And yet none of these thoughts would change him. Instead, I preferred to think of my own mother, of Marmee in Louisa’s Little Women, and of the real Mrs. Alcott. A mother could make a difference in the life of her child, particularly in the life of her daughter. And so I worked hard to instill virtue into the character of my little daughter, to correct and train but to love all the more.
She came to me now and I scooped her up, buried my nose in the hair I had lovingly washed last night, the lavender scent calming me. I picked up the letter Nathan had flung on the counter and opened the already-broken seal.
June 30, 1872
Dear Mr. Bancroft,
I hope this letter finds you and your family well. I am so very glad to hear that the interview did your publication good.
Thank you for your offer to write a story. Unfortunately, I have just returned home from Europe and am a bit behind on my writing and find Mother quite ill. I will have to decline your kind offer.
Please give my love to Johanna.
Sincerely,
Louisa May Alcott
Cora grabbed at the letter after I had finished reading it, but I kept it from her grasp. I did not fault my friend for having to decline. How many favors could she do us, stretched as she was?
It was not Louisa’s job to ensure the success of Mr. Saucier and his daughter or my husband. It wasn’t fair he blame me, either. I supposed I could have been the one to ask her, but likely we would have received the same answer. And if we had not, well, that was not my fault, either.
I went to his study, and since the door was open, I stood at the threshold. He sulked on his chair, staring out the window. I wondered what he thought about. Mulling over ideas to save his dream or stewing in bitterness that his dream had not gone the way he envisioned?
“I know I am no Louisa,” I began. “But I could try my hand at a story or two. And my poems . . .”
“Hang it, Johanna! No one wants to read your poems.”
I flinched. In my arms, Cora began to whimper. I turned so Nathan would not see me do the same. I took our daughter out into our small yard and we busied ourselves lying in the grass, me pointing out the wispy clouds and drawing pictures in our minds of what they could be.
Castles in the air.
I’d had castles at one time. Dreams of happiness, my own family, love. Writing was a castle, also, but the real dream was a loving family. Of belonging completely to my own set of people. Being fully accepted. As Jo March said, “Families are a beautiful thing.”
And I believed that. At least I had.
But what about when they weren’t beautiful? When they were difficult and hard? I’d thought love could conquer it all, but perhaps I’d been naive. For I had tried to love Nathan the best I could and it all seemed for naught.
My castles in the air had tumbled from the sky, and I did not know how to begin picking up the pieces.
Nathan continued in his sullenness. One day, he simply did not go to work but stayed in bed the entire day. When I called for the doctor, my husband became cross at both him and me.
I saw the doctor out. He reported my husband suffered from extreme melancholia, and if I could coax him outside or to do something that would bring joy to him, it might lift his spirits.
Despite my sincerest efforts, though, he could not be coaxed.
Two days of this, and then finally he got up, his hair rumpled. I made him a hearty breakfast, of which he ate little before disappearing into his study.
I left him alone. I cleaned up breakfast, made preparations for dinner, tidied the house, and then put Cora down for her nap. When our daughter slept soundly, I knocked at the door of Nathan’s study. He did not answer and after a moment I pushed the door open. He sat in his chair as usual, a glass of whiskey in his hand, the bottle upon his desk.
“Nathan . . . ,” I began. This must stop. It was one thing to be in the doldrums for a few days, but taking to drink as a solution would not solve our problems. He’d broken his promise ten times over, and yet I had long ago learned I couldn’t control him. Neither did I want to. I was tired. So very tired of fretting, of feeling the full burden of our family and marriage upon my shoulders.
“Don’t start your harping. It’s too early in the day for all that.”
“And it’s a mite too early to start drinking, don’t you think?” I came closer. I was done being frightened, done cowering before him. Our family was at stake. Our little girl. I must fight for us. For her.
“I said leave me in peace, woman.” His words were slurred, and he said the word woman as if to put me in my place. To remind me that I was exceeding my station in questioning him. Yes, he was to lead us and I would willingly follow under his kind authority, but this . . . this was not what I had in mind.
Despite my anger, I chose love. For though one might think I had learned already, I still chose to believe love could win for us. I had to get through to him.
I went to him, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. He was still in his dressing gown. “Dear, let me help. Is it Mr. Saucier? Let us go somewhere else, start anew.”
Was that our answer? Nathan seemed to thrive on new dreams and hopes. If we could live in the months of that hope, I would be willing to move again and again, to follow him to the ends of the earth if only he would look at me as he used to. If only he would fold me in his arms and tuck me close until I felt that I was truly home. If only he would love me. Love our daughter.
I put my hand to his neck, but without warning, he grabbed it and pushed me to the ground. I got up, tried not to be afraid. He wanted to push me away because he was scared. I only needed to show persistence, to show him that I was with him in this—whatever this was—that I wasn’t going anywhere.
I went to him again. “We can start afresh, dear. I haven’t given up hope.”
He stood, a whirlwind of unexplained fury. “I said leave me alone!”
