Twain's End (41 page)

“Can you imagine?” her mother had said. The wind grabbed her skirt and shook it like a dog playing with a rag. She flogged it down.
“There wasn't going to be an organist! How can you have a wedding without music? It's odd enough that you are having the ceremony on a Thursday.”

Automobiles shuddered by. It struck Isabel that there were no carriages. Where had all the horses gone? In the blink of an eye, they were obsolete and then they vanished, replaced by man-made steeds with steel hearts. The world had changed overnight.

Holding down her hat threatening to take off in spite of the veil tied under her chin, Isabel glanced at her mother. She was marching along with Isabel's bouquet of three gardenias as if she herself were going down the aisle. “It's just a small wedding, Mother.”

“Not so small that I should not hire an organist. The man came highly recommended by the rector. Evidently, he's the best. Always go for the best.”

“Thank you for getting him.” What a disappointment she must be to her mother, having wed neither professor nor America's king. At least Mrs. Lyon seemed to enjoy the treat Ralph had given them in arranging for rooms at the exclusive Hotel Brevoort, just down the street from the church. Her disillusionment had seemed momentarily eased when they had shared the elevator with the Turkish head of state.

Now the purse on Mrs. Lyon's arm rattled with bars of hotel soap as she batted down her skirt, lifted by a gust. They walked past Mr. Clemens's old house. How peculiar it seemed to Isabel to pass the steps she'd climbed hundreds of times and to look down through the basement windows and not see Mr. Clemens's billiards table. She was further disconcerted to do so while on her way to marry another man.

Two blocks up, Ralph waved to them from the wet steps of the Church of the Ascension, then, holding down his top hat by the brim, strode to meet them. He folded Isabel against him.

“It's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding!” cried Mrs. Lyon.

Ralph held Isabel tight. “We'll take our chances.”

Mrs. Lyon strained to listen. “How is the organist?”

“I don't think one is in there. At least, I haven't heard music.”

Mrs. Lyon gasped, pushed the gardenias at Isabel, and bustled inside.

Ralph pulled back to look down at his future bride. “You look gorgeous.”

She glanced up at his top hat, shining in the sun, then down upon his crisp white shirt and tie, before settling on his grin, as comforting as ever. “So do you.”

“Are you nervous?”

“No.” She glanced anxiously over her shoulder. “Are the guests here?”

He nodded. “All six of them.” He caught her gaze. “No Mr. Clemens.”

She kept her face neutral. “He said he was coming.”

“Change of heart, I suppose.”

The pastor came out and, after shaking their hands, escorted Isabel to the vestry, a small room that smelled of candles and silver polish, and of the gluey scent of hymnals. She was to wait for her mother and then enter the sanctuary, whereupon the ceremony would begin.

She was pacing the stone floor when a knocking came on the door.
Tap-tap-tap-TAP.

She melted with relief and let him in. “Sam. You came.”

“Someone needs to give away the bride,” he growled.

Her relief faded when she noticed his lack of color. The luster was gone from his eyes.

“Samuel?”

“Lioness, listen. You don't have to do this.”

“But I do.”

“Aren't you supposed to save those words for the ceremony?”

Tears surprised her.

“I didn't mean to make you cry.”

She blinked at her bouquet, trying to compose herself.

He followed her gaze. “Here. Add to that mess.” He swung his
arm from behind his back. Three round flower heads bobbed from his hand.

“Hydrangeas!” She looked up at him. “Thank you.”

“My favorite for my favorite. Closest thing to giving you a piece of me.” He narrowed his eyes in a cagey squint. “In fact, go ahead and think of these as me. Then make sure you put them by your nuptial bed.”

He could always make her laugh, even now. “Oh, but you are lovable and naughty and good.”

“Now, now. Don't say anything I might regret.”

She smiled in spite of her aching heart.

