Serial Monogamy (7 page)

I
n all my life, I had never known anger like this. A passerby drops a cigarette butt into your front garden. Your spouse forgets the teacher's name again. Your sister-in-law makes one of her little remarks. Brief annoyances; simmering resentments, they blend together and leave you self-pitying and sharp-tongued at day's end, ready to throw an uncooperative corkscrew across the kitchen counter or snap unfairly at a recalcitrant child. But what I experienced in those weeks after Al first left was something not merely of a different magnitude but also of a different quality. This was murderous rage.

I saw her pretty face, that face I had glimpsed once at some university Christmas party where I was the glamorous wife, the established author, the exotic adornment who confirmed for them all that the professor lived a charmed life in some rambling old house where his spouse presided graciously over the comings and goings of friends, children and contractors. And the pretty face
was just another grad student suffering through a Ph.D. in a studio apartment she shared with a cat. Did I detect then an unearned note of self-consciousness? Did she seem a trifle too aware of herself, as though she thought she had some larger role to play or knew something I didn't? If there was a ghost of some complication there, I put it down to snobbery, hers, not mine: I assumed she had realized, like Al's university colleagues before her, that the novels I write are of the type that feature a gauzy picture of a woman's face on the cover. Still, she must have impressed me in some way because, from that one encounter, I could remember her face and see it as I imagined the laundry bleach pouring down her throat or the garden spade crushing her skull.

In the first weeks after Al had left, when my confused and tearful little girls had finally gone to bed, I would go down to the basement to empty their cotton panties and pink T-shirts from the dryer and, out of earshot of children and neighbours, I would find that I was raging to myself out loud. Yelling and cursing her name, spitting it across the cracked linoleum floor, turning it into some horrendous expletive again and again, until I would break down, choking on my tears.

I would wonder at myself sometimes. I had become a cliché, the scorned woman so furious that Hell itself has no place for her. In rational moments, in daylight hours, I would think surely we can all come to an understanding; we must do what is best for the children; they
are what matters, after all. Or I would resign myself and say, What is all the fuss about? He no longer loves me; I am not sure I love him. It happens all the time. Families reconfigure themselves. We just need to be civilized.

But at night, I was a different beast. I would lose touch with the sensible woman who walked her daughters to school and promised them they would see Daddy tomorrow. I understood now all those stories, the murders, the suicides, the babes slaughtered by their own warring parents, the gawking neighbours insisting they always seemed like such a nice family. I could kill.

I wouldn't, of course. My daylight self held me back; I had not yet relinquished all sanity and all control. But I knew the feeling well enough to think it through. So I murder her. I probably won't get away with it. I would think of various methods—mainly I would imagine that I might travel to an insalubrious neighbourhood where I suppose one might be able to buy a gun, go to her apartment and fire off several bullets—but I couldn't think of any way to hide the crime. Say I just leave her body there, or manage somehow to drag it to a nearby dumpster, the most cursory police investigation will surely find her professor, some emails, and start to take a look at both the professor and the professor's wife. I'll be arrested. My brother will get me a good lawyer, but I'll probably have to plead guilty and wind up spending at least ten years in a women's prison. The girls will grow up knowing me only from conversations through a glass screen. Or
perhaps they let children visit in the same room with the prisoner. I think I saw that in a movie once. At any rate, I will have separated myself from my children, traumatized their young selves, done the very opposite of what I want and left them entirely to their father and her, their new stepmother, their young, pretty…Oh, except she would be dead because I murdered her. Well, he would probably find another one, and I would be the crazy woman, the jealous wife locked up in a jail cell.

And with that thought, the unfairness of it all would descend on me with a weight that threatened to crush my spirit and my rage would begin again.

Some nights, I did my best to contain it. I tried to read a book or concentrate on chores. I talked myself down; warned myself not to make myself sick, not to wake the children, not to lose control. I searched the Internet for helpful articles that would explain my emotions to me. And other nights, I simply felt them raging through me like a disease I could not fight.

The days were better. At least I could call Becky and recount the latest outrage or speculate how long Al could possibly remain enamoured of a glib graduate student while ignoring his young daughters' evident distress.

“Oh the babies,” Becky would say and make her clicking sound. “I just don't know what I would do if David…”

Soon after she arrived in Toronto, the gentle Becky had married the equally amiable David, a med student she had met in the athletic centre who was now our pediatrician and Al's regular squash partner. They have three little boys who, as if to compensate for their soft-spoken and kindly parents, are utter hellions. My girls, a year older than their eldest, adore them, pet them and encourage them in much mischief. Our family parties are uproarious. The last one I remember we had to stop the older kids from putting the baby—Becky's youngest—in a bucket they were dangling down the third-floor stairwell with a rope. Or at least our family parties
were
uproarious. We had not had one since Al had dropped his bitter bombshell.

