by Lynne Hugo
“How’s my gorgeous wife? It’s not all that late—did you get through the reading quicker than you thought?”
“You scared me!” I said, trying to wriggle from his grasp without it being obvious.
“Ah, I mean not to scare you, merely to seduce and overwhelm you with my irresistible kiss. I shall demonstrate my skill. Perhaps you were not aware that I hold the gold medal from the last Olympics in lovemaking. Modesty has prevented me from mentioning it earlier, but, once I received tens from all the judges in technical merit, the artistic program was a cinch.”
“I see. And exactly who, may I ask, were the judges?” We were speaking to each other’s image in the bathroom mirror.
“A lovely, lovely little tribe of virgin trolls, wearing chastity belts of course. I was saving myself for you. And I regret to inform you…”
“Yes?”
“I have today received an official telegram informing me that the International Olympic Committee insists I establish my eligibility for the next games this very night. I throw myself on your mercy. You have been chosen sole arbitrator.”
“Evan, honey, I have to—”
He turned me around to face him and cut me off with a kiss which was hard and gentle at once. “I love you,” he whispered. Then, teasing and tickling me, he got me backing up out of the bathroom, toward the bedroom. “Oh, no, no, you cannot deny me the advancement of my career. It is not for myself I make these pathetic entreaties, but for humanity. Men—yes, and women, too—rely on me to advance scientific knowledge in the field. Everywhere, people demand to know, can passion actually set bodies on fire during the act itself? Can stock be sold for a share of the great one’s sperm? What about movie rights?” I gave up, laughing helplessly, and in the moment, wanting him as much as I ever had and more. His hands raised my nightgown over my head and he aped total shock that I wore no underwear.
“Olympic rules. You risk disqualification if I catch you with underwear. Submit to a body check immediately,” I screeched, as if I were carefree or merely in love, as if I had a right to be either.
FRIDAY, I FELT GUILTY, faintly nauseous, tired. Evan and I had fallen onto the bed Thursday night, convulsed in laughter, I naked and Evan switching roles and pretending to be horrified that I was removing his clothes. “What has the youth of America come to?” he cried, using the cardboard from a roll of toilet paper as an imaginary microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen of our viewing audience, I present to you a case in point. Before your very eyes, you see a child so corrupt and crazed that she is tearing at the clothing of this reporter, an elderly gentleman and distinguished scholar.” Pushing him to a seat on the bed, I stifled him by nuzzling his mouth with my breast as I unbuttoned his shirt. Evan tossed the microphone aside, and grabbed my rear with both hands as he muttered, “Well, perhaps too voluptuous to be called a child. But a very delinquent teen…very delinquent, I mean this is simply terrible. I must devote my life to studying this horrifying phenomenon. Ladies and gentlemen, good night and goodbye.”
Why was it then that the constraints of the past weeks fell away again? Evan drove himself into me, but my body opened in welcome and answer. When I climaxed, I clung on, satisfied and unsatisfied at once, needing something I couldn’t define.
“Sweetheart, what is it?” Evan tightened his arms around me.
I could only shake my head and feel the hair on his chest with my fingers. “I love you,” I whispered. Even to me, my voice sounded distant, like the faint street noises beyond our window. “That was like the first and the last time we make love.” I was crying, the combination of first relief and the tension beneath it undoing me.
Evan held me, stroking my hair and kissing the top of my head. “Not the last time. I promise you, not the last time.”
The raucous and tender night before had hardened into stone and ashes by the time I cut my last class, and went home to pack an overnight bag, knowing Evan would be at work. I left him a note.
Evan sweetheart; Mother has finally agreed to see me and wants me to come home tonight. Don’t worry if I don’t call—you know how she is. I have to handle this alone. Don’t ever forget how much I love you.
Ruth.
What more could I tell him? In retrospect, though, I can see how it was my fault; I should have written more. I should have assured him I would be back, even if I couldn’t absolutely know that myself. I should have guessed what might happen, but I was too busy being weak and distracted, just as I had been the night before.
