Etagere (2) "Working with him? Oh God. Please. Let me have this baby. God. Please. I'll do anything. Please. Where did they take the baby? Please tell me where?" "The baby's in the other room. You want me to go see what's going on?" "Yes." Margaret resumed praying. The lady motioned the second woman to hold Margaret's hand. "I'll be right back." Within five minutes she came back solemn-faced. "I'm sorry--he didn't m--" The pain of birthing gone, a guttural sob burst forth from deep within her as she writhed in agony. First she lost her husband and barely three months later she lost her baby boy. "God let this happen," she screamed angrily. The ladies tsk-tsked out of her hearing range and stayed with her even as she punched the goose feather pillow until it burst at the seam. Feathers flew. Just as many babies and adolescents of the times passed away, her baby boy departed also for heaven. In thought, Margaret lost track of time--emotional darkness surrounded her. Two hours later the mid-wife whispered through the door into the dark room, "Margaret. I'll take him to the undertaker. You gonna be all right, honey?" Margaret opened her mouth, but couldn't speak--she couldn't move. The lady from town said, "I'll stay here." An image filled Margaret's mind. The Chester City Cemetery. The grave yard was filled with tiny stones. She visualized one more--her son's stone. How could she go on? Candy Is dandy. But liquor Is quicker.--Ogden Nash Everyday living was harsh if not almost impossible and Margaret could end the pain very easily. The draining agony she experienced strangled all the joy from her life. It was a week before Christmas and she didn�t care the holiday was at hand. Her hurt worsened, it seemed and she constantly remembered the joyous times she�d previously spent with James and also the holiday she could have been spending with her baby. Who was there to celebrate it with her? No one. Normally she would have decorated a tree, wrapped small limbs of fir with red ribbon on the banisters and simmered cinnamony apple cider on the stovetop. On the feather bed, flat on her back, dressed in a white nightgown, Margaret�s hair spread over her ivory shoulders and across the pillow. Reaching across the bed to where James once slept, Margaret grabbed and covered her head with his pillow, futilely whiffing remnants of his fragrance. Knowing her cries would go unheard, she screamed into the pillow, cursing God and pounding the mattress all the while thinking of him. Fifty bleak days passed since the day of her baby�s funeral and Margaret had moved from the birthing room downstairs, to her regular bedroom upstairs and into the bed she and James shared. Realizing she should get back into step with the rest of society, she balked; for it would be difficult, if not impossible to resume normal living. Life as she once knew it disappeared. Worried out-of-state relatives sent her mail, begging her to write them soon, but being heartsick, she was unable to respond. Stacks of letters brought in by well-wishing, sympathizers were piled unopened atop the �tag�re. In recent days, when the preacher�s surrey suddenly appeared on the road, she refused to answer the door and hid when his knock rattled downstairs; she hoped he�d go back to his buggie thinking she was out-of-town. She figured out a temporary cure�whiskey--and she didn't remember ever drinking the stuff. During the latest bout of crying, the fourth time that morning, she searched high and low for James� whiskey supply; and he probably thought it was forever hidden. Determined, she tore towels from linen closets, shoes from crates and cans from cabinets. Under the staircase, under a chest, and atop a mantle she felt around until she found the sealed, labeled bottle. �Ha-hah!� Liquor would surely make her feel better, she thought. That�s why men drank. And she would drink to escape the horrendous pain. She uncapped the clear bottle and lifted it. The brown, potent liquid sloshed between her lips and blazed a path to her tummy, until she gasped and spit part of it out. �Gawd. Shooo.� Soon humming strange tunes, that morning, lying in bed, she drank until her stomach ached and she gagged. An hour and a half later, knowing she was sick, Margaret staggered downstairs to the back door, turned the knob and briskly swung the door open as wide as she could. Icy air swirled inside rustling her hair and bed dress. Face pale, she leaned outside and noisily vomited into the snowy pathway. �Oh God. Oh God.