“I'd probably just kill David,” Becky joked, not knowing how close she came to my own thoughts—although it was not Al who was the target of my murderous rage.

Of course, I felt angry at him too, cursed his pride and his stupidity, but it was a different kind of anger. I knew him; I had loved him; he wasn't just some voodoo doll I could poke with pins. Part of me longed for his return, for normal life to resume, for forgiveness or at least forgetfulness to work its soothing charms, and somehow I must have known that if I gave full voice to my anger against him there would be no going back. I had ranted, I had raged, both at him before he left and to myself now that he was gone, but I had never said anything irreparable, those burning phrases that might
end a marriage on the spot. I had held back from even thinking the things that would take me to the point of no return, the final, bitter judgments of his character that would close the door on our relationship for good. This, however, made discussing his departure with my outraged supporters rather difficult.

After he had actually left the house, I had to tell people other than Becky what was going on. People like my mother, who had lived, since the death of my father a few years before, in a small condo in Halifax with a nice view of the Atlantic, and my brother, whose Vancouver condo gave him a nice view of the Pacific. A cool and sometimes prickly lot, we weren't close and it seemed typical that the three of us had wound up about as far apart as Canadian geography would permit without one of us moving to the Arctic. My father was an insurance adjustor who had died from an aneurism the year of his retirement, as though he was just another statistic from the actuarial tables on which he had built his career. He had been the family peacemaker, the gregarious one who compensated for my mother's reserve, the one who called on birthdays and hauled my mother across the country to share turkey in Toronto or Vancouver in alternate years. Since he was gone I made a dutiful call to my mother once a week and took the girls down East every summer; her reaction to Al's departure was sorrowful but distant.

“I'm so sorry, dear. That must be very hard for you. But maybe it was to be expected.”

“Why expected?”

“Well, he isn't like us, is he? I'm sure they do things differently where he comes from…”

I didn't bother contradicting her or pointing out she had always appeared flattered by the charm offensive Al had launched at every meeting with his mother-in-law. She was seventy now; I was not going to change her casual but ingrained xenophobia.

I didn't do much better with my brother. We have not seen each other in several years and communicate mainly by email. A lawyer recently elevated to the bench, he has a busy career and a demanding young wife whom he married in his forties. He's preoccupied. He knew something was wrong when I actually called.

“What's up?”

“Al's left. He's been having an affair with one of his students.”

“The bastard. When did that happen?”

“He's been gone a week. He told me about the affair about three months ago.”

“What a jerk. I never did like him,” my brother said.

I am the aggrieved one, the one who has been hurt, but this isn't exactly what I want to hear. My brother the judge, always as comfortable with moral certainties as he is with legal niceties, happily rushed to judgment in the language he uses at home because, I have
always supposed, he can't use it in a courtroom. “A real asshole.”

“Why didn't you like him?”

“Too charming, especially with women. That Middle Eastern thing. The ladies love it but it's so phony.”

Apparently Al was perfectly right to complain my WASPy family did not welcome him. I had always told him he was imagining it; we were just not effusive where we came from.

My brother asked after his nieces, offered words of sympathy and cursed Al several more times before I eventually hung up annoyed and dissatisfied. I was the one to judge Al, not others. If they had always distrusted him, which I suspected was merely hindsight, why had they not said something to me before our marriage? If they truly disliked him, which I doubted since most people found his urbane manner and ready smiles easy enough to like, what did it say about my judgment? If they were so quick to write him off, did that mean I must abandon all hope of his return? They could be outraged on my behalf, but not more outraged than I was. I wanted their sympathy but not their pity. It was a delicate dance; most people got it wrong and I resented them for it. In the first weeks after Al had left, I had unsatisfactory calls with a high school friend and my motherly agent; a troubling email exchange with another mother from the girls' school, a disgruntled drink with Frank at
The Telegram
and a bitter lunch with my editor. And I almost walked
out on my hairdresser of fifteen years after he had the gall to say, “I always thought that one was a bit off.”

My audience was always frustrating me, denying me the particular vindication I sought, yet I felt compelled to rehearse my story for any intimate who would listen, telling once again my version of events.

As the red velvet curtains dropped, Nelly sat forward in her seat, raised her gloved hands and applauded with all her might. She felt Maria and her colleagues had acquitted themselves admirably and needed the encouragement; the audience had proved boisterous and inattentive that afternoon. She clapped as the secondary players took their bows and, as the leads came forward, reserved a little brava for Maria. Maria was followed by Mr. Rawlings, who bowed low before the spectators as though they had just received his Lear in reverence rather then prattling their way through a farce. Nelly eased up as Mr. Rawlings brought out his leading lady; she had nothing against Miss Banks but felt no actress, except perhaps her sister, could really prove herself worthy of the magnificent Mr. Rawlings. Nelly had been sweet on him ever since she had seen him play James Wilder in
The Red Rover
at the Lyceum the winter before and had decided he was the
very personification of the heroic officer of the Royal Navy. Gracious, noble, high-minded, he appeared to her as a man whose physical beauty surely reflected his intellectual and moral superiority. When the audience began to shuffle out of the theatre, she made her way to the front with anticipation: she was to meet Maria backstage and her sister had promised she would do her best to arrange an introduction to Mr. Rawlings himself.

