However, Harold did end up returning to River City, rendering Marian's concerns of resurging wanderlust moot. But even when her music professor bounded through the front door, plunked his suitcase on the floor and caught her in a joyful hug, the librarian's apprehensions didn't disappear entirely. In the month of her husband's absence, the seed of anxiety in her mind had sprouted into a full-fledged oak tree of worry.
Despite her lingering disquiet, Marian found herself nestling in her husband's arms and warmly responding to his welcome-home kiss. And when their lips finally parted, she couldn't help clinging to Harold and confessing how much she had missed him. To his credit, he responded with similar, earnest endearments – at any rate, he did not speak in his bright "showy" voice or flash his incandescent "salesman" smile at her as he expressed such sentiments.
But when their embrace ended and Marian beheld her husband's relaxed, smiling face, she remembered with a flash of irritation just how irksome his blithe capriciousness was. His arrival was not totally unexpected – a few days ago he had sent a telegram informing her he'd be home "in a day or two" – but it was enough of a surprise that Marian was caught off guard.
"I wish you had told me you were coming home this evening," she chided, attempting to keep her tone light. "Why didn't you send a telegram?"
"Simple," Harold said with his usual breezy unconcern. "If I told you exactly when I was planning on coming home, the whole town would have been waiting to greet me as I stepped off the train. It was hard enough getting home from the station as it is – every single person I met on the way wanted to hear all about what I did in Des Moines and Iowa City." He paused and regarded his wife with an affectionate smile. "And all I wanted to do was get home to my wife and daughters."
Marian couldn't help melting a little at this; by now, she knew her husband well enough to realize when he was being completely truthful. But she did not thaw out completely. "Well… if I had known you would be getting home this evening, I wouldn't have put the girls to bed so early."
Indeed, her irritation increased to its former levels when Harold simply shrugged and said, "Well then, I'll just take a peek into Penny and Elly's room on the way upstairs."
"I wouldn't disturb them," she said coolly. "They've been fussy all day, and I had a terrible time getting them to fall asleep in the first place." When Harold's shoulders slumped, Marian felt a genuine pang of guilt – even though she had been telling the truth. So she added in a kinder voice, "Then again, it has been awhile since they've seen their father. I suppose we could make an exception just this once… "
"No, no," Harold assured her with an understanding smile. "If Penny and Elly have been fussy, it's best they're left alone." He gazed pensively at her, and she knew he was noting her rumpled clothes, pale complexion and weary eyes. "Besides, I don't want to make things more difficult for you – you look like you could use some extra sleep, yourself."
At that, Marian's sense of pique deepened even further. If he really wanted her to sleep well, why hadn't he come home when he promised – or at least given her a concrete date he was planning to return? If he really cared about not adding to her burdens, why hadn't thrown away those horrid photographs years ago, before she came to live with him? But Marian managed to quell the powerful urge to let loose this blistering tirade upon her unsuspecting husband, and instead politely asked him to tell her more about his trip.
As Harold cheerfully held forth at length about his onerous but ultimately successful attempts to find a decent supplier at a reasonable price, the librarian tried to convince herself that it was foolish to be so upset about such trifles. While it was true her husband hadn't given her a definite date of return, his reasons for being vague were both practical and touching. And while it was also true that he hadn't thrown away those scandalous photographs of his own accord, the fact he had stowed them in such an out-of-the-way place showed just how little they meant to him. And they had been buried so deeply that it was unlikely anyone would have accidentally or even purposely unearthed them; if Marian hadn't been so thorough in her housecleaning, she and her husband might have lived out the rest of their lives happily unaware of the volatile contents of his old trunk.
Indeed, the sensible side of Marian laid out extremely compelling arguments not only for forgiving Harold, but not even mentioning the photographs to him at all. But after three long weeks of loneliness and uncertainty, her heart still insisted on clinging to hurt feelings. If they had been able to discuss the matter as soon as it arose, Marian knew she wouldn't be in such an irrational frame of mind – which made this stubborn emotional malaise all the more maddening and fueled a fresh burst of resentment toward her husband. If only he had come home sooner!
