This Is How I'd Love You (30 page)

T
he knock on the door wakes her. She presumes Harold has forgotten his key. But instead, it is Lowell. He stands there with a lovely bunch of white daisies—perhaps purchased from the same boy who’d earlier in the day sold her the roses for her hair—and a single silver goblet.

“Hensley,” he says, pushing the flowers toward her. She blushes, terrified of explaining herself.

“That’s sweet,” she says, taking the flowers from him. “I’m sorry about today. I hope you don’t hate me.”

“Well, I’m confused,” he says, stepping into the apartment. “This was to be our wedding day. There is no denying that I’m hurt.”

She sighs. “Lowell, you don’t want to marry me. You are just . . .”

“Trying to be honorable, Hennie. Trying to save you from a life of misery.”

His tone is strange. She recognizes it as the way he spoke to her so many months ago, in the theater. It is as though he’s speaking from a script.

“Since when do you care about saving me? I don’t believe you’ve ever cared about me.”

His face drops. He holds out his hand to hers. “Hennie. Don’t say that. Our road has not been easy, but I’ve always cared.”

His voice is deep and convincing. He takes a step toward her, his dark hair falling slightly to one side. The day has worn her out. He smiles, casting a gentleness over his face that she’d forgotten he had. She lets her head fall onto his shoulder and struggles with a bittersweet feeling. Would this do, she wonders, as the sun descends over the Hudson and the air cools with the expectation of fall?

But the moment he places his mouth on hers, the world contracts. She feels short of breath and restrained. And there he is, that open mouth that has brought her here, humiliated and desperate.

Is this affection, she wonders, as he forces her mouth open with his? Is this what husbands and wives allow each other to do? Push their needs into the space between them, demanding that they be met no matter the coarseness or cost?

But they are not married. And despite his best efforts, she is only more certain that she does not want to be married to him. This morning cannot be taken away from her. She turns her face away from his and holds her arms across her chest.

“What is this?” he says, his face flushed with desire. He holds up the goblet. “I understand cold feet. But I don’t understand another suitor.”

“What do you mean? I have no other suitor.” Hensley takes a deep breath.

He turns around and takes two steps toward the door. Then, as though just realizing something, he faces her again. “The baby is mine. You have no wherewithal. For God’s sake, you’re not even of age. Don’t think you can just run off with some new fellow.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He came to see me tonight, Hensley. He was looking for you. Lovesickness all over his face. And he had this. Not a mere friendly trinket, is it?”

Hensley reaches for the goblet. Was it Teresa? Had she come for her? “Who was it?”

“Don’t be stupid. You’ve nowhere to go. We both have an interest in making this work. And he’s a cripple. Damaged.”

Hensley takes a deep breath. “Please explain. I don’t understand.”

But he doesn’t. He sets the goblet down on the dining table and takes her hands in his. “Hennie, today was just the dress rehearsal. We can still make it right.”

“And what is your interest in that, Lowell? What have you been promised to make it right?”

“I’m actually quite good with figures. I’ve a head for both poetry and balance sheets.”

“You think I have money?” Hensley is incredulous. “If I had money, I would already be gone. I certainly would not have put on that dress today.”

Lowell squeezes his hands into fists at his sides. He shakes his head. “You are a tease. I have the scar to prove it.”

He bends over, unties his shoe, and pulls it off. With his sock in one hand and his shoe in the other, he holds his pale foot up for her to inspect. Across the arch there is an amorphous pink scar.

Hensley trembles at the sight of it. “I am sorry about that. But you deceived me. Do you remember that part?”

“You did that to yourself.”

Hensley places her hand on the back of the sofa. “How is that possible? Do you remember what you said?”

Lowe throws his shoe across the room and it hits the wall, leaving a small, angry divot. Hensley shrieks, hoping desperately that Harold is coming home.

“Do you remember what
you
said? You recited Tennyson.
If I were loved, as I desire to be?
For God’s sake, you were to become my wife today. I won’t play these games with you.”

He tries to grab her arm and Hensley pulls away. She shrinks behind the couch, afraid. She listens as he unties the other shoe and, with less force, throws it near the other. In his bare feet, he stands above her.

“Please don’t, Lowell,” she says, watching his nostrils flare. “Please don’t.”

“What a memorable honeymoon, Hensley. Really, truly memorable. And completely suitable for an audience. Though they’d be bored to tears.”

He pushes his foot against her back so that she falls slightly forward, her head sinking into the back of the couch. “I’m sorry,” she says, her neck bent at an unnatural angle.

But he keeps his foot there, and a pain ebbs up from the pressure in the back of her head. The upholstery smells of cigarette smoke and Harold’s cologne. If Lowell were a German soldier and he’d found her hiding in a trench, she could not be any more afraid. For comfort, she imagines her dear Mr. Reid, a pistol on his hip, sitting in a soggy, polluted field of mud beside her—the two of them united in their fear and conviction to survive. Grabbing the hem of her skirt as though it were his hand, she thinks to herself,
I would shoot him,
Mr. Reid
.
I would not hesitate. Oh, give me my uniform and my boots and let me pull that damn trigger. I would aim first for his face, blast a hole through it, and then shoot him in his manly parts.
Destroy that greedy, throbbing place that has turned me into this cowering girl, crouched behind her own living room sofa.

But there is no pistol and there is no trench and Lowell is not a German soldier. He is, technically, still her betrothed.

“Leave me alone,” she says firmly. “Whatever chance you thought you had coming here is ruined. I will be a newsie before I’ll marry you.”

