Thunderstorms – Continued
Chapter 9: Sunday, August 10, 1913
It must have been about four o'clock in the morning when the phone rang in the Murdoch house. Both Julia and William heard it, neither one of them moved with the first ring. William was in that state between dreaming and being awake; Julia was now awake, thanks to the phone, but figured William would get it – it was on his side of the bed. It rang again. Julia mumbled, "William."
"Mm," he said, still not moving.
By the third ring, she accepted her fate and decided it would have to be her to answer it. She slid her body over his – way over his, to reach the phone on his nightstand. She picked it up on the fourth ring. Her voice was scratchy and dry, "Hello?" she said into the receiver. Her husband took advantage of having her curvaceous body tauntingly dangling over his. He adjusted his position underneath her and took her breasts in his hands, pushed them together and buried his face in the resulting cleavage. Her body reacted to his touch, his breath, his kiss. She tried to keep the tone of her voice unaffected, "Yes … He's right here," she said to the constable on the other end of the line. Julia covered the end of the receiver with her hand, hoping for privacy. She pushed back onto her knees, removing William's source of distraction and passion and whispered, "It's Constable Stevens. He says it's an emergency."
William sighed and took the phone. Julia definitely intended to take advantage of having the shoe on the other foot, instantly sliding her hand into his pajamas and touching him where she knew he would have to struggle to suppress a moan of pleasure. She giggled as he managed it, but mouthed his reaction, "Ooh," as his hand took a hold of her wrist, attempting to stop her ministrations. She decided to take pity on him and removed her hand, then rolling over on her back next to him. William's expression indicated that it was serious indeed.
"Was he inside?" he asked. The answer took too long to be a simple yes or no. Julia was wondering who and where. "I'll be right there. Please call Constable Crabtree. Thanks," William said before he hung up the phone.
Julia sat up, and asked, "What is it William?" He appeared … upset, worried … maybe even scared.
He sat up next to her, held her eye and said, "The Inspector's house … There was an explosion. It's on fire… I have to go." He got up out of the bed and pulled his pajama top off over his head.
Julia also got out of bed. "And they don't know if he was inside … Oh my God, Margaret!...William," she said.
He already had his trousers on and was pulling out a shirt. He reached up to rub his forehead and worried, "It was 3:30 in the morning," he said, wrinkling the corner of his mouth, almost apologizing for his pessimism.
Within minutes he was dressed and leaned in to kiss her good-bye. "I'm going to take the bicycle – too hard to get a cab this early on a Sunday morning."
She held him for a moment, even though she could tell he wanted to go. She stroked his tie and then slid her hand across his chest and said, "I'm sorry William," thinking, "This may be hard." She kissed his cheek, "Be careful," she said and then she let him go. She listened to the sound of his footsteps going down the stairs, the pause as he put on his hat, before she heard the front door open – then close. Julia sighed. How could she possibly sleep now, the Inspector and Margaret may be dead, her husband may be in danger. She sat down on her side of the bed, her eyes falling to the gift he had given her last night.
Somehow, for a pocketknife, it looked so classy. With all of the attachments folded inside, it fit nicely in her hand. She admired the pearl surface, noticing the opulent greens and pinks glimmer as she moved the knife, shifting the light. She opened the knife-blade. "It wouldn't kill anyone with a stab," she thought, "but if you cut across the right place," and she surely knew the right places, "it could be deadly." She closed it up and took it over to her vanity, hoping leaving it there would remind her later to put it into her purse. She turned off the light and crawled back into bed.
"Such a little gift, for no reason really, but that he wanted me to have it," her mind toiled. Sleep seemed far away. She hugged his pillow, wishing it were him, her memory and her heart being stirred by his smell. She remembered lying under his spent body last night, looking up at the sky full of stars above. The happiness and feelings of being at peace, of being exactly where you should be, flooded through her again. For a moment, she thought, "He's probably getting there now," picturing him dismounting from his bike, being silhouetted by the flames. Feelings of dread seeped up in her gut. She rolled over, taking his pillow with her, trying to change the subject. She heard his voice in her head, "No horse can run faster than you can ride." "Focus William," she thought, prayed, "Stay with each step; ride each moment."
Constable Crabtree stood with his back to the flames waiting for the detective to prop his bike against the fence. He had his notepad out.
"George, what have you?" the detective asked, quickly coming to stand next to him as they both scanned the scene. Multiple fire wagons were there, thick hoses spraying water at the slowly fading flames. The devastation was remarkable. There was no roof – no second floor. Photos and papers littered the lawn; some floated in the air in the breeze that was created as the heat from the burning house drew them back in.
George quickly reported, "Neighbors reported hearing an explosion around 3:30 AM. Once they ran outside, the Inspector's house was already in flames. Some of them reported seeing something … something big up in the sky… heading south."
