Two Lives

27

She listens to them abusing him. Who’s going to cook for her? Who’s going to clean up after her? They don’t intend to watch her eating. They’ll none of them last a week at the mercy of a mad woman. All these years he paid money for her to exist in luxury: isn’t that enough? Insult on top of injury. Scandalous what he’s done. They don’t intend to lift a finger, why should they? So how’s he going to manage for an instant, the state he’s in?

‘She’s my wife,’ he says.

‘And we’re to go in trembling of her. Your own sisters at the end of their days, driven tormented with fear.’

‘It’s the way things are. They’re closing all those places down.’

‘You’re doing it to spite us.’

He is a seedy figure now, cigarette-burns on his clothes, his shirt-collars frayed, portions of his jowl forgotten when he shaves. Guilt has made him take her in; guilt made him visit her and pay a little so that she wouldn’t have to drink out of an enamel mug. He’d be ashamed of himself if he’d ever struck her.

‘Robert was buried in the wrong graveyard,’ she tells him when the moment seems right for saying it. ‘Will you help me over that, Elmer?’

He doesn’t reply, and she tells him she never hated him. She tells him she thought about him often during her long time in Miss Foye’s house. ‘Include others in your prayers,’ they used to urge, and she included him.

‘I’m sorry I caused you trouble,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry I made things worse.’