He caught up with me at Grand Central as I was entering the gateway to track 27. It sounds impossible, or at least improbable, but remember, he well knew my exact route home. “Ruth! Ruth! Wait!” I heard his voice grow louder as his half run brought him closer. “Jesus Christ. I never thought I’d find you, I didn’t know when you left.” He was panting.
“I’m sorry. I have to go, Evan. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to upset you.”
“I’d have been a lot less upset if you’d told me what was going on. We have to talk.”
“I’ve got to make this train.”
“Take the next one.” Then, seeing my face close, “When does it leave?”
I glanced at the enormous central clock. “Twelve minutes…I wanted to get a seat.” The last sentence sounded limp, and I was ashamed. “I mean, if I don’t get a seat, I can’t read my homework on the way.”
“Look, you have to talk to me.”
Evan took my arm and led me toward a seating area in the terminal, as I protested, “I’ve got to make that train.” Mother’s I’ll expect you on the 7:32 circled in my head like a cawing gull.
Friday night commuters thronged across the station and sorted themselves into gates. “We’ve got to get out of the way,” Evan said.
“Why aren’t you at work?” I asked.
“Counting on that, weren’t you?” he said, a sliver of bitterness like an almond between his teeth. “I was going to surprise you. Goddammit, what’s going on? Did your mother talk you into leaving me?”
“Oh, God, no, Evan. I didn’t even tell her anything about us. All she did was agree to see me. I called…” I trailed off, the wispy fade of a lost plane, realizing I didn’t want him to know that I’d planned this for days. Then I followed Evan’s eyes to my left hand, resting on the shoulder strap of my purse. I’d taken off my wedding ring. “No, no, Evan, I’m sorry, it’s not that. I’m so sorry…I took it off because she doesn’t know. I have to tell her, you know that, I can’t just walk in there wearing a wedding ring and a name tag that says ‘Hello, my name is Ruth Mairson.’” I tried a smile.
“If it’s not that, why didn’t you tell me?” I had hurt him, another layer of damage done. I glanced at the clock.
“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I knew you wouldn’t want me to go. I didn’t have the strength to fight you. I didn’t want to fight. I have to do this, but I don’t want to hurt you. Not ever. You’ve got to know how much I love you.”
“But we’re married. These are things we face together.”
“I know how you feel about how Mother’s acted. It wouldn’t work…you don’t…”
“I don’t understand?” he anticipated the word. “I guess not. But I’ve stuck by you, haven’t I? That’s more than I can say for you.” He was angry with me, for the first time, for the first time, really angry with me.
I tried to soften him with my eye, searching his face for a flicker of relent. “Please, I love you. I can’t stand this. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ve got to go, I can’t miss the train.”
“So I guess we see what or who comes first.” When he said that, how could I turn and leave?
“Evan, you know I love you. I married you, you’re my husband. Nothing about that is changed. Please, let me do this. You understood before. Please understand now.”
When I convinced myself that there was a slight acceptance on his face, I stood on my toes to kiss him with as much attention as I could and ran for the train. I saw it, still in the underground s
tation, but pulling out toward where the light would take it on.
WHEN I GOT BACK INTO THE chaos of the main terminal, Evan was gone. Panicked, I stood in line at the circular information booth until I was in front of a middle-aged man whose tie was loosened in a tired-looking way.
“When’s the next train to New Haven? Is there any way I can make a connection with the 5:14 Hartford line? I have to be on that train.”
He rolled his eyes. “Just missed it.”
“I know. When’s the next? Can I connect?”
“Where’s the fire?”
“Pardon me?”
“Where are you going?” He spoke in an exaggerated manner, dragging words like heavy sacks, patiently displaying his meaning as though I were slow.
“Malone, Connecticut.”
He studied posted charts, following a line across with his fingers.
“Can’t do it.”
Tears embarrassed me. “What’s the best I can do?” I’d have to call Mother.
Tears embarrassed him, too. He became brusque. “Well, little lady, give me a minute here. If you can stand to get in seven minutes later, you can skip the next two locals and wait for the late express. Take it to Meridan, that’s two stops past New Haven, but it only makes one stop before that. You can change onto the 5:39—that’s an express, too—and backtrack a little, but Malone’s the third stop. Get on over to track 19. You’ve got a wait, but it’ll be crowded. Cost you an extra $3.35.”