It certainly didn't help matters that Harold spoke of Mr. Gallup in unusually glowing terms – instead of deriding the man as "that mealy-mouthed reporter," he now colloquially referred to him as "Fred" – and also frequently mentioned his name in conjunction with a "Lucy." Apparently, Mr. Gallup had found himself a wife at last, and they had just returned from a month-long honeymoon in Niagara Falls. According to Harold, Lucy was not only beautiful, but she was also quite the accomplished actress and singer – at any rate, Mr. Gallup certainly doted on her.
"And what does his wife think of him?" Marian asked curiously as Clara's expression of confident seductiveness floated through her mind.
"Oh, she absolutely adores Fred," he said with a wave of his hand. "Marriage has certainly been a wonderful thing for him. Remember how he used to adopt a serene demeanor, nonchalantly moving through the world as if he were merely a detached observer? Well, he's so sweet on Lucy that he's now as warm and welcoming as any man who's deeply in love and happily married. I thought I was going to have quite a hard time of it convincing him to give me an 'in' with the University of Iowa's administration, but he couldn't wait to do me a favor!"
The librarian's stomach flip-flopped unpleasantly. "So traveling to Iowa City was all your idea?"
Looking pleased with his cleverness, the music professor nodded. "I figured while I was away, I might as well kill two birds with one stone. I've always wanted to look into the possibility of establishing the Think System at a university or, failing that, pick up a few refinements that I might be able to apply to the emporium's curriculum. Fred leapt at the chance to arrange a meeting with the dean, and he and Lucy also came to Iowa City with me – Fred wanted to visit with old friends and introduce me and his wife to them." He let out a gleefully triumphant laugh. "By the time we left, I had met and befriended everyone who had anything to do with music at that university. This is going to bode wonderfully for expanding the Think System into new territory!"
"Sounds like you had a wonderful time," Marian muttered. "You and Fred and Lucy."
Her terseness was not lost on Harold; he immediately took her hands in his and planted several persuasive kisses upon them. "Darling, I missed you every minute of every day. Seeing Fred and Lucy together only made your absence worse – it reminded me just how far away I was from the woman I love."
Marian longed to retort that for a man who professed to miss his wife so much, he certainly took his sweet time in coming home, but she gave her husband a gracious smile instead. "Well, I'm glad Mr. Gallup managed to find the happiness he was looking for."
Harold grinned. "Actually, the story of how he ended up meeting and marrying his wife is just as amazing and romantic as ours. Remind me to tell you about it sometime."
"Why not tell me now?" she asked, mystified.
"Because I'm in the mood to make a little romance of my own," he replied in his low, velvety voice, and pulled her into his arms.
But romance wasn't something Marian could pretend enthusiasm for – although she tried her best. So it was no surprise that Harold's lips had barely touched hers before he pulled back to look searchingly in her eyes. "Marian, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," she insisted, trying not to sound snappish. "I'm simply tired – it's been a long day."
He frowned at her. "The heck there isn't anything wrong – I've been gone for nearly a month, and you're kissing me like you wish I'd just go away and leave you alone!"
For one awful moment, Marian couldn't reply; she suddenly felt the urge to weep.
Harold's expression softened. "Darling?" he asked tenderly, putting a gentle finger under her chin.
The confession burst out of her. "I cleaned out the attic a few weeks ago," she admitted, her tone half accusatory, half guilty. "When I was going through your old things, I – I found something."
To her surprise and annoyance, Harold looked more intrigued than alarmed. "Oh? What did you find?"
Once again, Marian's pride came to her rescue. Disengaging herself from her husband's embrace, she drew herself up to her full height. "Why don't you wait for me in the parlor while I go get it?" she said politely but ominously, and turned to go upstairs.
XXX
Of all the possible homecomings Harold imagined, he had never envisioned this: pacing somewhat nervously in the parlor while his aggrieved wife went upstairs to fetch whatever it was in their attic that had upset her. He couldn't help chuckling at the predicament in which he found himself – whatever life was in River City, it certainly wasn't boring!
When Harold had left town in the middle of May, the blossoms on the trees were just starting to open. By the time he returned, River City was deep into June; the foliage was summer-green and the streets were littered with dried petals that swirled around his feet as he hastened home from the freight depot. As a man who had traveled often, Harold was keenly aware of the transience of the seasons and, although he wasn't given to poetic reflection, this stark reminder of life's ephemeral nature made him uneasy. What else had changed in the month while he was away?
