by Brandy Purdy
A new fear suddenly caught hold of me. Was my husband deathly ill and keeping it a secret from me? Had he married me for one last, desperate grasp at happiness, to experience the pleasures of the marriage bed before the cold, cold grave? Was I to become a widow when I was barely a wife?
If I knew what was wrong perhaps I could help, or—my hopes soared—my brother Holbrook was a doctor! I would write to him, or, if it was something particularly dire, one of those ailments where time is of the essence, we could hasten back across the Channel and consult him in person. Or maybe Jim wasn’t sick at all and he was merely being a tad too zealous about the preservation of his health? There was a name for such people, though I could not, for the life of me, think of it at the time, the kind of folk who fancied stepping in a puddle of cold rainwater would send them to death’s door or that every disease they ever heard of would soon be visiting them. But taking all these medicines couldn’t possibly be good for Jim and might even kill him. Arsenic and strychnine were deadly, dangerous poisons, and many of these medicines mentioned one or the other upon the label, like the several bottles of lavender-tinted Fowler’s Solution, staring at me with a label describing it as a delicate and delectable mixture of white arsenic and lavender water. The cabinet seemed to contain a vast store of arsenic in powdered form; one particularly large sack was labeled Industrial Arsenic. I supposed that meant it must be even more powerful than that routinely dispensed by druggists. And my husband seemed to have invested in bulk in strychnine tablets. I would have to write Holbrook and ask his advice on how to wean Jim.
I knew Jim had brushed shoulders with death a few years back when he caught malaria on a business trip to Virginia. Maybe that had scared him and sent him running to the doctor or drugstore for every ache and sniffle? Or—a new horror dawned on me—had he been putting on a brave face when the truth was that his illness had fatally crippled his constitution? No! I refused to believe that! He was so vigorous and vital, younger and handsomer than his years. Alexander the Great had had malaria; I read that once in a magazine somewhere. It was the kind of thing only weak, puny people died of, not robust and virile men like my Jim.
I put down the amber glass bottle I had been holding, something from America called Dismal Swamp Tonic. My hand was shaking badly and it rattled against bottles of Kilmer’s Swamp Root and some mysterious concoction called Kickapoo Indian Sagwa, with a proud Indian chief’s stalwart, noble profile printed upon the label, vowing that this Great Indian Remedy will cure rheumatism, chills and fever, loss of appetite, scrofula, and any disease arising from impure blood or a deranged liver. A cowboy grinned back at me from the bottle beside it: Doc Lone Star’s Genuine Snake Oil Rendered from REAL Texas Rattlesnakes for the Guaranteed Cure of ALL Aches, Pains & Diseases! This is NOT an INTOXICATING BEVERAGE but a REAL MEDICINE of REAL MERIT and PLEASANT to the TASTE! ONLY $1 a bottle!
One might as well use dollar bills for matches! I slammed the bottle down in disgust.
In my Alabama childhood, I had seen the traveling medicine shows and been entertained by them, the singers and dancers, faux Indian chiefs, and the bombastic spiels proclaimed by charlatans who were no more doctors than I, a little girl in pigtails, was. I had laughed, clapped, and sung along with the rest of the audience. But now, for the first time, I saw the danger in these potions. They weren’t just harmless sugar-water the gullible downed in the hopes of living forever, turning a puny milquetoast into a Hercules, or growing a new head of hair on a scalp bald as a billiard ball. That which promised to cure could actually kill!
And my husband was poised to become one of their victims!
Jim was a businessman and one of the most intelligent, well-read men I had ever met; surely he couldn’t believe all this! There had to be some rational explanation!
My poor head felt like it was swimming in syrup and my eyes were drowning in tears. As I tried to steady my breathing, my eyes fixed upon the bough of sunny yellow lemons decorating the label of Lymon’s Lemon Cough Curative ~ 90% alcohol derived from the oil and peel of GOD’S GOLDEN FRUIT—the Marvelous, Miraculous Lemon! For the cure of consumption, dyspepsia, neuralgia, and all complaints of the stomach, liver, bladder, kidneys, bowels, and organs of generation, pains of the teeth, ears, back, and extremities. A soothing topical for burns, cuts, abrasions, and animal bites. Also a fine flavoring for ice cream, jellies, custards, puddings, and pastries!
