Hausfrau (30 page)

Anna ate more cake and tried to swerve herself back to a center.

But every time the conversation shifted, so did Anna’s equilibrium. And she had run out of cake on her plate when they came back around to the subject Anna had thought they’d dropped an hour earlier.

“You know, I honestly can’t get over how unlike either of you Polly Jean looks. Did you bring the wrong baby home from the hospital?” Mary teased. She intended no ill will.

She smiled when she spoke. Mary almost always smiled when she spoke. She couldn’t be cruel if she tried—she wouldn’t know where to begin. Still, Anna’s gut soured. The more Mary talked, the queasier Anna became. Bruno winced, but only Anna noticed it. “She’s absolutely gorgeous, of course. Made of porcelain—and that raven hair!” Bruno drummed the table with his thumb. “What funny tricks genetics play!” Anna smiled weakly. Bruno didn’t smile at all. But Bruno rarely smiles, Anna reasoned. There was no sense in reading into it now.

When Mary ran out of things to say, the dining room assumed a stiff, stifling pall. Mary took her plate in hand and ate the last bite of her second piece of cake. “So dang delicious!”

Ursula had returned to the table in the middle of Mary’s prattle. She had nothing to add to the conversation but a blank-faced witness. Polly Jean twitched in her sleep like dogs do when they dream. Mary hummed to herself and licked the icing from her fork. Anna could hear the program Victor was watching in the other room. Anna looked to Mary, to Ursula, to Polly Jean and Bruno both, to the ceiling, and then to the floor, and then to her own hands, which she had begun unconsciously to wring.
The mistakes I’ve made, I can’t unmake.
She’d had a simple evening’s reprieve from tears. But they’d returned. They fell straight and fast from her eyes. Cold, slick round tears that were large enough to bounce on the table. Mary reached to stroke Anna on the shoulder but Anna dodged her touch.

Polly doesn’t look like Bruno. Who cares?
It had never
been an issue before. Why tonight? Anna couldn’t think while being watched. She squeezed her eyes closed and searched the darkness for the answer. She couldn’t find it.

But then she did.

It was a name she’d never heard before. But Bruno spoke it easily, immediately, plainly. Without hesitation.
Rolf.
It was a ready reply. As if he’d rehearsed it. As if he’d thought it through.

Jesus Christ, he’s thought it through.

Anna stood quickly enough to dizzy herself. She stepped back from the table and stumbled over her own feet. Mary caught her.

“Oh, Anna. You don’t have to go. It’s okay to cry in front of us.” Mary took her hand. “Do you want me to—”

“No.” Anna cut her off. Whatever it was, she didn’t want it. “I need … alone.” She couldn’t even form a full sentence. Bruno’s stare was unreadable. “I’m sorry.” The apology was compulsive and redundant. Anna backed out of the room, then left the house, then ran all the way back to Rosenweg.

A
NNA STOOD BY THE STAIRS IN THE ENTRYWAY FOR SEVERAL
seconds before she remembered how to remove her coat. When she finally recalled the process of letting her arms slip from their sleeves, she let the coat fall to the floor, not bothering to pick it up or hang it on its hook. Bruno hated that sort of carelessness. It sets a bad example for the boys, he’d say.
But he can’t say that anymore,
Anna thought.
We only have one.
She stood in the entry a few seconds longer and then went into the kitchen in the hopes that she hadn’t forgotten how to make tea.

She turned the radiator to its highest setting and then filled the kettle with water, put it on the stove, and then fished around in an open cabinet for a mug.
Yes.
Anna felt a little better.
I remember how to do this.
The tears had stopped but her face flushed with embarrassment. It shriveled her, breaking apart like that.
Should I go back to the party?
She decided against it. Surely they understood that her heart was bruised and tender and it pained when pressed on and was hideous to see.
Of course they do.
She made a silent wish that Bruno and
Polly Jean and Victor would stay at Ursula’s a little while longer. She wanted to be alone with her devastation. Mary would understand, too, why Anna deserted them.
I’ll call her tomorrow,
Anna thought, though she knew that Mary would likely telephone her first.

“Anna.”

