Alice Tilson Whitaker
Daughter, Sister, Wife
1865-1894
He keeps saying it, over and over, like a prayer or a promise. “I didn’t kill her,” he says, even when no one asks. They all assume his guilt now. They stand back and whisper as he walks unsteadily through the village. Talking to himself. Speaking of murder and innocence. It’s as if he’s hearing the voices of the dead, and possibly he is. Possibly he’s hearing me now, after nearly a decade of ignoring my every word, my every need. I hope he can’t stop hearing me.
“You killed me, Edgar.” I hiss in his ear and he flinches.
* * *
My name is Alice. It’s an unremarkable name, but it suited me. I was never an attractive girl, cursed with a nose too long for a face too round. My mother, with her finite capacity to comfort, referred to the protrusion as “aquiline.” In reality it was just big, bullying its way into the limited space between my eyes and my mouth from the time I was twelve. It grew with the same relentless aggression as my limbs, resulting in a fourteen-year-old gangly creature with skin and hair so white some folks in our tiny community assumed me to be albino. I resembled a snowy egret, without the grace or beauty. This made for an unpleasant adolescence.
My father, Dr. Wilfred Tilson, with no sons to treasure, doted on my younger sister Norma. I could never blame him for his appreciation of her. It was as if she had been sculpted by a God trying to compensate for his earlier artless error. That pride my father felt for Norma transitioned abruptly when his heavily browed eyes fell on me. No academic accomplishment—and I had enjoyed many in our tiny school—could change that. Despite the recommendations of Principal Newel, Father refused to invest in my higher education. He believed there could only be two options for daughters: we would either be married, or we would be a burden. There was little question as to which of those futures Norma would enjoy, if only our father could find someone suitable. I was destined for the latter.
But Father underestimated the desperation that can exist in a lonely man’s soul. Sometimes, all a man wants is the warmth of a woman’s parts and someone to feed him thrice daily. Even I was well-equipped to handle those joyless tasks. Shortly before my twenty-fourth birthday, a spinster by local standards, my father was approached by Edgar.
Edgar Arthur Whitaker, a twenty-nine-year-old farmer from Madison, had tried unsuccessfully for the hand of Norma. He had been canvassing the surrounding towns for months seeking a sturdy girl to marry, take home, and put to work. But Edgar forgot those requirements when he laid eyes on the sixteen-year-old beauty. He was quick to appreciate those large blue orbs, her hair the color of autumn oak leaves, and skin that seemed to generate its own soft light. But as lovely as Norma was, a farmer’s wife she would never be. It was ridiculous that a man more than a decade older than Norma, with nothing to show for those years of labor except a bit of tanned muscle, would think he could abscond with my father’s only prize. Even Mother, a woman who was disinclined to openly belittle others, was amused by Edgar’s stumbling advances.
It was a year later that Edgar, even more desperate now, turned his attentions to me. When he arrived at our door, I assumed he had returned to craft a better case for Norma’s hand. But my sister was giddy with the news that Edgar was vying for mine. She grabbed my arm and guided me out to the front porch where we could sneak peeks into the sitting room. There my parents and Edgar sat, civilly chatting over cups of tea. I was taken aback, considering how they had reacted to him the first time. I’ve never blamed Mother for her passive acceptance of Father’s decisions. She was a woman whose story had been written for her. She therefore must have assumed mine needed authorship as well. However, I was surprised, and even saddened, that she considered Edgar an appropriate penman. Whereas I had accepted Father’s displeasures with me, I had always thought Mother to be more embracing of my less visible attributes.
“He has a certain charm, Alice,” Norma said as we stole peeks through the curtains. Edgar struggled there with a saucer balanced on one knee as he sipped from a cup that looked ridiculous in his massive paw. “This is just like that book you love so much, the one by that woman.”
I was surprised that she would reference a novel, since reading was not her pleasure.
“You know, that one about pride. The romantic one.”
I laughed. “As if you’ve read Pride and Prejudice.”
“I haven’t, but you’ve talked so much about it I feel as though I have.”
I squinted through the curtains, trying to grasp what Norma must be seeing in the disquieting scenario that I could not. “And to which of the men would you compare him? Mr. Collins? He certainly doesn’t have the grace of a Mr. Darcy. And who am I to be? Jane? Lizzy?” I laughed again at her ridiculous premise. “I think you need to read more, Norma. In no way does this resemble the beginnings of a romantic novel. From the looks of it, I’m more inclined to compare it to a comedy, or most likely a horror story if it goes on much longer.”
Norma rolled her eyes as if it were she who understood the world more fully. “You’re too cynical, Alice. This could be your future if you would be open to it. Mr. Whitaker is a fine, hardworking man. He has his own farm, and he’s not so unpleasant to look at.”
“Really? Didn’t you all laugh at him the first time?”
Norma picked at a cluster of invisible lint on her gloves. It was her nervous habit when she was dissatisfied with the conversation. “You obviously misunderstood.”
“I think not. You did it openly.”
“No, Alice. We were laughing at me, not Edgar. We were laughing at the image of me amongst pigs and chickens. Could you imagine?” She giggled too ambitiously. “You must admit it’s an amusing thought considering how I am.”
“But you could imagine me there? Surrounded by pigs and chickens and all of whatever that entails?”
“Yes, I could. You’re good with animals; always taking in the strays. And you are a far more resilient person than I. Whereas I would be overwhelmed by the challenges, you’ll rise to them. You’re strong and adaptable and so smart. I’m sure there’s a lot to learn but you’ll take to it quickly. And Edgar couldn’t ask for a better companion. You might even be happy there. Anyone can tell that you’re not now.” She turned that lovely face toward me with so much sincerity and humiliation—whether it was real or feigned—that I loved her more in those seconds than I had ever loved her before. I glanced back at the scene that appeared to be developing into what could be my future. Mother’s smile was static as she listened to Edgar’s story. Her eyes widened at some distasteful detail.
