"No."
Anita turned the letter over and read the signature. "Gilberte. Who's
she?"
"She was one of the nurses in the hospital. A nice old lady who was
kind to me," I lied for no other earthly reason than perhaps to divert
her attention from the letter. "I'll get someone to translate it for me
tomorrow. I think Mr. Ottavio, the Italian shoemaker, speaks a little
French. Or maybe one of the professors from up on the hill might come
into the store."
And with that, I stuffed the letter into my pocket and promptly forgot
about it. There was nothing farther from my mind at that time than
Gilberte; and while I had come to miss her, other and more important
things kept cropping up before I had time to evoke any more than a few
pleasant memories. Like Doctor Carpenter, Nurse Monet was only a shadow
of the past, occasionally looming up to loiter near the more remote
fringe of the present.
We continued to eat the meal in silence, Anita chewing cautiously
in one side of her mouth. As she brought in the dessert--a gelatin
pudding topped with whipped cream--I asked her what the dentist had
accomplished. As an answer, she reached into her apron pocket and
rolled two very large molars onto the table. The roots of the teeth
were still dark with traces of dried blood and the sight of them at
the dinner table was almost enough to make me ill. With difficulty, I
mastered my nausea and turned what I hoped were sympathetic eyes in her
direction.
"Poor kid," I murmured and going over to her I took her in my arms. She
turned her back to me so that it was impossible to see her face, but
the gelatin in the dish she was holding trembled and almost bounced to
the floor. "Darling, I didn't know. It must've been awful."
"Much you care!" she said, bursting into tears. I held her as close as
I could and straining myself, I managed to kiss the side of her mouth.
"Now, now. You know I care!"
"I ... I thought you ... loved me!" she whimpered.
"But what an idea! Of course I love you! Have I ever said that I
didn't? Come now, Anita. What is it? Have I been nasty to you?"
"You ... you don't care how I feel! You won't do the one thing in the
world I want you to do! You know I'm rotting here! You know everyone in
town hates me!"
I tried to laugh her out of the idea although I suddenly realized how
few friends Anita really had. None of the other young married women
ever came to call on her. I had taken note of this once before and,
after much thought, had put it down as rank jealousy. Anita was far too
beautiful. But it was unnatural that she should not have at least one
friend among her own sex.
"And I hate them, too!" she continued in that little, choking voice.
She had moved over to the table and, disregarding the dishes, some of
which were dangerously close to the edge, buried her face in her arms.
Her position reminded me of that night--July 2, 1917--when she had shed
alcoholic tears in almost the same spot.
How long she continued to sob there and how long I stared blankly at
her quivering breasts and at the delicate tendrils of blonde hair that
curled at the nape of her neck, I do not know. For it was then that I
began to weaken a little in my resolution. As this was happening to
me, I became conscious of the fact that I was speaking, backing up my
gradually dying decision not to sell with forceful words of refusal.
Just exactly what I said and precisely what she replied to me, I am
unable to remember. It may be that a touch of my old shell-shock malady
came back and seized my memory for a little, twisting it out of focus.
Because the next thing I can vividly recollect is Anita standing
on her two feet, pale and furious, with mother's discolored steel
carving-knife in her hand. On the floor around the legs of the table
were several chipped and broken dishes which her sudden leap must have
knocked down.
"You're killing me!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. The shrill
quality of her voice sent a shuddering response through me. My heart
constricted, leaving me as cold as ice and dead certain that something
awful was about to happen. I could feel the hairs rise on me. "Don't
you know that you're killing me, you fool? Every day, every minute I
have to stay here! ... Oh, I can't stand it any longer!"
Risking a nasty cut, I went toward her, hoping to get the knife away
from her; but she moved off a few paces as I approached. "Don't be
childish, Anita," I pleaded. "And stop that screaming. Do you want the
neighbors to hear?"
It may seem silly that at a trying moment like that I should be
concerned about anyone other than the two of us; nevertheless, such
was the case. I have always secretly dreaded that my personal affairs
someday might be aired in public. This fear was born of a life spent
in a small town. I have seen too many people broken and unable
to hold their heads up after the malicious work of gossipers and
scandal-mongers.