She hadn’t heard Bruno come into the kitchen. She hadn’t even heard him come into the house. His voice startled her; she dropped the mug. It broke into two large pieces and several smaller ones. “Jesus Christ, Bruno.” Her heart throbbed a dozen times at once. “You scared me.” Anna never had any great tolerance for surprises, and now, every ambush was mantled with an overlay of terror. She bent to pick the larger pieces up. The bending took the last of Anna’s energy. “The kids?”

“Grosi’s.”

“Oh.” Victor had spent more nights at Ursula’s in the last month than he had the entire year before. Of course he had. Half of his own room belonged to a ghost. They hadn’t taken out Charles’s bed. They hadn’t given away his clothes. They couldn’t bring themselves to. Victor wasn’t ready either. Mornings, when Bruno went to wake him, he would find Victor asleep atop Charles’s mattress, his head upon Charles’s pillow and his body underneath Charles’s blankets and sheets. This was how Victor consoled himself. Bruno’s plan was to swap the boys’ bedroom with Polly Jean’s, but he hadn’t done it yet. It was a good idea, Anna agreed. Victor had nightmares in that room. He slept better at Ursula’s. And he needed the sleep so deeply. And the nights he spent away from home relieved Anna from the trauma of watching him grieve. It was a selfish relief that Anna knew better than to share.

Anna turned to the trash bin with the pieces of mug in her
hand but stopped to wonder whether ceramic was recyclable. Then she wondered why she didn’t know. Then she decided she didn’t care and simply threw the pieces in the garbage can. “Mary leave?” Anna filled the air with words, dodging silence. Bruno came all the way into the kitchen and stood between Anna and the stove with his arms folded across his chest and gave a strangely civil nod. Anna was exasperated. “You’re in my way.”

Bruno didn’t move. “How long?” The inquiry was blunt.

“For the tea? How long does it usually take? Two minutes?”

Bruno ticked his head once to the right, once to the left, then centered it again. “How long?” Bruno’s speech was metered. Anna responded by not responding. “Who is it, Anna?”

“Who is what?”

The kitchen grew nervous. “I want to know his name.”

Anna wasn’t ready for this. “No, Bruno. Just … no.” Anna had a headache. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples with her hands and tried to figure out whose name Bruno wanted to know. There were several to choose from.

It’s an otherworldly moment when the curtains behind which a lie has been hiding are pulled apart. When the slats on the blinds are forced open and a flash of truth explodes into the room. You can feel the crazing of the air. Light shatters every lie’s glass. You have no choice but to confess.

“Yes. Now. Was it Archie?”

Anna did what she could to maintain herself. “This is getting old.” Anna’s voice sharpened. “I haven’t—”

Bruno cut her off. His drill-bit stare bored through her. “You’re lying to me. Who? Tell me a name. Now.” Anna
couldn’t summon a reaction. For two years she’d been afraid of getting caught. And now he’d caught her. Sort of.
How much does he know?
She wasn’t sure.
How does he know it?
She wasn’t going to ask.
What happens now?
This, she would have to wait to find out. Anna separated herself from her situation by throwing down questions like sandbags and hiding behind them.
What’s he going to say next? What should I say back to him? Are we breaking up? What will he do?

What Bruno did next was repeat himself, but in a louder voice. He wasn’t yelling, but he didn’t need to. Even calm, Bruno’s voice sustained an underlying boom. When angry, it shook with a tense, hateful rattle. He stopped to breathe after each word:
You. Are. Lying. Anna.
A corset of fear cinched her body into smallness. She didn’t know what had tipped her hand.

Everyone has a tell.

“Stop it. You’re scaring me.” Anna took a step back. One step farther and she would have nowhere else to move. “Let’s just please talk about this tomorrow. I feel sick.” It was a plea Anna knew he wouldn’t hear. Bruno stepped into the space where Anna had just been standing. And then he took another step, forcing Anna to the wall. He spoke directly into her face. “When did it start? How far back does it go? Is Victor a little bastard too?” Anna replied with silence. The sum of her efforts went into trying not to tremble.

