook Donnelly’s extended hand in brooding silence.

  Donnelly’s expression instantly sobered. “Wait, why are you here? Has something happened?”

  “We should speak in private.” Philippe glanced down the hallway, now filled with students scurrying to class.

  Donnelly’s face paled. “Of course. Please, come in.” He swung the door open and offered Philippe a seat. “Are you here about Marie? Did she tell you why we argued?” He exhaled loudly, tapping his fingers on the desk blotter. “Is she still upset?”

  Philippe waved a hand, halting him in mid-sentence. He didn’t want to hear about Margaret O’Shea, or why Donnelly hadn’t been with Marie Friday night.

  “Matthew, Marie was attacked by two students on Friday. They beat her and, if Thad Holmes hadn’t stopped them, they probably would have raped her, too.”

  Matthew gasped, his face etched with horror. “Is she—does she—”

  “She has a gash on her forehead and some cuts and bruises, but our doctor says she’ll be fine. She’s in Napa now, at the house, with Sara and Thad.”

  Donnelly’s jaw slackened. He stared at Philippe, eyes pink with grief. “Who did this? Why didn’t Holmes fetch me?”

  “Larry Deaver and John Redman. They discovered your liaison.” Donnelly’s lower lip quivered and he covered his face with his hands. “Thad wanted to tell you, but she wouldn’t let him. And now she won’t report the incident because she doesn’t want you involved. She doesn’t want them to fire you.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. That’s ridiculous,” he said hoarsely. “Can I see her?”

  “Tomorrow morning. I’ve arranged for a meeting with the administration. Sara will bring Marie, and Thad will serve as a witness. We need you there.”

  “Of course, but I have to be with her—now.” Donnelly stood up.

  “Give her time, Matthew,” Philippe cautioned. “Her spirits have taken a beating, too. She needs another day to regain her strength.”

  Donnelly stared out the window. “I love her, Philippe,” he said quietly.

  Philippe understood his pain. His own memory—of Sara’s scars from his brother’s attack—remained lodged like shrapnel in his gut. “Then fight for her,” he urged. Donnelly squeezed Philippe’s shoulder in response, his jaw rigid with determination.

  Marie couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  Matthew leapt out of his seat. “A reprimand?” he exclaimed. “That’s it?” He paced around the crowded table, gesturing wildly. “Miss Chevreau was attacked in this very building by two of her fellow students, and you’re giving them a slap on the wrist?”

  “What else would you suggest?” the elderly, gray-haired provost asked over steepled fingers.

  “Expulsion, for starters. You need to make an example out of them!” Marie rarely heard Matthew shout. She watched him thunder away at the college’s disciplinary council. He cut a striking figure in his finely tailored dark gray suit, and was wielding his authority as an accomplished surgeon and tenured professor to argue on her behalf. Yet neither he nor any of the men at the table understood what she had endured. Only Sara knew.

  The provost cleared his throat, interrupting Marie’s thoughts. “Forgive me, Dr. Donnelly, but according to her testimony, Miss Chevreau was not, in fact, raped. The arrest of these students would tarnish this college’s reputation. And as for expulsion, well, I suppose we could expel Mr. Redman quietly, but Mr. Deaver’s father is on the board of trustees and is this college’s most generous benefactor.”

  Marie bristled. She couldn’t bear to listen anymore. Obviously, her safety didn’t merit much discussion. Her anxiety heightened until it felt like a thousand needles piercing her hot skin. She sprang to her feet, and her legs nearly gave way. Sara reached out to steady her. “I just need some water,” Marie whispered.

  The men around the table stood up. Before Sara exited the room with Marie, she addressed the provost. “Do you have a wife, sir? A daughter?” She turned a hard eye on all five administrators, interrogating them one by one. “How would you feel if she were threatened at knifepoint? Beaten? Nearly violated against her will while others watched for sport?” Sara’s face was pinched with loathing.

  Marie squeezed Sara’s trembling arm, grateful for her support. Before Sara closed the door behind them, Marie stole a glance at Matthew. The creases of his face softened. An unreadable emotion hid behind those aqua eyes. Did he pity her, or had he just issued a silent farewell? Either way, Marie felt alone and confused.

  In an adjacent meeting room, she ran the tip of her finger around the rim of her water glass. If she focused on the circular motion, she could block out the chatter from the corridor, the sting of her scrapes, even the buzzing in her head. Marie could feel Sara watching her, but said nothing.

  The door swung open. Out of the corner of her eye, Marie spied the hem of Matthew’s neatly creased trousers, cuffed above his shiny oxfords. Philippe followed.

  Matthew knelt down before her, rubbing her hands in his. She couldn’t bear to look at him. Her heart was heavy with shame, although she’d done nothing wrong.

  “I’m so sorry, Marie,” Matthew said. His fingers grazed the wound on her head, which she had deliberately unbandaged for the meeting. “You have my word, I will make this right. You will never fear for your safety again.”

  Marie lifted her head. “So, they’re not going to expel him?”

  He shook his head.

  She rested her palm on the smooth fabric of his lapel. “Don’t do anything to jeopardize your position here,” she said weakly.

  He flashed Marie a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of things here. You need to go home and rest for a few days.”

  Marie stiffened. “I will not. I’m going to class tomorrow, with no bandages. I want them all to see what he did to me,” she insisted.

  Matthew pressed a warm hand to her shoulder. “My intrepid Marie,” he said with affection. “Whatever you want, but please allow me to see you home safely to your apartment tonight.”

  Philippe cleared his throat. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, catching Marie’s eye. It was clear that he was concerned that being with Matthew unchaperoned might cause her even more distress.

  “Please,” said Matthew.

  The driving rain pelted Marie and Matthew during their short walk from his runabout to her apartment door. Inside, he hung his coat, rolled up his sleeves and crouched by the wood-burning stove. He stacked kindling and logs and lit the fire. Meanwhile, Marie wrapped her arms around her body for warmth. Gray clouds, bulky with rain, moved sluggishly across the San Francisco skyline.
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  “Marie, why don’t you change into some dry clothing?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. You’re shivering.” His calm demeanor vexed Marie. It reminded her of their courtship—and how, despite his stately good looks and charm, Matthew had been lying to her the whole time.

  She wouldn’t allow him to use the attack as an excuse to sweep his deception under the rug. Without facing him, she asked, “If your association with Margaret O’Shea no longer exists, why did your mother tell me that you’re still engaged?” Marie watched shiny rivulets of rain run down the glass windowpanes.

  After a pause, he replied, “She didn’t know. My father and I hadn’t told her yet. And I didn’t expect my parents to show up at the party.”

  “Did Bridget and Jimmy know the relationship had ended?”

  “Yes.”

  Seated on the chair beside the stove, he leaned in and spoke straightforwardly. “Marie. I didn’t love her.”

  “Love?” Marie scoffed. “Love has nothing to do with it.” A deep ache started at the center of her head and radiated out to her scalp. The wound on her forehead throbbed. An undertow of grief threatened to drag her down. She covered her eyes, but the memories flashed, like frames of a moving picture spliced together. She remembered Adeline’s father—Bastien—and the sheer force of his lust. He had seduced her, only to break his promise of marriage and cast her aside. She smelled Larry Deaver’s sharp whiskey breath, and felt the prick of his knife against her neck. She flinched, recalling the feeling of his rough nails against her backside. She began to sway and gasp for air.

  “Marie!” Matthew cried, reaching out to steady her.

  She regained her footing and backed away. “Why are you here?”