As Scarlett stood to the side of the room with her back against the wall, she wondered what in God's green earth had she done in her life to deserve this. From any passerby's perspective, this was just a conversation between two ex-Confederates, a harmless talk between two men. She spotted the heavy ledger on the desk and thought that it would be best to keep her mind and hands busy, but she knew that her arithmetic would become as poor as Ashley's if she were to attempt any calculations now. So now it was her turn to fidget in silence. It was almost fascinating, watching the face she had known since childhood and had loved for so long become a mask, a wooden thing. She could see the lips moving, hear the correct words and proper social niceties escape them; they were talking about Beau and the mills, of all things...and when the conversation meandered to the state of federal politics, Scarlett had to stifle an incredulous snort, but then her heart resumed its erratic beating and she wrung her suddenly clammy hands. Oh, why had he asked her to come? Or had she asked to accompany him? Was she trying to prove something? But what was there to even prove to him, to anyone, at this point?
But wouldn't the rest of Atlanta be dying to see this? she mused grimly, as her gaze traveled between her husband and…former lover? Was that what they called them now? Or did the rest of the town only refer to her in that way? I'll bet Pa wasn't thinking about this when he named me. She would have been happy to have Beau or even India to talk to, but the old spinster had put an arm around Beau and had quietly exited the room once she had seen Scarlett and Rhett. With no end in sight, she began concocting plans that ranged from heaving herself out the window and scampering the short distance home to trying to disappear into the wall altogether, but when she realized that her chances of escaping were nil, she found herself eyeing the decanter on the table…but that couldn't be. Ashley didn't drink and as far as she knew, India, the old crow, didn't either. But then she shrugged: with all that's happened, was it so surprising that he and India or even Pitty needed a glass or two to steady themselves? Perhaps everyone in the South needed a stiff one; maybe that was the key to getting through all this, and Scarlett understood the temptation, the need, only too well.
And then his hand was on her shoulder and she felt him brush right past her and out the room, leaving her alone. With Ashley. And they stood there in silence: two waxen, stunned figures. Ashley slowly made his way to the desk and leaned heavily against it, his neck and spine bowed; Scarlett didn't move an inch, her gaze locked on her feet and hands tightly clasped at the waist. Finally, she looked up at him, managing a weak smile, but the man wasn't looking at her; his eyes were fixed on some invisible point on the floor. We both had that coming, didn't we? she thought, surveying him. She swept from the room then, without a parting word or backwards glance.
He was waiting for her at the front gate, and as they walked home side by side in silence, she found herself studying her husband's profile. He no longer watched her, but she found herself watching him; the first time she caught herself doing so, she chuckled darkly: the two of us…we are truly gluttons for punishment, aren't we? The whites of his eyes were clear, his gaze lucid; as far as she could tell, he never so much as touched the decanter and when he did come home after dark, he did not come home with the stench of whiskey on his breath or with that woman's musk clinging to his clothes. It seemed as if all of the anger and jealousy had left him, but so had any real feeling as well. Nothing seemed to rouse him from that implacable placidity; he no longer jeered at her...or at anyone else...this wasn't quite the same as that impersonal kindness she had come to despise even more than the stinging remarks, for when he locked eyes with her, she knew that he was looking at her and not through her. The man still cared about her…or as much as he had it in him to care. He did tease her and sometimes she swore that she could see those eyes light up, but no longer did they burn with anger or passion or twinkle with real amusement. Their conversations followed along the same lines, but the sass, the zest, the flavor was gone. Bonnie may not have taken everything, but she did take what mattered, didn't she?
There were mornings where he would roll to her side and stroke her cheek with that half-mocking touch, but then there were too many days when he would address her the same way as he would the children or servants: with that calm, kindly tone that made her want to scream. They slept side by side, but were always back to back. Those first few nights when he had buried his face into her hair or neck, she had been perturbed and was determined to change that, but as the days turned into weeks, she found herself doing the same for she did not want him to see the truth in her unguarded gaze. This man...was only a shadow of who she had wanted to come home, who she had loved.
She did not want the man with the blank dead eyes, the kindly stranger, or whoever the hell this was. She wanted the man who had smiled that slow, insolent smile at her from the bottom of that staircase, the one who had given her that bonnet, the one who had led her into that reel, the one who could never fail to make her laugh when she thought she no longer had it in her to laugh, even the one whose eyes had coolly raked the length of her at that jail...and the one who saw a future that didn't solely revolve around winning her. And most of all, she wanted those days back, those golden days, when she was only Scarlett O'Hara and he a young and fancy-free blockader from Charleston, for he had been young and carefree until…but she shouldn't be thinking such things. She was being a child; she was being worse than Ashley, worse than anybody. She ought to be grateful that he was here with her after Bonnie, after everything.
