With her delicate fingertips she traced along the wall in the hallway. A minute later she said, It’s pink.
It was the daughter’s room. They changed everything.
She stepped across the hall and stood at the door of the cursed room.
Don’t, he said.
Why not?
I don’t want you to.
She nodded. How could somebody—
Nobody knows. Nobody has the answer for that.
People are strange, she said. Scary.
Not everybody. Most people are pretty good, don’t you think? He took her hand, watching the shadows on her face.
I know why we’re here, she said.
We don’t have to.
But she took his hand and led him downstairs, to the room where he’d watched his granddad die. There was a couch in here now, instead of the old man’s bed. Slowly, he undressed her. Kiss me, she said, and he eased her back on the cushions and they kissed for a while and then she said, Come on, do it.
Are you sure you want to?
Hurry up, before I change my mind.
They were just getting going when he heard someone upstairs, pacing back and forth across the floor.
Do you hear that? she whispered.
They lay there frozen, clutching each other. Now whoever it was started down the stairs.
He’d never gotten dressed so fast in his life. They ran outside, jumped in his truck and drove off.
And he hadn’t been back since.
3
IT’S HER SUSPICIOUS NATURE, she thinks, digging through the closet, that keeps her from getting close to people. Something she picked up from her father, maybe because they’d moved so much. He was overly cautious and critical, nothing ever good enough for his daughter. He’d buy them a house in some new town, rip out the old kitchen and hack up the cabinets, doing everything with the ferocity of a crazy person, only to be dissatisfied with the outcome. Deciding it was hopeless. She’d come home from school and see the sign.
He tried hard, but she knew he wasn’t like the other dads. Detached from the regular world. Their quiet dinners, watching The Cosby Show while they ate. Hours of homework afterward. Luckily, in the eighth grade, a concerned teacher suggested boarding school and even helped Franny with the application. It’s for the best, she told her father once she got in. For both of us.
Drunk, suddenly weary after the long day, she climbs the stairs, half expecting some zombie to wander out. As she passes her mother’s door, she does exactly the wrong thing and opens it. Like an actress on a stage, she stands there in a wedge of light, awaiting some dramatic turn. But the room is quiet and dark. Defiant, she flicks the light switch and an ugly overhead fixture floods the room. I just want something to read, she says into the emptiness, crossing the worn Persian rug to the bookcase, where a dozen or so volumes lean and wait. And something else. A large, heart-shaped box like the ones you get on Valentine’s Day.
She opens it warily, expecting to find long-decayed chocolates—but instead there are envelopes, five or six of them, stuffed with letters. She closes it back up and brings it with her.
From the doorway she surveys the room once more. A room where a murder occurred, she thinks.
Leaving on the light, she gently closes the door, as if her mother is in bed with a cold, resting.
It’s too late to take a shower and the bathroom’s too cold anyway. Mary has laid out a towel and a bar of soap, and Franny’s touched by the courtesy. She washes quickly, avoiding her reflection, her persistent beauty, and hurries into bed, pulling the covers up to her neck. She props herself up on pillows and angles the lamp. Then she opens the box.
The letters aren’t addressed, the envelopes blank, so she assumes they were never read by anyone but their author, who’d written them on lined paper torn sloppily from a spiral notebook.
Exile
September 12, 1978
Dear Mother—
Greetings from Siberia.
I know I have written to you about this before, but you’ll forgive my redundancy. I have no one I can confide in. Remarkably, to no one’s surprise but my own, I have no true friends, no trustworthy allies. It has become undeniably clear to me that, in marrying George, I have made a severe error in judgment. I am tired of making excuses for him. I used to think he was maybe overworked or worried about his career. That glum face he puts on. Now I just think he’s strange.
I know you have told me to hang on for Franny’s benefit, that money will be difficult—that it will be nearly impossible to find anyone to love me with a three-year-old. But I must confess that my emotions outweigh practical reason. I understand your argument, Mother, and know that you have made many compromises in your own marriage, but I am not as strong as you—
October 9, 1978
Dear Mother: A Thank-You Note
Thank you for helping me to keep on my toes about my weight. It is always so good to know where one stands in life. I have tried to cut down my intake of calories. Sometimes I even feel a little light-headed and have to remind myself to eat something. But it is, of course, all for the best. I know my husband prefers me this way.
Thank you for teaching me such self-control, such persuasive endurance.
On another note. I have come to the conclusion that you are right after all, it’s better to be married than divorced. There is still such a stigma attached, I think, even now. There is one divorced woman in this little town. I have seen her eating in the café, picking at her salad. It’s sad.
Therefore, I must thank you for encouraging me to stay married to George even though he:
a) has no clue who I am
b) has no true interest in understanding my needs
c) has not even an inkling of what I think about or dream about
d) secretly finds me repulsive
e) hates me even more than I hate myself.
October 21, 1978
Mother,
I made that recipe you sent for the chicken piccata. It came out rather well. George even mustered a compliment; he is so picky about my cooking.