Bruno grabbed for her hand but she pulled it away. They repeated that process until he caught it. He isolated the finger on which she wore her mother’s ring and tried to wrench it off. Anna yelped. “What about Charles? Who’s his fucking father?”

Stop please stop it please please stop!
Anna tried but couldn’t speak so she thought as loudly as she could.
You’re hurting me, Bruno! Don’t! Please don’t!

Bruno moved in close enough to kiss her. His hazel eyes were brown that night, his pupils so black they almost glowed. Anna’s own eyes, flush with tears, asked
How?
and
Who else knows?
and, once more,
How?
Bruno offered little in the way of explanation. “You are a terrible liar and I know everything about you.” Bruno pulled once again on the ring. It caught on Anna’s knuckle. On the third attempt he yanked and twisted hard and then the ring was in his hand. Anna howled and tried a hopeless moment to pull free. She caught the comedy in her attempt. Bruno’s strength and size had always overpowered her. This was partly why she fell in love with him. A version of love for him. A version of love for a version of him. Bruno held the ring very close to her face. Anna’s eyes were infantile; they couldn’t find a focus. The three pretty stones blurred into one. He shook the ring before her. “This is trash.”

Telling the truth felt like the moment’s worst plan.
You’re wrong!
Anna cried.
What are you talking about?! Who’s a bastard?! Polly’s your daughter!
Such poorly chosen words. They pushed Bruno to his edge. He cut her off again. Bruno was Swiss. Bruno was self-contained. Bruno was cranky and gruff and distant and precise but he’d never, never been truly violent. In jealousy he could be bitter and cold. In anger he was rough. Rough, yes. He’d been rough before. In the kitchen Bruno was beyond anger. “Who is it? How many? Tell me their names.” Anna shook her head:
No, no!

It happened very fast. Bruno grabbed Anna by whole handfuls of her hair. She struggled but her effort was awkward. He pulled her toward him and then just as quickly shoved her away,
then slammed her head against the kitchen’s wall behind her. Once, twice, she struck the stone. Bruno yelled unintelligibly—he’d finally raised his voice. Anna couldn’t understand a word. He was speaking Swiss and English simultaneously. He pulled her back toward him one final time, shook her, slapped her face, and then threw her to the floor as if she were something vile in his hands. As she fell, Anna caught her chin and cheek on the corner of the new dishwasher and hit the ground nose first. Bruno watched her fall, sniffing back tears. The kitchen was nothing but tears. Bruno muttered a curse that came out as a sob and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. As he left the kitchen, he tossed the ring at Anna’s head. It landed near Anna’s face with a cheery, casual
cling.

Anna reached for her nose. It was bloody. Possibly broken. It hurt too much to palpate for the break. She moved her hands to the back of her head, which was also bleeding and the ache of it pounded, threatening the blindness of pain. She considered an attempt to stand but discarded it. She reached for her ring and tried to push it back onto her swollen, abraded finger. She couldn’t get it past the knuckle so she let it drop back to the floor.

She didn’t know how to get up. Her muscles had forgotten movement in the way that earlier her mind had forgotten the steps required to remove her coat. She resigned herself to the floor until both strength and a clear plan of action presented themselves. Two, three, five minutes passed. So Bruno knew.
Huh,
she thought. Then nothing more. The water roiled. The kettle whistled. She let it. With nothing else she could have done, Anna fell into a version of sleep on the kitchen floor.

T
WO WEEKS AFTER
C
HARLES
’
S
death, Edith arrived in Dietlikon unannounced with a small pot of violets, a bottle of wine, and a box of chocolate candy. It was a shallow combination of gifts.
Like she’s picking me up for a date,
Anna thought.

“You’re not dressed? Anna! It’s nearly one o’clock!” No, Anna wasn’t dressed. It hurt her skin to wear clothes. It hurt her head to pick them out of the closet. It hurt her heart to move through the world of the living as if nothing had happened. As if nothing had fundamentally changed. Edith followed Anna into the living room and Anna returned to the same corner of the couch she’d spent two weeks attempting to hide inside of. She picked a blanket off the floor and pulled it up to her chin. It was stained. With what, Anna did not know. Edith played at being wounded. “Aren’t you going to offer me something to drink?”