There was actually an address housewives could write to in order to obtain recipes!
“Merciful heaven!” I cried, wondering who would be fool enough to spoon cough syrup onto their ice cream or actually make dessert with it. I held on to that cabinet for dear life when all I wanted to do was push it over and smash every last bottle inside it. The trembling of my hands shook a bright red tin from the shelf and I bent to retrieve it.
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This was too much! I slammed it down in disgust, so hard I dented it, but I didn’t care. Inside my head I was screaming. I couldn’t stand looking at this smorgasbord of snake oil! I slammed the cabinet door shut and sagged weakly against it, sliding to the floor. I felt like Bluebeard’s innocent young bride, the happy girl in the fairy tale whose dream come true turned to one of horror almost overnight. He gave her everything—the keys to his castle, all the rooms filled with riches and pretty things. He asked only one thing of her—that she not enter one dismal little room in the cellar. But stay away from it was the one thing she could not do. She couldn’t enjoy the treasures and pleasures; she couldn’t stop wondering what secret was hidden inside that forbidden room. When she finally unlocked the door she found the floor awash with blood and the murdered, mutilated bodies of her husband’s previous brides, women just like her who also could not resist the lure of that forbidden chamber. Though Jim had forbidden me nothing, I had presumptuously rattled drawers and opened doors and I had discovered something I wished I had not, something far worse than a cache of naughty nude French postcards hidden in a drawer beneath my husband’s underclothes.
I slumped down upon that cold, hard floor and cried my heart out. I cannot tell you how much time passed before I finally forced myself up and slunk back to my room. All of a sudden I was unbearably weary. I hardly had the strength to move my feet. I walked straight past the maid gathering up my clothes from the floor where I had left them the night before, and crawled onto my bed. I just wanted to sleep. It was the only way I could think of to escape. I wanted to believe it was all a nightmare that I could, and would, wake up from. Downstairs, no doubt, the servants would be gossiping about “what a slugabed the mistress is” and ruminating on the slack and lazy ways of American girls. But I didn’t care. I just wanted to be left alone.
I prayed for sleep, but it wouldn’t come. I couldn’t stop thinking about the contents of that cabinet wreaking their horrible destruction upon my husband’s vulnerable innards. Whenever I closed my eyes I saw dead rats, the still tiny black bodies of houseflies done to death by arsenic flypapers, and Jim taking out his little silver box, sprinkling the white powder onto his porridge. My mind whirled with melodramas I had seen in which arsenic played a prominent part and accounts of murder trials I had shuddered over before quickly turning to the next page in the penny papers. But those people were bent upon working malice upon another, killing annoying pests, relatives, husbands, and rivals, not destroying their own stomachs!
When Jim came home I was still lying there in my rumpled nightgown and lace peignoir, one satin slipper on, the other fallen to the floor beside the bed, my eyes bloodshot and swollen red with tears. He ran to me and caught me up in his arms and began stroking the golden mess
of my hair, his voice frantic with concern.
“Bunny, what’s wrong? Are you ill? Shall I call a doctor? Can I get you something . . . ?”
“From your medicine cabinet?” I blurted out, violet accusation blazing from my eyes. “I’m sure there’s nothing a doctor can give me that you don’t already have to cure me of everything from singing ears to snakebite!”
Jim abruptly let go of me, recoiling as though I had slapped him. He stood beside the bed, staring down at me as though he had never seen me before. For a moment, I didn’t recognize my own husband; he had suddenly become a stranger, a chilly, dangerous stranger who made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“That is none of your business,” he said. “It is something you are too young and inexperienced to understand.”
“It is my business!” I shouted.