“But look at him, Norma. He’s like an ape at a tea party.”
Norma joined me at the window and burst into giggles. She hid her face in a pillow. “You shouldn’t make fun of him while he sits right there.” She glanced back and laughed harder. “He does look like an ape though, doesn’t he? Still, you shouldn’t be laughing at him. He may be your husband soon.”
The reality hit me then. Husband. The word felt foreign, like a jagged bone in a bowl of stew. Norma lowered the pillow and smiled. She took both of my hands in hers, and the gloves’ fabric was cool against my sweating palms.
“You’ll be good for Edgar. He’ll take care of you, and you’ll help him to become a better man.” She looked down at our conjoined hands and smiled. It was an amusing assemblage: mine like long white anglers entwining the shorter and thicker clusters of hers. “I will miss you, but this is the best option for you. There may not be others.”
Norma had a point, although I doubted it was hers. She, and my parents by proxy, was probably right. There was little chance of exiting my limited life in Riverton or even improving upon it. I could plainly see the road that lay before me if I stayed there in Father’s house. I would grow old with my parents. I would take care of them at the end, and I would do nothing of significance beyond that. I would be Auntie Alice, a sad and pitiable woman. It seemed that a life with Edgar offered, at the very least, a possibility of the uncertain.
“You could make him smile, Alice.” She was doggedly enthusiastic, as if her future depended on the settling of mine. I suppose it did, in some way. Norma was approaching the marrying age herself, and possibly it had been planted in her mind that an older, unmarried, and unattractive sister would not make an acceptable impression for suitors and their families. It occurred to me then that she bore a responsibility that I had never understood, a burden to marry well, while I was allowed a modicum of choice.
“It’s one of your talents, making others smile,” she went on. “You’ve always done it for me. And Edgar has a lovely smile but he doesn’t use it nearly enough.” She shouldered me toward the window again. As if by cue, a smile did curl at the edges of Edgar’s mouth. But the reason for it was not lovely. Father had just extended an envelope to him, and Edgar’s lips parted into a crooked grin as he counted its contents.
There was no courtship. Edgar had little time or patience. The arrangements had been made, and the dowry had been accepted. My departure from my “certain” life was quick and with little pomp. The wedding, if one could call it that, was at home in the parlor, attended only by my parents and my sister. Norma was as lovely as always in a pale green dress with matching accessories. I could not be similarly described in mother’s starkly white wedding gown. She had insisted that I wear it, despite the differences in our shapes, and there was no time for alterations. It rose well above my ankles and drooped in places that called attention to my lack of womanly growth. But the whiteness was its most disturbing effect. Norma gasped when she saw me.
“It’s so…white,” she said, as if I hadn’t noticed. “You look like a ghost.” And she was right. The dress’s pallor matched mine perfectly, as if we had been cut from the same cloth.
What a grim couple we made. Edgar, apparently having come directly from the fields, did not dress for the occasion. He was outfitted in a tattered shirt, faded overalls, and boots that seemed to have collected a great deal of organic matter over the years. He did not arrive with a smile nor did he adopt one. As I approached him on what should have been our happy day, I could see his horror. He had clung to an unrealistic hope that on this one day I might be closer to acceptable. He had not expected my appeal to move in the opposite direction. When the pastor suggested that we kiss, signifying the loving bond into which we were entering, Edgar was still. He was like a child who had not received the gift he had been promised. I felt sad for him, but only briefly. I leaned in and put my lips to his. They were colder and stiffer than I had expected, and they seemed to harden beneath mine. It was to be the only kiss that we would ever share. For that I am grateful.
* * *
Our marriage, our arrangement if you will, limped along for nearly six years without significant highs or lows. It was a dramatic change from my life before, and in that way it was as I had hoped. It was not, however, a Jane Austen novel as Norma had suggested. I cooked, cleaned, tended to the cows, the pigs, the chickens. The cooking and cleaning came easily, since Mother had given me an education in both. The other tasks were more strenuous. My job was to keep the farm alive, to insure that the livestock and the chickens and even Edgar and I did not fail in health. I had never experienced that kind of responsibility—the life-and-death kind—and it was so overwhelming that I had no time to bemoan my circumstances. Every day was a challenge; it was a ritual of vigilance.
The care of the livestock was a task that required training, and Edgar was surprisingly patient with me. He taught me well, and I took well to it. There were many times during those six years when I felt close to him. He loved the farm, and sometimes it seemed as though he almost loved me now that I belonged to it. I say “almost” because he never expressed it in any way that I could qualify as affection. There was a tenderness there sometimes, a softer center that would seep through his integument. We would be delivering a calf or tending to an ailing pig and there it would be: a lightness, a gentleness, and that smile that Norma had appreciated. But the moment would be fleeting. As quickly as I noticed it, the softness was gone. He would pull it back and slam the portal closed as if he were afraid of it opening too far and swinging out of his control. Those glimpses, as fleeting as they were, maintained me. They gave me hope for more, and a reason to stay.
Each of us bore our responsibilities solely, and in that way it was a predictable life. Edgar immersed himself in his own work. He tended to the fields and dealt with the structural repairs, which were considerable. The house, the barn, the fences were quite old and in need of attention. He spent his time mending structures while I spent most of mine with the animals. We rarely spoke of our days.
Even the weekly coitus was enveloped by the predetermination of time, place, and expectation. Mother had advised me of that unpleasantness. She had warned me of a man’s weight, his odor, and his unnecessary proliferation of hair, of which I was unaware. I recognize now how close we are to beasts. Edgar would be a marvelous illustration of Darwin’s theories. There is no other logical reason for why a man such as Edgar should be blanketed with so much dark hair. It seems that he, and possibly all men, have one foot firmly planted in the genetic mire of another species. It would explain so much.
