September 23, 1951
Margaret and George finally left this morning. The children were devastated. It’s so funny to me how much they can change their minds in just a week’s time. Martha was so suspicious of Carolyn when they first arrived, but today she spent the whole morning clinging to the maid’s skirt and wailing at me—but not Margaret?—to let Carolyn stay a while longer. That set Henry off, and then both of them were crying and begging and trying to reach for Carolyn from Margaret’s arms. Margaret thought it was sweet. I just wanted the screaming to stop.
William thought this visit from Margaret would do me some good, and for once we were in agreement. But my mind has never been more in shambles than it is now. “Now, now, Constance, you know that everything worked out just as it should have, and things fell into place, as things always do. Stop acting like you’re the victim of some tragedy. You’re better off with William, anyway.” God, that’s exactly what Margaret told me each time I tried to confide in her. She never understands, nor does she ever attempt to. But life is easy for her. George is the perfect gentleman with an admirable career, and she absolutely adores Carolyn. A good little wife and a good mother. Exactly what Father wanted both of us to be.
“Things” certainly fell, but they pelted me like hail, hurtling toward the earth and leaving gashes in their wake. And then they fell just shy of their marks. It makes my skin prickle and my neck shiver to see everything so close to where it’s supposed to be, but just ever so slightly off. The whole space feels off-kilter, the crooked sofa slanting sideways and limping upon the carpet like it’s missing a leg, the miserable lamp shuddering forward, away from its spot in the corner with each stroke of electricity up its spine. But am I supposed to rearrange these objects, soothe their pain with a gentle hand, fix everything as I’m supposed to know how? Or are the floor and ceiling themselves tilted, meaning any action on my part would be futile?
There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to do any of the rearranging, a part of me that would rather burn the room to the ground and build a new one from scratch. But how many times can one run away before one needs to burn down the world itself? How long until one drowns in the flames?
Or worse, what would I do if, after the smoke cleared away and the last embers fluttered before me, the walls were still there? An empty room, a tilted ceiling, me at the center, askew.
It doesn’t matter what Margaret thinks she knows. The truth is, nothing fell into place, and I’m stuck here, trapped with the crooked sofa and the miserable lamp, pounding my fists against the door on some days and sitting in the corner on other days, head bowed in silence. Some days, I long for visitors. I go calling for them, begging them to come and see me. Some days, I’d even settle for William and the children as a distraction.
Other days, I ignore the sounds of their incessant knocking, of those childish fists pattering against the wood and scratching the doorknob. I keep silent, determined to convince them that I’m not here, even as they can look through the murky window and see me pretending to be invisible. They see my name plastered across the door, hastily scrawled on tape and stuck up, regally printed and etched into a plaque on the wall, celebrating me as a distinguished resident of this prison.
This prison reeks of me, is unmistakably me, and they continue to follow me around like stray dogs, pawing at my legs and tugging on my skirt. They continue to remind me that they exist, to reinforce my own existence. They don’t seem to care that I’ve been ordered to be here, that I cannot leave, that the door will not budge. But they won’t even let me have this room to myself either, nor will they allow me more than a few moments of privacy. Already, I can hear Martha screaming from downstairs, Henry no doubt having yanked on one of her braids again. Maybe five more minutes will pass, and then the maid will come tottering upstairs and add her frantic pounding to the chaos. Never a moment’s peace. Never a chance to be left in complete silence with my thoughts. All day they require me, all day they want someone to brush away their tears, to hold their hands and listen. But not one wishes to return the favor.
Here comes the maid now.
—
Quiet. It was far too quiet.
A glimpse of evening dawned from behind the icy clouds, the sun straining to reach around and trace a finger along the rippling water, staining its steely surface with a smear of bright red. Two seagulls flew overhead, but they murmured to each other in hushed croons, as if unwilling to divulge their secrets. Simon wished they would scream.
