Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction (38 page)

Thomas scooted his chair from the table and gulped down his remaining half glass of prohibited red wine. He had brought up a bottle from the cellar explaining to our raised eyebrows that this 1910 Bordeaux was only going to turn to vinegar if we didn’t drink it, and besides, this was a night to relax. He indeed looked as if he had achieved his goal as he looked about the dining room.

“Thank God the ghosts are gone from here now.” His cheeks were flushed and his lips were stained a deep red. “When I look around, do you know what I see?” He didn’t expect an answer and we didn’t give him one. “I see you, Bess, and I see you, Lizzie, and that is all. And when I think of the bedrooms upstairs, I know a woman is up there with a small child sleeping, waiting for her husband’s drunkenness to wear off, and that is all. There is no one in the master bedroom waiting for me, half-propped on pillows, surrounded
by books, the death-look on her face being ignored by both of us. No, my beloved wife is gone from here, gone on to happier places, leaving behind a wish that I find happiness too. Who would have guessed I would go full circle and find it back here, the place I ran away from?” He nodded to his thoughts. “Yes, indeed, I feel as if I’ve come home again.”

I poured him more wine and raised my glass to him. “Welcome home, Thomas.” Our glasses touched with a tinkle.

Lizzie slipped from the room, taking some dishes with her.

Thomas took another drink and sat his glass down. His fingers moved up and down the stem, our eyes watching this.

“Where are you, Bess? Are you at home here?”

I nodded. “More and more it’s becoming so. For years this was my workstation, but now our chapter of women have scattered, the back parlor has been returned to its original state, the new shelter downtown is taking in the majority of battered women. The Lighthouse is becoming less of a house, and more of a home … I feel somehow attached. Could I be growing roots?”

“I hope so.” He leaned toward me and his warm fingers circled my wrist. “Bess, you and I … we’re well suited, don’t you think?”

I finally touched that floppy hair on his forehead and moved it over to his temple. I could only nod, so consumed I was by his intense green eyes searching mine.

“Bess, you may be shocked by what I’m going to say, but I’ve been waiting a long time to say this. There was so much in our way. We both had ghosts from the past we were running from. I ran for years, working my life away. So have you – I know you so well. But we were running in circles, with one foot always centered here. Center your life with me, Bess. I want you to marry me.”

Had I only started blossoming at this moment? All my senses opened and leaned toward him as a flower would to the sun’s rays, wanting to see and hear more. I reached for his hand and brought it to my mouth and inhaled its manly scent, my eyes watering, it couldn’t be helped. I had dreamt and had nightmares of this - the reality of his present affection clashing with my past decisions.

He patted my hand. “Good then, you’ll marry me.”

I shook my head with regret, tears flowing. I pulled from his grasp and grabbed my napkin. The sound of my unrestrained sobs filled the room.

“I can’t,” I muttered between gasps. “I’m already married.”

“
What?
”

My hands shook as I attempted to keep up with my eyes’ salty production. “You don’t know me as well as you might think, Thomas. I made one huge mistake that very few know about.”

“Where is your husband? Why don’t I know about him?”

I forced myself to meet his stare; his eyes were now the green in the ocean before a storm, but he was still leaning toward me in that concentrated way of his. I hadn’t lost him yet.

I took in a deep breath to gain some control. I had to confront him with this and I desperately wished I had dealt with this on my own, before having to drag Thomas into the trap with me.

“Jere is in Tennessee.”

“Why?”

“Because he lives there. I met him in Nashville through Mrs. Catt. It was while there that we finally realized our dream to win the woman’s vote. Jere celebrated with us. I had reached the end of a chapter and needed to move on to another chapter and he was there at a very vulnerable time. I realized the mistake on our wedding night in his cabin filled with children. He kindly returned me to Nashville the following day. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since.” I didn’t go into the details of Jere’s lost love for my mother. The story was strange enough for Thomas to handle for now.

“Do you wish to divorce him?”

“It didn’t matter until now, but yes, yes I do.”

“Then I’ll find a lawyer in Tennessee. The wine has given me a headache. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.” He grabbed his hat and coat and was gone before I could say goodbye at the door. I certainly could have used a comforting kiss right then, but I had more than dampened his romantic intentions.

“I only have myself to blame,” I muttered, watching his Duesenberg drive him away from his own home.

I closed the front door and leaned against it closing my eyes, his proposal of marriage slowly sinking in. I felt my heart swell and deflate in rhythm to my lungs as two thoughts repeated themselves:
Thomas proposed, I’m already married; Thomas proposed, I’m already married.
Poor Thomas thought all the ghosts were gone but found a skeleton in my closet instead.

I insisted on going to Tennessee alone and deal with Jere without Thomas standing in my shadow. The sooner the better because my conversations with Thomas had become stiff and stilted. Considering he was a reporter he asked few questions but instead was stern and snapped easily. I could only choke back my retorts and tears. I deserved his anger and disappointment; consequently, I felt secretly relieved when he kept his word and made an appointment for me with a reputable lawyer in Nashville. That was the best he could do and I told him so. The lawyer, Mr. McCorriston, finally telephoned to say the papers were ready to sign and be delivered to Jere. The difficulty would be in contacting Jere. He didn’t have a telephone and to write him a letter sounded rather callous to me. I would simply have to find his place and talk to him in person.

