Isabelle had heard the creek quite well this early afternoon as she walked through the gate before the clapboard home. Mildred had set two chairs out upon the veranda, a serving table between them. A vase of sunflowers rested upon the railing, and the gleaming sunlight fell under the roof, glittering a yellow so bright it seemed to be drawn from the petals themselves. Mildred, a finger in the air to note some forgotten article, went back inside and returned with a bucket she dropped in front of the empty seat beside Isabelle. Against her chest she held a bowl of potatoes.
Isabelle apologized for her tardiness, explaining that she’d had to go to Selby to see Prentiss.
“They took him to the jail there, as I’m sure you know by now. That imbecile Hackstedde leading the charge.”
At first Mildred was silent, occupied with her peeling. The creek was audible again—like the hollow hiss of a snake. Ridley stood motionless before the road, as stoic as ever, the carriage at his rear.
“It was nearly the only topic of conversation at the wedding,” she said, finally. “Wade wasn’t shy on the matter, even when it pertained to the allegations against August. Horrific allegations, I should say. It was as though the whole thing was a joke to him.”
“I cringe contemplating another moment in that man’s presence. And it would only be reliving what took place yesterday.”
“I can only imagine,” Mildred said. “How was your journey?”
“Not entirely successful. Hackstedde said there would be no visitors, but I brought along some fruit, perhaps to entice him, however stupid that sounds.” She picked up a peach and dropped it back into the basket. “I argued with him about how long I’d traveled, and he backed his statement down to allowing family to visit, as those were the rules in general. It was hardly a concession. He knows full well what has happened to the only family Prentiss had.”
“A fine gesture to make the trip, at least,” Mildred said.
“Something had to be done. Far be it from George to go to Selby himself. He thinks nothing will be accomplished by paying a visit, but I believe it’s simply his fear of travel that holds him back. Yet he talks incessantly of Prentiss. It grew so exhausting I felt the urge to set aside the pair of socks I was knitting him and go and see the man myself.”
“So you did.” Mildred put the peeler down and rubbed her palm, kneading out the kinks. “And Caleb? How does he fare?”
“Where to begin? He eats crumbs and says nothing. This morning he appeared from the shadows like some ghoul. I don’t know if he’ll ever be the same.”
Isabelle removed her bonnet and placed it on the railing. She considered doing the same with her shoes but thought better of it.
“After what Wade described,” Mildred said, “well, if it’s all true, and I don’t doubt your son…”
She shook her head and picked up the peeler, holding it before an unscathed potato.
“He’s seen evil, Isabelle.”
Then she put the peeler down once more and stood up, suddenly charged by the conversation and raising her voice as if a tornado had gathered in her chest.
“And perhaps you shouldn’t be denouncing him for acting as he does. My boys—good God. The day they got back from the war I prepared them a turkey dinner, and they spoke almost exclusively of the horrors they’d doled out to other soldiers. The conversation wasn’t a celebration of their staying alive, but of the deaths they’d wrought. I couldn’t see the slightest morsel of sensitivity at that table. Which is to say, perhaps there’s some good to Caleb’s transformation. In light of the alternative.”
The story unfolded so quickly as to be dismissed as a harmless anecdote, but Isabelle had never heard her friend speak of her sons in such stark terms. That they might be a cause for shame was startling.
“Mildred,” she said.
“I’ve weathered worse than my sons’ behavior,” Mildred said.
“Yes, but you don’t have to do it alone. It’s why we have each other.”
Mildred was staring down the road, her apron crumpled against the railing. Her face was angular and the firmness of her disposition almost ensured that her features would never soften—would remain as they were for the rest of time.
“I don’t hold it against you,” she said, “but please don’t tell me how to manage my demons. I don’t judge you for bringing fruit to prisoners to ease the pain of your home. Let me deal with my emotions as I see fit.”
Isabelle stiffened against the back of her chair. After a time, Mildred returned to her seat. Both women seemed uncomfortable enough that they might sit there bolted permanently to the veranda before either would speak a word to the other again. The landscape before them was a vast stillness, which only brought more attention to this rare disharmony between them.
“I should apologize,” Mildred said at last.
“You’re wrong,” Isabelle said, and put her hand in the air. “There’s nothing to apologize for because you’re simply wrong in your accusation. You don’t have a clue how I feel. You might stifle your hurt, but that doesn’t reflect why I went to Selby. Any pain I have is not to be hidden. It’s a point of strength. And I will do good with it. A goal so esteemed as to help an innocent man wrongly accused—well, your apology would only tarnish the undertaking.”
Mildred looked over at her as if assessing a stranger, and her gaze did soften, minutely but perceptibly. She nodded as though the act carried a hint of encouragement.
“Much of what you’ve done recently is…let me put it this way: Your demeanor isn’t what it once was. And that can be confusing. But it would be narrow-minded to write you off like all the others.” Mildred bestowed a deep, comforting smile upon her friend. “You’re immensely courageous,” she said. “I didn’t speak ill of your trip to Selby out of any distaste for it. I think I was more so speaking to myself. To my own weaknesses.”