October 25, 1978
Dear Mother,
I have been walking a lot. The landscape is at once consumingly bleak and somehow uplifting. I suppose one has a kind of religious experience when looking at the sky.
October 30, 1978
Dear God,
I’m writing to ask your opinion of ghosts. I believe this house of ours is haunted—I feel that she is trying to warn me, to tell me something. Why else would she be hanging around? Is it true about ghosts? Are they real? If I died, would I
As a Catholic, I do believe there is a place called Heaven and that good people go there to exist somehow in peace.
November 1, 1978
Dear Agnes,
I have been reading Rosemary’s Baby.
In the book—you really must read it—the devil makes love to poor Rosemary and she ends up having his baby. It’s fabulously creepy.
For some reason it makes me think of the Virgin Mary.
Anyway, I am really enjoying it.
Mother tells me you are trying to get pregnant. On second thought, you probably shouldn’t read the book!
November 4, 1978
Dear Mother,
Thank you for the consoling words the other night. I know these issues are mainly my problem and have little to do with George.
November 9, 1978
Dear Mother,
I have discovered poetry. Last night Justine took me to a poetry reading by Miss Adrienne Rich. She had been married, you see, and then, over time, discovered that she didn’t want to be married anymore, and that she was in fact a lesbian. I don’t think it is fair to assume that being a lesbian caused the failure of her marriage—obviously it had a great deal to do with it, but I don’t think it was the only reason (I can practically hear your thoughts!!). Now, Mother, don’t worry about this being my confession of homosexuality—I proclaim I am not a lesbian! But what Miss Rich says in he
r poetry about women coming into their own lives, their own imperfect bodies, their experiences as free women of strength, about pursuing their own pleasure (can you imagine!)—this is what I want to convey to you. This sense of liberation! There is more to life than a clean kitchen and a well-darned pair of socks. I am throwing out my sewing machine! I am going to dedicate myself to just being myself, not the person I am now, going through the motions, reciting my lines. I am going to wander through my house naked—that’s right, naked—without worrying about what George will think of my bumps and swirls, my broad motherly hips, my stretch marks—even the mole on my thigh, a witch’s tattoo, you used to call it. No more! I am throwing out my razor. I am simply letting my body do what is natural. I want to stink, Mother; I want to glow with sweat; I want to set my breasts free, enjoy their weight, their swagger. I want to masturbate—that’s right, you heard me! I want to touch myself without putting on a show to satisfy my husband’s tender ego. I want to push his head between my legs, feel his tongue wedge inside me, tasting my bitter, lovely poison.
November 17, 1978
Dear Mother,
How many times have I wondered what keeps George so late at the college? I have even thought of hiring a private detective. I must tell you, I feel he is betraying me. Today, with Franny in the car, I drove over to the campus. I circled the faculty lot. I didn’t see George’s car parked anywhere. I must’ve driven around that campus for an hour looking for his car.
Sometimes I notice the way he smells, a cheap jasmine scent on his clothes.
November 25, 1978
Dear Mother,
As you know we went to his parents’ for Thanksgiving. Of course, just having us wasn’t enough for them. Some of their friends came over for cocktails. Everything looked very nice—you’ve seen their house—and she filled her fireplace with poinsettias. She made a pretty good turkey and a ham, too, and it was very beautiful sitting there and looking at the Sound. And Franny was dressed up so cute. That new dress I made for her from the McCall’s catalog. Her little Mary Janes.
Anyway, yesterday, when we got back, he went for a run. I was making dinner and discovered I needed some things, so I put Franny in the car and started for town. I had the strangest feeling, like all time was suspended. Then I was driving along the small streets where the townies live—there’s a trailer park nearby, and several bars, a neighborhood that you, Mother, would not approve of. And I happened to notice one of those statues of the Virgin Mary—you know how rural people like to put them on their front lawns inside old claw-foot tubs (a tradition I will never quite understand)—and something made me stop, and I got out and went up to one and her paint was all chipping off her blue cloak, but her eyes, there was something about her eyes, and I touched her and I felt something go right through me like a jolt of electricity….
Then, when I was driving by the inn, the long barn where they put their help, I saw him. Standing there with a girl. What? I thought. Is that George? I took my foot off the pedal and slowed down. I could see they were fighting; that was obvious. They stood apart. There was something about her sharp outline that seemed familiar, and she was crying. George was standing there with his arms crossed, the way he does when he’s angry, unyielding, defiant. I have seen that look, that punitive stance, and found my sympathy going to the woman, whoever she was. In my case, I would be a fool to think there wasn’t something between them. It was unmistakably a lovers’ quarrel. My heart buzzed inside my chest, and my legs, my whole body went flimsy, weak. I could hardly hold the wheel. It was all I could do to keep driving.
December 3, 1978
Mother,
I am gearing up to confront him. It is not easy for me, because as you know I’m not a confrontational person. Plus, something happened to my friend Justine, a car accident. We went to visit her and she was just lying there and her husband, well, I’ve never seen him in such a state. I just couldn’t believe it. Then, when it couldn’t possibly get any worse, George told me about the girl.