Easier said than done. Mr. McCorriston picked me up at the train station and drove me to his office to discuss the divorce proceedings, but he did not recommend nor offer to drive me the hour’s distance to Jere’s log cabin. If Jere did not agree to sign, he could delay the divorce in the courts for years, Mr. McCorriston said, and that would lead to arguments, and Mr. McCorriston made it clear he was not serviced to police altercations. His tall lanky frame and paper-thin skin attested to that. I had no other recourse but to depend on him and resort to begging. I assured him that Jere was a calm, reasonable man and Mr. McCorriston would have to go no further than the dirt road that ended below Jere’s property. I would walk the remaining
way myself. The additional twenty dollars (worth four days of hard labor!) was the final bargaining chip and we were on our way, papers in hand. Jere had only a rural route address in the small village below his mountain, but Mr. McCorriston was familiar with the area. It was my duty to point out the road taking us up the mountain. I only hoped I could remember.

As we bumped along the town’s pitted street, Mr. McCorriston played with his waxed mustache thoughtfully. He was a slow-talker and looked the part of the courtly southern politician.

“I got to ask you a question,” he said, “that’s going to sound personal, but better me than a judge in a courtroom full of people. Is there a chance you could be carrying a child?”

“Not a chance.”

“Are you sure? Because if you find you are, then everything’s thrown out and you’ll have to start all over.”

“Mr. Phillips and I did not … fulfill our marriage as husband and wife.”

“You mean you did not consummate?” His eyes left the road and stared at me, his blond lashes blinking in astonishment.

“That is correct.” I hoped my flushed face was not noticeable.

“Well then that’s a whole different kettle of fish. Mr. Pickering never mentioned that when he called. Does he know that?”

“I don’t know, frankly. I just assumed.”

He laughed and returned to twirling his mustache. He pulled onto a side road and backed out, heading the other way. “We’ll have to throw everything out and start all over, but it’ll sure be a heck of a lot easier this way. All we need from Mr. Phillips is a signed declaration stating that the marriage was never consummated. Since your union’s not validated, he can’t very well contest it. I need the same declaration from you. We’re going back to the office, draw up the two papers and then go to Mr. Phillip’s place. It’s a shame I’ll have to charge Mr. Pickering for work you didn’t need.”

“Don’t bill Mr. Pickering,” I said. “It’s my responsibility.”

“Mr. Pickering was quite clear. I’ll bill him. I wouldn’t have taken this case if it was in a woman’s name. Begging your pardon, but there’s no guarantee of a woman’s ability to pay.”

I didn’t care to argue with him over this and resigned myself to settle the matter with Thomas. Instead, I felt relief in knowing the divorce may be easier than expected, but I was also distressed that the simplicity and speed was based on intimacy, or lack thereof. I would never have dreamt of discussing my sexual conduct with Thomas. And here I was admitting as much with a stranger.

The trek to the cabin was a long one; we were lost and finally found by a man on horseback who led us to a cut in the trees that passed as a road. He pointed up and then with a spit of tobacco juice, meandered on down the main road. Our uphill climb did not look as familiar as I had hoped, my only guess being I was in a newly-wed stupor on that first ride. Early evening stretched shadows across the cabin and grounds as I paused on the rise above it. November gave its surroundings a scanty look that differed from last year’s late summer growth and hushed the trees, although the weather was more an Indian summer. The squeak of the front porch swing drew my attention there where Mary Sue leisurely drifted back and forth, holding the youngest on her lap and an open book, her bare feet giving them a light push.

She read out loud, struggling through every one-syllable word, and didn’t see me until I stepped up onto the front porch. “Hello, Mary Sue.”

Her light blue eyes did not waiver from my face. “Are you coming back?”

“No - only for a short visit. How are you?” I dusted off the seat of a crude wooden slat chair on the other side of the front door and sat, the envelope clutched in my sweaty palm. I waved at the toddler and she released her thumb from her mouth long enough to smile back. She kicked her legs in some sort of shy exuberance.

“We’re making it alright. Daddy and the boys are out in the field cutting corn stocks. Should be in directly. Did I make you mad?”

“Mad? Of course not. Why would you?”

“Daddy said that’s why you left. Said I was hateful to you.”

“That wasn’t very nice of him to say that, Mary Sue. It was not your fault.”

She shifted the baby on her lap and pushed the swing harder.

“What are you reading?”

“Nothing, really. I can’t hardly read.”

“How is school?”

She snorted. “What school. I haven’t been to school since third grade. It’s too far away. Why are you here?”

“I have a paper here for your daddy to sign. This will give him the freedom to marry someone else.”

“He hasn’t been anywhere to meet anybody since you left.”

“He must sign this. I want a divorce.”

“Daddy won’t want a divorce. People around here will talk terrible about him, and they already had a prayer meeting to pray for your lost soul.” We sat thinking about this, while the creaking swing continued. “But you got something in your favor. Daddy thinks more of us kids than what other folks think. I can help you. If we make a deal. Can you read and write?”

“Of course, Mary Sue.”

“Don’t say it like that. There’s a lot of people who don’t know how. You teach me how to read and write and I’ll make Daddy sign.”

“I’ll teach you whether he signs or not. But I can’t do that here. If you move into town, closer to a school, or if you ever move to Annan, where I live—”