At the Water's Edge (21 page)

M
eg told us the young women at the Forestry Corps were so excited about the upcoming Valentine's Day dance that they had been reprimanded twice for their lack of concentration around the huge, engine-driven saws. I couldn't blame them. Several of the girls, including Meg, expected to be presented with rings, making their engagements official.

As the day grew closer, the lumberjacks' remarks became increasingly ribald. The night before the dance, one of them said something so off-color it turned Meg into a redheaded fury. She leaned over Rory, who flattened himself against his chair, and scolded him harshly, even as he protested—correctly—that he hadn't said a thing.

“But you did nothing to stop him, did you?” she said, still holding a finger in front of his face.

He glowered at her, but his arms hung slack off the sides of his chair.

When she spun and flounced off, her red curls bouncing, the older men at the bar gave somber nods of approval, and the rest of the lumberjacks—who understood that Rory had been reprimanded for all of them—went on their best behavior.

Hank leaned in toward Ellis and held a hand up to the side of his mouth so his voice wouldn't carry.

“Who's the tough guy now?” he snickered.

Ellis was too distracted to be amused. Not twenty minutes before, he'd excused himself and gone upstairs, only to return looking pale. I knew exactly what had happened. He'd tried my door and found it locked.

When I did the rooms that morning, I'd noticed he was down to five pills. I knew he must be desperate to get more and wondered why he didn't just come out and ask me, like he always did. Maybe he didn't want to ask in front of Hank, I didn't know—but whatever the reason, I was grateful because I couldn't have helped him anyway. I'd flushed the rest of the pills down the toilet.

On the day of the dance, Meg, Anna, and I went to special effort to dress up the front room because we knew girls would be coming in. We put linens on the tables, and Anna created something called “coalie flowers.” She blamed the lack of real flowers on both weather and the war, and instead put four or five pieces of coal in glass bowls, added water, salt, and ammonia, before finally pouring a mixture of violet and blue ink over them. It was a complete mystery to me how this alchemy would result in anything resembling flowers, but they were “blooming” within the hour.

We didn't have enough to put on each table, so we decided that Meg would herd the girls toward the tables that had them, and steer the men—who wouldn't appreciate them anyway—elsewhere. The job was Meg's by default, because Anna would have gone home by then, and I, of course, would be waiting by the fire for Ellis and Hank.

The coalie flowers were not our only efforts. Among the three of us, we'd managed to come up with enough eggs and sugar to make two glazed Bundt cakes, which were resting in the dead center of the wooden table in an attempt to keep them out of Conall's reach. The
beast himself was sprawled across his master's bed, watching keenly. He was tall enough to reach anything he liked if we turned our backs, but there was no chance of that. We would have protected those cakes with our lives.

Meg and I had given up our egg and sugar rations for the week, which were enough to make one cake, but then Anna's hens went on a laying spree. Because they lived on a croft, the McKenzies got chicken feed instead of egg rations, so their supply was sometimes iffy, but on this occasion the hens came through like champs. Each of the dance-goers was going to get a proper slice, instead of just a taste.

As Anna prepared to leave, hours later than usual, her mood deflated.

“I don't remember the last time I had cake,” she said, looking longingly at them.

“Don't you worry,” said Meg. “We'll put aside the very first slice, and it will be lovely and thick, too.”

“Thank you,” Anna said, still sounding glum. “I suppose I'll be off then. Have a grand time—and mind you, I want to hear
all
the details tomorrow.”

Anna's parents were staunch Wee Frees, and she wasn't even allowed to wear face powder, never mind attend a dance. Music itself was not allowed, except on Sundays, and then it had to be for the sake of worship only, and sung unadorned. The senior McKenzies were so strict they confined their cockerel under a bushel basket on the Sabbath so he wouldn't get up to anything untoward with the hens.

I understood Anna's melancholy, because I also wished I could go to the dance, although that would require an alternate universe in which Ellis didn't exist.

At least I'd be able to witness the prelude. I was particularly looking forward to seeing the reaction to the cakes, since I'd had a hand in making them. Although I'd only cracked the eggs and stirred the batter, I'd never been as proud of anything in my life.