I continued to try to quiet her but she would not be hushed. "Why are
you doing this to me? You hate me, don't you? Oh, don't deny it! I know
you hate me! Well ... I hate you, too!"
"Anita!" I gasped.
"Yes, I do! I hate you! I can't stand the sight of you! You bore me,
see? You didn't know that, did you? Well, now you do!"
The tears were drying on her face and in her eyes, leaving them rimmed
and reddened. The rouge on her cheeks stood out against her dead
white skin in round, uneven splotches. With her hair in disarray, she
looked almost mad and, I must confess, horribly ugly. Seeing her this
way after once having witnessed her beautiful, frightened me. It also
hastened me in my decision to do what she wished.
I managed to get my hand on the hilt of the knife and I began to twist
it from her grasp. Struggling to retain it, Anita commenced to shout
again with still more rage. "Let me alone! Let me alone, do you hear?
I'll kill you if you take that away! Oh ... you're hurting me! God
damn you! I'll ... I'll ..." And here her words ran into one another,
becoming unintelligible expostulations of hatred.
I suppose I did hurt her a bit; but it was absolutely necessary. In the
mood she was in, I was afraid either that she might attack herself with
the knife or use it against me. In any case, her being in possession of
the thing was a decided menace.
To anyone outside who might have heard Anita's words, it would
undoubtedly seem that she really and truly despised me; I myself put
no stock in them. I was sure that her fit of temper was but a phase of
her physical condition and that she didn't mean any of the mean things
she said about me. You must know then that Anita was menstruating that
night and do not forget that earlier that very day she had had two
teeth extracted. What she had gone through was enough to make any woman
fly off the handle.
I thought that if I could get the knife away from her and put her to
bed, in the morning everything would be peaceful again. She was still
screaming and clawing at my chest like some enraged lioness when I
finally managed to remove the dangerously sharp knife from her fingers.
Then, to my dismay, the doorbell rang.
Anita stopped her noise at once. Together we looked stupidly at one
another. Then she nodded that I should go and see who was outside.
The ringing of the bell evidently calmed her hysteria for, as though
thoroughly done in, she sank into a chair as I moved reluctantly toward
the front door, absent-mindedly dangling the captured knife from one
hand.
Well, young Tom Murphy saw that carving-knife and he could not have
helped hearing all the screaming as he came up the walk. He gave me
a searching look as he handed me the package containing the sleeping
draught.
"Here you are, Mr. Thatcher," he said. "This ought to do the trick."
I accepted the package with the hand that held the knife, thanked him
in a hollow voice, and he hurried away as though he was anxious to get
out of the vicinity.
When I got back to the kitchen, Anita was opening a large bottle of
beer which we were accustomed to drink after dinner during the hot
weather. She poured out two glasses recklessly, the foam spilling onto
the tablecloth.
"It's a sleeping powder, Anita," I said, opening the packet and placing
the little fold of paper near her hand. "Your tooth may ache. Good idea
to drop it in your beer."
She gave no sign that she heard me. Although she had stopped crying,
there was a wet shine to her eyes that I didn't like. In her silence
I could feel repressed a stony hatred for me and it absolutely took
away what few regrets I had regarding the store I was now so firmly
resolved to sell. Why I didn't tell her of my change of heart, I do
not know. Maybe if I had, things would have turned out differently.
However, I thought that if I waited until morning, Anita would be in a
more receptive mood. At the moment she was in a very unbalanced state
and the subject was one which would have to be handled delicately. If
I came right out and admitted defeat she might think that her weeping
and wailing had affected me. I did not want her to know that; she might
employ those tactics to wheedle me in the future.
I made my way into the living-room in search of the evening paper.
Somehow it had found its way under one of the sofa pillows so that it
was almost five minutes before I returned with it to the kitchen. Anita
was no longer in the room. One of the beer glasses was empty and the
sleeping powder paper was crumbled into a tiny ball beside it.
"Ah, she has taken it," I thought to myself, glad that the remainder
of the evening would be unspoiled by such scenes as had taken place at
dinner.