“Thank you so much. Only seven minutes later?”
“Seven minutes, miss.”
Seven minutes would be close enough. She’d never need to know I missed the train. Trains run four or five minutes late every now and then. I could have had to search the parking lot for the car; the keys could be buried at the bottom of my purse. Someone could have stopped me to ask for directions. I’d just make sure none of those things did happen, and I’d walk in the door almost exactly when she expected me to get on about the enormity of my task.
I BELIEVE I WAS SO overwhelmed with failure that I fell asleep on the train, in spite of the anxiety churning as though the train wheels were within instead of beneath me. The sun sunk in the sky and shone directly through my window and into my eyes, doing the initial work of closing them. By habit I woke before New Haven, and rode on to change trains as I’d been instructed; the connection was running exactly on time, a good sign I thought, and began to encourage myself.
There was another good sign, a spectacular sunset, the sky streaked with spreading red. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight,” Mother used to say. If it was going to be nice, perhaps I could get her to take a walk in the woods tomorrow. Perhaps things would go well enough that I’d even be able to tell her about Evan and me. I glanced at my left hand, which seemed more my own without the rings, but thought I do love him, I do, and let the notions cancel each other out as the wheels beneath me hopelessly chased the ones ahead.
IT WAS BY FAR THE LONGEST I’d been away from Malone since Mother and I had driven to Seattle. Everything seemed utterly unchanged—as it had when she and I returned from that trip—yet, as I had then, I felt utterly different, as though I no longer had the smallest place there. Most of the passengers were suited men with briefcases whose wives were waiting for them in idling station wagons, so the parking lot emptied quickly, and I spotted Mother’s car readily. Good sign, I thought again, trying to shake the memory of Grandmother that appeared when I’d thought of when I last went so long without seeing Malone. I could make up another minute or so. The keys were already in my hand as I jogged to the car. The town was absorbing the forty or so who had disembarked from the train as though we’d stepped into cotton; the sleepy main street barely blinked as they pulled out of the parking lot one at a time. I’d moved so quickly that I was nowhere near the last. Good, good sign, I heartened myself once more.
It was a short drive to the house. Even so, I sped. I did not want her to even guess that everything was not exactly as I’d said it would be. Although it was not dark, when I pulled into the yard, a few fireflies danced over the garden, which I noticed was grossly untended. I hurried up the steps of the back porch. The one Evan had fixed was holding firm and I would have smiled had I dared. I fixed my face and knocked on the back door.
A moment later, I knocked again. The lights were on, and I heard music inside, but sensed no motion. Another knock. I must have lost another minute and a half of the time I’d gained back against lateness just standing there, certain I was being tested but without a glimmer shining on what I should do. Finally I carefully tried the doorknob. Unlocked. I pushed it open by perhaps an inch and called in. “Mother? Mother? May I come in?”
Organ music swelled into the kitchen which was a shambles, dirty dishes, used napkins, emptied boxes and cans everywhere. I’d come home to messes like this before, and understood the message to be that I was needed there, to manage things, to do the labor that would allow her to keep going. I wondered what state the bank account was in, if she’d been collecting the money for her lessons. If she’d been canceling them again, she might have run out of money. Evan and I had enough in our account that I could write her a check, if I could only tell her about us. I wished I’d thought to bring a supply of cash.
A requiem mass was on the record player in the studio room, the one she used for teaching. It was because of the music that at first I didn’t recognize the sound of running water. The bathroom door was closed, and I remember being relieved. She hadn’t answered the door because she was taking a bath and hadn’t heard me. I waited another minute, looking around the kitchen, gauging how long it had been let go.
“Mother?” I called again. She wouldn’t answer. I went to the bathroom door and knocked softly. “Mother? I hope you don’t mind. I came in when there was no answer at the back door. I didn’t want to startle you.”