� Back inside, the door closed she held herself up using the counters and made her way to the sink. Relieved, she pumped a glass of water and rinsed her mouth. �Damn my life all to hell.� She dragged herself back upstairs to the marriage bed and picked up the bottle. Drunken, raspy words spewed from her mouth. �This shit doesn�t work,� she said and lugged the bottle down to the front door. Cursing, she turned the ornate brass knob and crossed the porch. The ice stabbed the soles of her feet, but she didn�t care and barely felt it. Over handed she threw the whiskey bottle into the pristine snow, it landed neck up alongside the walk. Feet red, she awkwardly ran back through the still-open door and shut it behind her. Chilled to the bone, she hurried back to the bedroom and climbed into bed. On her side, her head on the pillow ticking, she stared at the unused wash basin. Downstairs the clock bonged twice and the dreary afternoon visited her once again. She needed to build a fire in the potbelly stove, but she couldn�t. She pulled the wedding ring quilt up under her chin. Her arms felt heavy, she was too tired. Who was she kidding? She should go get the rope on the back porch, tie it under the stairwell and make a noose. All pain would end if she used it on herself. Sure. She could drag a footstool under the noose and step up. Around her neck she�d slip the rope. It was time to follow through with the plan she�d built in the back of her mind, she thought. Soon the pain would end and she was blotto enough to follow through and hang herself. Pouf. Dead. Problem's over. Rising to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, her bleeding foot touched the carpeting. Yes, she would kill herself and join her husband and baby son. She rose, walked to the top of the stairs and descended until she was back on the first floor. Through the house to the porch she ambled. Scrounging through crates, she lifted a thirty feet length of rope out, opened the door, and dragged it through the kitchen to the front hall. Suddenly, she wasn't really sure she could do it, she thought and turned. Ba--rrooooom. Chucka-chucka. An outside noise? Her head turned toward the door. Somewhat sobered, the noise caught her attention. Immediately she stopped and listened as the din increased. What could the deep rumbling be? Brow crinkled, Margaret dropped and abandoned the rope on the front hallway floor. � Margaret strode barefooted through the sitting parlor and peeked through the lace curtains wondering who came for a visit driving a car. She wouldn�t answer the door. Whoever came to pay her a visit would surely give up and leave shortly. Surely to God they wouldn�t stand and knock forever like a few of the ladies from the church. A motorcar approached on the snow-covered lane and she gasped at the unusual and rare sight of a black, shiny automobile. She'd never seen one that shiny. Only ten people in the county owned a car, the last count. Having a visitor was out of the question. She hadn�t bathed or brushed her hair, since she couldn�t remember when. Surely visitors weren�t coming. Besides, Margaret didn�t know anyone who owned a car nearby. Most assuredly, the driver was lost. Much to her horror it stopped in front of her house so she locked the door. The rumbling quieted, the door opened and a well-dressed man rose from the driver�s side. Dressed in a dark suit and tie, he was carrying a hat. With a hearty push he closed the door with a thud and high-stepped through the snow, stopping to gaze at the half-full whiskey bottle. Shaking his head, he leaned over. She was like a barn owl seeing the first morning light; the reflected light from the snow hurt her eyes until she squinted. �Ahhh.� She glimpsed the man�s face; he was her husband�s friend, Red. God, she thought. What is he doing here? ~*~*~*~*~*~*~* The concerned church ladies confided that she probably wouldn�t answer the door and from their observation on various visits made during the delivery of her mail, she was not in the best of spirits. �For him there was no turning back. Sure she�d seen him by then, he plucked the whiskey bottle from the snow, uncapped it and smelled the contents. �Ph--shuu.