In Mother’s way she was helpful with my introduction to sexual congress. Of course I was aware of its existence. I was an avid reader, after all. But Mother was quick to point out that it was not the enlightening experience of novels.
“It can be quite odious,” she said, although she didn’t qualify it. “As well as messy and unsanitary,” again without details. “You will do best to relax and allow Edgar to do the work. Men like to be in charge, especially in the bedroom.”
It was a brief conversation, uncomfortable for both of us.
She offered one last piece of advice that was helpful. It had come to her from her mother, and she swore that it would “get you through the worst of it.” She suggested I memorize a poem, something to silently recite during the process. It was a distraction that she herself had employed. “It will pass the time,” she said.
“What poem did you choose?” I asked, excited by this new intimacy.
Mother paused, considering, as if the detail might be too personal. “I chose Love’s Secret by William Blake. I had always loved his poetry, and it’s a beautiful poem.”
“I suppose, but it’s quite short, isn’t it? Did you repeat it or did you memorize another?”
She flushed. “No. Once was enough. I only hope you are as lucky. And don’t worry. At some point he will get bored and seek other distractions. You’ll be fine.” She patted my knee and gave me such a loving look that we both teared. And that was all.
I was not a fan of Blake or any of those old men. I found my poem in the works of Adelaide Procter. A Woman’s Question. However, I treated her lovely words in a different tone than she had intended.
Before I trust my fate to thee, I recited silently, as Edgar thrust and moaned,
Or place my hand in thine,
Before I let thy Future give
Color and form to mine,
Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul
Tonight for me.
It was a long poem, but rarely did I get as far as the sixth stanza, my favorite, before the experience was over.
Lives there within thy nature hid
the demon-spirit Change,
Shedding a passing glory still
On all things new and strange?
It may not be thy fault alone—but shield my
Heart against thy own.
It became my practice to sing the final stanzas aloud as I washed myself with a good amount of lye soap and hot water. It was a ritual that became as much for my soul as my skin.
Our years moved forward in the way that a workhorse pulls its plow: back and forth, steadily trudging through soil and rock until it either dies or is put down. Except for the weekly coitus, we were like business partners. I did my job and Edgar did his. When we spoke, it was only concerning the farm. He left me alone for the most part. He had his own room, and I occupied the smaller adjoining one. When we were not working, I had my books, and Edgar had his pipe and whiskey. There was little conversation, only instruction.
It would have been unbearably lonely if not for Walter. I smile when I think of him. Whereas Edgar could have been likened to the dark, my dear friend Walter was, at least for me, the light. He owned the neighboring farm, a smaller one at seventy acres compared to ours at over two hundred. He was a vegetable farmer, and we shared a fence that was close to the chicken coop.
“You should wear a hat, Missus,” he said on that day we met. It had been a year since I had moved to Edgar’s and nearly that long since I had conversed with anyone. There had been no trips to visit Mother and Father at that point, and they would not visit the farm. Purveyors and buyers came through, but they always dealt with Edgar. And when there was reason to go to town, it was his job, as well as his pleasure, I assume.
I held a hand up to darken the afternoon glare. Still, I could only see a silhouette against an expansive white sky. “I beg your pardon?” I quickly glanced around to see if Edgar was in sight. He was not.
The man tossed something to me, and I managed to catch it before it landed in the dirt. It was a soft, wide-brimmed hat with yellow tie strings.
“It was my wife’s,” he said, as he lowered himself from the horse. “I seen you out here most every day. That hat will be good for rain and sun. A woman as pale as you needs protection.” He put a hand across the fence. “Name’s Walter. And I guess you must be the missus. Heard Edgar got himself a bride.”
“Alice,” I said. His hand was thick and rough, but it held a warmth, like flesh that has worked hard but has also been touched. He nodded and then glanced toward the hat which was nearly forgotten in my other hand. I released his grip, loosened the tie-strings, and settled it in place. It fit nicely.
“Ellen wore it every day till she passed on. Long time ago. She was my missus for thirty years.”
That was the beginning of our friendship. It started with a gift, and it continued that way, though his companionship was the best that he brought. He stopped by the fence once or twice a week, always with a bag of vegetables. In return I gave him eggs and milk. It was a secret exchange, since Edgar was not a man who either gave or received. If he had known of my friendship with Walter, I’m certain he would have ended it, one way or another. As time passed, Edgar had become a man who did not appreciate others’ joy.
I don’t know the seed of Edgar’s hatred and mistrust of the world, since I was not privy to his thoughts or his history. But in our sixth year that seed took root and grew. Although the farm was doing well by then, and Edgar was more financially solvent than he had been, he swelled with hate and misery. It was as if he blamed the world for allowing him a small slice of success but not the entire pie. By that year it became obvious that I would not bear children, and Edgar hated me for it. He was more attentive to me in that year, and not in a good way.
It was like living with a rabid dog that foams with hate but is confused as to where to direct it. Whenever I was within reach, a proximity that I learned to avoid, he directed that misery at me: sometimes with his hands and sometimes with whatever was available. I tried desperately to alleviate his discomfort, and hopefully to quell mine, but it was a fool’s errand. A rabid dog does not respond well to petting.
I wonder if the need to comfort is within a woman’s design. Since I had no children, it’s possible that I directed those instincts toward Edgar. There’s no other explanation for why I felt so compelled to make his life more comfortable as he made mine less so. I wonder if it’s God’s way of helping us move through our woman’s work. If I ever meet Him, I will let Him know that it was not a gift helpful to me.