The blow came harder than ever before. And then another and another. Even though it had happened twice before, I found myself surprised still. I raised my hands, hated the cowering I did on his plush carpet. “Nathan, no. Please.” I tried to get away from his fists, could not comprehend that he could keep on so. And then it stopped, and the sound of deep, guttural sobs came from him. In the haze of my pain, I knew this was finally it. I was done. I would take my daughter and go. To Mother, to Concord, anywhere but here.
The sound of metal, then the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked. Through my wounded eyes, I looked up to see the barrel pointed at me. What? My brain grew fuzzy. No . . . this could not be.
“Nathan, no. Please. Think of Cora.” I backed away toward the door on my arms and legs, my feet tangling in my petticoats. I thought to rise and run but could not tear my eyes from his shaky hand, the small barrel of the gun aimed in my direction.
Then, slowly, he seemed to calm and gain some sort of clarity. He turned the gun from me and raised it to his own head. My breathing turned shallow, and even as I tried to scramble toward him, I heard the shot.
I screamed. Blood upon the carpet, upon my dress. And still I went to him, tried to search for signs of life among the mess, fainted straightaway, and when I woke, screamed some more.
From somewhere in the distance, crying. Small steps. I raced to the door and shut it on my little girl, tried to contain my own sobs. “Mother will be right out, dear. Right out.” She must not see what had happened. She must not see.
I felt my mind slipping, knew that I needed to clean myself up before my daughter saw me.
I took Nathan’s bottle of whiskey and soaked my apron with it, wiped it over my hands and face, the alcohol stinging my injuries. This was a dream. A dream. I needed help. Mother. Louisa. The police.
I slipped out of the study and hugged Cora tight. “Mother hurt herself a bit, is all. I’m sorry to frighten you. I’m sorry . . .”
My legs shook. An insistent knocking on the front door. Help.
Mrs. Heinrich, our neighbor, stood at the doo
r. “Johanna, what’s happened? I heard . . .”
I placed Cora in her arms. “Please, will you take her to your house? I must get the police. I must . . .”
She was staring at me, and I remembered my face. The scent of whiskey on me. My bloodied apron. Soon it seemed half of Philadelphia stood on my porch steps, some offering help, some to fetch the police, but most just staring. Curious stares. Whispers. They made my grief all the more real, and I felt I couldn’t breathe, that I choked, that I was a tiny sapling stretching up for air but being suffocated by weeds. That each person staring and whispering held an ax, intent upon chopping me down until every last shred of me was gone, nonexistent. Until I suffocated.
And then the police came. They sat me down, asked me questions, and spent hours in Nathan’s study. I told them everything. They said they would send my mother a telegram requesting she come at once. They sent for the reverend, whom I didn’t want.
The days that followed were a blur. The reverend arranged a small, quiet service for my husband, and I wore a dark veil over my face, more to hide the mess that it was than in mourning.
But I did mourn. I mourned for my husband, the man I had married who had seemed lost to me for so long. I mourned for what we never had—our castle in the air that had come tumbling down upon me. I mourned for the part I’d played in his death—what I hadn’t done, what I could have done. I let my anger have its way, for how could he leave me in this manner?
Sleep eluded me and I wrote an abundance of two things: letters to Louisa and pages of poetry surrounding my feelings for Nathan. The beginning of our love, the betrayal of his actions.
Mother and I worked to pack, for I would go and stay with her and George indefinitely.
At one time, I had sought my adventure away from home, away from the monotony of what I considered a dull life.
Now I could think of nothing I wanted more than monotony.
Four days after we buried Nathan, the doorbell rang. Mother was upstairs with Cora packing her clothes. I cared very little if people saw me without my veil, so I opened the door.
Gladys Saucier stood there, her face pale against the black of her hat and dress, her eyes shining and beautiful. And angry.
“Johanna, may I come in?”
I did not want to see this woman. Could not fathom that anything she had to say to me would be helpful.
I gestured to the chairs on the porch, as I had become very protective of Cora. Of what she should hear about her father and his death. It was bad enough she cried in fright at the sight of my mutilated face and often ran to my mother instead of me. Miss Saucier did not sit.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, tired, not caring in the least that I was being inhospitable.
“I heard you were moving from the city, and I’ve come to bid you farewell.” Her tone, however, couldn’t be further from a friendly farewell. She leaned close to me, and I caught the familiar scent of rose water, which reminded me of Nathan, and I hated her for it. “I know you killed him,” she whispered.
My breath caught. “What?”
“He told me how you were always harping on him about providing for the family, about giving up his drink. You wore on him, you know, until he couldn’t take it anymore. Until he snapped.”
I gritted my teeth and stepped toward her, felt I could strangle the woman and spend my life content in an asylum knowing I had done so. “How dare you . . .”
“He loved me, you know. And he had a wonderful time showing me. Said I was the lover you never were.”
I slapped her then, even as I knew she told the truth and even as I felt myself no better than Nathan, resorting to physical violence.
She stood rigid, her hand to her cheek, her eyes no longer cross but full of mirth. “I know you pulled that trigger, Johanna, and soon all of Philadelphia will know how you wronged Nathan, God rest his soul.”
“Get out. Get out!” I screamed.