� His brow furrowed and he was glad he didn�t over-indulge. Hoping she hadn�t started the nasty habit, he tossed it back into the drift and dusted snow off his leather gloves. Even though the church ladies were probably right, that she�d ignore his knock, he�d try anyway. Never giving in to defeat, believing he was right, Red tamped his hat tightly onto his head, pulled his coat shut and shoved his hands into his pockets. Besides, he owed his deceased best buddy a favor to boot. Margaret captivated his male sensitivities and he couldn�t shake her aura from his mind. Tracks led to the barn, so he figured she at least fed and watered the livestock and chickens. No smoke rose from the chimney and he wondered if she fed herself, let alone the animals. In his lifetime, people--family and friends--acted this peculiar way before. In fact, graveyards were full of victims of suicide. The horrible debilitating emotional sickness overcomes them most often after a tragic loss. In fact, his mother was one who became despondent when his daddy died. For days on end, she pined over his demise and stayed in bed. Finally she lost her mind over the years, often reliving the memories of him and her together. Wearing imported Italian boots with heavy socks, Red climbed the slick steps and crunched across the porch more determined than ever to lead her back to emotional well-being. Besides, he wanted ask her to a movie for a short term goal and he didn�t want to think about the long term goal yet. One step at a time, he thought he�d take. � Breath vaporizing, his nose cavities semi-frozen, he rapped the doorknocker and waited. He turned and gazed up the almost-frozen Mississippi. Ten seconds passed then thirty seconds and soon a minute went by. �Margaret, I know you�re in there. I came by to wish you a Merry Christmas. Hey.� he shouted. Again, he rapped and waited a reasonable amount of time. �I�m coming in one way or another.� He rapped twice. �It�s not beneath me to break in a front door!� He stepped back and glanced through the parlor window. The curtains shimmied. �Um-hm. Okay. If this is how you wanna play your hand, then--� He stepped forward, turned the locked doorknob until it rattled. �I�m goin� to play mine.� � Answer this goddamned door.� Concerned, Red pressed his face to the glass and cupped a hand to the side of his temple. Without a doubt, Margaret was inside and without realizing it yet, she would recuperate. He�d make sure of it. He spotted the rope ten feet from the door and gasped, hoping she was still alive. Heart racing he asked, �Out of curiosity, who�s takin� care of your businesses? You owe it to Jim to keep his interests goin�?� Silence. �Think of Jim, Margaret.� With all his might, three times Red body-slammed the door with his right shoulder and side, but it was too heavy. He didn�t want to break the glass until it became a last resort, because busting up a ladies door didn�t seem the proper thing to do. After descending the steps, Red high-stepped through a crunchy drift, around the side and to the back of the house. He climbed the steps and crossed the screened-in porch. �Damn it, Margaret. Don�t hide. Come out.� Silence prevailed as the lonely wind whipped the snow around the yard. �Don�t make this harder than it should be. Hear me?� He turned the knob and went inside. The pot-bellied stove stood cold in the kitchen. �I�m going to visit you awhile, so I guess I�ll make a fire. Where�s the kindlin�?� Noisily, he opened the door and put kindling and logs inside. His voice softened considerably and said. �I think Jim would want me here.� He scratched a match and the tiny fire grew radiating a little heat. In the pantry, Red checked the food supply and brought out a Mason jar of green beans. When it was warm enough, he shed his coat. He lit a few more room stoves. He left the kitchen hands splayed on his waist. �I love your house!� he yelled up the stairs and kicked the rope aside. �You ought to come down where it�s gettin' warm. I�m making myself at home. Didn�t think you�d mind.� Staying on the lower level, he checked each darkened room, pulled the doors closed and stopped by the parlor organ and pecked the tune �Home Sweet Home�. Each window encountered, he drew the drapes aside and allowed the shocking sunlight infiltrate the room. �How long have you been in here, like this, Margaret?� She responded with silence again. �How about if I make us some dinner? We could have some wine and light conversation is all. You have a guest, you know. So you might as well come on down.� Eyebrows rising, he heard the ceiling creak a little every few seconds. Definitely, she was upstairs and on the move. �What have you got that I can cook? Chicken?� She appeared at the top of the stairs and looked down. She looked haggard, but still the most beautiful woman he�d ever seen. ~*~*~ For life is sweet, but afterlife is death. This is the end of every man's desire.