“Perhaps the arthritis would lessen if we had indoor plumbing,” I suggested one evening in February as I ladled the hot potato soup into his bowl. He had been complaining loudly all winter about his aches, and he blamed the damp cold of the outhouse for aggravating it. On a recent trip home for Norma’s wedding—an event that was considerably more lavish than mine—I had spoken of his complaints. The plumbing was my father’s idea, and I mentioned that to Edgar, since he respected Father’s opinions above mine.
“He thinks that we can afford it now that the farm is doing well.” I said this in the casual tone I had learned from Mother, one she had employed when trying to acquire some new furnishing. I should have known better. I should have respected our boundaries.
He turned his face up to me, as if I had dislodged some mental blockage. His gaze was clear and nearly intelligent in its brightness. It reminded me briefly of those moments of tenderness in our earlier years, when we would work together in the barn and he would smile at some wonder of nature. But I had misread him. His face was like the sky when there is just a touch of sun before the darkness cuts across it. I saw that cloud pass through Edgar, and I was frozen by it.
“We?” He stood slowly, his face filling with the darkness. “This is my farm. Not ours, not your father’s. I’ll decide how to spend the profits. You ugly, barren, useless woman. How dare you speak of what’s good for me.”
The explosion was like nothing I had known, in man or beast. It was volcanic in its power, emanating from some deep place within him. His body seemed to expand and radiate. I’m not sure if it was he physically, or the power that swelled out of him, that sent the tureen of boiling soup into the air, tumbling and then covering me with burning liquid.
The pain was immediate. I ran outside, threw myself into the snow, and rubbed fistfuls into my face and scalp. My clothes held the heat against my skin, and I pulled at the fabric, tearing it away and pressing the cold into the burning areas of my neck and chest. My upper body screamed from the heat.
Edgar stood in the doorway watching me, saying nothing, clouds blowing from his nostrils like the breath of an angry bull. I continued to rub the snow into the burning areas, pleading with him to help. He went insideand I hoped, foolishly, that he would bring burn salve from the kitchen, that maybe he would feel sorry for what must have been an accident. But in a few moments he was back at the door with something in his hand. He threw a blanket at me.
“You’re so damn smart, ain’tcha?” His words were full of gravel and spit. “You and your rich folks. Telling me what to do with what’s mine. Well, you ain’t that smart cause I was already planning for it. I’ll be getting that indoor shithouse. But I’ll be damned if you ever use it.” Then he slammed and locked the door.
I spent that night in the barn, wrapped in a blanket and mounds of hay.
* * *
Edgar’s stupidity was only out-weighed by his pettiness. Plumbing, or a limited version of it, was brought to the house the following month, but only for one room. He moved his bedroom to a large section of the first floor, and in that area he had installed a toilet and a sink. When I say that it was limited, I mean that it was not as innovative as the plumbing in town, since we did not have access to town water. And Edgar was far too miserly to have a collection tower built. The plumbing that he had installed in his quarters required a hand pump, and I became the necessary hand. When Edgar washed himself or evacuated his bowels, I was in charge of the pump, which was located outdoors. Locks were affixed to his door and windows, although that seemed ludicrous. If I had needed to relieve myself within his domain, I would have defecated into his hat or urinated into his favorite boots, rather than struggle through a window. If Edgar had known me, he would have understood my creative nature. If he had known me, I would still be alive.
Fortunately, there was Walter. He never acknowledged the scars from the burns, or the occasional bruising—I did my best to conceal the evidence. We always kept our conversation light: discussing the animals, the weather, his deceased wife, his children who had families of their own. Only once did he make reference to my troubles, and even then he disguised it as a neighborly gesture, although his meaning was clear.
“If you ever need help, missus,” he said, looking away toward the fields where we could hear Edgar cursing a tired horse or possibly a stump that refused to be freed from the earth. “Help with anything at all, just ask. I’ll do what needs to be done.” That was all he said, and I pretended to accept it at face value.
It was so strange to have those two men in my life: one feeding me with joy while the other sucked it out as quickly. As unoffended as Walter was with my physical appearance, Edgar was always quick to show his disgust, as if I were a reminder of his failings. He had been burdened with an infertile woman, and there would be no child who would grow and lighten his load. He’d see me and growl something indecipherable through gritted teeth, not directed at me but more as an aside to some internal cohort, his invisible confidante with whom he now exchanged a constant grunting dialogue of anger and regret, even within the throws of coitus.
Those particular assaults became more brutal in the sixth year. They were administered with the foulest of language, if it could be called that at all. It was a degrading and vicious attack on my gender and my lack of adherence to what Edgar thought of as “womanliness.” That year he began taking me in the way that a dog takes a bitch, with my face shoved deeply into a sweaty pillow. With each thrust, he pressed my head deeper. I struggled for air while he groaned, swore, and eventually released. The time that it took for him to achieve that was, thankfully, briefer now. I could hardly recite my first three stanzas before he was up and gone to his room. It was as if the violence of the act was all he needed. He would finish quickly but with a torrent of hate, gripping me tightly around the neck and the waist, pounding and pinching at my back and breasts. It was like the assault of an avalanche: fast but destructive.
It was in that festering year, after countless humiliations and assaults, that I saw my future clearly, in the way that I had seen it before. Again, I knew there would need to be a change if I were to avoid an even darker path. Life would never be better for me as long as Edgar was in charge of it. I was being swallowed by his darkness, and there would be no end to it until one of us was dead. If I allowed it to go on, the dead would be me.
But in that clear vision I could also see a future without Edgar. It was a pleasant one that included the farm, my animals, and maybe even Walter. In the aftermath of such a lovely dream, I was left with a twinge of sympathy for Edgar. After all, no one would miss a man who neither gave nor received.