Kneeling on the bed, I reached out for him, trying to draw him close, to relax that sudden steeliness of manner and spine. All I wanted to do was banish that cold stranger and bring my beloved back to me. “And I’m not too young. I’m your wife, Jim, I love you, and you’re doing yourself no good taking all that poison. I’m afraid you’ll end by killing yourself! You must wean yourself off it at once! I’ll help you! I’ll write to my brother; I’m sure he’ll kn—”
I didn’t get to finish. Jim hit me. The honeymoon was over. I didn’t even see the blow coming. It was one more thing I had never expected from him. First, a cabinet full of poison, then, an even crueler blow. Oh God, don’t let there be any more horrors lurking undisclosed! One moment I was sitting up on my knees hugging my husband, pleading with him to save himself, the person I loved best; the next I was lying sprawled across the bed, with my head dangling over the side, bleeding from my nose and lips. My ears were ringing, and I was seeing what I thought for a moment was fireworks erupting against the ceiling. I heard a woman crying. It took me several moments to realize that it was me.
“Bunny! God help me, what have I done?” Jim rushed to gather me in his arms. He cradled me against his chest. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to. I swear, I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never raised my hand against a woman before! My brothers will tell you I am the gentlest man God ever made! Edwin jokes that I won’t even suffer the servants to use flypapers! It will never happen again, I swear, as God is my witness! Please, Bunny, forgive me!”
I heard his voice as though I were underwater even though his lips were right against my face. I cringed and winced away from the thousand kisses he seemed intent on giving me to atone for that one blow.
I closed my eyes and told myself it was all a bad dream and when I opened them my world would be all right. Tomorrow will be better, I chanted inside my head, over and over again, like a prayer.
Like a possum playing dead, I pretended to swoon. I was glad when Jim laid me back against the pillows and, after a few lingering caresses to my hair, covered me and quietly left. I didn’t know what else to do. There was nowhere, and no one, to run to. I couldn’t go dashing off to Paris at the first sign of matrimonial discord and throw myself weeping into Mama’s arms. I couldn’t let all those people who had disapproved of our marrying nod and say, I told you so! My pride couldn’t bear it. And maybe it really was the first and last time it would ever happen. Lots of people make a mistake and never repeat it; they learn from it and turn out the better for it. Time would tell, I assured myself, and if it ever happened again I could always swallow my pride, pack my bags, and go back to Mama. But that wouldn’t happen; everything would be all right! Tomorrow really would be better; I just had to get through tonight!
And somehow I did. Jim left me alone. A maid brought me my supper on a tray, but I didn’t eat a bite. For the first time since we had been married we slept apart, only I couldn’t sleep. I wondered if Jim was suffering as much as I was. We were meant to be happy together, not remorseful and regretting apart. Countless times I quietly rose and crept to his door, I cupped the bronze knob in my hand, I caressed it longingly, the way Jim always did my breast, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn it. As much as I wanted to, I just couldn’t turn that knob. Each time, with tears in my eyes, I returned to my lonely bed.
The next morning I rose early and morosely endured the maid May’s ministrations, performed with all the diligence and precision of a military exercise. She didn’t utter a single friendly word as she yanked my corset strings so hard it made my waist feel like a chicken having its neck wrung. It didn’t really matter, I told myself. I was in no mood for conversation anyway. So I stood in gloomy, self-conscious silence and let her lace me into a flowing morning gown of lilac chiffon with lavender satin ribbon trim that flowed beautifully over my bustle and crown my coiled and braided hair with a pretty frilled white breakfast cap with a spray of silk violets and dangling loops of ribbon. Neither of us mentioned my bruised and swollen face, not even when she stood directly in front of me pinning a corsage of silk violets to my breast.
With a stalwart air, I descended the stairs, bravely determined to ignore the stares and whispers of the servants, and took my place at the breakfast table in the conservatory, surrounded by leafy palms and gilt pagoda birdcages filled with canaries and finches. I had no choice but to show my naked face. I had never had cause to paint my face before. I still had the lustrous glow of youth about me, so I hadn’t yet acquired the accoutrements, much less learned what creams, rouges, and powders to buy to best hide the bruises, or how to apply them, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to send May out to buy them, then devote a hasty half hour to attempting to master the art. I could just imagine myself descending the stairs, head held high, face painted like an inept circus clown’s, and the servants tittering that only harlots, actresses, and fast American girls painted their faces; my stomach turned somersaults at the very idea. Having Bessie stare so that she almost overflowed my teacup was better than suffering through that.
