A White Room (12 page)

What a strange thing for me to think of. I had never seen such a beast. Why would I imagine that? I studied the thicket. What if it were that wolf? What if my imaginary creature were real? What if it were down there rattling the bushes, devouring a victim. No, it wasn’t real. It seemed so vivid, so real, though. Then I wondered if I pictured it clearly enough, could I make it appear?

I closed my eyes and pictured it again, and then I looked down at the bushes and froze. There, two yellow eyes stared back at me. The face and body were hidden, but the eyes were there. I shot up but turned away, hiding myself from my creature. It wasn’t real. I had made it up. I was scaring myself. I cackled, unhinged. If I’d created it, I could just make it go away. If I looked, nothing would be there. I spun back around.

Yellow eyes. Yellow eyes glared up at me. I squeezed my eyes shut again. If I had made it appear, I could make it disappear. Or was it real and I’d tricked myself into thinking I’d done it? I looked again. Still there. It was no ordinary being; it knew that it was seeing me and that I was seeing it. It knew my secret, it knew my sin, and it was there to punish me. Had I imagined that? No. I turned away. Was it real? Was it truly real?

I whirled back—wait—gone. No eyes. What? I—did I?

I threw myself at the window, my hands and face slammed against the glass as I tried to see more. Nothing. I pushed away. I lifted my hand to my cheek and quickly dashed back to try to catch the beast at its cruel game of hide-and-seek. Nothing. Not even a group of flowers or yellow leaves. I must have been tired. I sat back down in the chair and looked out again—still nothing. I stood up. Supper. It had just been my imagination.

I put my back to the window. Then all the misery the creature had distracted me from came screaming back. Francis knew. Ida and Margaret knew. They could see it in me; they could see I was a failure. I absolutely hated this wretched house. It grew worse with every moment. The furniture taunted me. The walls closed in on me. The animated bric-a-brac and reptilian china snickered at me. All of it wanted me to know I was a failure. I couldn’t even get my husband to speak to me, let alone love me. He’d given up the chance to have a worthy wife for what reason? He’d felt sorry for me, or his parents had made him? All because my father had died. My father was dead, I was alone, and I’d failed him.

I thought of the woman in the white room—she chose to sacrifice her freedom for the people who relied on her to survive, but how long could she possibly survive without freedom? How long could she last before choosing the alternative? How long could I? Damn the world and every sacrifice everyone wanted from me. I had made enough sacrifices. I couldn’t keep my promise or make my father proud because he was dead.

My dearest James,

Forgive me, James. I’ve given all I have to make this marriage work. Nothing could make this wretched existence tolerable. My husband is a cold, heartless man. He has made no effort to build affection between us. You said his quiet manner was better than an unpleasant disposition, but please believe me when I say this is worse.

Not only has he condemned this union, so has the place he chose for us to live. The house itself, I cannot endure. Every day in it I am filled with terror and a rigid ache deep in my heart. I never understood how a person could hurt just from being, until now. I cannot bear it.

My dearest brother, I dread asking any favor, but I must beseech you. Please. Please, save me. I know you can enlighten Mother, and if she cannot possibly care for me, I know you will. My dear, dear James, please come soon.

Yours, Emma

Eight

April 1901

T
he church in Labellum was modest and poorly ventilated. I imagined it would grow hot and stuffy when spring submitted to the wet heat of summer. It was a white wooden church with oak pews and scuffed floors. No varnish. If Ida and Margaret weren’t in charge of the committee, the group could use its funds and time to make the church nicer, fix the windows so they could open, put some kind of finish on the pews, and give the pastor a decent place to preach from. He had nothing but a music stand donated from the schoolhouse, just for Sundays. Church volunteers had to promptly return it before Monday classes. Actually, the schoolhouse could have used some help, too. I had avoided Margaret since I failed her assignment, and she didn’t seek me out either.

Pastor Tomas asked us to bow our heads so he could lead us in prayer. I could hear the rain beating the roof like falling pebbles. We had just finished singing a few hymns and were still standing. I decided not to join in Pastor Tomas’ prayer but to make one of my own instead. I prayed that God could help free the committee from the grips of those two selfish women and let it be handed down to someone who would actually give back to the community. I pleaded for James to come swiftly but safely, and I prayed that my family and society would forgive me. I begged forgiveness for my inability to honor my husband as God would surely want me to. I prayed for John—I prayed that my choice would lead him to marry a woman he truly loved and one who could serve him properly. I asked forgiveness for all my choices, all my sins.

I finished my prayer before Pastor Tomas had. He continued to ramble on in a flowery show of inspirational words louder and louder. I didn’t join in but opened my eyes and indiscreetly scanned the parishioners. John held his head low and mouthed the words, his eyes squeezed shut.

