The Chaperone (22 page)

“Where are the boys?” he asked.

For a frightening moment, she didn’t know. And then she remembered.

“With Harriet and Milt,” she said. “I wasn’t feeling well, so I came home.”

They stared at each other. Everything was gone. He was a monster. This man, her husband, was a monster. Depraved.

“I’m sorry, Cora. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re disgusting. That was a vile, horrible thing.”

He sat up straight, looking away.

“It’s a sin. It says so in the Bible.”

“Yes. I’m aware of that.”

“And in our home? You brought that horrible man to our home?”

“I shouldn’t have done that.” He lowered his voice. “He isn’t horrible.”

“What?”

“He isn’t horrible.”

Her hand reached for the little crystal bowl by her bed. She threw it at his head, but her aim was off. It shattered on the floor. He stared at the pieces, pulling on the end of his mustache.

“That was the same drunk who behaved so abominably at our wedding?” Her voice was rising, hysterical. She couldn’t help it. “Who insulted me?”

“He doesn’t usually drink.” He looked up at her. “He feels terrible about that. That was a hard day for him.”

She put up her palm, to stop him from saying more. She was still cold and achy, as she’d been on the trolley, but that was nothing, nothing, compared to the falling fear she felt now. And yet it was all getting worse. For he wasn’t even sorry, not really. Not shamed, not on his knees.

“What are you saying?”

He stared back at her.

“Why was it hard for him?” She almost laughed. “Was he jealous? Did he want to be your wife?” Her mocking smile faded as she looked at him, the anguish on his face. She turned away, holding the edge of the bed. She thought of his hands moving through the flame-colored hair, the way they’d reached for the freckled shoulders.

She was a fool. That happy day, she’d been a fool in white, with orange blossoms in her hair.

“Even then? When we married?”

He nodded. He reached down to pick up a piece of crystal and set it on the table, looking at its jagged edge.

“You were doing that with him, even then?”

“No. We’d agreed to stop.”

“Stop?” It was as if the house were falling down around her, a flimsy set on a vaudeville stage. “When did it start?”

“We met in law school.”

She shook her head. She couldn’t speak. This. This was why he didn’t touch her.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Cora. I wanted to help you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You used me.”

“No. No, I didn’t. I thought we could stop. I thought I could. I tried. You don’t know how I tried.”

She looked at the broken crystal piece on the table. She could get up and grab it, and slice her throat, or his. But the boys. They were at Wonderland, maybe riding the carousel. They would be home for dinner, both of them tired and wanting a cuddle. But what if they’d come home early with her? What if she and Harriet hadn’t convinced them to go on without her, and one of them had run upstairs and seen what she’d seen? This perversion in their home?

“You’re vile.”

“Cora. Don’t say that. It’s not true, and you know it.” His eyes were shining, locked on hers. “You know me.”

“I know nothing. You told me you loved me. You said it so sincerely.”

“I did. I do.” He swallowed. One tear and then another moved down his cheeks, soaking into his mustache. She felt no pity. Nothing.

“I do love you, Cora.”

“And yet you do vile things. With that man. And you don’t touch your own wife.”

“We agreed to no more children.”

She shook her head. She would not abide that fatherly tone, his patient appeal to logic. It wasn’t logical what he was saying. She would not be confused. “You can’t exactly have a baby with another man, now can you, Alan? And that doesn’t stop you.”

“It’s different for men.”

She grimaced. This was madness. This made no sense, what he was saying. “It’s different for you, Alan. Other men don’t do this. Other husbands don’t do this. For you, Alan. Just you. Don’t act as if you’re like other men. You want to have relations with another man.”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“But you needed a wife so no one would know. So no one would even guess.”

He nodded again.

“And you could have picked any woman in Wichita, a more beautiful woman, or a richer woman or a woman from a good family, but you picked me because I was young and stupid and poor with no family, and I wouldn’t know any better.”