She did but smiled wickedly behind her. Passersby had stopped to watch our row, and now they stared at me as I trembled in anger. They stared at my horrid face. “What are you all looking at?” I yelled. “Leave me! Leave me in peace!”
I went back inside, felt the condemnation of their gazes upon me.
The next day, a copy of Saucier’s Social appeared at my door, the front page a woodcut of a female hand with a gun, and the title “Marriage . . . Turned to Murder?” The subheading read, “The Tragic Loss of Philadelphia’s Finest and the Surprising Hand Behind It.”
I knew what was inside, and yet I could not help but read. In it, Miss Saucier skillfully painted a picture—one a bit too accurate on some levels. A man trying to achieve his dreams. A bitter wife nagging at him to be something he wasn’t. Making him feel hopeless, desperate, depressed. A vicious argument, one that left him dead and me alive. She questioned my sanity. She questioned the wisdom of the police in their investigation. And while an average reader might brush it off as pure sensationalism and speculation, it was enough to sell magazines. It was enough to make people wonder. It was enough to send young boys to the front of my house, daring one another to knock on my door and then run before the crazy lady came out.
In many ways, I felt numb to it all. And in many ways, it hurt deeper than ever before. For this woman—whatever her relationship had been with my husband—and now the town saw me as the evil one. And I had a very strong inkling that either by her persuasion or by his, my husband saw me as that, too. In his own way, perhaps to excuse his poor actions, I became the enemy. The Jezebel in his life and now in the city.
I continued to write my poems, my only means of salvation. It was an amazing relief to bring Cora out to the country, to be in my small hometown again. I felt I would never leave again if only I could live in peace.
That peace didn’t come right away. But it did come. Not from the outside, but in many ways, from above.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
[I] have no special method of writing except to use the simplest language, take everyday life and make it interesting and try to have my characters alive.
~ LMA
Taylor
A WEEK WENT BY, and none of us heard from Victoria or the kids. I wondered how things went with Will.
I worked on the book, trying not to begrudge the fact that I didn’t hear from my sister, that she hadn’t chosen to share with me what was in Johanna’s letter. I could only assume it wasn’t anything encouraging.
I knew Victoria wanted to make her own way, and while I couldn’t fault her for it, I also couldn’t help feeling abandoned. Again.
I was sitting on the porch, tapping out words on my story, wondering how it would all wrap up, when Victoria’s car pulled into the drive. Maddie and Caden piled out with their bags, their faces drawn and sad. Victoria opened the door, her posture slumped, as if a fifty-pound barbell rested upon her shoulders.
She walked up to the porch. I stood on the steps, held my hand out to her.
She looked at it, her eyes glistening, then took my hand and squeezed. “It’s over. For real this time.”
The heart is sometimes the slowest to heal, but I vowed not to leave my sister’s side while it did.
Though it didn’t make sense to me, she still missed her husband—at times, still wanted to go back to him. If she didn’t have the kids, she probably would have.
I was glad I was there. I distracted the kids, and Victoria. Luke and I took Maddie and Caden fishing and for hikes and to play with Chloe while Victoria worked out the logistics of separating from her husband.
Two weeks later, she found me on the porch, suffering from writer’s block. She sat down, Johanna’s letter in her hand.
I was quiet, knew she needed to say something in her own time.
“I read this over and over again. I thought I didn’t need the past for my answers, but I’m thinking God gave me it all the same.” She looked at me, her eyes bright and shining. “These past couple months have stunk. Big-time. But I think I found something precious
along the way, too.” She sniffed. “That last day, when I knew I was a fool to keep hoping, I had already read this letter. All I could think about was Johanna’s words and the verse she had written on the back of it.”
She handed it to me, and I read.
November 1872
Dearest Louisa,
Thank you for your last letter. I have since come to hear about the fire in Boston. I pray you are well and found yourself far away from the destruction.
I admit it was a great relief to unburden my entire heart to you finally. Though I hesitate to admit it, now that four months have passed, I can see that in many ways, Nathan’s death has freed me. And that fact saddens me.
George and Mary made room for us in their home, their own growing brood a lively change for Cora and me. The scars of our past are still very much upon us, though I feel blessed that Cora is young enough to build new memories in place of the old. I am finding the simple chores of farm life soothing to my mind. And while I know we will not impose long-term, I feel that for now, the comfort of family is a fitting place for our healing. Here, I see George and Mary’s marriage as a testament to what it should be—love and sacrifice and work, all alongside one another. The children cheer us all, as does nature. We have put up jars and jars of applesauce, and Mother has helped me perfect my—you will never guess it—jam making.
We attend the local church, and though it is a simple service with often a simple message, I find it is what I need. I have become reacquainted with a few old friends, including a young man named Bryant, who is kind to my Cora and, after noting her love for floating paper boats down the river, built her a wooden boat of her own. When he knelt down to present her with the boat and showed her the small compartment he’d built inside, I thought it the sweetest thing.
He then told her the story about Jesus walking on the water to meet the disciples in a boat. How they were so afraid of the storm, but how Christ assured them, saying, “Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid.”
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