Conjuring all of his contempt for her, he gathers the phlegm and saliva in the back of his throat and spits it out with a force that startles her. It lands just beside her, its yellow foam clinging to the rug in a stubborn, ugly puddle. He takes his shoes and stands at the door with them in his hand. “You will see, Miss Hensley Dench, that your gender makes you helpless. Your brother and I made a deal. We will be married.”

Lowell slams the door behind him. Hensley curls up on the floor, listening to her own shallow breath. From across the room, she sees the chandelier’s reflection shining in the silver goblet. What deal has Harold made with Lowell? With both of them united against her, her only hope is to disappear.

She shoves as many clothes as she can into her satchel, and on top she places the goblet. Without leaving a note, she walks out into the night.

 • • • 

A
surprisingly cool wind blows from the Hudson, and she has absolutely no idea what to do. She has absolutely no idea what’s happened to her life. How did she become this girl, homeless and pregnant and utterly alone?

The baby fidgets just under her rib cage. On the cool wind is the smell of the city’s foul excretions. She stands and walks east, with her back to the wind.

Her legs move easily, seeming to know that this is all there is. This movement, this act of leaving, is everything. There is only this and she is afraid to ever stop walking.

Oh, cruel, dark night. How long before sunrise? What happens out here during the sleeping hours? Where do you gather the unwanted and unmoored?

She walks toward Marie’s family’s apartment on the other side of the park. It is the only refuge she can imagine, given the time of night. Hopefully nobody will chastise her tonight. All she wants is to be given a soft blanket and a pillow and be allowed to awaken to her own desperate circumstances with the dawn.

When she arrives, she rings the bell gently. But there is no reply. What now? Can she really walk all night long? She collects her satchel and descends the steps. The darkness spreads out in every direction, with no hint of reassurance. Hensley retraces her steps.

The park is lit with yellow spotlights, sending tunnels of light into the sky.

Hensley wipes her face with a handkerchief.

Taking a deep breath, she walks the narrow bricks that lead to the main tent.

Inside, all the energy of the evening’s performance has been drained. Only the heat remains. The stands are empty and several performers lie across them, their makeup and costumes in various stages of removal. A dog lingers at their feet and licks their sweaty fingers eagerly. Several men push brooms across the floor, sweeping the straw and debris to the back of the tent. The smell of manure hovers beneath the sweetness of popcorn and spun sugar.

The fullness of her skirt feels too proper and her hat announces that she considers herself a lady.

“Circus is over, ma’am,” a voice calls out from the stands. “Tomorrow night at seven.”

Hensley blushes. “Thank you.” She squints in the direction of the voice. Her own is tentative when she says, “I was actually looking for Arty. Is he here?”

A cacophony of laughter erupts from the stragglers. She realizes they probably think he’s made a date with her—an upper-class lady.

When their amusement has quieted, a new voice calls out, “Second trailer on the left, out the back. The orange door.”

She blinks. “Thank you,” she says quietly, wrapping a protective hand across her belly. Stepping over a pile of horse manure, she crosses the tent quickly.

Outside, she is grateful to be anonymous again. Two midgets dressed in bathrobes walk across the path in front of her. Outside the orange door, Hensley takes a deep breath. Whether or not Arty says yes, at least she is certain he will not judge her. Even if he does, even if he chastises her or shames her, he will not be able to insist that she return. He has no authority over her.

Her knuckles meet the door with a surprising enthusiasm.

“Enter,” he calls from inside.

Hensley is afraid he may not be decent. From outside, she calls through the door. “Arty, it’s Hensley Dench.”

There is silence. Then the door opens and he is standing there, his brow furrowed.

“I’m Hensley. Do you remember me?”

She finds she cannot speak anymore, but he nods. “Come in,” he says, stepping back from the threshold so she can enter.

There is a small bed in the corner covered in a thick brown quilt. A little table is shoved against one wall, a cigar smoking in the ashtray.

Hensley stands there, her eyes on her own shoes.

“Would you like a drink, darlin’? Or is it another ride you’ve come back for?”

Hensley looks up, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “I’ve really fouled things up and I don’t have any other place to go.”

“I can’t believe that’s true.” He winks at her and reaches for his cigar. “But it
is
how a lot of us got here.”

“I’ve run away from my fiancé.” As she says it, she laughs. Then she covers her mouth in horror. “It’s not funny. Not at all.”

“I can’t say that I’m surprised.”

“But you don’t even know him . . .”

“No, but I saw your face in Chicago. It was not the way a girl should look on the way to the altar.”

Hensley sinks into the small velvet chair just beside the door.

“Is it his child?”

She blushes. She wasn’t sure he could tell. “Yes. But he doesn’t care. I’m afraid my brother has misled him, made him believe in a fantasy. He wants so badly for me to be respectable that he would marry me to a murderer.”

“You’re in the right place,” Arty says. He kneels in front of the cabinet, on top of which are his staples: a bread bag, several tins of nuts and mackerel, and a piece of cheese wrapped in mesh. From deep inside, he pulls out a tall jar of pickled onions, carrots, and green beans. He coaxes the vegetables into a pile on a glass plate. “Here you are. Besides whiskey, vinegar is the next best potion.”

Hensley takes one of the carrot slices between her fingers and places it in her mouth. The vinegar singes her tongue with its acidity. Her jaw muscles tighten and her eyes water. But the sweetness of the carrot is preserved and reveals itself as she chews slowly. It reminds her of her own collection of pickles she relied upon in Hillsboro.

“I’d offer you whiskey, but I had to give it up myself. So I don’t keep it.”

“Too much medicine?” she asks, reaching for another carrot.

“Yep. The only difference between medicine and poison is the dose.”

“These are very good. Did you make them?”

“No. A friend in Philadelphia.”

Hensley nods. Feeling brave and reckless, she says loudly, “I sew.”