Backstage, she greeted the stage manager and explained she was there to see her sister; he gave her an appraising look but said nothing, simply nodding in the direction of the ladies' dressing room and watching her as she quietly knocked at the door. Maria's voice rang out, inviting her inside, where she squeezed into a corner, making herself as small as possible while her sister and two colleagues removed their wigs and makeup. Miss Banks, she knew, had her own dressing room next door but the rest of the female cast members had to make do with a tiny room with only one table. Nelly would have waited out in the hall had the stage manager seemed a friendlier sort, but she did not like his fishy eye. Maria introduced her to the other two actresses as she hurriedly sponged off the makeup and brushed out her hair. If they were to bump into Mr. Rawlings before he left the theatre they couldn't dawdle; the men in the company always took less time than the ladies to get
back into street clothes and out the stage door. The others were still working away with sponges, cloths and brushes as Maria picked up her bonnet and shawl and ushered Nelly back into the hall.

Sure enough, Mr. Rawlings was there, chatting to the stage manager and the watchman as he prepared to leave. Nelly only recognized him because Maria gave her a nudge; apparently, his curly blond locks were entirely the inspiration of the wig mistress for his real hair was a rather dull brown and receded at his temples; without benefit of his costume, meanwhile, his shoulders appeared slightly stooped. He looked older and more tired than he did on stage. Nelly scolded herself for her stupidity; it was not as though she was unacquainted with the purpose of wigs, makeup and costumes. The trio of men barely glanced at Maria and Nelly as they approached and did not stop their conversation; the watchman had a rolled-up newspaper clasped in one hand and was gesturing with it to make a point.

“The old devil,” he said, chuckling.

“I haven't read the thing myself,” Mr. Rawlings replied. The hallway was narrow and the ladies could hardly pretend not to hear but Maria said, in a friendly manner, “Don't mind us,” as they prepared to squeeze past.

“Miss Ternan,” said the stage manager, belatedly standing aside. “We were just discussing Mr. Dickens' letter in
The Times
.”

“Letter?” asked Maria blankly.

“Explaining to the world why he has abandoned his wife,” the stage manager said.

“Awful thing,” added the watchman with relish.

“Indeed,” Maria agreed, although Nelly expected that, like her, her sister had no idea what letter they referred to.

“It's well known that he prefers his wife's sister,” Mr. Rawlings offered.

“Well known! That's a vicious accusation,” Maria said, rounding on him.

The three men looked momentarily taken aback by her vehemence, but Mr. Rawlings recovered himself quickly and said, “Well, Miss Ternan, I have heard you are good friends with Mr. Dickens yourself.” A smile spread across his face while the other two men laughed. Maria, now flustered and red-faced, grasped blindly for Nelly's hand and the two women hurried out the stage door and onto the street, walking home in silence.

Installed in Islington for the foreseeable future, Mrs. Ternan had done something Nelly had never known her to do before: she had taken out a subscription to a newspaper. It was enough to have your mail chasing you from one end of the country to the other, without adding your newspapers to the packet, so, on the road or in London, the family always relied on the newsstand. But Mrs. Ternan planned to stay at Park Cottage, knowing her own career would require her to turn her hand to
elocution lessons soon enough while still hoping for the imminent triumph of the girls on the West End. London would be their base and to make the cramped quarters of Park Cottage feel more homey she had planted marigolds in a box that could just perch on the windowsill outside the parlour. And she had begun taking the paper. The result was a stack of old copies of
The Times
tucked away in a corner of the kitchen where they came in handy for washing windows, clearing coal out of the grate or packing up vegetable peelings to carry out to the bin. It was there, the following morning, sneaking down before her sisters were up, that Nelly found the previous day's paper. She slipped into the parlour and was about to start reading it when she heard her mother on the stairs. She dropped
The Times
underneath her chair and went back into the kitchen to start the fire and boil the kettle.

Settled at the breakfast table with her mother an hour later while Maria and Fanny, who had both had engagements the night before, slept in, she finally dared to pick it up again.

Her mother looked up vaguely from the morning mail.

“Isn't that yesterday's paper? Today's is here,” she said, indicating the chair beside her. Apparently she had not read whatever letter it was that had Maria's company talking.