He wandered away from the winding path and into the overgrown grass, wizened hands tucked securely into his pockets and shaggy gray hair smothered under his cap. He began whistling a tune in time to his steps as he lumbered along, focusing on each note as he tried to blink away those unceasing thoughts of dusty green eyes. The dense cold wind from the past few days had finally died down a bit, ebbing away till it was just a soft caress against his rugged skin. He walked a few more paces toward a squat tree with a heavy trunk and branches that reached unsuccessfully for the feathery tips of the grass. One hand braced against the rough bark, he carefully lowered himself, keeping as much weight off his left leg as possible and then quickly straightening it once he was seated. Far away from him, near the water’s edge, a couple was sitting shoulder to shoulder, propped up by their arms behind them. The man whispered something to his partner, and she let out a laugh that seemed like it should have carried across the grass yet evaded him. A shy breeze came slinking through the tree, and the leaves shushed each other with a sound like a gentle spring rain. One of the seagulls, now just a speck in the distance, cried a farewell that Simon barely caught before the breeze snatched it away with haste, hurrying off to fly alongside it.
He rolled his shoulders back and leaned a little more heavily against the tree, continuing to whistle away as he watched the sullen waves in the distance, their smooth expanse sliced with exact precision by the deepening red light, the sky fading away beneath a fresh carpet of clouds. A storm seemed nearby, and he hadn’t been planning on staying for too long, finding the riverside eerily quiet. But the temperature was just right, the air clean, his brown jacket warm, the grass a sweet companion that brushed against his hand and threaded through his fingers, the wind whispering quiet nothings in his ear, the tree curling around him protectively in a shielding embrace, and sleep wrapped its hand around his ankle, pulling him along even as he fought to keep his eyes open, pulling him away far over the horizon…
He was back in the sitting room of the Sinclair manor, pacing nervously as Constance spoke to her father in his upstairs office. If he strained his eyes, he could just make out the specter of Charles Sinclair’s voice gracefully drifting down the polished staircase, the quiet notes of Constance’s reedy pitch clinging to its underbelly. But despite his best efforts to decipher the full-bodied tone of Mr. Sinclair, who was probably gesturing in circles with his right hand and stroking his clean-shaven chin with the other, he could not claw past the taunting of those glassy whispers.
Simon let out a weary puff of resignation that wordlessly dissipated past the elegant cream wallpaper, and he turned to observe his hazy reflection in the large window overlooking the western gardens. His graying hair had begun to brush his shoulders, but he had combed it neatly so that it shone a charming silver in the warm lamplight, perfectly complimenting his dark blue tie. The normally gaunt lines of his face were smoothed out, save for his crow’s feet, giving him the good-natured appearance of a man who laughed well.
The door to Mr. Sinclair’s office opened, and the man’s voice came booming out. “Let us see the boy, then. Bring him up.” Simon turned and watched the young man pacing about the room come to a sudden stop, his dark blue tie swishing against his chest and his deep chestnut hair glinting ochre as he gazed toward the stairs with bated breath. A quick step came fluttering down, and Simon craned his neck to get a glimpse of the newcomer, but several invisible hands firmly gripped his shoulders and pulled him outside the window where the view was just cut short by the corner of the drapes, the mud from the flower bed seeping into the helms of his pants and cementing his shoes in place.
“Simon! Come quick!” a muffled voice called. A woman appeared at the bottom of the stairs, her face obscured by a veil of straight brown hair. The young man hurried to meet her, taking both of her hands and squeezing them affectionately, drawing her alongside him as he made to climb. Simon pressed his cheek desperately against the glass, hands leaving smudges as he raked his fingernails down with a high-pitched whine.
Then, the woman suddenly whirled to look out the window, fixing her faded green eyes directly on his face, her lips parted in surprise. Simon stared back, frozen, wide-eyed, struggling to form her name and wheezing from his efforts. She took in his futile attempts, his matted gray hair and weather-worn brown coat. Her brow furrowed, disgust coloring her face as she gripped the young man’s hand tightly and followed him away up the stairs. Simon tried to pound on the glass, but a tide pushed firmly against him, the water sweeping him off his feet and throwing him far into cold waves that crushed his lungs as his hands scrabbled for purchase, finding nothing but slippery weeds that clung to his skin, weighing him down as he fought to keep his head above the surface—
Simon came to with a gasp as a large drop of water landed squarely in his eye. He shielded his face as he squinted around him. There was no sign of the sun nor the couple, just a current of fog and rain obscuring the riverside. The dirt around the base of the tree had turned sticky with mud, clumps of it clinging to the grass sprouting through his fingers. Leaning against the tree once more, he pushed himself up onto his feet and readjusted his sopping cap.
