I Married A Dead Man (30 page)

50

               
When the reading of the will had been concluded--that was on a Monday following their return, about a month later--Winthrop asked the two of them to remain behind a moment after the room had been cleared. He went over and closed the door after the others present had left. Then he went to the wall, opened a built-in safe, and took out an envelope. He sat down at his desk.

               
"Bill and Patrice," he said, "this is meant for you alone."

               
They exchanged a look.

               
"It is not part of the estate, so it concerns no one else but the two of you.

               
"It is from her, of course. It was transcribed on her death-bed, less than an hour before she died."

               
"But we already--" Bill tried to say.

               
Winthrop silenced him with upturned hand. "There were two of them. This is the second. Both dictated to me during the hours of that same night, or I should say, early morning. This follows the other. The first she gave you herself that same night, as you know. The other she turned over to me. I was to hold it until today, as I have done. Her instructions to me were: it is for the two of you alike. It is not to be delivered to the one without the other. When delivered, it is not to be opened by the one without the other. And finally, it is only to be delivered in the case of your marriage. If you were not married at this time, as she wanted you to be--and you know she did, very much--then it was to be destroyed by me, unopened. Singly, it is not for either one of you. United in marriage, it is a last gift to the two of you, from her.

               
"However. You need not read it if you do not want to. You can destroy it unopened. I am under pledge not to reveal what is in it, even though I naturally know, for I took her words down at the bedside, and witnessed and notarized her signature in my capacity as her attorney. You must, therefore, either read it or not read it for yourselves. And if you do read it, then when you have read it, you are to destroy it just the same."

               
He waited a moment.

               
"Now, do you want me to deliver it to you, or do you prefer that I destroy it?"

               
"We want it, of course," Patrice whispered.

               
"We want it," Bill echoed.

               
He extended it to them lengthwise. "You kindly place your fingers on this corner. You on this." He withdrew his own fingers, and they were left holding it.

               
"I hope it brings you the extra added happiness she wanted you both to have. I know that that is why she did it. She asked me to bless you both, for her, as I gave it to you. Which I do now. That concludes my stewardship in the matter."

               
They waited several hours, until they were alone together in their room that night. Then when he'd finished putting on his robe, and saw that she had doned a silken bridal something over her nightdress, he took it out of his coat-pocket and said:

               
"Now. Shall we? You do want to, don't you?"

               
"Of course. It's from her. We want to read it. I've been counting the minutes all evening long."

               
"I knew you'd want to. Come on over here. We'll read it together."

               
He sat down in an easy chair, adjusted the hood of the lamp over one shoulder. She perched beside him on the arm of the chair, slipped an arm about his shoulders.

               
The sealing-wax wafers crumbled and the flap shot upright, under his fingers.

               
In silent intensity, heads close together, they read:

               
"My beloved children:

               
You are married by now, by the time this reaches you. (For if you are not, it will not reach you; Mr. Winthrop will tell you all about that.) You are happy. I hope I have given you that happiness. I want to give you even a little more. And trust and pray that out of your plenty, you will spare a little of it for me, even though I am gone and no longer there with you. I do not want a shadow to cross your minds every time you recall me. I cannot bear to have you think ill of me.

               
"I did not do that thing, of course. I did not take that young man's life. Perhaps you have already guessed it. Perhaps you both know me well enough to know I could not have done such a thing.

               
"I knew that he was doing something to threaten Patrice's happiness, that was all. That was why we were havng Mr. Carter investigate him. But I never actually set eyes on him, I never saw him.

               
"I was alone in the house last night (for as Mr. Winthrop writes this for me, it is still last night, though you will not read it for a long time to come). Even Father, who never goes out without me, had to attend an important emergency meeting at the plant. It meant settling the strike that much sooner, and I pleaded with him to go, though he did not want to. I was alone, just Aunt Josie and the child and I.

               
"Mr. Carter phoned around ten-thirty o'clock and told me he had bad news; that a marriage-service had just been performed joining the two of them at Hastings. I had taken the call on the downstairs phone. The shock brought on an attack. Not wishing to alarm Aunt Josie, I tried to get up the stairs to my room unaided. By the time I had reached the top, I became exhausted and could only lie there, unable to move any further or to call out.