“That's all right. There was something I missed yesterday,” Nelly answered as she scanned the pages of
The Times
. She found the letter soon enough, under the headline “Personal. A message from Mr. Dickens.”
The first sentences did nothing to calm her. The writer stated that, some domestic trouble of his having become a source of public discussion, he was compelled to explain that his separation from his wife was amicable and mutually agreed upon, and to denounce false rumours about innocent people dear to his heart. Nelly's nervousness, which had made even dry toast an impossibility that morning, now gave way to a lurching queasiness. She had experienced enough of Mr. Dickens' affection for her to suspect there might be rumours about her.

The next bit reassured her somewhat. Perhaps wishing to forestall any criticism of her role in his household, Mr. Dickens praised his sister-in-law to the skies, saying she had done everything in her power to prevent his separation from his wife and cared ceaselessly for his children. Maybe this was the source of Mr. Rawlings' crude remark; no matter how vile, the gossip was only about Georgina Hogarth, Nelly thought with relief.

As for his wife, he said their marriage had been unhappy for many years and that she herself had often suggested they separate. Nelly puzzled over this for a moment. Mrs. Dickens had seemed an agreeable-enough character if hardly very interesting when she had come to call the previous winter, but surely a man of Mr. Dickens' talents and stature deserved better than a woman who paid little heed to her appearance and seemed much inclined to complain of her health. Besides, no outsider could know what transpired in a marriage; if only
nineteen, Nelly was not so naive she did not realize that, and she supposed that Mrs. Dickens, a rather soft-spoken person as far she could judge, might be a veritable shrew in private.

Nelly knew Mr. Dickens to be a kind and charitable man and no doubt he had been a model of forbearance in his marriage. And yet she was made uneasy by what came next. He added that he had been very generous in his settlement with his wife, but also stated that she did not love her children and suffered from a mental disorder that he did not specify. Nelly recalled Mrs. Dickens had seemed perfectly sane when she had visited Park Cottage, but perhaps her mental health wavered according to her tribulations. How difficult it might be to live with a woman who was often in a low or worse yet violent mood. Still, Nelly did sense something untoward about such statements perhaps because she realized that whatever burden Mrs. Dickens might place on her family members, it was not exactly gentlemanly to complain about it to one's correspondents.

But what followed was worse. Again, Mr. Dickens denounced malicious gossip, and this time defended a pure and innocent soul as blameless as his own daughters. Apparently, an innocent who might be compared with his own daughters was being attached to his name. Nelly's queasiness was suddenly replaced by a surge of heat as an uncomfortable flush rose up her cheeks to the roots of her hair, leaving her breathless and perspiring.

She did believe she was innocent. She was certainly pure. She had not looked for scandal; she had not flirted. At least, she did not think she had flirted. Meeting Mr. Dickens as a fellow actor and manager of a production in which she was appearing, she had perhaps been less overwhelmed than other girls might have been, and thus more easily established a rapport with him. Her mother had permitted their occasional walks on the heath, and surely there was no shame there; they were always in full sight of dozens of people and she had never taken so much as a cup of tea alone with him. She had accepted gifts; it would have seemed rude to refuse them, but nothing more than a few tokens a manager might give an actress at the end of a successful engagement. He had put in a word for her in Drury Lane, but she had certainly never asked for such a favour and he had done the same for Maria too.

If she knew full well the implication of his attentions, Nelly was certain her own response was proper; she had never made him any promises nor told him what he must do. She could reassure herself that she was not the cause of the Dickenses' separation with a certitude she found deep in her soul, but she also thought it hard to believe that Mrs. Dickens was an unloving mother with a mental disorder. The letter seemed improbable and unwise: if his domestic affairs had been the subject of rumour and innuendo, such a statement would surely only inflame the gossips rather than tame them, while
also bringing news of his separation to all sorts of people previously ignorant of it. The genial and big-hearted man she knew was full of captivating tales that would hold any audience spellbound, yet this writer seemed a cramped and unconvincing character more likely to delude himself than his reader, whoever he intended that to be. How could he have ever written such a thing, let alone allow it to fall into the hands of a newspaper? For the first time in her acquaintance with Mr. Dickens, Nelly began to question if their friendship was really wise.

As she stared unhappily at the newspaper in front of her until she could no longer read the words, Mrs. Ternan now looked up from her correspondence with a smile.

“There's a very kind letter from Mr. Dickens, Nelly.”

“Oh?”

“He thinks Fanny should go to Italy. He truly believes in her talent and it is really the only place for voice training. I wonder…” Her mother hesitated. “I would need to go with her. I wonder if you and Maria would be all right here on your own for a few months? I don't like to leave you alone in town, but it's such an opportunity for Fanny. He's offering to pay for the lessons and all our expenses.”