Chapter 42

John didn't need to take out his watch. He didn't want to know how long he had been waiting. Twenty minutes, at least. Vera had never been punctual.

The waiter was eyeing him. He had been by the table a number of times to see if John was ready to order, or needed more tea. John hadn't had any tea. It was correct to wait for Vera. The tea would be undrinkable by the time she arrived. If she arrived.

A few days after his arrival in London, John sent a note to Vera suggesting they meet. They had much to discuss. She had agreed, and they had fixed upon this date and this location. She had opted for the lounge of an especially fine hotel in Belgravia. John took it as a sign of her mood. He wasn't sure what to expect.

The waiter was hovering. Vera would arrive, of that he was certain, but she would make an entrance. He had hoped that meeting in public would encourage Vera to exercise some degree of restraint. John wasn't nervous. The teapot was growing chill. He wondered why, when he said he was expecting someone, the waiter had brought it. He was apprehensive. He could have a cup. It might help. John sighed. Whiskey would help more. It always did, with Vera. He knew exactly what to expect.

His mother had warned him as he left to be careful. He hadn't told his mother his hopes for the meeting. He couldn't bear to create false hope in her. As he put on his hat to leave, she had told him to just get rid of her. Vera would sweep in, icy, charming, pointed, alluring, jagged, highly colored, loud. Spiteful. She would know, even with their years of separation, exactly what to say to get a reaction. John would react, as she wanted, and Vera would win. Her eyes would have that look of smug triumph, the look that knew she could conquer anything. He could not let Vera win. There was nothing to win. Anna had warned him to be careful. He could win his freedom. He would be careful. Just get rid of her.

John shifted. The room was warm, but the day was dark and damp. The other Vera was also a possibility. The Vera who was inexplicably mired in hopelessness, the lump who would spend days on end sunken in a chair, drinking, or now as John suspected, using drugs. John thought the only thing that prevented her from taking her life when she was like that was that she would lose the chance to make him miserable.

At first John hadn't known the other Vera existed. When they were first together, she had been wild and exciting. Energetic and energizing. Being with her was an adventure, in bed and out. Money was hard to keep; he never understood where it all went but they managed to stay out of debt. Barely.

John looked around the room. It was all done in velvets and silks and crystal and silver. Twinkling chandeliers and soft conversation. He thought he knew which Vera he was getting. John had noticed that she tended to make enemies. New people would be around for a while but then they would disappear, sometimes very angrily, almost always quickly. Vera would sniff and say no one had ever liked her, or understood her, but John. He had thought it odd that her friendships could turn so negative, so fast and so often, but he hadn't thought much more about it. He had had his own concerns.

John could use a smoke. He had noticed a difference in Vera when he returned from Africa. Wilder, more frantic. Always off somewhere in a hurry, but he was never sure where. Sometimes he wouldn't see her for a week. Or more. Other times, she would collapse in a heap for days on end, only rousing herself for a fresh drink. She would hatch grandiose schemes to make or take money and pursue them tirelessly for days, only to fall short, and lose it all as she sat limp in her chair and cursing her life, her lot, and John. It was if there were two Veras.

He couldn't seem to stop tapping his foot under the table, his fingers on the table. There was no money then. She had never missed a pay day. John thought he had beat her to the paymaster only three times. She took the money and spent it on clothes or invested it in one of her schemes. It never lasted long enough to pay down the debts she had accrued while he was in Africa. John still wasn't sure how she managed to spend so much; his pay had gone directly to her then as well. He had never known if or when another debt collector would show up on the doorstep. He needed to get out, and drinking was his only way. It had been a blessing when she decided to steal the silver from the officers' mess. One morning, as he covered her with a blanket while she snored in her chair, he discovered a sack full of spoons and a goblet with the regimental insignia. He sighed. He knew he couldn't save her, he couldn't save their marriage, but he could save himself.

John sighed. He wondered, of the couples having their tea around him, how many were happy. How many loved each other? How many had somehow confused love and duty? He gave up waiting for Vera, and poured. The waiter appeared. No, he was still waiting. For his wife. Didn't want the tea to go to waste. John thought the young man might have a brighter future after a few lessons from Mr. Carson. He hoped Vera decided to show up soon. He didn't want to leave his mother with Mrs. McGuinness longer than necessary. The tea was sour. John broke his policy and added milk. It was undrinkable.

The doctor had told John it was the beginning of the end. His mother had had a small stroke, and would likely have another and another. That explained the forgetfulness, the slight tremor. Her mind was clear, and she could speak, but she had lost the use of her left arm. She had been angry when John told her he was hiring someone to stay with her. She refused to be treated like an old invalid. John understood. She hadn't spoken to him for a day. He understood perfectly. The family pride. He didn't mean to hire a nurse, but he couldn't look after her, and there were certain limitations. She would learn to dress herself and cook using her right arm only. John had no doubt that she would. He was more comfortable with someone else in the house, just to be there. Perhaps a young lady who was attending school. She could lodge with her, and be around to help if needed, but not intrusively. John wasn't a fool. He'd warn the girl not to say she was in nursing school. A nurse would never do.

The sky was darkening. John noticed the holly on the tables needed to be refreshed. Anna would have noticed immediately. John couldn't seem to keep his foot from tapping. He hadn't seen Vera since he went to prison. He hadn't thought he'd see her again. She had done exactly what he had thought she would do. Disappear, promptly and efficiently. She had done exactly what he had hoped she would do.