His voice became stiffly hopeful, like that of a boy talking himself out of being afraid of thunder. “These next few weeks are going to be tough, but we'll get through them. Remember, whatever I do is because of a promise I have made to Clara.” His bravado lost steam. “God, this is a terrible thing.”

She touched his hand. “Sam.”

He shook his beautiful head. “I'm getting so weary of this nonsensical world. I wish that comet would come and take me away.”

“Hush. Nobody's going anywhere.”

He fixed her with his fierce gray eyes. “When it comes, I'm going to hop on its back and straddle it like a bronco. Everyone will tip their hats as I blaze on by.”

“Yes. They'll say, ‘There goes America's Sweetheart.' ”

He snorted with disdain. “Only the grumpier ones will say, ‘No, that's just that old bird-of-paradise, the Belle of New York.' ”

They laughed, then, sobering, grasped each other in an embrace.

His voice rumbled in her ear, pressed to his chest. “God, I love you.”

When she looked up at him, he kissed her tenderly.

Strains of organ music drifted in. He sighed. “That's my cue to go.”

They let go of each other by degrees, until only their fingertips touched. “Goodbye, my Lioness. I'll see you on the other side.”

• • •

Now Ralph was frowning at her as the train clanked over a trestle. “I really don't think you're all right, Isabel.”

“I was just resting, thinking of our wedding.”

He nodded. “This meeting is for the best. I reckon the old lion is trying to be a good sport. He wished us well enough after the wedding.”

Isabel glanced away. When they had come outside the church after the ceremony to receive their guests, Sam had snarled, “The first one of you people who gets pregnant is going to get fired.” The crudeness of his remark, its inert hostility, had stung her. Yet her husband had taken the same rude words as a compliment, a nod to his manhood for beating his rival.

She laid her head against Ralph's shoulder. Let him have his victory. He was good to her. She owed him some happiness.

• • •

An hour later, Isabel stood in her former office off the entrance hall of Stormfield, an exile in a room of her own making. How many times had she sat here and remarked in her journal of the wonders of the day? She had thought they could never end.

Controlling herself, she gazed out the small window onto the front porch. The chip had returned to the balustrade and had grown to the shape of Texas. The center of the exposed wood was darkening with rot. When had she first noticed that spot? It must have been the day of Helen Keller's visit, the day of the beginning of her end.

The weekend had not gone well for Helen and the Macys, either. After the crisis on that Friday night in January, which resulted in Giuseppe driving Wark to the village and presumably out of Clara's life, they'd stayed on through to Monday, but it had been an awkward visit, with Helen continually abandoning the Macys for time alone with The King. Each time Mr. Macy approached her, she unapologetically pushed him toward his wife, then scooped up the hand
of The King. By Saturday night, The King, weary and distracted, had resorted to simply reading to the group from his work. He chose “Eve's Diary.”

Isabel could see her King on his throne by the fire, the wooden cupids of the mantelpiece cavorting above him, the red-linen-covered book in his intelligent hands, his head bowed with exhaustion. He looked up at Isabel and Ralph, newly engaged and holding hands, as he turned the pages, then read on about Eve's mental and emotional quickness.

When he came to the ending, to the scene in which a desolate Adam stands at his beloved Eve's grave, The King paused to meet Isabel's eyes. The fire, snickering within its iron confines; Helen, eager for Mrs. Macy to spell into her hand; Mr. Macy, banished to the other side of the room, his champion chin upon his vest; all seemed to wait for his finish. Ralph squeezed Isabel's hand. How she yearned to shake it off.

The King had drawn a shattering breath, not letting go of her gaze. He did not need to consult the page when he spoke.

“ ‘Wheresoever she was,
there
was Eden.' ”

• • •

Ralph's heels snapped on the tile of the hall. “Son of a bitch! I'm suing.” Isabel stepped outside her former office to find her husband, strawberry-faced, fists balled. “He wants you now.”