Dismissing such melancholy thoughts with a chuckle, the music professor shook his head at his foolishness and quickened his pace. He must be tired, if he was ruminating on old, dead blossoms when he had a beloved wife and two dear daughters eagerly awaiting his return! And Harold was just as keen to be reunited with his family; if he hurried, he might just get home in time to kiss Penny and Elly goodnight.
When Harold finally arrived at the charming Victorian and caught Marian in his arms, he delighted in the way she clung to him as she returned his affectionate greeting. Perhaps he ought to have been warned by her fervor – looking back on it, he realized there was a definite tinge of desperation in her embrace, as if she had been entertaining the possibility that he wouldn't come home.
But at the time, such notions didn't really register – although Harold was quick to note his wife's strange aloofness as he told her about his trip. Even then, he dismissed this as having inadvertently caught her in a cantankerous mood; perhaps he should have been a little more forthright about the time of his return, especially as he had missed out on seeing his daughters before they were put to bed for the evening. Initially, Harold had been planning to refresh himself with a meal and a hot bath before suggesting to his wife that they retire, but upon seeing how gloomy Marian's demeanor became during the course of their conversation, he quickly decided it was more important to demonstrate with candid affection just how much he had missed her.
Even though he knew his wife wasn't in the best of moods, he had still been stunned by her lukewarm response to his kiss, and further taken aback when she confessed just what was bothering her. Genuinely mystified, Harold racked his brains in an effort to figure out just what she could have found in their attic, but it was no use. He could barely keep track of his often-used possessions – let alone anything he had put into storage! But when Marian asked him to wait for her in the parlor while she retrieved the source of her dismay, Harold was shrewd enough to realize this wasn't a request, and acquiesced without protest. But he wondered if he should have followed her upstairs, anyway. Because by then, the music professor had the unpleasant inkling that no matter what he did, things weren't going to go well for him.
Indeed, the disgust in Marian's expression was evident as she descended the stairs and handed him what she'd discovered.
Upon reaching into the sock and pulling out the photographs, Harold had a sudden shock of recognition. "Oh – I'd wondered where those went!" he blurted without thinking.
For a moment, Marian looked like she was going to cry – or unleash a furious tirade upon his head. But she bit her lip and said stiffly, "They were at the bottom of your old traveling trunk."
Berating himself for his clumsy reaction to his wife's discovery – even if it was borne of exhaustion, he ought to have known better – Harold hastily explained, "I didn't miss them, if that's what you're thinking. I haven't seen or thought of those pictures for years. Back when I first moved into this house and was culling possessions from my former life, I never ended up coming across them. So at the time, I wondered where they went."
"Is that it, indeed?" Marian asked in a cold voice, looking thoroughly unconvinced. "I must say, it seems awfully strange that a man who was so eager to convince people that a harmless pool table would destroy the very moral fabric of their town could be so cavalier about leaving potentially illegal photographs lying around. If anyone knew you had those pictures, both our reputations and perhaps even our livelihoods would be ruined!"
Fervently wishing he'd had the presence of mind to pretend he hadn't immediately recognized the photographs, Harold paused and took a deep breath to prepare himself for the long, difficult road he'd have to travel to attain the prim librarian's forgiveness. "Marian," he said shrewdly, going directly to the heart of her indignation, "those pictures mean absolutely nothing to me. They haven't for awhile – the last time I laid eyes on them was before I even came to River City. Because I hadn't seen them for so long, I figured I'd gotten rid of them already. Apparently, I hadn't, and I'm sorry. I'll destroy them immediately."
Her expression still chagrined, Marian turned away from him. "You're just lucky it was me who found the pictures – and not someone who would tattle around town!"
Biting back the sharp retort hovering on the tip of his tongue, Harold turned his attention to the offending photographs and tore them into pieces small enough to make recognition difficult, should a few shreds accidentally end up scattered over the carpet like his wife's errant hairpins. Once he completed this task, he walked over to the fireplace and unloaded his pile into it. As the papers floated to the bottom like harmless confetti, he assembled a bundle of kindling and struck a match.