Because we didn't trust Conall with the cakes, I stayed in the kitchen to guard them while Meg went upstairs to get ready.

She returned looking like a Valentine's Day dream, in a figure-hugging dress printed with tiny red hearts, her hair carefully arranged, and lips painted into a vermilion cupid's bow. Her high-heeled shoes were made of red suede, with pretty lace-up fronts. They had to be brand-new—I couldn't imagine suede surviving a single day in that climate.

I also noticed she was wearing stockings, and a smile crept across my face. She followed my gaze, blushed, and smiled back.

“What do you think?”

“I think Rory will be knocked off his feet,” I said. “I think you'll be the belle of the ball.”

“Well, at least I won't have to worry about so-and-so over there trying to lick the gravy browning off my legs.”

Conall's tail slid back and forth.

It was my turn to get dressed for dinner, but I hesitated. I knew I wouldn't have another chance to talk to her alone, and I wanted to say something about her imminent proposal. I found myself tongue-tied, probably because I was distinctly unqualified to offer advice in the marriage department. Eventually Meg saved me.

“Now go on,” she scolded, flicking her fingers toward the door. “Make yourself up properly. Tonight, more than ever, beauty is your duty! Even if it's wasted on your pair of Boring McBoringtons over by the fire, the others will notice. And your dress had better be fancy. And it had better be red, especially tonight! Remember, red is the new badge of—”

“I know! I know!” I said, cutting her off with a laugh. “I'll wear red! And good luck tonight! Not that you'll need it!”

I sprinted off before she could reply.

I made up my face as though I really were going to a party, and chose a red taffeta poodle dress that didn't look expensive, because it wasn't.
I'd bought it myself, off the rack, before Ellis took control of my wardrobe.

Finally, I used an eye pencil to draw a shaky line up the back of each leg. I wanted to fit in, not stick out, and that night, especially, I didn't want to steal anyone's thunder.

By the time Ellis and Hank came through the front door, their cheeks flushed with the elements and whatever else, the other side of the room was filling up.

“Well, would you look at that,” said Hank, coming to a halt.

The mood was electrifying. The girls, all impeccably groomed, were admiring the cakes, which had been presented but not cut. The lumberjacks also made noises about the cakes, but were really admiring the girls. I couldn't help wondering which ones were expecting rings.

Meg was standing next to a table of girls from the Forestry Corps. She leaned over to point out how the coalie flower had transformed since Anna conjured it into being, but I knew exactly what she was really doing. It took but a moment.

“Wait—those are real seams!” squealed one of the other girls. “How on earth did you get your hands on stockings?”

The lumberjacks murmured surprise, as though they weren't already looking at Meg's legs. Having been given an excuse, they stared openly, hungrily.

“Oh,” Meg said, shrugging coyly. “They magically appeared.” She turned her ankle to better display the back of her calf.

Hank and Ellis watched all this from just inside the door. Finally, Hank dug an elbow into Ellis and they launched themselves toward the fire.

Ellis tripped on the edge of the rug and fell forward, catching himself on the back of a chair. He navigated his way around it, clutching it all the while, and dropped onto its seat. His eyes were bloodshot, his forehead was shiny, and I was shot through with dread.

Hank was so busy looking at Meg that he planted himself squarely on the arm of the second chair before tumbling sideways into it, leaving his head hanging over one upholstered arm and his legs dangling off the other. After a few seconds of stunned surprise, he hauled himself upright.

Ellis looked me up and down. His eyes narrowed. His lip curled in disgust. “What's this?”

I knew he meant my cheap dress and lack of stockings, but I feigned ignorance.

“They're going to a dance,” I said. “It's Valentine's Day.”

“It's what?” said Hank. “Oh shit. I should have sent something to Violet.”

“No, I meant this…
getup
,” said Ellis, waving the back of his hand toward me. “It's like a combination of scullery maid and streetwalker.”

I clamped my mouth shut. There was no point in explaining why I was dressed the way I was. There was no point in doing anything at all, except keeping quiet and hoping the moment would pass.

