by Sophie Jaff
Her rescue is executed with astonishing speed. I am left standing, cup in hand. I watch as Bertha the Mouse Wife is ushered into the group, watch how they move over to make room for her. I know that, if it weren’t for me, Mistress Faye and her lot would have taken their time, been slower to welcome Bertha to their circle. After all, she is still a stranger. But even a stranger must be protected. Even a stranger must be warned.
The women gather in. Any moment now they’ll tell Bertha why they rescued her. Why she must never speak with me. It will be Mistress Faye, or Mistress Bigge, or the old crone Webb who will tell her all about the night I was born. How the heavens flashed with light and rolled with thunder, how the wind wailed and the sleet sliced like daggers. How the pigs screamed and the horses bucked and the dogs howled in despair. How grown men shook in their boots as women shrieked and tore their hair out by the roots, convinced that the Day of Judgment was upon them. How the midwife who had delivered me was found dead the next day, her black hair turned white as snow, her face frozen with horror.
Then they will tell of my mother, Isobel, whom they had all adored. And of her fate.
Even when I was a little girl, she would take me foraging in the wood south of the village for wild mushrooms. On the day that began no different from all the others, she and I had set out for wood ears and slippery jacks and scarlet hoods. Nightfall came, but brought neither of us home with it. My father led a search party of village men, and it was he who first discovered my mother’s body, near dawn, at the far edge of the wood. She was naked and ravaged. Her throat had been sliced from ear to ear. Most fearsome of all, intricate symbols had been engraved deep into her flesh. They could find no sign of me. They said that my father’s face was an open grave of sorrow. His neighbors could barely look at him, so terrible was his anguish.
Three days later, I returned, crusted with dirt, loam and leaves in my hair, but nary a scratch upon my body. My father wept; then he pleaded with me for my story. Who had attacked us and killed my mother and why had I escaped? They say that I would not speak, but in truth I could not speak, for I remembered nothing.
I still do not remember.
After that, the other children in the village would not play with me. Instead, they ran and hid, the older ones behind the hedges, the younger back to their mothers’ skirts. Their parents shuddered when they saw me. Even my father was too sore of heart to look upon me. I was a reminder of the evil done unto my mother. I had come back, and my mother had not. To the people who had buried and mourned her, I was a reminder that the world was not safe. I was a lonely, pitiful little thing, reviled and neglected, my father still too steeped in grief to care for me.
It was Father Aiden who found me in the long grass outside his cottage, eavesdropping on the lessons he gave to the sons of wealthier merchants. He must have thought my passion to learn curious, although it was the attention he lavished upon the students that I craved. He decided to teach me the rudiments of reading and writing, I am sure for his own amusement rather than a true desire to help. After all, he soon began to teach me other lessons too, his gnarled fingers inching closer and closer. I would bite my lip and stare at the thin, swooping lines on the faded vellum, trying to withstand the indignities, but this betrayal grew too much to bear. I became a mongrel cur snapping and snarling at whomever came near. When my father sent me away to a nunnery, I am sure the villagers young and old sighed with relief. Now they could go on with their lives and forget.
How sorry they were when I returned.
I know the villagers can only speculate. How bad must I be for even the nuns to cast me out? What terrible evil could they sense? My father and Widow Clancy were to be wed, but after I returned she refused. It is no secret that I frightened her. I frighten them all.
At this point in the story, the Mouse Wife appears to ask a question. I cannot hear her, but I wager it concerns the fate of my father’s new bride. The older women glance as one toward the table of girls where Cecily no longer sits. She excused herself with a blush and smile only moments ago. After all, she is not used to drinking so much ale.
The women cluck and ruffle, a fierce brood of mother hens, protective of their charge. But even I would know better than to ply my wiles upon such a sweet and innocent girl. The village would not stand for it.