But she couldn't help what she wanted. And she realized that what she wanted was…Oh Ashley. After Melanie, after everything…I should not have said those things to you; they were cruel, spiteful. You were only doing what you could do at that moment…as did I, that night I came running home believing that everything could be forgiven, no, that everything could be forgotten, so long as I said that I was sorry. And Rhett, I finally understand why you turned to Bonnie, but from that moment on, you stopped wanting me, you stopped loving me. You wanted who I was, who I had been…and I understand that. I understand completely. That girl at Twelve Oaks, that girl in green…I miss her as well.
Given who we were, who we are, marrying me out of love was the biggest mistake you made in your life. If you had merely wanted me, I think we could have had a real chance. Only when they were joined as one could she forget, and so she continued to lose herself in his flesh, doing so with a violence and ferocity that left her breasts tender, her parts sore, her mouth raw, and her heart empty. And in the rare occasions when she did venture into town, Scarlett did her best to avoid her for whenever she looked at that swollen face, that distended figure, and those blank dead eyes the muddy hue of a coke bottle, she felt as if she were gazing into a mirror.
That first night, I had wanted to ask…if you regretted meeting me. For the longest time, I did not regret meeting you. Even if I could have known how things would have turned out ahead of time, even if everything were set in stone, I still would have chosen to meet you, to marry you, and to have her…over, and over, and over again. But I realize now, just how selfish that is…I could not regret meeting you, for if I had, what did I have left to hope for, to fight for? I told myself that if I could do things differently, that if I had a second chance to start all over again, that I would have told you that I loved you the first time you kissed me, that night at Aunt Pitty's, that I would have embraced you with all my heart the morning after Ashley's birthday, and that I would have never said those things to you as our daughter lay dead in your arms, but now….I think I would have run at the sight of you that day at Twelve Oaks…to save us both…and to save her…and I'm sure now…that you would have done the same.
Rhett, when you finally came home to me after all of these years, I thought I would have been happy. After you had gone, I thought I would go crazy, sitting here alone in this house, in this tomb of memories, but I told myself that someday, we would see each other again. I had to believe that. I had gotten myself drunk on that hope and every night in my dreams, it was all I could see. I had stopped praying to God long ago, but I prayed for this…I prayed for you with Melanie's final words on my lips, but our reunion was nothing like I had envisioned; it was nothing like I had expected. Truth be told, that first night…when I saw you sitting across the dining table and when you held me in your arms, I…was so…disappointed.
She was raising what she thought was perhaps her fourth glass to her lips, glass, because she would not drink directly from the bottle. Only drunkards did that. And then she felt a warm hand on her shoulder: it was Wade. Her son. Her baby boy. The only man who truly stayed by her side and who was, in many ways, the last one standing. For the last few years, gazing into those soft brown depths had never failed to soothe her heart: Oh Melly. You never truly left me, did you? For once, I am so grateful that I married your brother.
But that beloved, high forehead was furrowed with worry.
"Mother, is everything alright?"
She smiled.
"Of course. Of course it is."
She reached up: Wade was so tall now…she brushed a stray curl from his forehead and cupped his cheek.
"You mustn't frown so much, Wade. Do you want to get wrinkles?
But something was wrong. Her face was pinched. Her face was white, save for two patches of color that burned high in the cheeks, and the red eyes were sunk deep into their sockets. He had seen her look that way only once before.
She was stroking his cheek now in that detached, distracted air.
"You've-You've always been so good to me."
Wade had never told his mother that the night after his Uncle Rhett had left, he had hidden in his closet, hugging his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth, back and forth. He had always known that Mother and Rhett loved Bonnie best and was afraid that, like Rhett, she would have decided that he and his remaining sister were not worth the time, the energy, the pain, and would have left them as well.
He took her hand in both of his own.
"What's the matter? Isn't this what you wanted?" he whispered, his eyes searching hers. And then she knew. She chuckled, shaking her head slightly.
"So it was you. There really was no need for all this. You should have told me what you were up to."
"I was afraid that you would have been angry."
"Angry? Wade, what on earth do I have left to be angry about?"
And it was the truth; after all, it wasn't the first time a man had gone behind her back. I had never asked you, Rhett. Your selling of my mills to Ashley…had that been your last ditch effort to try to win me over? I suppose…that I will never know.
She again raised the glass to her lips, but with a deftness and ferocity that startled her, he grabbed the stem of the glass, wrenching it down; the wine sloshed sloppily onto her skirts. She looked up to scold him but paused with her lips parted: his eyes were no longer placid with bookish timidity; they were wild, turbulent with emotion. A muscle in his clenched jaw was twitching, and he was gripping the stem of the glass so tightly that his knuckles were white. The sight cleared some of the haze from her mind; she realized who he must be seeing and she suddenly felt a bout of shame overwhelm her. Averting her gaze, she carefully set the glass down on the side table. I, I've always managed to upset people, haven't I?
"Mother…could I ask you something?"
She stared straight ahead, as cold and immobile as an ice sculpture.
"Do you still love him?"
She looked at him. Her lips smiled, but as he watched, he could see the tears well from wide, unblinking eyes and slowly trickle down that hollow, white face.