Edwin moved off the step, dropped his chin, and watched his boots lift snow as he walked to the privy.
Would you do that to your own wife? Could you?
I don't know.
If you did, you'd never be sure whether you did it to put her out of her misery or to end your waiting for Fannie.
Worries, worries. Frankie had become a worry, too. He refused to enter the sickroom or to talk to his mother. She had grown so pitifully emaciated that the boy found himself unable to accept the change in her. Frankie seemed to be denying that his mother was dying.
And now this thing with Emily and Tom Jeffcoat—something else to worry about.
Returning to the kitchen, Edwin found Fannie already up, filling the coffeepot, dressed in a blue plaid housedress and a long white bibbed apron. Most mornings Emily arose at the same time as they and was here in the kitchen creating a welcome buffer over breakfast. Not so today. They were alone in the room, with the stovepipe snapping and the lamplight sealed inside by the long shades, still drawn from the night before.
"Good morning," Fannie greeted.
"Good morning."
Edwin closed the door and stripped off his jacket, revealing black suspenders over the top of his woolen underwear.
"Where's Emily?"
"Still sleeping."
He poured water into the basin, began washing his face and hands while listening to Fannie set the coffeepot on the stove, then get out a frying pan. When he straightened, drawing the towel down his face, he found her standing at the stove watching him, a slab of bacon in one hand, a butcher knife in the other, forgotten. For moments neither of them moved. When they did, it felt as natural as receiving falling snowflakes upon a lifted face; they stepped to one another and kissed—good morning, plain and simple, as if they were man and wife.
They parted and smiled into each other's eyes while his hands continued drying on the towel.
"Have I ever told you how much I love finding you here in my kitchen when I walk in?"
"Have I ever told you how much I love to watch you washing at the sink?"
He hung the towel on a peg and she began slicing the bacon on a board.
He combed his hair and she dropped the meat into the pan, sending up a sizzle.
"How many eggs do you want?"
"Three."
"How many slices of toast?"
"Four." So much like man and wife.
She searched out three eggs and the toasting racks and a plump loaf of bread while he went to find a clean shirt, and brought it back to the kitchen to don. Standing just inside the doorway, he watched her turning the bacon while he flipped down his suspenders, slipped his arms into the starched cotton, and slowly began buttoning it.
"I meant it, Fannie," he said quietly.
"Meant what?"
"That I love having you here, baking my bread, keeping my house, washing my clothes." He stuffed his tails into his pants and snapped the suspenders into place. "Nothing's ever felt so right."
She came to him and ran her fingers beneath one suspender, straightening a twist.
"For me either." Their eyes met, caring and momentarily happy. They kissed again, in a room filled with the scent of toasting bread and boiling coffee. When the kiss ended, they hugged, with her nose pressed against the clean starchy scent of his shirt, which she had happily laundered for him; and with his nose nestled in her hair, which smelled faintly of bacon, which he gladly provided for her.
"God, I love you, Fannie," he whispered, holding her by both arms, gazing into her eyes. "Thank you for being here. I couldn't have made it through these days without you."
"I love you, too, Edwin. It seems fitting that we should go through this together, don't you think?"
"No. I want to spare you, yet I can't bear the thought of sending you away. Fannie, I want to confess something to you, because once I confess it I know I'll never do it."
"Do what, dearest?"
"I've thought of taking something from Emily's bag—laudanum, maybe—and ending Josephine's life for her."
Tears glistened in Fannie's eyes. "And I've watched her shrivel away, fighting for breath … and I've thought of putting a pillow over her face and ending her painful struggle."
"You have?"
"Of course. No human being with a dram of compassion could help but consider it."
"Oh, Fannie…" He hooked an arm around her neck and rested his chin on her head, feeling better, less depraved, knowing she'd thought of it, too.
"It's terrible, thinking such things, isn't it?"
"I've felt so guilty. But poor Josie. Nobody should have to suffer like that."
For a moment she absorbed his strength, then patted his back as if punctuating the end of a statement.
"I know. Now sit down, Edwin, and let's not talk of it again."
While they ate, dawn came, paling the shades at the windows to the color of weak tea, bringing the faraway barking of dogs across town. Often Edwin and Fannie gazed at each other. Throughout the meal they felt the false connubial closeness brought about by the sharing of mundane morning routine. Once he reached across the table to touch her hand. Twice she rose to refill his coffee cup. Returning the second time, she kissed the crown of his head.
He caught her hand against his collarbone, brushed his beard along her palm. "Fannie, I have to talk to you about something else. I need your advice."
"What is it, Edwin?"
She sat down at a right angle to him, their hands joined at the table corner.
Holding her gaze, he told her, "I walked into the livery office yesterday and found Emily kissing Tom Jeffcoat."
Fannie's expression remained unsurprised as she sat back and hooked a finger in her coffee cup. "So, now you know."
"Meaning you have?"
"I've suspected."
"For how long?"
"Since the first time I saw the two of them together. I've only been waiting for Emily to admit it to herself."
"But why didn't you tell me?"
"It wasn't my place to voice suspicions."
"They didn't even act jumpy when I walked in. Jeffcoat calmly asked me to excuse them!"