Through the back window I could see Anita sitting woodenly on a
camp-chair, facing the lake. It looked so very peaceful out of doors
with the soft hand of twilight caressing the great trees, the ragged
lawn and the lake itself. It reminded me of the war, strangely enough.
After a heavy bombardment, when the firing ceased an unearthly
stillness seemed to shriek in one's ears and the relief of it all was
enough to drive one mad with happiness. And as I stared out of the
window, I was happy. The storm had blown over and, if I had anything to
do with causing it, it would never come again.
With my glass of beer and my paper, I retired to the living-room. I
would have liked to sit outside with Anita but I did not wish to risk
any repetition of the quarrel. I was sure that she wanted to be alone
and I knew how unpleasant it was to have one's solitude trespassed
upon. So I made up my mind to let her alone. In the morning I would
tell her of my surrender, trying to make it sound as if it were my own
wish and not hers, and everything would be forgotten. We would dispose
of the store, the house, and all of the furniture which was sadly out
of date anyway. In New York we would start our lives all over again.
Curiously, I began to anticipate making this fresh start with pleasure.
After all, Ithaca had not been very kind to us. True, we had made a
good living there, but we had had our scraps as well; and since our
marriage the war had forced its way between the two of us, brandishing
its most cruel weapon: estrangement.
And the business I had built up out of nothing and struggled to keep;
what had it brought me? Trying to hold on to it in the face of Anita's
objections was a pyrrhic victory, a triumph as empty as the war. My
most precious possession, I told myself, was Anita's love. The rest was
only just so much baggage.
These thoughts ran through my mind, bringing with them a conviction
that I had been a fool. When I took Anita as my wife I promised myself
that I would make her happy.
Before I finished my beer or as much as read two columns of the
newspaper, I dropped into a deep sleep.
* * * * *
Now I come to the part of the story that is difficult to relate. During
the following hours I was still drowsy and feeling quite ill; then
again, it all happened so suddenly that before I actually became aware
of what was taking place, I found myself cooling my heels in the
Ithaca jail.
I suppose I even looked guilty. Real emotions hardly ever seem real.
Stage performances have taken the edge off of them and stylized both
physical and mental reactions to such a degree that if a faint is
not executed in a certain way it looks bogus. My shocked expression,
throughout these proceedings I here set down, no doubt impressed the
police as being a very amateur affectation, attempted by me to conceal
my obvious guilt. I even heard one of the cell attendants informing
someone that I was "going to play nuts."
If the following account of the morning I woke up sounds like a
falsehood, remember that it has since been proved the truth.
It seemed to me that I had merely drifted off for a few minutes but
when I finally opened my eyes a bright morning sun was shining. So
brilliant was it that I was momentarily blinded and confused. I started
to rise from the chair but succeeded only in stumbling to the floor. My
legs were numb and my head felt inflated, like some child's balloon.
Before I could pick myself up from where I had fallen, I became
conscious that the doorbell was ringing. It was an insistent ring, as
though someone was belaboring the button in short, angry jabs.
Still half asleep, I staggered to the door and opened it. I rubbed my
eyes, squinting up into the ruddy face of one of the town's constables.
It was Richter.
"Sorry to get you up, Thatcher," he greeted me with apologetic
gruffness. "Say! You must have had one too many last night, eh?"
"Hello, Captain. My God, what time is it?"
"Almost ten. Young Murphy's going crazy down there at the store.
Business is certainly good this morning." He paused and fumbled in his
cap for a paper. "Say, Thatcher, I've got some bad news for you. I'm
afraid I'll have to bring you around to the station."
This opened my eyes. Please believe that up until that time I had
never had any encounters with the police, having always been careful
not to violate any of the ordinances with the possible exception of
Prohibition. "What have I done, Captain? Murdered someone?" I asked.
He laughed good-humoredly. "No. But you should have, while you were at
it. It's that Mackintosh kid. His old man swore out a warrant for your
arrest on a charge of assaulting his brat. I don't know if it's true or
not, but by God I'd like to assault him myself sometimes."
"But look here, Captain," I protested. "I only..."