John reached into his pocket and took the letter from his wallet. Out fell the photograph of him and Anna taken on his birthday. His best birthday in memory, which made it his best birthday. True to word, the photographs had arrived just before Christmas. Anna kept hers inside a book-not her Bible out of deference to John-next to her bed. John liked to keep his with him. Anna had been so beautiful that day. He quickly put it away before Vera caught him. Abstract knowledge of Anna was all John wanted her to have.

A tall woman entered. Dark, regal posture, in a large hat. It was her. John took a breath, and began to rise. She passed. It wasn't her. He wondered how she had aged. Vera had never been beautiful, and had certainly never been pretty, but she had always been captivating. Alluring, with the pale skin, dark hair, and light eyes of the Celts. She was inclined to heaviness, and considering how she drank, John suspected the years had not been kind.

Vera had pursued John relentlessly. He hadn't had a lot of experience with women, and had been flattered. They had fallen into bed quickly, and easily, and John had thought he was in love. They were insatiable. They had married quickly as well, at the registry, in case a need to be married suddenly arose. His mother had said nothing, but John was sure her neighbors had. He hadn't cared. John was an eager student, and had soon learned that Vera was difficult to please in all ways. It took a great deal of effort to satisfy her, and when he failed, she let him know he had failed. She was tireless. John had had concerns about callusing. When it came, the war had almost been a welcome respite.

The woman was seated near John. On closer inspection, aside from her height, she was nothing like Vera. She had kind eyes, and a lopsided smile. Vera had given off an almost electric energy that was impossible for John to turn from. He had had glimmers before the war, but it wasn't until he was home from Africa that he realized how destructive it was. It had been in one of those infrequent moments of sobriety that he realized he had never loved her, that being with her was going to kill him, possibly through his own hand.

Snow was falling. He took her letter out of the envelope. John could count the number of times Vera had written to him. Eight, perhaps, in the course of their marriage. They hadn't exchanged letters while he was in Africa; John had moved around too often for it to be plausible. He was unprepared for what awaited him upon his return to England. Vera had changed. Dramatically. Her face had sharpened into a permanent sneer, and her eyes had changed. They had a shine sometimes, a glint that worried John. John knew he too had changed, but it wasn't unexpected after surviving hand to hand combat. Vera had not been sympathetic to his injury and his limitations, her concern for his welfare had extended only to what it meant for her. She had, however, been as eager as ever to get him in bed. His first night back he had had a bit of trouble with his leg, ultimately collapsing on top of her. She hadn't been sympathetic. She had told him his leg was disgusting, useless, he was a cripple. No cripple would satisfy her. He was useless to her. John had collected his thoughts, put his pajamas on, and gone to the kitchen for a drink. She later made it clear that since he had abandoned her, she had found other outlets for her energies, and would continue to do so until he was no longer a useless, drunken, cripple. John had been too numb with drink, too preoccupied with all that had happened in Africa to care. Much. John wasn't surprised Vera had new prospects. What surprised him was that she might be willing to let him go.

John sighed. He didn't think Vera was coming. The afternoon had rapidly turned into evening, with snow. He wanted to get back to his mother's before it turned slick. Hiring a cab would be a concession to weakness, and he needed the time to clear his head. Tomorrow was the last day of the year. He wouldn't be dancing with Anna, or watching her dance with Mr. Branson. He had danced with Vera early in their courtship. She wasn't graceful, but she had moved easily with him, and stood closer and lingered longer than any other partner he had had. She was able to hold his eyes with hers through all the figures, and she jumped and snapped and cried out at all the right places. She had been captivating, and John had been lost. She had won him so quickly and so easily he was embarrassed to remember how it had been.

A couple across from John seemed to be having a heated disagreement. He was uncomfortable. He and Vera had not had disagreements, they had had fights. Fights about nothing. His temper had always been short, and hers was nonexistent. He was always in the wrong, and usually it had something to do with money or not being a cripple. Drink did nothing good for John's temper. A snide comment from Vera would lead to criticism from John, and it would escalate until an object flew at his head. John knew if he stayed much past that point he would lose control, so he would leave for the pub. Vera was never there when he returned. He sometimes had hoped he'd find her passed out, dead, on the floor. She had always returned after a few days, flat and lifeless. Sometimes he hoped he'd fall down drunk on his bad leg on the way home and not make it. He was never that lucky. The cycle always started again.

John took out his watch. He had been waiting an hour. She wasn't coming. He didn't need to reread her letter. He had committed it to memory after the fourth read. He wadded it up. He didn't know why he had believed she was genuine. She had won, again. She always did. John had no choice but to play her game. He stood, put money on the table for the tea and the space he wasted, obtained his hat and coat, and left. Really, there wasn't that much to say. There certainly was nothing to discuss. He could not imagine a life for himself that involved Vera. Sharing that with her did not require seeing her. He had been a fool for trying to compromise, for believing rational discussion was possible between them.

The cold air felt good. His leg would ache later, but it didn't matter. He and Anna would have to play Vera's game. He sighed. By this stage in his life, he should know better. He should know Vera better than to take her at her word. False hope. He chuckled.

As John turned the corner he saw a tall woman in a large hat lurking behind a street lamp. Her face was pale and her eyes a pale flashing blue. She was gaunt, haggard, and nervous. He paused, and met her eye. The years had not been kind. He knew she wanted him to follow her, or at least to speak to her, or shout angrily. John kept walking.