“Well,
I
think she's a sight for sore eyes,” said Hank, still fixated on Meg. “If I'd known she'd be so excited about a pair of stockings, I would have given her a dozen. I'd have given her as many as she wanted. In fact, there's no telling what I might give that girl. With that face and figure, she could come up in the world, like Maddie's mother.” He swung his head briefly toward me. “No offense, darling girl.”

“Don't take up with trash, Hank,” said Ellis, still staring at me. “Blood will out. It always does.”

“What?” Hank asked vaguely. He was back to gazing at Meg's calves.

“You can't make a silk purse is what,” said Ellis.

“No, those are definitely silk. Look at those gams. I bet they're a mile long. They deserve nothing less than the finest silk…”

“Hank?” I said desperately. I waved, trying to get his attention.
“Hank!”

He glanced quickly and said, “You look nice, too, Maddie. Definitely a silk purse.”

“So, Maddie, this silk purse of yours,” Ellis said with deadly purpose, “is it red, or is it green?”

Adrenaline blasted from my core to my extremities.

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

“It is
red
, or is it
green
?”

“It's a fine brocade, a veritable smorgasbord of color,” said Hank, still completely oblivious to the parallel conversation.

“Maddie? You didn't answer me,” said Ellis. The corner of his right eye began to twitch.

“I can't,” I said, looking into my lap.

“And why's that?”

“Because you were right.”

“About what?”

“About everything.”

“Say it!”

“Fine! There's no silk purse! There's only a sow's ear!”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Submission is a color that suits you, my dear. You should wear it more often.”

“I suppose you would know,” I said, before turning toward the bar.

Meg was serving slices of cake to an admiring audience. Rory had still not arrived, and while she was putting on a brave face I could tell she was wilting.

“I'd have some of her cake, oh yes indeed,” Hank said with a low whistle. He swiveled suddenly in his seat. “Say, kids—I just had a crazy idea! Let's go to the dance—it'll be like the servants' ball at Christmas. You two lovebirds can do your own thing, and I…well, I might just find a pretty little lovebird of my own. To tide me over, so to speak.”

He beamed expectantly at us. When neither of us answered, his smile fell away. His eyes darted suspiciously between us.

“Oh, come on,” he groaned, before glancing at the ceiling in despair. “Are you two at it
again
? Let me guess. Ellis said something totally
stupid, and now you're not talking to him. Hell, you're not even looking at him. Is this what marriage does to people? No wonder I want nothing to do with it. Neither one of you is an ounce of fun anymore.” He sighed and turned back toward the bar. “Now that one over there,
she
looks like an ounce or two of fun…”

A
t eight on the nose, twin brothers from Halifax dropped to their knees and presented matching engagement rings to their sweethearts. When the blushing girls said yes, the remaining lumberjacks burst into song, serenading the brides-to-be with “O Canada.” No sooner had they started than old Ian Mackintosh nipped across the road and returned with his pipes, striking in and accompanying the young men as they followed up with a heartfelt rendition of “Farewell to Nova Scotia.”

Ellis sipped his whiskey steadily and continued to stare at me like he wanted me dead.

Halfway through “A Ballad of New Scotland,” I could stand it no longer and rushed upstairs, locking myself in my room. I leaned against the door, panting.

Not two minutes later, with the pipes still blaring on the main floor, I thought I heard something and pressed my ear to the door. Ellis was swearing and stumbling in the hallway and sure enough came straight to my room. When he found the door locked, he began to pound it.

“Maddie! Maddie! Open the
goddamned door
!”

“Go away!”

I dove onto the bed, pulling my knees to my chest.

“Open the goddamned door! I'm fucking serious!”

I knew he was using the side of his fist because of the way the door jumped in its frame. I wished I could light a candle so I could see if it was in danger of giving, but my hands were shaking too hard to strike a match.

“Maddie! If you don't open the goddamned door right now, I swear to fucking God I'll break it down—do you hear me?” he roared, renewing his assault.

I curled into a ball and pressed my hands to my ears. I couldn't scream for help—there was no possibility anyone would hear me over the booming of the pipes—but where the hell was Hank? Surely he'd noticed we'd both disappeared, and surely he'd been at least vaguely aware of the state Ellis was in.

Over a period that felt like centuries, the thumping slowed to an uneven staccato and, finally, stopped altogether. I heard a soft clunk as Ellis slumped against my door. He began to weep.