It was Walter who acquired the rat poison for me. I was down in the dirt one day, examining a chicken, when he bellowed out his usual, “Mornin’!”
I nearly toppled from the volume of it. “My word, Walter,” I said as I collected myself. “I should put a cowbell on you.”
“Sorry, Missus.” He smiled mischievously. He was always amused by the start he could give me. It had become our manner of play.
“Walter, why can’t you call me Alice?” I shook out my skirt and fanned at the billows of dust that rose from it. “It’s my name, after all, and we’ve been friends for years.”
“Wouldn’t be right. You’re another man’s missus.” It was a cultural truism that I understood but pushed against. We had repeated that same exchange dozens of times, and it bounced between us easily, like all of our banter. He served and I returned, back and forth like a flirtatious game of badminton. That day was the same. And then I brought up the rat.
“Walter, you know so much about farming. Sadly, I’m still stuck in the learning phase after nearly seven years. I’m concerned about a rat we have near the barn. I think it’s getting into the feed and making the cows jittery.” I asked him if he knew of where I could acquire something to rid us of it.
“Are you sure it’s rats, misses? Could be feral cats. They’ll spook the hell out of a cow, ‘scuse my language.”
“Oh, I’m quite sure it’s a rat. I’ve seen him.”
“Why doesn’t Edgar help you with that? I know he goes into town.” Walter clearly did not like my husband. His mouth turned down whenever he said the name. There might have been bad blood between them, one of those disputes that erupts between neighbors. Whatever the cause, I recognized his dislike of Edgar as a measure of his goodness.
“Yes, he could, and I’m sure he would, but the barn and the animals are my job, you see. He has so much to do already, and I—”
“I know, missus,” Walter said. “No need to explain. How big is it?”
“Very large,” I said, and I extended my arms in a best estimate.
Walter laughed. “Looks more like a dog, but I get your point. It’s a bigun. I’ll get the right stuff, not to worry.”
And the next week he brought me a ten-pound bag of it. “It’s good for the biguns. More thallium concentration. That’s what kills ‘em. Might take a while, depending on how fast he eats. And there’s probably more than one. You shouldn’t skimp on it. You want me to put this out for ya?” He quickly jumped down from his horse and made for the fence. Walter was older, nearly fifty I expect, but youthful in his movements.
“Walter, no,” I said and searched the horizon for Edgar. “I think I should do this. I know where the rat lives. And Edgar wouldn’t appreciate it.”
“You’re right. ‘Nuf said.” He looked toward the fields. “I won’t make it worse for ya.”
“Thank you, Walter.”
I touched his shoulder without thinking, as if the moment required it. I allowed my fingers to linger there for just a few seconds, taking in the texture of his shirt and the firmness of his shoulder. It was the only time I had touched him, except for that first handshake, but it was the same warmth I remembered, coming out of him and through me like water rushing into an empty vessel. I felt energized by it. The seconds that I paused there seemed to go on and on, and in that pausing of time I got a sense for real affection, like what I felt for my parents and Norma, but different. I felt like I was moving, running, and the air seemed to be rushing past, cool against my heated cheeks.
But I wasn’t moving at all. I was just there, perfectly still with my hand laid softly against Walter’s dusty shirt. He didn’t move either. We each stood like that, frozen, looking down at the earth and at our feet and at the fence that separated us. Old rusty wire and rotting wood. It was a fence that had been built fifty years before, built to separate two properties. I was both angry and grateful that it was still doing its job.
Who knows for how long we might have stood like that if our time hadn’t been interrupted. I heard the sound of hooves on the road and quickly turned to see the clouds of dust. “It must be a buyer,” I said, withdrawing my hand. “Edgar will want coffee for them.”
I turned back to Walter and noticed the redness that had climbed into his face. It was so endearing I couldn’t help myself. I leaned across the fence and kissed him softly on the cheek, lingering there for several long seconds, allowing that warmth to pour through me again. I was as shocked by the gesture as he must have been. We separated without another word or a glance between us. He mounted his horse and waved goodbye, and I hurried back toward the barn with the bag of poison, feeling an unfamiliar mixture of embarrassment and thrill.
* * *
You would think that poisoning someone would be easy, especially when the intended victim is a glutton. As exceptional a cook as I was, thanks to Mother, I had discovered early on that I could feed Edgar anything as long as there was plenty of it. When he pulled a chair to the table, it was with the intention of filling his face to capacity and sending that half-chewed mass down to his ever-expanding belly. It was a wonder to watch, but I had learned not to. I placed the food on the table and quickly left the room. When I started my routine with the poison, I would sneak back to the door and watch. At first I watched out of fear, wondering if he would taste anything peculiar. Later I watched for the pleasure, relishing that each meal was pulling him further from me and closer to his end.
I was mindful of where I put the poison, since I had no intention of killing myself. I was looking forward to a future, one that would not include Edgar. Therefore, I chose one source: his bread. I was not a bread eater myself, and Edgar could easily devour an entire loaf in a single meal. I mixed a half dozen handfuls into a flour bin that I reserved for bread. It was a messy task to get them evenly married. I was covered with the dust of it. Then I used it as needed, creating all of his favorites. He seemed satisfied, although his only method of expressing it was a grunt in a slightly different cadence than the ones he normally used to convey his disgust. I had learned to recognize the limited vocabulary: a grunt which rose in timbre expressed approval. My poisonous breads received many guttural accolades.
But weeks passed, weeks of passionate baking, and I saw no change in Edgar. Even his sexual releases were full of the same ravenous energy. His routines, rising early and in the fields all day, did not vary in the least. He was a large man, and possibly my doses were too meager. I doubled the handfuls.