“Your own weaknesses?” Isabelle exclaimed. “I learned to carry myself by watching you. Any courage I might have is mere performance compared with yours.”
“What bravery is there in sitting on my porch twiddling my thumbs? It is a gaping lack of purpose, and it haunts me. Has always haunted me.”
Isabelle leaned forward. “Is it John?” she asked. “Do you miss him?”
Mildred scrunched up her face like a raisin.
“The feeling was as present when he was alive as it is with him in the grave. The problem is that I can’t locate what it is. Which doesn’t make the lack any easier to bear. If anything, the pain is only greater because of the stubborn mystery of it.”
Her friend’s countenance slowly crumbled, her jaw trembling, her almond eyes gone watery, and when her hand began to shake Isabelle reached over and took it in her own, lacing each of their fingers together, telling her it was fine—that everything was fine. The clammy warmth of the afternoon was like a sealant upon their palms, and it felt as though nothing could bring them apart, nothing could undo their bond. As far as Isabelle was concerned, they could sit here for the rest of the afternoon. She had nowhere to go.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay to feel, Mildred.”
“It’s not just that. Not right now, anyway.”
Isabelle leaned forward. “Then what?”
Mildred sighed. “I am loath to bring it up, but God, if I can introduce another topic, no matter how tawdry, to divert us from this one, it would be the greatest favor for you to allow it.”
“Anything at all,” Isabelle said.
“Even if it regards you?”
“Say what is on your mind.”
Mildred held Isabelle’s hand firmly. “Some at the wedding spoke with the utmost confidence of a certain woman. A woman of the night.”
“I can assure you I hold no employment beyond the duties of my home.”
Mildred didn’t laugh.
“Another woman. One George has apparently been seeing quite often. For some time. It may be the charge is just meant to slander your family further. I couldn’t say.”
; Isabelle pulled her hand from Mildred’s, almost involuntarily. She quavered, unsteady, and then recovered herself, for even this—in all its dark suggestions—could not unravel her constitution totally. She stood up and began to pace, and the sunshine felt like a spotlight on the uncertainty welling up inside her.
“I overheard it at the reception party,” Mildred said, “and thought I should tell you myself rather than risk having it passed on to you by someone who would do it out of malice.”
Isabelle paused before the vase of sunflowers. “You know who she is, then?”
“I do,” Mildred said. “In certain circles she is not a secret.”
“Then you need not say more. Just tell me where I might find her.”
* * *
The place was known to Isabelle; she’d walked by it before: a small sloping home of tin, not quite a shanty, not quite a house. It had taken on the color of mud and was so undistinguished that Isabelle never in her life would have paid it a second thought. Until now.
This was not the first time she’d confronted the specter of George’s infidelity. There were those long nights in his absence, and she was not naïve. He blamed them on his evening hikes, but there was no explanation as to why the walk sometimes required his evening jacket, his finer boots. He would have told her—he did not lie to her—yet she never asked. If indeed he had sampled other fruit, then he was returning home to what he liked best. He would immediately slide into bed beside her, sighing in comfort, and with his body near her own, she felt a renewal of his devotion. Besides, the instances were rare enough—and so fleeting—that they acted to her as confirmation of their bond.
But the randomness did not correlate to the report Mildred had given her. If there was one particular woman, then what he had was a lover, no matter if he paid for her time. The thought hurt Isabelle, yes, but not for its suggestion of adultery alone; there was also a resentment that someone else had solved the only puzzle she’d laid claim to her entire adult life: the understanding of her husband’s inner workings. She wished to meet the woman who had managed the same feat.
She’d parked Ridley and the carriage in the center of town and walked the rest of the way. When she reached the home, it stood as she recalled it, tucked between two others in the poorer side of Old Ox. The roof comprised no more than rotted branches bound beside one another, and a pipe jutted out above it, coughing up smoke. She asked a man outside the neighboring home if anyone was in. He looked at her from under two thick eyebrows, grumbled something, and finally cocked his head yes. She was still carrying her fruit basket, which she lowered to knock on the door.
After a moment, it opened slightly. The eyes of the woman there were animal-like, as though she sensed a threat.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I was hoping we might speak,” Isabelle said.
“Is this about your husband?”
“How would you know—”
“Ma’am, I often get confused for another woman similar in looks. But I have no business with any men. Good day.”
“Wait,” Isabelle said, yet the door was already shut and latched.
She peered through the window, a single panel covered by a thick curtain. Then she knocked once more.
“I have no qualms with you,” she called out. “None at all. I would just like some answers.” She waited.
“I told you, you have me confused,” the woman’s voice called back. “I don’t know any man.”
“You must know some man,” Isabelle said.
“Not yours.”
The door was hardly more than a sheet that might blow away in the wind. Isabelle had the urge to push through it. She felt desperate, almost naked, lingering in the wake of this woman’s rejection.
“I swear to you,” she pleaded. “We’ll speak civilly. My husband…” She took a breath. “George Walker. That is his name. And if you do not know him, truly do not know him, I will walk away from here and not return.”