Rust and olive designs flashed beneath her feet as she ran over the carpet she'd so carefully chosen less than a year ago. Let this be a rapprochement. Even if he weren't calling her back to work for him, surely there was some role she could play in his life—a friend who knew him better than anyone. A confidante. Something! She just needed to be near him.

In the library, The King slouched in his chair under the playful mantel cupids like a Caesar sitting in judgment. An asp of smoke slithered from the cigar cocked between fingers resting on an armrest.
Only the twitching flesh under his eyes broke his pose of nonchalant contempt.

She waited, hope pounding in her chest.

“Jean's back,” he said at last.

She swallowed to quiet the noise in her ears. “I didn't see her.”

“I assume she's out romping with her animals.”

Isabel could not help herself. “I hope someone's with her.”

He stared at her, then made a scoffing snort. “Still trying to paint a bad picture of her.”

She held her breath, a creature suddenly aware of danger.

He spoke slowly and deliberately. “You hypocrite.”

Isabel took the blow.

“Your one great crime—”

“Crime?”

“—the crime that I can't forgive you of, is keeping Jean from me. You exiled her to those depressing institutions, you kept her under lock and key, you made me listen to those goddamn quacks, when she could have been living here with me.”

The thumping quickened in her ears. “She needed help. She tried to kill Katy. Repeatedly.”

“Katy says you made that up. She says you made Jean look sicker than she was to get her out of your way. I could kick myself for not listening to her sooner.”

“But Katy is the one who told
me
about the attacks. I never actually saw them.” The implication of what Katy had done sank in. In what other ways had Katy sabotaged her? “It doesn't matter—I've only wanted the best for Jean. Dr. Peterson is the best specialist in epilepsy in the world. Jean got the care she desperately needed. Sam, no matter what Katy or anyone says, she can't be on her own.”

“Show some respect!” he roared.

She drew back.

“You overstep your place like your bounder of a husband.”

Icy fissures streaked through her bones.

He sucked down smoke. “Don't tell me you weren't there laughing over Brazierres's shoulder when he wrote that letter to me.”

“What letter?”

“That nothing of a Liverpudlian sewer rat, that squalling baby who calls himself a man—
your juvenile husband
—thinks he's an equal of mine. He, a total nothing, writes to me, a figure in the world, and tells me what I should do. He mistakes me for a fellow bastard, born in the same stinking gutter.”

Breathing hard now, the flesh above his bristling mustache ocher and purple, he paused to crush out his cigar. “He called Clara insane. Did you know that? He said her mind was ‘diseased with envy, malice, and jealousy.' He said if I were a man, I would defend
you
and set the record straight.” He gripped the arms of his chair and leaned forward, his face blackening with rage. “If I were a man. IF I WERE A MAN!”

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“How you two must get a laugh out of the old man! What a toothless old lion you must think I am, so easily wrestled down by a pair of lascivious jackals.” He snatched up a pile of papers next to him. “Your bastard of a husband has no inkling of what a real man does. A real man defends his flesh and blood. Do you really think I'd sell Clara down the river? Set the record straight!” He shook the pages. “I'll set the record straight. I'm documenting your whorish ways, down to all the times you stretched yourself out on my bed, your arm over your head and your legs open, where you would lie by the hour, enjoying the imaginary probabilities. Who did you think you were? The star of the harem waiting for the eunuch to fetch the sultan?”

Her knees buckled. She groped for the back of a chair.

“Here, let me read you a line: ‘Miss Lyon is a liar, a forger, a thief, a hypocrite, a drunkard, a sneak, a humbug, a traitor, a conspirator, a filthy-minded and salacious slut pining for seduction, and always getting disappointed, poor child.' ” He looked up, his face hideous with contempt. “What'd I miss?”

She shook her head, bile rising in her throat.

“Don't you
ever
question my manhood again.”

Her voice cracked. “Sam.”

“Get out.”

“Sam, no.”

“GET OUT!”

As she fled, she heard a cry of pain as the pages thudded to the floor. Only later did she realize that the cry, that of a heart being rent in two, had not been her own.