It was a month after I had begun the process that Norma came to visit. Norma, a most unlikely comfort, was now a lift for my spirit. It had been nearly a year since I had seen her, now that she was married and living in Bangor. We melted into one another, and our mutual need was unsettling. We had never embraced with so much purpose.
“Alice, what’s wrong?” There was a slight withdrawal as she regarded me. “You look…terrible.”
“And you haven’t changed.”
But I knew her assessment to be true. I hadn’t noticed the changes until that morning when I was preparing for her visit. I was never one to spend time in front of a mirror, but that morning I had seen the dark circles under my eyes, and the blotches of red that travelled out of my collar and skipped in angry patches across my face. I had been fatigued for weeks, and there was pain in my feet that I had never experienced before, but I had assumed that it was all the result of my increased work on the farm—and possibly from the stress of my unsuccessful attempts with the poison. That had been an emotional drain in itself.
“Are you ill, Alice?” She held me at arm’s length. With one gloved finger, she gently touched the splotches and circles. The fabric felt cool against the heat of my skin. I closed my eyes for a few seconds and absorbed it. “Have you been around some poisonous plant? Maybe an insect? God only knows what horrible bugs must live here.” She glanced around the bleak kitchen as if the creatures might be lurking in the corners or about to descend from the rafters. “It’s probably spiders.” She shivered at the word and lifted her skirts from the floor.
“Probably.” It was cruel of me to poke at her phobias, but I was in no mood for gentleness. “We have so many varieties and they seem to be everywhere.” I began taking the tea, cake, and plates out to the porch. She hurried behind me, empty-handed except for her frilly skirts. Her heels clicked delicately on the floor that had only known the rough soles of work boots and mud galoshes. The sound was annoying, aggravating a headache that had been badgering me all week and was showing no signs of remission. After I had brought everything out and arranged the table, I settled into the less sturdy rocker and suggested she take the better one.
“Well? Do you think it’s from an insect or something more serious?”
In all fairness to my sister, it is possible that she was actually concerned for my health and not worried about the possibility of a contagion. I shrugged and pointed again toward the other rocker. She tested its solidity and checked around the edges for webs and nests before settling in.
“I honestly don’t know,” I said. “But I’m certain it will clear up soon. Now, may we please talk about you?” I glanced down and noticed that the rash had started on my arms as well. I subtly unrolled my sleeves to cover them. “How is your life in the city? And how is Benjamin?”
I didn’t care about her husband. He was an arrogant and disrespectful man. However, my head was pounding, and the obvious courtesies were all I could muster.
She removed the pins from her wide-brimmed hat, and then rearranged the dishes on the table so that she could lie it flat. She did not remove the gloves. I would have been surprised if she had. I hadn’t seen her naked hands in years, not since she was twelve or thirteen, not since either Mother or Father had referred to them as “manly” and “stubby.” The gloves had appeared shortly after, gradually developing into an obsession of colors and fabrics and, most importantly, disguise. How sad it must have been for Norma, after years of praise and adoration, to finally learn that she did, after all, harbor a flaw.
She let out a dramatic and weary breath, as if the action of settling and rearranging had taxed her. “Now,” she said, “You asked about my life. Well, in a word, it’s wonderful, truly wonderful. It’s so unlike the dreariness of Riverton. They’re starting a symphony in Bangor. An actual symphony. Isn’t that wonderful? I just love city life.”
“It sounds, as you say, ‘truly wonderful.’ And Benjamin? Is he wonderful as well?” Already I was looking forward to her leaving. I had forgotten how unnerving her presence could be.
She took a large bite of cake and chewed it slowly, indicating with an index finger for me to wait. Her chewing seemed loud, like the sound of hooves trudging through gravelly mud, plunging and sucking. As it went on and on I felt the first waves of nausea. When she took a long sip of tea to wash it down, it was like the slurping of a barn animal. I swallowed hard at the sour saliva that poured over my tongue.
“Benjamin is wonderful, of course,” she said, finally. It occurred to me that the large bite and prolonged sip had allowed her time to think. Apparently Norma had something on her mind. Ordinarily I would have congratulated her for it, but this time it seemed to be something for which I needed to keep my cynicism in check. She was worried, distracted.
“And now it’s my turn to ask. What’s wrong, Norma? Your note suggested an urgency.”
She giggled, but there was no humor in it. “And you call me direct? Apparently we can’t just chat like sisters do.”
“I’m sorry, Norma. It must be the heat. I’m suddenly not feeling well, so maybe we should get to the point.”
“Well, you’re right, it is somewhat urgent. You see, Benjamin has had some recent—how should I put this—setbacks. They’re temporary, of course, but still they’re troubling.”
“Setbacks? I wouldn’t think a man like Benjamin Taylor would have setbacks.” There was a hint of my uncontrollable sarcasm, but Norma didn’t seem to notice. My attitude was gradually being taken hostage by a thumping behind my eyes. All I wanted was to splash myself with cold water and then collapse into a long nap.
“Everyone has setbacks, Alice. My word, I imagine even Edgar has setbacks.”
If only he would, I thought.
“And speaking of Edgar, I understand he’s doing well.” She glanced around the porch: at the poorly mended screen, the missing tread of a step, the worn and splintery woodwork that needed attention. “But he’s careful with his profits, isn’t he?”
A sharp pain stabbed at my insides and I curled into myself, taking short breathes until it eased.
“My word, Alice, what’s wrong with you?” Norma leaned forward and rested a hand on my arm. “You are ill, aren’t you?”
I could feel the sweat collecting on my forehead. I wiped at it with one of the napkins. “I suppose I am. What bad timing this is. I had hoped I would have more energy for your visit today, but I’m feeling as though—”
“How long have you been ill?” Her interest was genuine and I welcomed it.