Surely the Mouse Wife will want to know of my dark deeds. The women will hesitate; real proof is hard to come by. Still, there are rumors; soured milk and sickened children when I crossed their path, odd and awful dreams when I looked in their direction. There are those who claim to have been stung by wasps, or wrenched an ankle, after somehow displeasing me. And so these women will talk on and on, their eyes growing bright with malice and drink. On and on and on.
I imagine what would happen if I walked up to them, jug in hand, to offer more ale. They would scarcely dare to blink, let alone shake their heads. For a moment I am tempted, just to see, but then I turn away. What is the use? Bertha is lost to me now. Instead, I head down to the cellar.
It is cool down here in the dark. I close my eyes and lean my head against the damp wood of a cask. Above me I can hear muffled shouts of laughter, the pounding feet of the graceless dancers. I wait for my flushed cheeks to cool, for the sour taste at the back of my throat to subside. I still see their spiteful faces shining in the firelight, hear their endlessly wagging tongues.
“Mother,” I whisper. “Mother.”
It would be a relief to cry, but I hardly ever do, and have not since I was a little girl. Not since that night. What is the use in crying? Still, if tears do come, no one will hear me. I am safe in the cellar.
There’s a noise. Not the scrabble of rats, but a strange ruffling, panting sound. I peer forward into the darkness, and can just make out the shape of a woman and a man in a passionate coupling. They writhe against the wall. With a small gasp I draw back behind the barrels again, but they must have heard me, or else sensed my presence, for they both fall silent. I hold my breath, willing even my heart to still.
After an eternity, I hear sharp, furtive whispers. The fun, for now, is over. One of them begins to ascend, and the light falls on the broad back of a young man as he turns his head and stalks up the steps like a tomcat. The girl holds back, taking a little more time to set her dress straight, to run a hand over her hair and wipe her face. She climbs quickly and nimbly, and then at the last moment she peers back into the cellar. I only take in a glimpse of her, but it is enough. Her narrowed eyes are hard as she searches for the intruder. It is she who should be fearful, abashed, and yet somehow I am the one crouching in the dark. Finally she turns again, and heads back into the light and laughter.
I stand, but do not move to leave yet. Instead I wait for a long while thinking of her cold eyes, the grim set of her rosebud mouth, her beautiful golden hair. And I know.
I have been seen.
3
Katherine
At four, Katherine is sitting and waiting in a diner.
The diner is nothing special, just one of those diners you can find anywhere in midtown Manhattan—lime-green booths, cracks in the faux-leather, dull Formica counters, a massive laminated menu, Greek salad, eggs any way you want ’em, a meatloaf special. So far, all Katherine has ordered is a cup of coffee, milk on the side. She really just wants water, which comes in one of those tall, clouded plastic glasses so specific to diners, but she has to buy something in exchange for her seat. Her eyes are fixed on the door. She got here early, 3:45. Told the office she had a doctor’s appointment, but nobody cared anyway. She’s only a temp.
At 4:04, the door opens and she sees him standing there. Dark, angular, somehow pulling all the energy in the diner toward him. He looks around. She half lifts her hand in an “over here” gesture, a little ridiculous with the place so empty, then puts it down again, unsure of what to do with her limbs.
He sees her and comes over, but hesitates a moment, as if he needs her permission.
“Sit,” she says.
He
slides in opposite her. He’s wearing jeans, a dark sweater, a light peacoat. She sees he has new lines; he looks tired, drawn, too thin. He bends his head down to study the menu.
I’m over him, she thinks in triumph.
A waiter approaches. He looks up.
“Coffee,” Sael says. “Black.”
The waiter lopes away. He’s seen this kind of setup before; he can bet no one’s going to be eating.
They stare at each other.
“Katherine.”
He makes her name a sentence in its own right. He smiles, and she knows that all is lost.
“Sael.”
“How have you been?” He asks as if he really wants to know.
