Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

Postscript by Michelle Knowlden

Dear Mom,

That was rotten — sending me to the Brewster family reunion, knowing Tom and Emily would be there. You promised me a pleasant June in Kansas, and a journey back to a childhood of Gramps’ drugstore and fireflies at dusk.

I bet you thought it would do me good, getting over Tom once and for all, right? Well, the joke’s on you, Mom. Tom died two days after arriving. His ulcer acted up, and he bled to death. Satisfied?

And then I had to put up with the relatives, giving me sympathetic looks. Honestly, Mom, I haven’t thought of Tom Killian in years. That broken engagement gave me time to finish my MBA and start a business. If I’d married Tom, would I have a string of Adventure Unlimited stores? Would I have traveled four continents, sailed the Black Sea — following an egret from dawn to dusk? No — I’d be a widow, with photo albums and recipe books.

And Tom got what he deserved with Emily. She was a secretive one, with a streak of malice. Since we were kids, she’s lied about her Brewster blood — let everyone believe she was my first cousin when she was an adopted child of a third. I felt more kinship with your poodles. She played the angelic child with adults, but she flushed my guppies down the toilet when her mother wouldn’t let her have one. She poured bleach on Kate’s begonias when her own died. She poisoned the principal’s cat when I made the dean’s list.

When I was in college, she gave Tom, my fiancé, that look of hers. You know, the one we called her Emily Dickinson smile? Obscure but full of sly meaning. She followed Tom around his dad’s furniture store. She tossed her mousy hair and gave him slavish looks. She flattered him beyond his worth. She made him brownies from scratch, and sent him a homemade birthday card.

Okay, so I can’t make butterscotch chocolate chip brownies. If there was a mix for it, I’d give it a try. Okay, so I forgot his birthday. Big deal. But Emily took advantage of his hurt feelings and manipulated him into breaking our engagement. You know the rest. They married six months later.

Oh, maybe it did hurt at first. More ego than heartache, I suspect. Still, he was the boyfriend of college days, when dreams ran true, and always smelled of spring. Whenever I think of hand holding, and cloud watching, and sharing a banana shake at Gramps’ drugstore, I think of Tom. Whenever a parade marches down a small village street or when they hang up the first Christmas banner, I remember the way I looked reflected in his sunglasses. And I think of him standing near the holly at the old house on Stetler Street. And how I could smell late blooming jasmine when he said he was marrying Emily, not me.

But let’s be honest. Marrying Tom would have been worse than Purgatory — it would have been hell. He liked that whole business of the little woman at home, meeting him at the door with the evening newspaper and slippers. Can you imagine me in an apron? Spending my time in dress shops and salons, trying to look good for my man? Please. Emily’s the one who got the short deal.

I wondered that first night of the reunion if she regretted it in the end. Fifteen years later, Tom had put on weight, and his eyes — those lovely blue eyes — were puffy with fatigue and failure. I can’t tell you how happy I was to see how dreadful he looked.

He was drunk at the cocktail party, him with an ulcer, and wouldn’t leave me alone. Kept saying how sorry he was. Wished things had turned out different. Wished he hadn’t given me up. Good for the ego, but sickening under the circumstances. Emily retrieved him, giving me black looks. Remembering her awful temper, I hoped there wouldn’t be a scene.

While she chatted, her face remained rigidly pleasant the whole evening. She was as socially disciplined as her oft touched up hair. Knowing her as we do, don’t you wonder at the fury that whirred beneath the forced charm?

Reflecting on the guppies and begonias, I had a curious thought. Perhaps she murdered him with salsa or slipped lemon into his tea. Something acidic to tear that ulcer open. That night, alone in their hotel room, he died.

I wonder if he suffered.

They buried him yesterday. It was a sunny day, almost too warm to wear black. Emily looked smarter than a boutique mannequin. While we were praying, something made me look up. Emily was staring at the casket, smiling her Emily Dickinson smile.

After the funeral, Aunt Celia had a reception for the mourners. Emily sat near me and talked about Tom’s dad — about the furniture store that smelled of wood shavings and beeswax. It burned down recently — had you heard? Then she dwindled to silence, and I thought maybe my notion of murder was woven from nothing. Maybe she did grieve for Tom.

“Remember the Christmas play our junior year?” she asked presently. “You played the part of the Christmas angel, and wore a holly wreath in your hair.”

“I sure do,” I said. “That wreath scratched something fierce.”

“Thomas never forgot it either. He planted a holly bush near the front door of our house, and every Christmas he made a wreath for the angel at the top of our Christmas tree. Once I found him standing in the yard, stroking a sprig of holly. He had a faraway look in his eyes, and I knew he was thinking of you.”

“Now, Emily,” I said, uneasily. “Just nostalgia for our childhood, I’m sure. After all, he married you.”

“Never mind,” she said, patting my hand. “It’s over now. Let me get you another brownie. I made them myself.”

Guess you’re right, Mom. I’m getting too old for all that sweet stuff. Stomach sure is bothering me today. Aunt Celia told Emily, who came over first thing this morning with a pitcher of milk.

“Cousin,” she said, when I opened the door. “I heard you were sick. Let me take care of you.” And she smiled her poet’s smile.

P.S. By the way, I didn’t drink any of the milk. Only pretended to sip, not wanting to hurt her feelings. You know how I hate the stuff. I made her eat the rest of the brownies. Told her I baked them fresh, but they were Emily’s own left over from the reception. I couldn’t have her thinking I hadn’t collected any womanly skills in the last fifteen years. She ate four more than I did and left a few hours ago, looking pale.

I’m much recovered myself. This evening I called to invite Emily for a walk beneath the walnut trees, and to listen to the cicadas sing. She didn’t answer the phone, which the hotel clerk thought strange — no one had seen her leave her room.

I’ll call again later. But first I think I’ll wander by the old house. And maybe leave a spray of holly on Tom’s grave.