"I know it's a damned nuisance. But orders, you know. The judge is a
pretty decent sort and he'll probably give you a medal. Better get your
hat."
I shrugged my shoulders helplessly and told the constable to make
himself comfortable on the porch while I got myself ready. Since I was
so late for work anyhow, a little longer would make no difference. I
was positive, that when I made it clear to whomever was going to hear
the case exactly why I spanked Jackie, everything would be all right.
As I turned to go inside, I felt Richter touch my sleeve. "Good Lord,
Thatcher! What did you do? Cut yourself?"
"Why no," I answered, puzzled. "What makes you say that?"
He pointed a finger at my trousers and, looking down at them, I saw
that they were stained with red! I stood there dumbfounded with my
mouth hanging open.
"That's blood all right," I heard the policeman mutter. "Yes, sir.
That's blood. But where in hell did it come from?"
Instantly I thought of the night just past. My mind was quick to grasp
the situation and it evoked a vivid picture of Anita, standing with the
carving-knife in her hand and threatening....
"Anita!" I shouted hoarsely and with my heart in my mouth I ran into
the house. I could hear Richter behind me, his ponderous weight making
the old floor-boards vibrate under my feet.
I saw then that the living-room was a shambles. A table was overturned,
two lamps lay shattered on the carpet and everywhere were reddish
smears that looked suspiciously like bloodstains. In the kitchen we
found still more blood and a bloody apron of Anita's lying on the
table, still set with the dirty dinner dishes. On the apron we found
the carving-knife ... its blade a mess of crusted blood!
In the face of all this horror, it is a wonder I didn't faint. However,
even so, it is impossible for me to describe my feelings of that
morning. Of course I was certain at once that Anita had committed
suicide, had severed her veins or something equally terrible. But on
racing through the rooms of the house, we could find no trace of her.
Only some clothes and the two teeth she had tossed onto the table
during dinner the night before spoke of her ever having been there.
My frantic fear for Anita temporarily dulled my wits so that it was
not until the constable and I had picked about in the dark cellar for
some time that I remembered seeing Anita last sitting in the garden.
I seized the policeman's arm and all but pulled him up the stairs,
through the back hall and outside.
But Anita was nowhere to be found. We searched the grounds thoroughly.
The camp-chair, where last I had seen her, was empty, the canvas back
of it still sagging from the weight of her shoulders. But, to our
horror, from the back porch to the very edge of the lake ran a dark,
repulsive trail of what was undoubtedly blood! In places there were
merely a few drops on the taller tufts of grass, hardly visible to the
eye; but mostly the awful trail ran wide....
"She's thrown herself in!" I gasped. "My God, Captain! What can we do?"
I burst into tears, something I hadn't done for many, many years. The
constable waited in silence for me to control myself. He didn't try to
comfort me.
"Oh, Anita!" I cried. "Why did you do it? Oh, why did you do it?"
Richter spit into the lake. "That's what I'd like to know, Thatcher,"
he said curtly. He was looking at me closely, his brows knit into a
frown.
"Why, what do you mean, Richter?" I asked.
"Oh, cut out that innocent stuff!" he growled disgustedly. "You know
damned well what I mean."
I assured him that I did not. He surely wasn't insinuating that I...
Why the idea was absurd! Nevertheless, absurd or not, I saw the
constable's face stubbornly set.
"You don't believe that she committed suicide?" I asked in confusion.
"Is it possible that she's still alive?" I stepped toward him and
seized the front of his uniform blouse. "Tell me what you're thinking!"
I demanded hysterically.
"Alive hell!" was his comment and I suddenly felt my wrist encircled
by a steel cuff which clicked shut and pinched my skin. "I don't know
where you've hidden her, Thatcher, but she didn't commit no suicide!"
"No?"
"No. You better get yourself an alibi. How did you get that blood on
your pants?"
"I don't know!"
"Well for your own good you'd better find out."
"But Anita...."
"Oh, we'll fish her out all right. But not now." Richter tugged at the
bracelets. "I ain't got my water-wings with me. Come on," he added out
of the corner of his mouth as he led me away from the lake shore.