"And what did you do?"
"Why, I left. What else could I do?"
"And so you want to know if you should give her a lecture on the sacredness of betrothal promises, is that it?"
"I…" Edwin's mouth hung open while memories gushed back, of being talked out of marrying the woman he loved by his well-meaning parents.
Fannie rose and aimlessly trod the kitchen, sipping coffee. "She went out last night after the rest of us were in bed, and didn't get back till quite late."
"Oh God…"
"Why do you say 'oh God,' Edwin, as if it were come calamity?"
"Because it is."
"Now you sound like your own parents."
"Heaven help me, I know." Covering his face with both hands, Edwin pressed his elbows to the tabletop. She gave him time to worry it through. Finally his eyes appeared, troubled. "But Charles is already like a son to me. He has been his whole life."
"And undoubtedly they said the same thing to you about Joey."
Cupping his hands before his mouth, he studied Fannie while she went on. "I cannot speak for Joey, nor can I guess what you might have felt, but I can tell you what it was like for me. On your wedding day—oh, that day, that dolorous, griefladen day—I didn't know how to contain my desolation. I wanted to weep, but I couldn't. I wanted to run, but that wasn't allowed. Propriety demanded that I be there … to watch the destruction of my happiness. I don't ever remember a sorrow so deep. I felt…" She studied her cup, circling its rim with a fingertip, then lifted sad eyes to Edwin. "…hapless. I could not function, didn't want to, couldn't project a future without an incentive to live. And you were my incentive. So I went into my father's barn with the intention of hanging myself." She gave a soft rueful laugh, dropping her gaze to the cup again. "What a ludicrous sight I must have made, Edwin. I…" She gla
nced up sheepishly. "I didn't know how to tie the knot."
"Fannie—"
"No, Edwin." She held up a palm. "Stay there. Let me finish this." She moved to the stove and refilled her cup, stationing herself a goodly distance from him. "I thought about drowning, but it was winter—where could I do it? Poison? I could hardly go to the apothecary and ask for some Paris green, could I? And barring that, I didn't know where to find any. So I lived." She drew a deep breath and set down her cup as if it were too heavy for her. "No, that isn't quite accurate. I existed. Day to day, hour to hour, wondering what to do with my pitiful life." She gazed out the window. "You moved away—I didn't know why."
"Because I wanted you more than I wanted my own wife."
She went on as if he hadn't spoken. "Then Joey's letters began coming. Letters filled with the day-by-day inconsequentialities of married life—the banalities for which I pined. She became pregnant and Emily was born. I wanted Emily to be mine—mine and yours—and I knew that you'd been right to leave, for if you hadn't, I would have borne your child gladly, wed or not.
"Then four years or so after you left I met a man, a married man, the safest kind, I thought … the kind who made no promises, presented no expectations. I wrote to you and Joey about him—Ingrahm, was his name, Nathaniel Ingrahm. He was a curator at the museum whose cause I espoused at the time—preservation of the dying art of scrim-shanding, or some such vital concern. In those days I was only beginning to take up a long line of vital concerns because I had none of my own." Fannie's thoughts wandered momentarily before she straightened her shoulders and turned toward Edwin. "At any rate, I had a sexual liaison with Nathaniel Ingrahm, chiefly because I wanted to find out what I had missed with you, and I was beginning to see that the chances of my finding a suitable husband were remote. You see, I rejected every prospect when he didn't seem to measure up to you. You were my standard, Edwin … you still are."
She drew a staunch breath, coupled her palms, and paced, focusing her attention on the walls, the windows, anything but him. "Within a year I became pregnant with his child. You may recall when I wrote and told you I was recuperating from what my mother referred to as summer muse, some sort of stomach malady that was circulating at the time. That's what I told her I had, but my … my summer muse was the aborting of the child I wanted by no other man than you. I drank bluing … and it … it worked."
He sat stunned, pained, wishing futilely that he could change the past, wanting to go to her, embrace her, but held away by her stern posture and evasive eyes.
"Nathaniel Ingrahm never knew." She studied her knit fingers and crossed thumbs. "I gave up my scrim-shanding cause and embraced another … and another. And there were other men, of course, several—all human beings need love, or whatever substitutes for it—but I was careful. I had learned a trick with a copper coin that prevented conception. You're shocked, Edwin, I can tell. I need not be looking at you to sense your shock."
"Fannie…" he breathed, leaving his chair. "My God, I never knew."
"I have done some wicked things in the name of love, Edwin. Unforgivable things."
Reaching her, he gripped her arms. Their sorrowful eyes locked. He drew her to his breast, holding her protectively, cupping her head. "I'm so sorry." He closed his eyes and swallowed, his throat pressed to her hair.
"I didn't tell you to wrest pity from you. I told you so you'd see that you must not chastise Emily. You must let her choose freely, Edwin … please." She drew back and appealed with her eyes. "Edwin, I love your children simply because they are yours. I want their happiness because in their happiness they bring the same to you. Edwin, dearest…" She took his face in her hands, resting her thumbs at the junction of beard and cheek. "Please don't duplicate your parents' mistake."