“It comes and goes. I think I’m just very tired after nearly seven years. Farm life can do that, you know.” I said this to the woman whose only job had been to marry well. The pain relaxed and I straightened myself to take another sip of tea. My hand was trembling.
“How long has this gone on?”
“A week or so.” I wasn’t quite sure. The stomach pain and the aching feet had only started that week, but the fatigue had been increasing for longer.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
I laughed at her naiveté. “The nearest doctor is in Skowhegan, Norma. What would you suggest I do, walk eight miles? I’ve never learned to handle the horses by myself, and Edgar can’t leave the farm just because I’m suffering from a little fatigue. It’s a busy time. I can’t be sick.”
“That’s ridiculous. Everyone gets sick. I’ll take you Riverton. Father will look at you. That way we’ll have plenty of time to talk.” Norma jumped up and grabbed her hat. As she stood there, holding the frilly thing in her gloved hands, I realized how inappropriate she looked standing in the middle of my squalor. She was like an expensive trinket that had been dropped into a privy.
“No, Norma. Please.” I reached toward her and saw that the trembling was getting worse. “Sit. It’s nothing to worry about. Edgar would be angry if we went without his consent. And I don’t want to bother him now. He has a lot on his mind.”
But it was I who was doing the thinking. It occurred to me in that moment that somehow, possibly, Edgar had been poisoning me.
“I want you to promise that you will see a doctor. Soon. Promise me, Alice.”
“I promise. Now let’s get back to why you’ve come.”
Norma relaxed into the rocker again and began rattling on about something to do with Benjamin and their home and their future. But I found it difficult to concentrate. My thoughts were full of Edgar. How was he doing this to me? What poison could he be using and where was he putting it?
“So it occurred to me that Edgar might be able to help us, just a little, and only until Benjamin is back on his feet.” She took another smaller bite of cake and smiled as she chewed. “Oh, Alice. I’d forgotten what a wonderful cook you are. This is delicious. I wish I had the patience to bake.” She dabbed at her lips. “Recipes are so tedious.”
What if it’s in the sugar, I thought. I could be poisoning my sister right now. I considered all the desserts and the gallons of lemonade I had consumed. Of course. It has to be the sugar.
“So what do you think, Alice? Could you convince Edgar to help your little sister with a small loan? Like I said, Benjamin is getting help with his problem so it shouldn’t be long.”
“His problem.” They were the only words I heard, and I repeated them to understand. My head had begun a rhythmic throbbing, and it shivered in my ears, as if I were bobbing in and out of a deep and muddy pool. I rubbed at my temples and closed my eyes. Shards of light ripped across the lids, each one partnered with a flash of pain at the back of my skull.
“Yes, you’re right. It is his problem. But it’s my problem too. I don’t know where else to go. Father won’t help any more. He says that Benjamin is weak, and he won’t throw good money after bad.” She grabbed one of my best napkins and patted at the corners of her eyes. It came away with blotches of pink and black.
“What—?”
“What do I need? Whatever Edgar will allow. I think a few hundred should help. It would mean so much, Alice. You’ll ask him, won’t you?”
“I’m—I’m sorry Norma. I can’t—”
If I could have finished the sentence I would have told her that I couldn’t understand what she was asking for. The heat of the day, my sudden thirst, and the pain in my head and stomach were consuming me. It felt as though I was being devoured from the inside, while my brain slowly dissolved. The world seemed to be getting smaller, as if my pain and I were leaving the shell of me behind.
“You can’t? Why can’t you, Alice? You and Edgar have all of this, all of this land and those animals. Half of this is yours. I’ve never asked you for help before.”
She talked on, but it was lost on me. A vital cord to the world was being severed. But I was keenly aware of what was happening inside me. My stomach churned and twisted like a sack of angry snakes, while my head held a small animal that had been cornered there. It was tearing and gnawing at my skull, searching frantically for a way out. Norma’s words bounced and echoed and made no sense.
Even now, from my omniscient perch, I am confused by the speed at which things changed then. I have no idea how long Norma spoke to that shell of me while I struggled with the pain that spread into every cell. Into my hair, my skin, and even my feet that throbbed against the bonds of old leather. Even now, I see it in a blurred sequence of moments that end with Norma standing in front of me, her expensive hat gripped roughly in both hands and tears running down her cheeks in dark wet lines. She is pleading. I can see that now, although I can’t, and couldn’t at the time, hear her words.
Whatever animal had been clawing at my skull chose that moment to move south. I could feel it racing down my spine and into my stomach. I could feel it writhing and pushing, searching for a way out. It hissed and growled as it explored the limits of my gut and then, discovering an opening, bolted for an exit. My insides convulsed, and a tsunami flew out of me and onto Norma, covering the gloves and the hat and a good portion of her blue dress in a flood of thick yellow with streaks of bright red.
* * *
Death by thallium poisoning is quite unpleasant. I do not recommend it. I was wrong about Edgar and the sugar. It seems that I was responsible for my own demise, although he is certainly accountable. If it had not been for his cruelties, I would never have touched the deadly powder, or inhaled it. I had breathed in a good amount of poison in my angry process, not to mention the quantities I had absorbed through my skin. I had handled it carelessly. My only defense is that I was blinded by hate, and possibly love.
Norma, even within the depths of her disgust and self-concerns, had tried in her own limited way to save me in the end. I was in no condition to argue with her when she nearly dragged me to her carriage and rushed us to Father’s, scolding me the entire way for not dealing with my poor health sooner. Father was quick to recognize the enormity of my illness and brought me to the hospital in Farmington. By the following day my hair started coming out in clumps, the vomiting increased, and the bottoms of my feet were so sore I couldn’t put weight on them. The rash increased and quickly moved in crimson patches across my entire body. I was dead four days later.