He leaned back in the chair. “I picked you because I liked you.” His eyes still glistened, pink around the edges, but he smiled. He actually smiled, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I admired you, Cora. Right from the start. And I thought I could help you.” He covered his eyes. “I knew I wouldn’t love any wife, in that way, the way men are supposed to love their wives, but I knew I could help you, and give you a better life. I thought that would make up for it.”

She laughed, and it turned into a gasp for breath. “For what? For doing vile things behind my back? Well, it doesn’t, thank you. I’d rather be a maid somewhere, all alone.”

“No. No. We’d stopped. For loving him, I mean. I couldn’t help that.”

For some time, there was only the sound of the chirping bird, and a horse walking slowly in the street. She was a fool. She would never stop cringing, thinking of how in this very bed she’d lain under him, so certain of his desire. But everyone had been fooled.
By all accounts, he is smitten with his new bride.
How she’d loved reading that in the paper. What an idiot she was.

“I want you out of the house,” she said. “I want you out today, before they come back.” She turned away. If he was truly sorry, and truly ashamed, he could only crawl away from her sight. But he didn’t move. She turned back to him, enraged. “Go!”

“Are you sure?” he asked, still looking down. “Take a moment to think, Cora. Think about your life, what you have. The boys. The house. No wanting for anything. A good life with friends. And me, Cora. I love you. I do.”

“It’s a lie.”

“No it isn’t.” He looked up, wounded. “Haven’t I always taken care of you?”

“I don’t need you to take care of me anymore. You’re a… sodomite.” She was spitting her words. Her rage made her certain, strong. “I could tell any judge what I just saw, and I’d be granted a divorce and everything you have.”

He stood up, rubbing his jaw. “If you do that,” he said quietly, “I’m ruined. And maybe dead. Understand that. I won’t be able to practice, or make any money for you and the boys to live on.” He looked at her. “And know that there are people who would have me killed if they knew what you saw. Think about the boys, at least, and what that would do to them, their hearts, and their chances. Please, Cora. Think about that.”

“Perhaps you should have thought about that.”

He said nothing. He didn’t have to. Howard and Earle were now in her mind’s eye, their untroubled faces before her. She held up her hand.

“Fine,” she said. “I just want a divorce. And you’ll have to support me and the boys.” She closed her eyes at the thought of it. She’d be a divorced woman, a scandal. And how would she explain it? If she told no one the truth, she would be the one in disgrace. She would have to endure it, the shame of a divorce, the whispered assumptions and isolation. The future stretched out before her, long and dark. She would never be happy again.

“Think on it,” he said. He put his hands in his hair and tugged back so hard his pinked eyes bulged like a fish’s. “If you want a divorce, I’ll give you one. Obviously. You have me over a barrel. But ask yourself if it’s worth so much turmoil for the boys, for any of us?”

It occurred to her, at that very moment, that he’d rehearsed all of this, this little speech, just as he would rehearse a closing argument for any jury. He’d thought over his strong points, logical and emotional, well in advance. And she was still stunned, crazy. She didn’t stand a chance.

“Cora, I’ll give you everything you desire for the rest of our days. Ask yourself what you’re really lacking. You can’t have any more children. You have the boys. You have my love and devotion, as you always have.”

“What am I lacking?” She asked the question with indignation, and yet, really, she couldn’t answer. She knew only that she hated him. She really did. She reached behind her and threw a pillow at his head. And then another. She looked around for something harder, but there was just the good lamp, which she liked.

“Did you give me some disease?” she asked. “Did this disgusting thing you do give me a disease? Answer me honestly, for God’s sake. Is that why I almost died?”

He lowered his brows, finally startled as well. “What? No, Cora. It was nothing like that. What happened was just something in you. The doctor said. It had nothing to do with me. I swear it.”

She put her face in her hands.

“Cora.”

“You wished I would have died,” she said. “Then you could have played the sad widower. All that sympathy for losing a wife you didn’t love in the first place.”

“If I wanted you dead, I would have insisted on more children.”