The clank of silverware was followed by the thud of footsteps. Yet no voices. No movement. And yet, just then, the door opened a slant.
“Really?” the woman said. “His wife?”
“I’m Isabelle. Isabelle Walker.”
“And you’re not about to bring trouble into my home? Because I have a daughter. This is a place of peace.”
“I will respect your home,” Isabelle said. “You have my word.”
The woman seemed to contemplate her decision once more, then opened the door the rest of the way.
Save for its size, the home was curiously elegant, bearing almost no relation to its external trappings. Numerous lamps brought a dim luster to the place. The chairs at the dining room table were carved of mahogany, upholstered, the backs of them crest-shaped and ornate in design; the bed along the opposite side of the room was raised and well-kept, and tucked against the wall next to it was a mirrored dresser fit for royalty.
“I receive many gifts,” the woman said, as if sensing Isabelle’s surprise at the decor.
It was irrepressibly hot. Before the hearth a glazed roast was speared on a spit, jeweled droplets of fat dripping onto the pan beneath it. Isabelle could see why the woman was wearing only a nightgown, for anything more might well cause one to melt.
“Wish there was a little more space to prepare supper,” the woman said. “But we do with what we have for now.”
“It’s no bother,” Isabelle said, and turned from her inspection of the quarters to face the woman, who introduced herself as Clementine and offered a gentle handshake. “I know your name,” Isabelle said.
The many corridors of the woman’s beauty were apparent. Her cheeks registered like two well-fashioned slopes falling toward a smooth, rounded chin, and the tracing of all these points was so fine that Isabelle felt the desire to reach out the back of her hand and run her fingers down the length of her face. Her loose hair lingered upon her shoulders in a bramble, and her disregard for its provocative dishevelment made Isabelle burn with self-doubt for keeping her own confined within her bonnet.
“And this is Elsy,” Clementine said.
How had she missed the child at the woman’s feet? The girl was quiet, no more than two or three, and stared up at Isabelle with a captivating innocence, all eyes—her mother’s eyes.
“Hello, Elsy,” Isabelle said, waving.
The child looked back cautiously, holding to her mother’s leg, and said “Hi” in a small voice.
“She’s just about to nap,” Clementine said.
“I’m sorry to intrude as I have. This shouldn’t take long.”
“You’re here, now.”
They sat down at the dining-room table, and Clementine clasped her hands together, still wary.
“Mama, mama,” the child said.
Her mother grabbed a toy from the ground, handed it to the child, and led her to a space near the bed, then returned to Isabelle.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Walker?”
Of all the times to lose one’s train of thought. Yet Isabelle could not figure where to begin. Their only commonality was such a vulgar one, and her wish to be polite was so overwhelming, that she felt reluctant to mention her reason for stopping in. She sat there staring at the table, as though studying the basket of fruit she’d placed there, and was immensely relieved when Clementine spoke first.
“George talks of you,” she said. “Whenever he stops by.”
There it was. His name from her mouth. This by itself was gratifying, since to hear her say that one word was an admission. But although the honesty—the confirmation—was strangely comforting, the mention of George by someone who was so familiar with him, and yet so distant to Isabelle, unsettled her further.
“He has great respect for you,” Clementine went on. “A deep fondness.”
It did not sound ironic, but it was difficult to take it any other way.
“My husband harbors little sentiment,” Isabelle said. “But it’s nice to know he makes his love clear when he is wi
th you, at least.”
Clementine lowered her head, the light of the lamps softening her features.
“What I said sounded wrong,” she said. “This is…new ground. I have had wives come see me before, but never have I entertained them.”
“Yet you let me in.”
“I have an affinity for George. He’s a kind man. Caring.”
Isabelle sneered. “I’m sure you say that in regard to all the men you see.”
“Mrs. Walker—” Clementine raised her hand from the table and placed it back down. “I’m not working right now, and I have no incentive to comfort you. What I’m doing you is a favor. My time is valuable. The only thing I ask is that you respect me by taking me at my word.”
The roast was hissing, the room at a boil, and Clementine seemed awfully cooler than Isabelle in the moment.
“I apologize for my tone,” Isabelle said, taking a breath to calm herself.
“It’s understandable. But you must get to the point now.”
There was another pause. Then Isabelle’s voice came out low, empty, and quick.
“What does he ask of you?”
“Here we are,” Clementine said, as though she’d been waiting for those exact words. “George and I have never done anything untoward. Physical touch…it does not seem to interest him.”
Isabelle was able to look up then. She lingered on Clementine’s gaze, her careful charm, the quiet in her eyes, and finally saw behind her beauty the guarded reserve of magnetism that lay hidden within her. It was surely what made them come to her, and then, in the days afterward, come back again.
“George is more a friend than anything. He likes to sit bedside and talk. Of you and your son. Those two brothers he works with. His past. He’s very chatty if given an opening.”
“Now that does sound like George.”
“He can go on. Yet he always respects my time. Although he pays like the others, he’s always asking after Elsy, and requests I put it toward her upbringing. Which is where all my money goes anyway.”
The Sweetness of Water Page 23