“Maddie? Oh, Maddie, what have you done? You're my
wife
. You're supposed to be on
my
team. Now what am I supposed to do? What the hell am I supposed to do?”

His fingernails scraped against the wood as he slid to the floor. He continued crying, but that, too, eventually petered out. A few minutes later, all I could hear was my own ragged breath.

Just as I began to believe he was out for the night, I heard shuffling on the carpet, then a pause.

I held my breath.

A terrible, primal scream preceded a massive blow to the door, followed by another, and then another, as he repeatedly rammed it with his body.

When the wood started to crack, I scrambled off the bed, fumbling in the dark until I found the grate and the fire irons. Then I crouched behind the chair, clutching the poker and crying.

There was another tremendous blow to the door, and the clatter and thud of a body falling, followed by copious swearing.

Then I heard Hank. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“I need to talk to my wife!”

“Get up, you moron,” Hank said calmly.

“I need! To talk! To my!”
Ellis huffed and puffed, but could not seem to come up with the final word.

“You can't even stand up. Let's get you to bed.”

“I need to talk to her,” Ellis insisted, although he sounded suddenly out of steam. He moaned, then began sobbing again.

I crept over to the door, still clutching the fire iron.

“Good Lord,” said Hank. “You're a complete mess. Give me your hand.”

Ellis mumbled something incoherent.

“No, you didn't dislocate your shoulder. If you had, I wouldn't be able to do
this
.”

There was a sharp holler of pain, followed by whimpering.

“See? But if you had dislocated it, you'd have fucking well earned it for being a knucklehead. Give me your hand. All right, upsy-daisy. Now, give me your key and
don't move
.”

There was a crash against the wall right outside my door.

“Jesus. Can you at least
try
not to fall over while I get your door open? Do you think you could handle that?”

Ellis was drawing heavy, wheezing breaths, so close it sounded like he was in the room with me.

The door to his bedroom opened, and Hank came back.

“All right. One foot in front of the other.”

After a few seconds of clunking and shuffling, I heard the violent screech of bedsprings. It sounded like Hank had tossed Ellis into his room from the doorway.

“Stay put,” said Hank. “If you don't, I swear to God, I'll tie you to the bed.”

The door shut, and a moment later there were three polite raps on my door.

“Maddie?” said Hank.

“Yes?” I said, still crouched with the fire iron.

“Are you sitting by the door?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

I didn't answer. My heart was thumping so hard I was sure he could hear it, and I was shaking uncontrollably.

After a pause, he said, “Okay, I get it. You're mad at me, but what was I supposed to do? Knock the bottle from his hand?”

“Yes.”

He sighed, and I heard him scratch his head. “Yeah, you're right. This won't happen again, I swear. By the way, I locked him in. Want the key?”

“No. You can have it.”

“Get some sleep,” he said. “He won't be bothering you again tonight. And Maddie? I really am sorry.”

He waited awhile before going away, hoping, I suppose, that I'd tell him it was okay.

But I couldn't. Things weren't even remotely okay, and with Ellis out of pills, they could only get worse. Why, oh why, had I flushed them?

When Ian Mackintosh's pipes finally stopped, the gathering downstairs exploded with applause; they cheered, whooped, and stamped their feet until the whole building shook.

Within minutes, the younger crowd had gathered in the street and gone on to the Public Hall, but even after they left, the men who remained at the bar—the older men, the locals—spoke and laughed in raised voices, excited by their participation in the impromptu
cèilidh
.

I made my way to the window, still in the dark, pulled out the Blackout frame, and opened the sash.

I heard accordion and fiddle music coming from the Public Hall, along with laughing, singing, and animated conversations, including
a few that sounded like arguments. Despite the icy air, I knelt by the window and rested my head on the sill, listening.

I felt a terrible pang of longing. Less than half a mile away, young people—people my age, people in love—were planning futures together, futures that would include all the perks of truly loving each other: intimacy, passion, children, companionship, even though there were sure to be trials along the way. Some of the couples might even end up mismatched and miserable, but at that particular moment they were as happy and joyful as the rest, and no matter how mismatched or miserable they turned out to be, I could almost guarantee that none of them would end up with a marriage like mine.