There is something extremely painful about continuing to live a life you’ve secretly given up on. Every smile was a lie. Every moment alone in my mind was a moment spent waiting to escape. I had to keep my plans to abandon John a secret until James arrived, so I had to continue being the honorable wife. I had to continue cleaning, cooking, socializing, and attending church. Church was especially unpleasant.

I planned to tell John I wasn’t feeling well after the service, and I knew he would believe me because keeping up my façade did seem to take a toll. My color had slowly grown pallid, dark circles formed under my eyes, and my entire face seemed to sag. I didn’t mind. I could use the excuse to avoid Margaret and Ida. The women from the church committee always brought cookies and sweet tea. Everyone mingled after church, even John, but only because his colleagues were there. Church was where I finally met Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Coddington, but I hardly spoke to them otherwise. They didn’t call on us, nor did we call on them. I’d been concerned about this once, but now, knowing I would be rid of this place and these people, I didn’t care.

Pastor Tomas finished the prayer and began a hymn. I scanned the attendees and saw the Coddingtons singing a little louder than everyone else. From the way he peered down at everyone with glassy eyes, I gathered that Lewis Coddington considered himself superior. Martha Coddington was a boisterous, plump woman who didn’t lift her chin to me or anyone the way her husband did.

I moved my eyes to the front, where Margaret and her husband Dr. Benedict Bradbridge sang stoically. The esteemed doctor towered over his wife. His white hair and beard reflected his many years of experience in the medical field. I had finally met the senior physician, but he hadn’t spoken a word to me since John formally introduced us. He didn’t seem to speak to anyone much. I had finally realized why Margaret could get away with anything in Labellum. No one would risk offending the only doctors in town by upsetting her. Their son, Walter, wasn’t in church that day, but on other occasions I’d seen him worship humbly.

I had hoped church would give me the excuse to meet the famous Olivia Urswick, but she obviously didn’t do things like most people and never attended services. She was becoming something of a legend in my mind.

I peeked at John to make sure he hadn’t noticed my lack of attention to the hymnal, and then I glanced at the Ripprings. Marcellus always appeared to be distracted during church. He fidgeted throughout and mumbled the hymns. Ida looked tired, or bored perhaps, and oddly unbothered by her husband’s constant squirming. I wondered why Ida had married Marcellus. He offered her nothing, he had the worst manners, and he was far from genteel. Perhaps love? I scrutinized his greasy hair and square chin. Perhaps he’d looked different when he was younger. The hymn ended, and everyone sat down.

Pastor Tomas delivered a lengthy oration on charity, occasionally pausing to shuffle his notes on the tiny schoolhouse music stand. It was about the importance of selflessness and sacrificing for others. He read from the book of John and described Jesus’ many efforts to help the poor, sinners, and the undeserving. “There are many poor sinners in Labellum,” Pastor Tomas said, “and it is up to those of higher learning and stature to save them.”

I wondered who would actually heed his call.

I hoped these people would think of this sermon when John arrived at church alone, his wife having abandoned him. I hoped they would be sympathetic to his plight. I hoped the women would cook him meals and the men would extend invitations despite the embarrassment. He wouldn’t have to endure much, though, as the failed woman would carry the full weight of dishonor. Perhaps they would glorify John for having married such a wretched person. I hoped the people of St. Louis knew this sermon and would forgive me. I knew very well the extent of the consequences I might endure. I would probably die an ostracized spinster like Miss Urswick. She managed. Why not I?

After the sermon, Mrs. Tomas played an eloquent tune on the piano, and Pastor Tomas called for attendees to come forward if they wished to be forgiven for their sins or recognized as Christians in front of the congregation. Then he bowed his head and everyone sang a hymn as people hesitantly stood and swayed uncomfortably down the aisle. I personally found the altar call unpleasant to behold and experience. Brave souls staggered to the front with eyes on their backs. They knelt and prayed in imaginary privacy. It was impolite to watch, and most people tried to ignore the scene or pretended like me. I tried to focus straight ahead and I sang the words to the hymn, but my eyes frequently darted toward the center-stage worshipers.

I felt a puff of air next to me. I glanced over and saw that John wasn’t there. He was marching to the front. I stared at the back of his head, his slicked-back hair. He reached the altar. I glanced down at my hymnal but lifted my gaze back up without actually having found the words. I realized I had nothing to sing, looked down, and fumbled. By the time my eyes shot up, John had knelt next to another man in a brown suit. John bowed his head. Why was he up there? Was John a pure man—a man of God? Or was he up there because he was wicked—a sinner? He knelt for several minutes, humbled and defenseless in front of the Lord and his church. The song slowed, and John rose quickly and turned back. I was the first thing his dark eyes landed on. I blinked and dropped my eyes to the book. John glided back down the aisle and to his seat next to me. I stiffened, pretending it had never happened, pretending as everyone pretended. He pretended, too.