When Harold attempted to coax a fire into existence, Marian whirled around to face him. "What are you doing?" she gasped. "The neighbors are sure to find the sight of smoke rising from our chimney awfully suspicious! What if they talk?"
"They can chatter and theorize all they want," Harold said staunchly. "But it doesn't matter what they say, as long as all the evidence is destroyed. There very well might be a law against those pictures, but as far as I know there's no law saying a man can't enjoy a cozy fire in his own fireplace – even if it is June. And besides," he added, his voice darkening slightly, "it is a tad chilly, this evening."
Marian glowered at the music professor, but let him proceed. Unsurprisingly, even after he had personally overseen that each and every picture was converted into ashes, her dissatisfaction lingered, and she turned away from him again.
Although Harold still relished a good challenge every now and then, these days he valued Marian's generously-bestowed affections far more than overcoming obstacles to attain satisfaction. He was especially looking forward to a warm welcome tonight; after four weeks away, he wanted nothing more than to spend the next several hours making love to his wife. But she had gotten on her high horse again and, in his impatience and frustration, he resented having to coax her off of it.
Repressing a sigh, Harold went over to his wife and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. "Darling, I wish you'd forgive me," he entreated. "It was an innocent mistake. I am sorry… "
Marian didn't move away, but she didn't say anything, either. As she stood stiffly in his arms, Harold wrestled with his growing sense of exasperation – both at her stubbornness and his own carelessness. But perhaps there was something he could show her that would begin to repair the damage he had inadvertently caused. Removing his hands from his wounded wife's shoulders, Harold rummaged through his pockets.
"Marian, I'm going to prove to you that you're the only woman who matters to me," he asserted, confident as ever.
At that, she turned and gazed at him with frank curiosity, and Harold was pleased to see there was also a glimmer of hope in her eyes. He grinned; perhaps it would be easier to placate her than he thought. But where were those damn photographs?
When his search ultimately proved fruitless, Marian reverted to her ice-queen demeanor, and she turned away from him again. Harold couldn't help giving a grim chuckle at this inopportune turn of events – of course he should end up misplacing something else of vital importance! He supposed he could check his suitcase for the items, but it no longer mattered whether he laid hands on what he wanted to find: Once again, he'd proven himself to be the thoughtless cad she took him for.
Perhaps Harold should have persevered in his efforts to make amends, but he remained silent. After all, there were only so many times a man could apologize for his misdeeds. Even if he could find something comforting to say, he was too annoyed to sympathize with a wife who seemed determined to remain in a snit. As Harold regarded the quietly seething librarian, his resentment increased even further. There wasn't a moment he hadn't missed her while he was away and, although his trip was enjoyable and productive, he had eagerly looked forward to the day when he could finally return home to his wife. But instead of greeting him with affection, Marian accused him of transgressions he didn't nor would ever commit – even if she hadn't said a single word to that effect, the meaning of her standoffish demeanor was plain enough. Being tired after his long trip, he certainly wasn't in the mood to reassure Marian of the things she ought to know by now.
Suddenly, Harold was struck with a disquieting thought – what if those pictures weren't the only things she discovered in the attic? Perhaps she found something else – something worse – that she wasn't telling him about. While he couldn't think what else she might have found, he had to acknowledge such a supposition wasn't out of the realm of possibility. In the past few decades, he had amassed several souvenirs from past lovers – many of which he lost or discarded – and he could no longer be sure that some other disaster wasn't lying in a dim, cobwebbed corner of the house he and Marian shared. And he couldn't afford to prolong this impasse; the quicker he ruled out this alarming possibility, the better. So as tactfully as he could, Harold made the inquiry, nervously clearing his throat at various intervals as he did so.
Predictably, Marian bristled and whirled around to face him again. "Why – is there anything else you've been keeping that I should know about?"
"Well, clearly I don't know – or I wouldn't have asked!" he retorted, letting his irritation get the better of him. "What were you doing, poking around in my old things, anyway?"
Her eyes narrowed. "If I didn't take the initiative and clean out the attic, it would never have gotten done! Why didn't you do a better job of disposing of your old things?"
Too out of sorts to even attempt to finesse his words, Harold snapped, "Why can't you let it go, already? You're aware enough of my prior history that my having those photographs shouldn't have come as such a surprise!"