As he trudged home, one hand braced on top of his head to keep his cap from flying away, his thoughts swam with images of Mr. Sinclair’s disdainful frown from eleven years ago and the way he sneered as he took in Simon’s best blue tie and his borrowed suit jacket that extended past his shoulders. But as hard as he tried to recall the voice from his dream, no sound came from Mr. Sinclair, even as his mouth moved like an actor from a silent film. Even Constance’s voice had begun to fade from his memory, sounding as if she was murmuring to him amidst tumultuous waves that snatched her words and drowned them before they could reach him. As much as he hadn’t wanted to think about her for the past five years, he was struck with a sudden longing to hear her once more, to be reminded of that intelligent voice that had captivated him so fully as a poor deckhand in the sweet shop.
And then he remembered her letter. The last one she had given him. A letter that had slapped him with the full force of her rejection, a voice that she hadn’t allowed him to hear the day he returned from the war. He had been so eager to see her, only to be met with the face of her husband. It wasn’t the voice of the same Constance he had left in 1940, but maybe it would still carry a whisper of her. He tucked his chin into his jacket and pushed forward a little faster through the torrent of rain pelting down on his shoulders. When at last he crossed the threshold of his house, he stripped his boots and jacket off as quickly as his frozen fingers would allow and shuffled hurriedly to the small closet tucked away in the corner of his bedroom.
Simon lowered himself heavily to his knees and scrambled about on the floor, his pruned fingers searching for the rough leather of the small notebook. He was sure that it was still in the briefcase he had brought when he first returned to Norfolk. Keeling forward on his knees, ignoring the throbbing pain emanating from his leg, he pushed aside wrinkled papers with faded ink and his once-neat stacks of rolled socks, until at last he brushed the soft, furled edges of the creamy paper. Securing his grasp around the tightly bound journal, he slowly pulled it from under the piles of gray cloth. The binding around the spine had worn away into a dusty brown, patterns of harsh scratches criss-crossing the bent cover. He carefully unwound the feathery strip of material keeping the book closed and opened it to the first page where a few slips of paper were still safely tucked in the front pocket. He leafed through the folded sheets until he came across the one at the very back, which he pinched and sidled upwards till it was free. The worn wrinkles decorating the expanse of the page were soft to the touch yet clear to see, threading outwards through the paper like etched veins in a leaf, as if the letter had been crumpled and smoothed multiple times. He slowly stood and unfolded the page, laid it under the light of his bedside lamp, and leaned forward over the table to read.
January 18, 1946
Dearest Simon,
I wanted to tell you when it happened. I wrote letters to you, so many letters, but I didn’t know where you were, or where to send them. But I wrote so, so many letters. Yet now that I’m writing the most important one, I don’t know what to say anymore. I don’t know if there’s anything I can say that will make this better. I suppose we’re beyond that now.
To put it bluntly, I had to marry William. It was not my choice, but it was what I had to do. Father wanted someone who would be able to take over the candy business after him, and what with Margaret already engaged to George, and his career in publishing…the responsibility fell to me.
This letter is not an excuse but rather a statement. I’m not trying to prolong any feelings of yours toward myself or taunt you. I just want you to read the words in my own hand, and to know that I did this because it was what my family required of me.
I think it will be for the best that wherever you are, whether you receive this letter or not, you do not respond to it, nor do you come to visit us again. That will only make it harder to let go, and it is imperative that we let go of each other. I have a husband now and children and a new life. I have a duty to fulfill, and I must make the most of it.
Of course, if I could have things my way, I would turn the clock back and beg you not to go off to the war. Maybe I would have been bold enough to run away with you six years ago, but that course of action is no longer an option for me. It would be incredibly irresponsible on my part, and I would be leaving behind people who depend on me, who need me to be there for them. You no longer need me, Simon. I’m not sure that you ever did, but you certainly don’t now. There is nothing I could do that would get rid of all the hurt you have suffered. I am a moot point for you now.
I wish you the very best in life, Simon. I am confident that everything will work out for you, somehow. You were always so charming and resilient. I’m sure that’s not something you could lose so soon…
Take care, Simon.
With love,
Constance
Valerie Tauro is a writer and musician with a passion for interdisciplinary storytelling. She loves listening to film scores, playing classical piano, and over-analyzing all the stories she consumes. When she’s not stewing in a project, she’s starting yet another crochet or knit work, making a new playlist, or gazing out the window.
Featured image by Ire Photocreative on Unsplash.
