Before she married Charles, she cremated them all in the furnace. She left the furnace door open and watched the record of the years turn to dust, the forgotten men and giggling girls, the tears that had long since dried and the triumphs that no longer mattered. She clanged the iron door shut on her dead secrets, she washed the smoke grime carefully off her hands, and began her life with Charles.
The gnome stirred, he was restless, he wanted to talk. He did think it was a crying shame she wouldn’t talk, he was so terribly bored.
“We should be in Green Village in five minutes,” he said. “You can feel the lake breeze already if you put the window down more.”
She didn’t answer, wasn’t even polite enough to open her eyes. Vulgar, she was. Insensitive. He could tell it to look at her. Cow of a woman. Cow breasts.
He glared at her, but his viciousness was once-removed, in a mirror, and besides, she wasn’t looking.
Charles had been very much in love with her at first. He could not do enough for her. He built the house exactly as she wanted it, and it was he who suggested that her family come to live with them, in case she might be lonely. When they did come, he put himself out to make them feel at home. He charmed her mother with his wit, and bought Laura’s heart with an adroit mixture of almond nougats and Saturday matinees. He entertained them, he played the piano and sang and told them stories. It was only when they were alone together that Martha couldn’t endure him. He changed abruptly, as soon as a closed door separated them from other people. He became humble, almost embarrassed. He followed her around, begging for attention like a dog, smiling at her in a radiant, incredulous way as if he were just that minute on the point of convincing himself that she was really his wife. She could not read a book without feeling his eyes watching her, or his hand touching her shoulder or stroking her hair. She would read on, grimly, while he forged invisible chains around her with quiet, gentle skill.
“Come to bed, Martha.”
“Do you mind if I finish this chapter?”
“Of course not. Can I get you anything? A drink? Cigarette?”
“No, thanks.”
“Is it a long chapter?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t looked.”
“If it is, I’ll put another log on the fire for you.”
He put the log on, he mixed her a drink, he placed a lighted cigarette between her lips. Then he sat at her feet, his head resting against her knees and his fingers spanning her ankle.
“What tiny ankles you have... Your legs feel cold, do you want a blanket?”
“No, thanks.”
Her ankle twitched, trying to escape its chains.
“I’ll bring you one. I don’t want you to catch cold.”
“Can’t you leave me alone, Charles?”
There. She had kicked the dog. He was hurt but he didn’t cringe. He was a thoroughbred, and retreated with dignity.
“I’m sorry, darling. I guess I’m a nuisance.”
“No, you’re not. It’s just that I want to finish this chapter.”
She finished a great many chapters that way, but she couldn’t remember any of them. She remembered only the drinks, the logs, the cigarettes, the blankets, and how they gradually ceased.
Laura outgrew Saturday matinees, and almond nougats gave her acne. Her mother retired to her room to relive her life without mistakes.
Green Village.
“It’s not a bad little town,” said the gnome. “I wouldn’t mind living here myself.”
Of course he would mind, really. In a small town people got to know you too well and too quickly. You couldn’t turn around without someone getting suspicious. A couple of the boys had taken a cottage here once and they didn’t last a week. The neighbors complained that the boys went around naked with the blinds up and spanked each other quite hard. They said they could hear the spanking sounds at all hours of the night, and it kept them awake.
Dirty minds, thought the gnome.
The pink cab skimmed like a butterfly beneath the dowager bosoms of maple trees and the scrawny spinster-arms of pines.
It stopped where she directed, just out of sight of the cottage. She walked down the path alone. The sun was still shining but the wind was damp and chilly.
The cottage was like a thousand others around the lake, square and ugly and insubstantial, as if the builder knew that some day the lake would destroy it anyway, and not too much money must be spent on it. A pair of bathing trunks that she recognized as Charles’s was hung over the railing of the back porch. From an open window came a faint smell of cooking, but she could see no one in the kitchen.
She walked around to the front of the cottage. The ground, spongy with pine needles and moss, muffled her steps. No one heard her, no one knew she was there. She could retreat now, she didn’t have to stay...
She turned the corner and saw Forbes.
He was sitting on the porch in a rocking chair, smoking a pipe and watching the water. The rocking chair groaned rhythmically like a broken sax.
He removed the pipe from his mouth and tapped it against the porch railing.
“Forbes?” she said.
He moved his head toward her, slowly.
“I thought there must be someone coming,” he said. “I heard a car.” His eyes shifted back to the lake. “Mr. Pearson’s in swimming.”
She followed his gaze and saw Charles’s head bobbing like a ball on the waves.
“The water looks cold.”
“It is.” He made no attempt to rise or be polite. “He shouldn’t be in swimming, he’s not strong enough. Somebody should stop him. I can’t.”
His voice was cold, condemning. It pointed at her like a finger.
“Do you mean I should?” she said.
“You could try. You’re the one he’s doing it for.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“All these daffy new antics of his, the raw carrots, and cold baths, and swimming in water like this. I guess they’re for you. I don’t know who else.” He tapped the pipe again. “Or else he’s trying to kill himself. It’ll probably amount to the same thing in the long run.”
“Aren’t you being a little insolent?”
“Well, frankly, I don’t think so. I’m just talking natural, for a change. I can afford to. I don’t work for you anymore. I don’t work for anybody. I’m not staying here for pleasure, either. That bloody lake makes me sick and the mosquitoes are eating me up.” He pulled up one of his pant legs and scratched a bite with savage satisfaction. “I’m sticking around because I hate to leave any guy in the lurch. Especially one who hasn’t anybody he can trust.”
She wheeled away from him and called in a sudden piercing scream, “Charles! Charles!”
“He can’t hear you,” Forbes said dryly. “He’s wearing earplugs.”
She ran down to the edge of the lake, staggering under the added weight of sand in her shoes. He must have seen her, for he began to swim toward shore with short, feeble strokes of his arms.
When he reached the shallow water he stood up and took out his earplugs and shook the water out of his hair. He appeared not to notice her, to be giving himself time to adjust his manner.
“Hello, Charles,” she said, thinking how surprising it was that she’d forgotten the way he looked when his face was as familiar to her as her own.
He came shivering out of the water. When at last he looked directly at her, she saw that he was smiling in a shy, sweet, hopeful manner.
“Martha. Well, Martha.”
“You’re chilled. It’s too cold for swimming.”
“Is it?” He laughed. “I don’t care.”
“Put my coat over your shoulders,” she said brusquely. “Here.”