She thinks about the nights she lies awake, the weight of worry squeezing the breath from her chest, her heart pounding in her mouth. The days of staring at computer screens but not seeing anything. Praying to a god she doesn’t believe in. Wondering how they’ll survive.
“Hanging in there.” Only by the tips of her bleeding fingers.
“Good, that’s good.”
“And you?”
“I’ve been okay.” He’s grave. “Some days are better than others.”
After these lifeless platitudes offered like limp bouquets, they sit in silence.
It’s clear he’s gathering his strength, gathering his thoughts.
“I wrote to you because I wanted to see you, I wanted to talk.”
She says nothing, only looks at him.
“I wanted to apologize for the things I said that night, for cutting you out of my life. I blamed you. I guess you can understand that. But some of the things I said . . . I was wrong, completely wrong. And when you reached out, when you wanted to talk, I shut you down. I wouldn’t, I couldn’t at the time, but I know that wasn’t right. I just didn’t know how to handle it. I’m sorry.”
She’s been waiting to hear this for so long. She’s not sure what to say.
“Can you forgive me?”
She thinks about a time they made pancakes. She’d burned two, but he ate them anyway, insisting they were good. The small kitchen was flooded with sunlight. He had pulled her down onto his lap, his kisses tasting of pancake batter.
Now he sits opposite her in the diner, a stranger apologizing.
“Yes,” she says. “I forgive you.”
The relief on his face is painful to see.
“I can’t tell you what that means to me.”
“It’s okay. I really do forgive you,” she says again. She wonders if she’ll ever be able to say anything else.
“It’s important for me that I told you how I felt because . . . You see, the thing is, I’m moving to England.”
Katherine just looks at him.
“I’ve been offered a position in London, and I’ve decided to take it. It might be time for a fresh start, maybe leave New York for a while.”
She nods, but he’s stopped talking, so she’ll have to say something.
“How long will you be gone?” Her mouth is bone-dry. She tries to take a sip of her water, but her glass is empty. There’s never a waiter when you need one.
“Depends.” He shrugs. “It’s all up in the air at the moment, for six months to a year at least. Then we’ll see how the project is going, how I’m feeling.”
Katherine has never really understood what Sael does, something highly technical to do with coding and computer systems. Something, apparently, that has him in great demand, and that pays extremely well.
You can’t do this, she thinks. “That’s great,” she says.
“I’m glad you think so.” He is earnest now, more earnest than she has ever known him to be. “I really wanted to talk with you.”
The thing is, he does look glad.
“It’s good to clear the air,” he continues.
Katherine smiles and murmurs something. She excuses herself and heads to the bathroom, passing a booth where an old man sits, engrossed in the newspaper.
He glances up at her approach. “Best keep it to one cup.”
“What?” she says.
“You shouldn’t drink more than one cup of coffee, it’s not good for the baby.” He seems lost for a moment in a memory, then comes back to the present. “Now usually you could probably drink two cups in a day and that would be fine, but I’ve been coming here for fourteen years and I know this coffee, this coffee is strong.”
“Excuse me, sir.” Katherine’s voice is icy. Her spine almost crackles it’s so stiff.
The old man is unperturbed. He smiles gently at her. “Also, it’s best not to get upset. It raises your blood pressure, that’s no good. It will be okay.”
He goes back to his paper as if nothing had passed between them.
In the bathroom she examines her face in the mirror, looking for any telltale signs, although what they would be, she has no idea. A maternal glow? A flush? The old man’s crazy. He must be crazy. But how did he know?
She braces herself for a further encounter on her return, but he’s once again absorbed in his paper.
Sael looks concerned. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” She tries to manage something related to a smile.
“You were talking to that man . . . You seemed sort of upset?”
“It was nothing, he’s a little eccentric.”
“Oh. So how’s everything going with you?”
Now that Sael has unburdened himself, now that she has given him her blessing, he’s eager to talk and share. Now he wants to know.