Footsteps came up the road, and I heard a man and a woman talking. They stopped at the house opposite the inn, and went silent for what I could only assume was a good-night kiss. He whispered something, and she went inside, giggling. He waited a few seconds after the door closed, and then whistled as he headed back down the road.

Eventually, I replaced the Blackout frame, and went to bed.

“You
liar
! You
whore
!”

A man's angry shouting jolted me awake, and I initially thought Ellis was back. Then I heard Meg crying and realized the man was Rory. They were in the hallway.

I jumped out of bed and lit the candle on my dresser. Then I stood with my ear to the door.

“I swear by everything that's holy, I'm telling you the truth—”

There was a smack, followed by Meg's sharp cry.

I grabbed the fire iron, which was still leaning by the door.

“You worthless, lying slut! Tell me who he is!
Tell me!
”

“There
is
no one else,” she pleaded.

“Then why can't you tell me where you got the stockings?”

“I
did
tell you, Rory—”

“You want me to believe they ‘just magically appeared'? What kind of a fool”—another smack, another cry—“do you take me for?
What else has he given you, or did you earn them? Is that it? Have you turned professional? What's your price, then? What does a pair of stockings buy a man?”

“Rory, for the love of God—”

“Is it that flat-footed bastard? I've seen how he looks at you. What room is he in? Tell me!
Tell me!
”

When Meg screamed, I yanked my door open and rushed out. The only light was coming from the candle behind me, but it was enough for me to see him haul back and punch her in the side of the face. She dropped to her knees, clutching her cheek, sobbing. She was completely naked. He was in an open shirt and underpants.

“Stop!” I cried. “She's telling the truth!”

He glanced over his shoulder. Our eyes locked. He turned deliberately back to Meg, grabbed a handful of her hair, and kicked her full force in the ribs. The sound of the blow was a terrible muted thud. She made an
oof
noise as the air was forced out of her.

“I gave them to her!”
I shrieked.

He kicked her again, still holding her by the hair, then tossed her aside. She collapsed and made no effort to move, like an unclothed porcelain doll dropped in a nursery. As he pulled his leg back to deliver another kick, I raised the poker and tore down the hallway.

Before I could get there, Angus charged out of the stairwell and in a single motion had Rory pinned against the wall by his throat, dangling him so his feet were above the ground. Rory's hands swatted at and finally grabbed the hand around his throat, but he didn't make a sound. Angus's other arm remained at his side, his fingers splayed.

“What the fuck is going on?” said Hank, peeking out of his room with a candle. When he saw, he ducked back in.

I dropped the poker and rushed to Meg. She was conscious, but barely. I dragged her toward her room and crouched beside her, wrapping my arms around her, shielding her nakedness. She whimpered and covered her head with her arms.

There was a rhythmic thumping across the hall. I looked up, expecting to see Angus throwing punches. Instead, he continued to dangle
Rory with one hand. The thumping was Rory slapping the wall behind him with open palms. His eyes bulged and his tongue protruded, and while the light was faint, his face was clearly not the right color, and getting darker quickly. The slapping got slower, and finally ceased. A wet patch appeared on the front of his underpants, and urine trickled down his leg, over his foot, and onto the floor.

It felt like an eternity, but it was probably only a few seconds later that Angus dropped him. He crumpled to the floor and remained utterly still. I was sure he was dead, but after a few seconds he jerked violently and clutched his throat, gasping for air. It was a terrible sound, grating and rasping.

Angus stood beside Rory, hands on hips. He was in blue striped pajama bottoms, but no shirt. Not a one of us was properly covered, least of all Meg, and it made the horror of the moment somehow more real.

Angus poked Rory with his foot. “I don't suppose I need to tell you what will happen if I ever find you darkening my door again,” he said.

Rory writhed on the floor, drawing ragged, scratchy breaths, and still grasping his throat.

“I'll take that as a no,” said Angus, leaning over and lifting Rory by the armpits. He turned and threw him into the stairwell.

I held my breath during the series of bangs and thuds as Rory fell down the stairs. I was sure I'd just witnessed a murder, but moments later I heard the front door open and then click quietly shut.