The autopsy was done at Father’s insistence. He was concerned for Norma, of course. He couldn’t allow his prized possession to be disfigured or possibly killed by whatever dreaded disease had taken me. Although he was certainly saddened, I think he was relieved to learn of the poison, to know that I had not brought some farm-bred contagion into his home.
Death brings with it a degree of insight. It’s apparent to me now that the size of the rat is more important than I had thought. And the cooking had diminished the potency. I, on the other hand, had absorbed quite a lot. Traces of thallium were everywhere: on my skin, in my hair, on my clothes, and in the kitchen.
Walter has been very helpful in the investigation. His memory, somewhat flawed and possibly fueled by whatever bad blood had flowed between him and his neighbor, was that Edgar had asked him for the rat poison. My innocent peck on his cheek may have flummoxed him into memory loss. It’s also possible that he understood my intentions with the poison and hoped to assist me now that my efforts had failed. What a sweet and honorable man. Whatever the reasons for his story, it was convincing.
Poor Edgar. He would have been better off as a bachelor. Men are so afraid to be alone, and when they are no longer alone they hate us for the intrusion. He’s awaiting trial. For the past week or so I have visited him, whispering encouragements that have had quite the opposite effect. He is a less powerful man now. After an entire life of having no control over my future, it has been wonderfully satisfying to have had even a little over his.
Death is a compassionate transition, not the sad and painful one that we are led to believe. We get to stay in the world for just a little while as we watch the remnants of our lives get packed into boxes or burned in un-ceremonial pyres. We get to wander about, checking on our loved ones and their grief. There was more of that than I had expected. I watched as Mother and Father blamed each other for their part in my marriage. For Father, it was more anger than hurt. He prattled on about retribution and shame, while Mother did her best to ignore him. She swallowed her guilt and lamented in private.
Norma has had too much on her mind to grieve in any way that could be assessed as sorrow, although it must have appeared as such to others. She’s been crying, she’s been praying, she’s spent days in her room. Friends and neighbors have brought her gifts of solace. But it’s clear that her mourning is more for herself than for me. Benjamin has lost nearly everything, due to an affinity for horses and poker and anything else that requires a wager and no skill. Luck, however, has had no affinity for him. I’ve watched Norma with true empathy as she’s considered her future. It seems ironic that the one she will undoubtedly choose will be the one I had been so afraid of for myself. I would love to console her, to let her know that a life with Mother and Father would not be the worst a life could be.
But as my time wears down, I have chosen instead to return to Edgar. After all, he had been, for a portion of my life, my master. I wanted to leave him with something that would demonstrate my feelings, some memento of our life together.
I am about to pass along a secret to you now. I feel as though I should complete the story of my life and death, and this is integral to it. It’s a secret that you will learn soon enough anyway, some of you sooner than later. You see, Nature is quite generous at the end, allowing us to let go without guilt or sorrow or worry. She allows us a sense of finality, something more than just the blunt end of life.
And the secret is this.
The most precious gift of death is the one we pass along to the living. It’s a lovely ability we’re allowed before we dissipate into the firmament. We make this last decision on our own, without judgment or suggestion by any deity or deity’s helper. It’s our last act, and then it’s over. No more wandering, no more spying, and no more whispering.
Every one of us, no matter our station or belief, is allowed to place a single thought into the head of someone dear: some image, real or imagined, that will remain with them until their own deaths. Most souls choose a special day that was shared with the recipient. Others lean toward the imagined experience, one that the living can feel over and over for the rest of their days as if they had actually lived it. It’s a lovely gift, or at least it’s intended to be.
The gift I initially chose for Edgar was not so lovely. It was not of our wedding day, as horrific as that day was. And there were no mutual hopes and dreams, no beautiful days that I wished him to relive, since we had none of those. No, the experience I originally chose for Edgar was the one that had dehumanized me the most. It was the one that had ripped my head from my heart and had reshaped me into an angry and vengeful woman. It was the one of him and me in the throes of coitus in that sixth year. It had been an important function of our marriage, and I hoped for him to know it as I had. But this time it would be his face pressed deeply into a sweat-soaked pillow, barely able to breath, pleading with me to stop. And it would be I who took him in the way that a dog takes a bitch: angrily from behind, again and again, relentlessly. I wanted so much for him to experience my humiliation and pain. It would have been a just bestowal.
But it seems that our hearts soften as the world releases its gentle grip. In my final moments, I have weakened toward Edgar. I have reconsidered that seed that had made him the way he was. I can now see that even he must have been a victim of some injustice along the way. So I have thought of something that might serve his ailing spirit.
Instead of that spiteful gift that would have tortured him and given me momentary satisfaction, I have chosen better. I am giving Edgar the memory of my friendship with Walter. I am planting in him that moment when I touched Walter lightly on his shoulder and felt a surge move through me like fresh warm water. And I am willing him the thrill of when I pressed my lips to Walter’s cheek, that joyous sensation of when I stood perfectly still, my lips attached to his coarse, warm skin, while my heart raced, with no restraints, through fields of fragrant wild flowers.
They are the most treasured moments of my life, and I hope they will give poor Edgar a small understanding of the wonders he has missed.
Clif is a visual artist and writer who has recently returned to his home town in Maine after spending most of his life in Brooklyn, N.Y. In 2017, he received his MFA in creative writing from Stonecoast at the University of Southern Maine. He is working on a collection of short stories and novellas titled “The Stones of Riverton.” They are fictional tales inspired by the gravestones in a small town in Western Maine, and they are based on the rumors of the questionable deaths of those who are buried beneath them. He spends far too much time in graveyards, and not nearly enough time with his sweet dog and best friend Ollie. They live in a small cabin in the mountains of western Maine. It’s a long way from Brooklyn.