“Pretty good.” What’s one more lie now she has begun? “But it’s a real change taking care of Lucas.” She takes a certain, hard pleasure in mentioning Lucas.
His whole face changes. “I wasn’t thinking of that. Wow. I imagine it is. To suddenly be taking care of a little kid. I mean, I know you love him, but it must be overwhelming at times.”
Sael’s sudden, genuine sympathy makes her want to howl. Serves her right for using Lucas as a weapon. “It’s hard sometimes, but I do love him, and speaking of that, I need to get back to him pretty soon.”
“Where is he now?”
“With a friend in our building, but—”
“Oh shit, I should have come to your place, I didn’t think.”
“It’s okay.” She doesn’t want Sael around Lucas, not after what happened.
He leans forward. “You know, I wanted to see you. It’s not just my shrink persuading me.”
“That’s nice to hear.” Her face feels stiff, unnatural.
“The thing is, is that—”
You still love me and you want us to be together.
“It was important for me to know that you were okay, that you were doing all right.”
“So far, so good.” She wants to get out of there.
“So you’re okay, though? You’re handling everything?”
She hears the hum of the air conditioner, faint laughter from back in the kitchen. Someone, somewhere, is able to tell a joke, make someone laugh. It seems incredible. She looks over and sees that the man with the newspaper is gone.
She hasn’t touched her refill. The old man was right. This coffee is strong.
She looks again at Sael, the love of her life, the unaware father of her child. He is trying to move on. He is doing the best he can.
“Everything’s fine,” Katherine says.
And that seems to be the end of it. He has already deftly paid for the coffee. They’re standing up, slipping into their jackets. It’s not cold yet, but it’s getting there. There’s a slight nip in the air. The promise of winter soon.
“You’re looking well,” he says, finally.
“Thank you.” She remembers when he knelt in the moonlight. When he offered her now and forever.
They walk together to the subway. It dawns on her that this may be the very last time they will meet. She sees by the expression on his face that he realizes it too.
“So you’re really okay?” he asks.
“Yes.” What else can she say now?
“Really. I promise.”
“Well.” He bites his lip. “It was good to see you.”
“It was good to see you too.”
Unexpectedly, he hugs her. His smell, his Sael smell of clean skin, and the very Sael-ness comes back to her, and she is tempted to scream. No, I’m not fine. I’m pregnant, and I lie awake thinking about Lucas, and how we’re going to find another place, and I don’t know if I’m going to get health insurance, I’m lonely, I’m all alone and I’m frightened and I can’t do this, help me, hold me, be with me, take me back, love me again please, please, or just take me back, make it okay please.
Then he lets go.
“Well, take care of yourself, Katherine.”
“You too, Sael,” she says, and plunges down into the subway.
She doesn’t look back.
The subway is crowded. It’s rush hour, 5:20 p.m. Everyone hates everyone, and everyone just wants to go home, home, home. People’s faces are carved in stone with that “don’t fuck with me” look. The stout accountant and the hip young thing, the rumple-suited businessman and the wilted-skirt saleslady, the pretty jean-jacketed girl, everyone is pacing and tensing and waiting to spring at the doors, and the trains are packed, packed, packed. The whole of midtown is thinking of what to make or order or warm up for dinner, of how they’ll turn the TV on in the background and get sucked in by its siren song.
As the train she needs draws up to the platform, Katherine sees a car that doesn’t seem too crowded. She tries not to get her hopes up. If it seems too good to be true, it is. The door opens and she takes a small, tentative sniff, but smells nothing too offensive and so steps on. She needs to get home to Lucas. It’s not full, but there aren’t any free seats. She’ll have to stand.
After the third stop she begins to feel faint. She holds on tightly to the pole, but there are floaters in front of her eyes and the humming in her ears grows louder.
“Hey, do you need to sit down?” A nice-looking guy, dark hair, dark-framed glasses, green sneakers, a backpack, looks up from his iPad.