She was just some girl he’d met at the library. Some girl with problems. She got obsessed with him. Nothing happened, he said. There was nothing going on. She had latched on to him. She was a girl with serious issues.
I suppose these problems occur in most marriages. I am trying to deal with it. Everything seems so much harder without Justine to talk to. She just lies there. I don’t know, it’s really upsetting.
December 17, 1978
Dear Mrs. Clare,
Please accept this tardy thank you for your lovely Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, the sweet potato marshmallow casserole didn’t agree with me, but I’m all right now. I have been fairly consumed with the fact that
December 17, 1978
Dear Mrs. Clare,
I am actually writing to give you some good news. It’s about those paintings your poor nephew had done before his death. They’ve been found. Yes, it’s true. I happened to attend the Christmas party at your son’s place of employment. They had put out a nice spread and plenty of booze and it was fun seeing all the little decorations the secretary had displayed, angels made of Styrofoam, that sort of thing, and glitter everywhere.
I’m sure you don’t know, because George is so very modest, that he has a very nice office. While he was busy socializing and drinking too much gin, I went into his office to poke around, and that’s when I noticed the paintings. Compelled by their subject matter, I found myself walking toward them, getting up good and close. There were five in all. Five lovely scenes of the seaside on which your son, George Clare, had signed his name.
Your devoted daughter-in-law,
Catherine
January 4, 1979
Dearest Mother,
Happy New Year. I took your suggestion and spoke to the priest. He told me that forgiveness is always the best recourse in a marriage. But I have begun to doubt this solution. I am thinking that the priest has no real knowledge of my personal life, and that it is unjust to generalize. I have begun to suspect that my husband is deeply troubled and quite possibly psychotic.
You see, the person we know as George Clare is just a shell—likable, yes, intelligent, charming. But it’s just an illusion, a chimera. Because he keeps his real persona to himself, locked up in some dark, awful place, cut off from the world. I have seen glimpses of that other person when I catch him alone, involved in some menial task—polishing shoes, for instance, one hand thrust inside the shoe, the other tenderly rubbing the leather, preoccupied, wistful—dare I say sexual. Or sharpening knives, the intensity in his eyes, checking the blade with his fingertips, that same expression of faraway tenderness.
You see, Mother, we are animals. We know when we are in danger. It isn’t something that can be argued or discounted. We know what fear is. We know what it means. It’s instinctual. It’s real. There is no faking it.
February 2, 1979
Dear Mother,
I had some time to myself and walked alone out into the field. It was cold but sunny. I walked and walked and thought about God and tried to feel Him all around me, watching over me. I felt loved. By Him. Only Him. Not even by you and Father. Certainly not by George. He’s my adversary. I can’t trust anyone.
Except God. I should have become a nun.
February 16, 1979
Dear Mother,
What good news about Agnes.
If you want the truth about such things I will tell you a story of my own discovery. How I began to feel sick. Sick all the time. And that peculiar heaviness in my belly, prickling around the edges, as if I were stuffed with horsehairs. I went to the doctor and he told me what the problem was. It brought back memories of George in the beginning. How we got stuck with each other in the first place. Why had we? I was weak, insecure. I didn’t believe I could do anything. I didn’t believe I was good enough. Maybe I believed God had a plan for me. But I see now that’s just cowardice. That’s just making excuses for wasted time. I don’t blame you, Mother. You have always done what you thought was right. Bu
t it wasn’t right, was it? Not really.
The truth is, it has taken me this long to understand that I am in charge of my own destiny. Not you or Father. Not George. Not Franny. Not even God.
My body is my own. I am making my own plans.
February 22, 1979
Dear Mother,
I have decided to leave him. It is for my own safety. For I have recently made a terrible discovery. One night—the same night our friend Floyd drowned—George came home sopping wet. It was very late, and I heard him in the laundry room. He was standing there naked, holding his shirt, his trousers, his socks, and I could see they were wet, not just a little but dripping wet, drenched, like somebody who had just climbed out of the water. After he went upstairs I went out to look at his car. The seat was soaked through. When I pushed on the cushion, water ran out.
Other strange things have happened, but the worst thing is his distance, his cool dismissal of me. As though he can’t stand the sight of me.
I will close this letter with the following advice: if something should happen to me, don’t assume it was an accident.
Homeward
1
FIRST THING, he drives over there. He likes this hour best. The sky opening, the early sun.
She stands there with her bloodshot eyes, wearing the same hospital outfit she had on the night before, wrapped in a blanket. What are you doing here? she says.
I gotta fix that overhang.
What?
On the porch.
She shakes her head. Now?
Is it too early?
Uh, yeah—it’s, what, seven?
Quarter till. Contractor’s hours. He holds up his thermos. I come bearing gifts.
Is that actually coffee? she says a little desperately.
Yes, ma’am. With milk and sugar.