               
"While I was lying there helpless like that, I heard the outside door open and recognized Bill's step below. I tried to attract his attention, but my voice was too weak, I couldn't reach him with it. I heard him go into the library, stay there several moments, then come out again. Afterward I remembered hearing something click between his hands right then, as he stood there by the door. And I knew he never uses a cigarettelighter. Then he left the house.

               
"When Aunt Josie had come out some time later, found me there, and carried me to my bed, and while we were waiting for the doctor, I sent her to the library to see if that gun that belonged there was still there. She did not understand why I wanted her to do this, and I did not tell her. But when she came back and told me that the gun was missing, I was afraid what that might mean.

               
"I knew by then that I was dying. One does. I had time to think, lying there during those next long hours. I could think so clearly. I knew that there was a way in which either my Bill or my Patrice might need my protection, once I was no longer there to give it. I knew I had to give it none the less, as best I could. I wanted them to have their happiness. I wanted above all my little grandchild to have his security, his start in life without anything to mar it. I knew what the way was in which I could give this to them.

               
"So as soon as Dr. Parker would allow it, I had Ty Winthrop called to my bedside. To him, in privacy, I dictated the sworn statement which you have had by now.

               
"I hope, my dear ones, you have not had to use it. I pray you have not, and never will have to. -

               
"But this is its retraction. This is the truth, just meant for you two alone. One tells the truth to one's loved ones, one does not have to swear to and notarize it. There is no guilt upon me. This is my wedding gift to you. To make your happiness even more complete than it is already.

               
"Burn it after you have read it. This is a dying woman's last wish. Bless you both.

                                                                               
Your devoted Mother."

               
The match made a tiny snap. Stripes of black crept up the paper, then ran together, before any flame could be seen. Then there was a little soundless puff, and suddenly yellow light glowed all around it.

               
And as it burned, over this yellow light, they turned their heads and looked at one another. With a strange, new sort of fright they'd never felt before. As when the world drops away, and there is nothing left underfoot to stand on.

               
" She didn't do it," he whispered, stricken.

               
" She didn't," she breathed, appalled.

               
"Then--?"

               
"Then--?"

               
And each pair of eyes answered, "You."

               
The summer nights are so pleasant in Caulfield. They smell of heliotrope, of jasmine, and of clover. The stars are warm and close above us. The breeze is gentle as a baby's kiss. The soothing whisper of the leafy trees, the lamplight falling on the lawns, the hush of perfect peace and security.

               
But not for us.

               
The house we live in is so pleasant here in Caulfield. Its blue-green lawn, always freshly watered; the dazzling whiteness of the porchsupports in the sun; the gracious symmetry of the bannister that curves down from above; the gloss of rich old floors; the lushness of pile carpeting; in every room some favorite chair that's an old friend. People come and say, "What more can there be? This is a home."

               
But not for us.

               
I love him so. More than ever before, not less. So bitterly I love him. And he loves me. And yet I know that on some day to come, maybe this year, maybe next, but surely to come, suddenly he'll pack and go away and leave me. Though he'll love me still, and never stop even after he's gone.

               
Or if he doesn't, I will. I'll take up my valise, and walk out through the door, and never return. I'll leave my heart behind, and leave my child behind, and leave my life behind, but I'll never come back.

               
It's certain, it's assured. The only uncertainty is: which one of us will be the first to break.

               
We've fought this thing. In every way we know, in every way there is. No good, no good at all. There's no way out. We're caught, we're trapped. For if he's innocent, then it has to be me. And if I am, it has to be he. But I know I'm innocent. (Yet he may know he is too.) We can't break through, there's no way out.

               
It's in the very kiss we give each other. Somehow we trap it right between our lips, each time. It's everywhere, it's all the time, it's us.

               
I don't know what the game was. I'm not sure how it should be played. No one ever tells you. I only know we must have played it wrong, somewhere along the way. I don't even know what the stakes are. I only know they're not for us.

               
We've lost. That's all I know. We've lost. And now the game is through.

                                                                               
THE END.

About the author

               
Cornell Woolrich was born in 1903. He began writing fiction while at Columbia University in the 1920s, and went on in the '30s and '40s to become, along with Raymond Chandler and James M. Cain, one of the creators of the noir genre, producing such classics as Rear Window , I Married a Dead Man , and the so-called Black Series of suspense novels. Woolrich died a recluse in 1968.