--[1866] By Charles Algernon Swinburne 1837-1909 Shuddering with dread, she had to face him, from halfway down the highly polished staircase. Margaret stopped cold, not descending another step, barely keeping her eyes off him, forcing her line of vision onto a golden frame of a lithograph which hung on the far wall. �What�s going on with you, Margaret?� he asked. �I have no idea what you are talking about.� � With much thought, a few seconds later, she lowered her eyes, glimpsed him and again raised her line of vision to the chandelier, as though one long stare at him would blind her for life. After drawing a wrinkled lacy handkerchief from under the quilt, she cleared her throat and blew her nose. Soon she asked shakily, "May I ask what you doing here?� She paused. �This is my house, you know, Mr. Watson," she added incredulously, fully aware of him. His hands attached stubbornly to his hips. Was he confronting her or was the situation completely the opposite? Was she confronting him? She continued, �You broke in the back door and was going through the whole lower level, Mr. Watson. Didn�t you?� �I felt I should.� The rope she almost used a moment ago lay snaked at his feet. �I had my reasons for coming in.� He wagged his head in disbelief. A few awkward moments of silence passed and a new batch of tears formed. "Why are you--?" � �I�m here out of concern.� �You care about me?� she said. "You don't know me, do you?" "Jim talked about you. I thought he had something special's all." �"Oh." Silence prevailed a couple of minutes. After crossing the sitting parlor she watched him as he gazed out at the Mississippi, obviously deep in thought. A shock of afternoon sun burst through the western windows where he stood, penetrated the crystal figurines housed in the �tag�re. The resulting splash of color mesmerized her; a dozen prism rainbows illuminated the hallway in a breathtaking display which eerily outlined and darkened his strong body as he came back into the hallway. She could see that locking only the front door could not keep him away. Why was he determined to involve himself in her messed up life? An act of aggression of sorts, he must have waded through the thigh deep snow, around to the unlocked back door--entirely out of his way. Did he suspect she considered suicide? Why couldn�t he leave her alone and let her put an end to her misery? Besides, she would not allow such a man into her life, even if she felt happy. �Ready for dinner?� �Calmly she said, "No. Mr. Watson. I need to be alone. I believe you should leave." �I can�t leave just yet,� he said with quiet emphasis. �I have reason to believe you�re a danger to yourself.� She agreed without putting up a fuss. He was absolutely right and she lightly nodded. "All right." The shadow of his beard, gave him a masculine appearance. His profile was strong and rigid and probably had turned many a lady's head in his day. Drops of moisture, which was once snow, clung to his thick chestnut hair. She did not want to look at him. Why didn�t he just leave? He walked back toward her abandoning the window, he slipped off his coat and his suit jacket as though her her negativity and searing comments didn�t deter his cause. Loosening his tie, Red hung his hat and wrap on the coat stand as though he were staying for supper and there was no further discussion, regardless of whose house he occupied. She wished she had a telephone, like a few people in town; but would she actually call the sheriff? Walking away, he turned leaving his eyes on her until seeing her was no longer possible. His face scrunched questioningly. �What�s all the blood for? Here. On the floor?� �I cut my foot,� biting her lip, she looked away. �How did you do that?� His voice lost its steely edge. �Outside. On the porch.� ��His head wagged and his index finger and thumb grasped his chin. �Ahh. That�s how the whiskey got out there. I see.� Leaning on the wall, he stuffed his hands in his pockets, his boots clunked on the wooden floor until he stopped in front of a dead fern. Strange and disquieting thoughts of lust raced through her mind. She didn't know him too well and her mind flooded with warnings about being with him. She rigidly held her tears in check--it was not the time to cry. For a second or two he studied the lifeless plant and poked a finger into the dry soil. "It's dead," he said as the clock bonged once on the half hour. "It hasn't been watered."
Copyright © 2002 Karen L Snyder |