The cruelty in this astounded her, but when she looked up at him, he only seemed tired. He walked toward her and started to sit, but she cringed away, and told him to get out of her room and to please not say anything else. He had already made his case: she’d gotten so much, in exchange for so little. She had everything a woman could want, except more children, which wasn’t his fault. She might not be angry, but grateful.

Bowing to her desire, and not wishing to upset her further, he left her alone with the decision.

TWELVE

Cora had only knocked twice, and softly,
when the German opened the door. She averted her eyes as she said hello. She was still so embarrassed.

“You are on time,” he said, stepping aside. Some kind of dark oil was smeared on the bib of his overalls.

She nodded and moved past him into the entry, peering down the long hallway into the bright kitchen. Not a nun in sight. Upstairs, she heard the girls singing, the off-key piano almost drowning them out.

He shut the door and gestured for her to follow him down the hallway, past the closed door to Sister Delores’s office. At the second closed door, he stopped. She waited, looking at the back of his balding head, exactly at eye level, while he searched through his ring of keys. All weekend, she’d cautioned herself not to be too hopeful, not to anticipate. But now she was here, and the German really was going to let her in, just as he’d said. In less than half an hour, she might walk out of this room knowing her last name at birth, or her mother’s first name, or her father’s.

Though maybe not. She took a handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed at her hairline. The part of her who knew and remembered disappointment sent out a stern warning. It was possible she wouldn’t even have a file, or if she did, that it would tell her nothing. It was possible that, despite all this effort, she would have to go back to Wichita knowing no more than she did now. And then what? She would go on, of course. She would slip back into her life, resigned.

“This is the one,” the German said, holding up a silver key. He turned and frowned at her wrist. “You have no watch?”

“Sorry. I have it here.” She took her watch out of her purse. She’d again followed Floyd Smithers’s advice about wearing jewelry in this neighborhood.

“Good.” He raised his thick forearm to look at his own watch, with its worn leather band. “You will have to be gone in twenty minutes. I will eat my lunch on the stairs. If someone comes down early, you will hear my voice. That means don’t come out, and wait until you hear me tell you it is fine.” He gave her a solemn look. “If this happens, you will be waiting in there until they go to bed, so it is better if you are gone in twenty minutes.”

She nodded. Satisfied, he turned the key in the lock and opened the door to a small room with a barred window, a desk, a chair, and, flush against a wall, a wooden filing cabinet that was as tall as she was and a little wider across than she could stretch her arms. There were four columns of drawers. Each drawer had a little brass handle.

“Twenty minutes, yes?” He moved into the hallway. “You understand?”

“I promise.” She turned back to face him. “And thank you,” she said, meaning it. He hadn’t even asked for money.

He shrugged and glanced at the ceiling. “It is nothing,” he said. “Every day I eat lunch on the stairs.” He closed the door, leaving her alone. The piano had grown softer, and she could hear the girls singing in Latin, their voices high and wistful.

She wasted
almost five minutes figuring out that the records were sometimes organized by year of birth, and sometimes by year of admittance. Within each folder, papers were held together with straight pins. Because of the heat, she removed her gloves, and she pricked herself right away, drawing blood. Sucking on her wounded finger, she sifted through the files with her free hand, her eyes moving over cardstock tabs with names.
DONOVAN, Mary Jane. STONE, Patricia.
GORDON, Ginny.
She flipped past them. Overhead, the girls had stopped singing.

She found it, her own file, in the drawer for 1889, her name written in capital letters on a tab—
CORA
, and nothing else. No last name. She pulled the file out. If she’d had more time, she might have taken a moment, bracing herself.

The top page wasn’t yellowed or wrinkled, and the typed script was easy to read.

Cora, 3, from FNM.

Hair: Brown.

Eyes: Brown.

Seems in good health, of good intelligence, sweet natured; current distress likely due to transition. Had been at FNM (29 Bleecker St.) for some time.

Parentage: unknown

On the bottom of the page, someone had handwritten:

Sent out on train with Children’s Aid Society, November, 1892. Placed.