Jim came in whistling one of Michael’s nautical ditties and lightly kissed my cheek. Feigning blindness to the livid purple-red plum of a bruise blooming there, ignoring how even the featherlight touch of his lips made me wince, he told me how beautiful I looked. I smiled bravely at him across the breakfast table and watched as he took the familiar silver box from his breast pocket and liberally sprinkled the white powder I now knew was arsenic onto his porridge and into his tea.
Jim smiled and reached for my hand. “I daresay you would be horrified, my darling Bunny, if you knew that right now I am taking enough arsenic to kill you.”
He was right. I couldn’t hide it; I was horrified. I wanted to leap up and overturn the breakfast table. Death was floating in his teacup, dangling from his spoon; how could he make a jest of it?
He took a sip of his tea and smiled at me. “Yes, I can see by your face you are.” He took a heaping spoonful of his porridge. “But you mustn’t worry; I know what I am doing, better, I daresay, than most doctors. My medicine makes me stronger, and I am a better man for it.”
I nodded wanly and forced a fragile smile and, like a dutiful wife, offered my husband some marmalade for his toast, while expecting that at any moment he would gasp, clutch his chest, and fall over dead before I could even scream for help. But I was afraid to speak up. I couldn’t shake the memory of the blow he had struck me. Privately I didn’t think anything used to poison rats could be good for a human being to ingest, but I bit my tongue and strained my trembling lips into what I hoped was a convincing smile. The truth was I wanted the fairy tale back, to don a smiling mask and dance through the days as if in a giddy masquerade. I didn’t want the ugly truth to write his name on my dance card. I had already begun running. I disliked confrontations. I didn’t know how to be brave. I was never what you would call an assertive person; my spine was more like a licorice whip than a steel rod.
After Jim had gone I sat down at my lovely little Louis XV writing desk, with its drawers inlaid with sky-blue-stained mother-of-pearl, and wrote a long letter to Mama. When I was finished, I rang for the maid and gave it
to her to mail.
A few moments later Mrs. Grant, the housekeeper, returned with my letter. It was then that I discovered that before departing for his office Jim had instructed that no letter of mine was to be dispatched without his first having read it. It was for my own good, Mrs. Grant explained, lest I write anything hasty I might regret in the heated aftermath of a marital spat. I was a young bride, and a highly emotional one at that, and might not realize how easily these things were blown out of all proportion.
“All couples quarrel, and the first tiff feels like the end of the world, if I may take the liberty of saying so, ma’am,” Mrs. Grant, cool as a cucumber and sour as a pickle, volunteered.
Fighting to hold back my anger, I snatched my letter and dismissed her.
With furious fingers I shredded it, ripping it until not even one word could be read, before tossing the fragments like snowflakes onto the fire; the flames, it seemed, were the only ones I could confide in and trust to keep my secrets safe and private.
I was trapped, like a wild animal caged in a zoo, and I didn’t like it. I kept to my room all day, pacing, imagining the walls closing in on me, and feeling like I couldn’t breathe. I’m afraid I spoke rather sharply to the maid when she knocked and offered luncheon.
When Jim came home he had a surprise for me. He was carrying an object draped in a sky-blue blanket. He sat it on the floor and, like a magician, whisked off the blanket to reveal a basket in which a fluffy white kitten with a blue satin bow tied around her neck lay curled in a nervous little ball. I squealed with delight. I had always adored cats, and now I had a little beauty of my very own.
“Oh, Jim!” I cried as I knelt and gathered her tenderly against my breast as Jim explained, in words similar to Mrs. Grant’s, why he had felt compelled to temporarily—how curious that Mrs. Grant had left that word out!—censor my correspondence.