I have no idea how long I stood at the door. Was she becoming enraged that I wasn’t respecting her silence? I paced a little bit, and went into the living room and sat, folding my hands in my lap, determined to wait for instructions. But then I couldn’t endure it. I got up and went back to the bathroom door, knocking softly again. “Mother? I don’t want to bother you. Would you just let me know you’ve heard me? Then I’ll just wait in the living room.” I babbled some nonsense like that a couple of times, letting precious seconds elapse until I heard, or felt or sensed the water seeping around my shoes, and I finally opened the bathroom door.
My mother was lying naked on the floor, her legs together and knees slightly bent, her arms extended horizontally from her body in the odd grace of a resting crucifix. Deep gashes sliced both upturned wrists several times, blood widely pooled beneath them and still spreading. The tub looked to be completely filled with blood. Water ran on at low pressure. It had begun to overflow, and the running water mixed into the tub of blood and the pools of blood, the river of her life flowing above, below, around and from my mother directly at my feet, where it ended.
25
HEAR MY CONFESSION.I, Elizabeth Ruth, have done those things which I ought not to have done, and have not done what I ought to have done. I present myself to be cleansed.
I the fist, I the rope, I the whip and, at the last, the knife. Loneliness, pain, sorrow: these are His scourges, that I might yield praise for His Love, eternal, untouchable by the filthy hand of man. If thy daughter weds herself to unbelief, then cleanse and save her, and she will not doubt again. I am the instrument of your salvation, the weapon of the Lord.
Cleansed, I give the last true measure of devotion. I give my life that another might have life. My blood shall douse the flames of betrayal. When peace comes, you will know that by me, you are given life a second time. So be it, Amen.
26
STRANGE HOW SHOCK AFFECTS THE mind, what it sees, what it retains. I have no memory of calling the ambulance, or approaching sirens and, though I knelt in the blood and water that crept around my mother the whole while, I have no memory of the coroner’s arriv
al after the ambulance workers said they were sorry, sorry, sorry.
The coroner ruled it an accidental death. Although the deceased initially attempted suicide, he wrote upon the conclusion of his investigation, the ratio of blood to water in the tub, with the volume flow of the running water factored in, along with a significant swelling on the back of the dead woman’s head justify the conclusion that she changed her mind, and therefore, the ruling of accidental death. After she’d cut her wrists—holding each under water—she lay in the tub as water continued to run for perhaps ten minutes. How it must have brightened, the water, slowly rising, slowly deepening from faint pink in increments of red, blood being thicker than water any day of the year as she’d often proclaimed. It was then she apparently changed her mind (the wind-up clock—which no one but Roger and I know was always on the nightstand beside her bed—is still where she last placed it: on the toilet tank in full view of the head of the tub where she rested her head), rising and climbing out in the manner of a small child, by supporting herself with both hands on the rim of the tub while securing both feet on the floor. Then she appears to have stood and attempted to walk. She’d been going to call for help, I’m sure of it; the phone was plugged in and on the kitchen table, the closest to the bathroom it would stretch, not her bedroom where it usually stayed. Light-headedness would have overtaken her immediately upon becoming upright due to heat and blood loss, and upon fainting, she fell backward, striking her head on the edge of the tub, a conclusion based on the head injury and the position of the body when it was discovered by her daughter. Elizabeth Ruth Kenley laid on the floor for up to ten minutes during some of which she may have been conscious, and bled to death from self-inflicted wounds caused by a razor blade, subsequently recovered from the scene. Her daughter, who had failed to arrive when instructed, failed again to obey, discovered the body and called for emergency aid. Additional observations: the daughter of the deceased arrived approximately five minutes after the deceased struck her head, but was not aware anything was amiss as the bathwater was running, a tragedy for which no one is to blame. This is the blatant error in the official report. I do not know if it is the result of ignorance or a kindly, pointless effort to spare me. A note found by the dead woman’s daughter suggests that the woman was depressed and perhaps suffering from delusions. It has been photographed, entered into the official case document file and returned to the family, where it remains to complete the work of the Bride of Christ, who knew her daughter had married herself in secret, and to an unbeliever. I know she knew I was married. She buried the fact in her last words.