When he kissed her his soul felt broken. Tears clogged his throat. He clung to her, aggrieved by the mistakes both of them had made, by the lorn years that had brought them only half-happiness at the best of times, sheer desolation at the worst. Their tongues joined in the testimony—this was meet and fitting, this was how it should have been had they been wiser, more defiant, truer to themselves.
While they embraced they were unaware of the stockinged footsteps of Emily coming down the stairs.
She entered the room and halted in shock. "Papa!"
Edwin and Fannie twisted apart, their hands lagging upon one another.
"Emily…"
For tense seconds the room remained silent while the trio stood as if paralyzed. Emily's dismayed eyes flashed from Edwin to Fannie and back again. When she spoke her voice was reedy with accusation.
"Papa, how could you do such a thing!" She glared at Fannie. "And you! Our friend!"
"Emily, hold your voice down," Edwin ordered.
"And with Mama right upstairs!" Tears sprang to Emily's eyes as she whispered fiercely.
"Emily, I'm sorry you discovered us, but please don't judge what you can't begin to understand." He stepped toward her but she jumped back and pierced him with a look of icy reprehension.
"I understand enough. My mother taught me right from wrong, and I'm not a child, Papa, nor am I stupid!"
"We've done nothing wrong, and furthermore, I don't have to answer to you, girl." He pointed a finger. "I'm your father!"
"Then act like one! Show some respect for the dying and for the rest of your family." Her face flamed with rage. "What if it had been Frankie who came downstairs just now? What would he think? He can scarcely accept Mother's illness as it is!"
"He might have offered us a chance to explain."
"There is no explanation. You're despicable—both of you!" Angry and distressed, Emily ran from the room.
"Emily!"
When Edwin would have followed her, Fannie restrained him with a touch on his arm. "Not now, Edwin. She's too upset. Let her go."
The front door slammed. "But she thinks you and I are carrying on here in this house."
"Aren't we?" Fannie asked sadly.
"No!" he glowered. "We've done nothing to be ashamed of."
"Then why did we jump apart?"
"But she didn't give us a chance to explain."
"And if she had, what would you have said? That you and I are excused because we've loved each other since before you married her mother? The mother who is, as Emily had to remind us, dying upstairs? Would you tell her that, Edwin, and open up a Pandora's box of questions? Or do you think she would calmly accept your explanation and say, 'Very well then, Papa, you may carry on with Cousin Fannie'? Edwin, be realistic." With gentle hands she bracketed his bearded face while his expression remained stubbornly defensive. "She would blame you all the more for not having loved her mother as you pretended. And she would be justified. All her life she's seen you and Joey as paragons of virtue, inviolate in your union. She's had a tremendous shock this morning and we must give her time to adjust to it. We must think very clearly about whether we are justified in explaining our past to her. The proper thing for us to do might very well be to let her believe the worst about you and me."
"But, dammit, Fannie, I've honored my vows; I've never so much as touched you in this house before today."
"Yes, Edwin … before today." She dropped her hands from his face and stepped away. "Do you remember that day last June when I came here, when we were at the livery stable? I made a vow of my own that day, and I have broken it—whether in the flesh or in my imagination, it is broken just the same. A thousand times I have lain with you since I've been beneath this roof, in my wishes."
"But, Fannie, she doesn't understand that I want to marry you, that I will when it's possible."
"And we may have created an obstruction to that possibility this morning, had you considered that?"
"Emily is eighteen years old, a full-grown woman. And just yesterday I caught her in a similar situation. Did I point fingers?"
"She's not married, Edwin. You are."
He glared at her though his true anger was turned toward himself. She waited patientl
y for him to realize this, and knew the precise moment at which he did. Releasing a breath and running a hand through his hair, he asked contritely, "So what do we do?"
"For the time being, nothing. She'll let us know when she's ready for either apologies or explanations."
* * *
Emily strode through the frigid morning with indignation turning to bitterness. What her father had done to Mother, he'd done to her and Frankie, too. Her father—her shining idol, the one she'd loved unconditionally because he was all good, and honorable. In her entire life she'd never known him to consciously hurt another. Her father had betrayed them all.
It hurt even worse because he had been the gentle one, the understanding one, the one she had always turned to as a buffer against the harshness she often found in Mother. Well, at least Mother was no hypocrite! Mother lived what she taught.
Mother … poor, undeserving Mother … dying bravely upstairs while downstairs Papa profaned their marriage vows with his live-in harlot!
And that harlot—her friend, the one in whom she'd confided, the one she'd admired and trusted with her deepest secrets. Some friend! A Judas, after all.
Betrayal hurt. No, it stung. It brought a sense of stultifying powerlessness. Emily reached the livery stable with tears stubbornly dammed behind the floodgates she refused to lower.
She saddled Sagebrush and rode, hell-bent, until her legs ached and the horse's hide steamed. West. Toward the foothills, across frozen streams, through thickets of frosty sage, across unbroken snow, past startled rabbits and chipmunks and pines laden with new white, down coulees, up ridges, into a serene morning in which she created the only contradiction: a distraught human pushing a dumb animal who could only obey.