Marian's eyes widened and she reeled back, as if he had slapped her. As she gazed at him in disbelief – clearly, she had expected him to revert back to groveling for forgiveness – he couldn't help taking childish satisfaction in knocking her off balance.
But the next words out of her mouth, though they were soft and sad, evened the score. "How often were you and Clara together?"
Harold shifted uncomfortably. Clara was an actress and a burlesque dancer who lived in New York City. She had been more than a one-time affair – of all the women Harold looked up when he passed through the city, Clara had been the one he went back to the most. He certainly wasn't about to tell his wife this – even though he hadn't seen Clara for over a decade. But she was waiting for him to answer, and he had to say something.
In a classic display of diversion that nevertheless reflected his genuine fatigue, Harold sighed and, lifting his hand to his forehead, pressed his finger and thumb against his throbbing temples. "Marian," he said wearily, "do we really have to do this?"
"There's a world of difference between knowing something, and seeing it with one's own eyes," she said sullenly. "How do you think any woman would feel witnessing her husband's past affairs in the flesh? Especially a husband whose prior history is rife with discarded lovers!"
"They weren't all past affairs," Harold assured her – even as aggravated as he was, the pain in her voice caused him to feel some guilt. "I didn't even know some of those women – those pictures were simply the pathetic collection of a debauched and lonely man."
"Don't patronize me," she scolded, her demeanor growing haughty once more. "I saw the signatures – at least half of those women were past conquests!"
He could find nothing to say to that.
The dismay in Marian's expression intensified. "But… you told me you never went back to any woman more than once."
It wasn't often the perceptive librarian so completely and willfully misunderstood him. "What?" he stammered, flabbergasted. "I never said anything of the kind! I told you I never had any long-term affairs – there's a crucial difference."
Marian shook her head. "You're simply hiding behind semantics," she said in a bleak, disillusioned voice.
"I wouldn't call looking up a woman once every few years a long-term affair," Harold replied with a derisive laugh. "Especially as neither of us was faithful or even wrote to the other in the interim!" He reached out and grabbed his wife's hands, holding her to him lest she turn away again. "But why don't you just come right out and say it – you regret marrying me!" he resentfully accused her. "Even though you assured me over and over again that you accepted my past, warts and all! If you had found those photographs before we married, you wouldn't have gone through with the wedding, would you?"
She glared at him. "Well, maybe I wouldn't have!"
There was a sudden, awful jolt in the pit of his stomach, and Harold felt his face blanch. If Marian had set out to hurt him, she had succeeded admirably. Dropping her hands and turning away, he struggled against the furor of emotion threatening to overwhelm him. Shock, dismay, anguish and rage wrestled for dominance within him, and it would only be a matter of time before one of them breached his defenses. Perhaps he should have left the room, but he couldn't help himself; he turned back to look at his wife.
As Harold gaped wordlessly at Marian, she had the grace to look at least a little remorseful. But her manner was still rather aloof; she stood there silently, offering no apology for her statement. For the first time in his life, the music professor felt an intense fury toward the woman for whom he would gladly have been tarred and feathered. If his throat wasn't tied up in knots, he would have unleashed his anger in a blistering torrent of words. But he couldn't speak.
Hardly knowing what he doing, Harold took a step toward his wife. She gasped and moved backwards, nearly knocking over a lamp in her haste to retreat. Gratified to see he had knocked the pride out of Marian at last, he continued his advance until she was pressed against the wall. As she attempted to sidle away, he grasped her firmly by the shoulders. Harold had her cornered now, and he wasn't going to let her go until she explained that stinging little remark of hers to his satisfaction.
But as Marian shrank from his presence and gazed up at him with wide, frightened eyes, Harold experienced a moment of startling clarity as a rational but alarmed voice pierced the thick fog of emotion clouding his senses:
What are you doing?
Horrified, Harold let go of Marian and immediately scrambled to put several feet of space between them. He figured she'd take this opportunity to flee from him, but she remained frozen where she was, her eyes still riveted to his and her face still ashen with fear. His heart sinking, Harold realized that the longer he stayed, the more likely it was that their marriage would be over by the next morning – if it wasn't already damaged beyond repair. Not knowing or caring where he was going to go, the bereft music professor turned and stormed out of the house.