Detective Murdoch swallowed, pushing himself to ask, "Do they know if there are any bodies?" He sighed, able to tell from the damage what the Constable was going to say.
George lowered his voice and replied, "There's really no way to tell sir. The bedrooms were on the top floor."
"Yes. I see," the detective responded.
Mr. Meyers' cigar glowed brighter for a moment as he inhaled, drawing their attention. "Murdoch, Crabtree," he greeted them, his eyes fixed on the burning house in front of them.
The detective reached up, rubbing his forehead, hoping to disband some of the stress that was harbored there. "There's reason to believe this was linked to the Flate case."
"Oh," Meyers asked. George also raised an eyebrow, wondering how the detective could have ascertained that so quickly.
"I'll need those plans you took – the ones for the armed dirigible," Murdoch continued, providing George with the connection he had made. He explained, "A large craft was seen in the air just after the explosion. I believe a bomb was dropped from a dirigible."
"Oh my," George uttered, sounding both awed and worried.
"George," the detective continued, "We will need constables to head to the south from here and ask people if they saw anything in the sky. If so, we'll need to know where and when… We are also going to need armed constables, probably best with rifles, to take shifts out on watch for any sign of this dirigible's return – day and night George." The detective paused, imagining what a constable could do if they spotted such a dirigible in the sky. He added, "Inform them only to shoot if it seems likely that a crash would not cause any serious harm…" He wrinkled the corner of his mouth with doubt and said, "Unlikely though… If they deem it unsafe to fire on the craft, tell them to fire warning shots into the air, and let's hope people take heed, coming out of their homes to see what's going on, and then they can decide for themselves whether or not they feel it is safe to go back inside." The thought reminded him that he would need to talk to the press.
"Yes sir," George said, noting it in his notebook.
The flames had been brought under control by the firemen, the remains of the house spewing heat and smoke into the early dawn air. Murdoch was the first to step forward. The other men followed. The foyer was still intact. The men walked up the steps and crossed the threshold into what was left of the house.
George looked up the stairs to the second floor, seeing the sky shining through the smoke. "It doesn't look good sir," he said.
"I don't know George," Murdoch said, focused on, and somewhat amazed with, the jacket hanging on the hook that had not burned. He reached out, slid it over to reveal the wall behind it. He explained, "There is some reason for hope – The Inspector's fancy cane and his hat aren't here."
Meyers took another puff on his cigar and said, "Very observant Murdoch."
"Indeed," George added.
Inspection of the house provided no evidence that there were any bodies inside. Murdoch had no luck finding any remnants of the bomb or explosive. By the time William left the scene to attend the mass at Connor's church, with the hope of finding him and of finding Jane, the constables had at least two reports of people to the south seeing something big and moving in the sky. By all reports the craft kept going south. Meyers agreed to bring the dirigible weapons plans by to Murdoch's office later. George intended to take a few constables and see if anyone had seen the Inspector and his wife. He reminded the detective that last night was their anniversary. Perhaps they had gone to the theatre, or out to dinner.
William arrived at the Catholic church early as he had planned. After genuflecting at the altar, he greeted the priest who remembered him by name. He took a seat in a pew near the front of the church, figuring his best bet at recognizing Connor would be when the congregation came up to the altar for Communion. As the individuals filed by him, stopping to take the Holy Host, he tilted his body to the side, thinking he might recognize a man as Connor about ten people back in the line. Their eyes met and Connor bolted for the door. Murdoch took up pursuit, ducking around startled people, calling back apologies, as he ran out behind the suspect.
William charged out the church door, his head swiftly turning to the left and then the right, hoping to catch sight of the fleeing man. "That way," he thought, noticing a man on a bicycle who had been thrown off balance and was yelling down a side street at the likely culprit. Rapidly he ran, grateful for his bicycling, rounding the corner at top speed, only to slow and then stop, as the way ahead was tight, with many places for someone to hide in wait.
Connor had ducked into a stairwell on the left. His gun was drawn, raised up in front of his face. He intently listened for any sign of Murdoch's approach. His sister's harsh voice ran through his head, "He will have to die… But you cannot be the one who kills him. No, that must be Isabel. If anyone gets caught, it needs to be her. Make sure to assist her, but make sure you can't be implicated in any way. " He thought, "Sorry dear Cecily, I may have no choice."
William stood at alert, eyes fixed down the center of the street, instinctively relying on his peripheral vision to detect any motion. His ears strained, hoping to hear any crucial sound. But his mind played warnings, causing him pause. The memory of Julia, sobbing and breathless in the bedroom at the lake-house, pulled at his mind, "I would never be able to heal from the loss of you William. I know it," she had cried. Then his brain conjured up an argument in support of continuing the chase, "If you catch him now, he won't be able to continue killing," he reasoned with himself. William leaned forward, took a cautious step. Then his little daughter's distraught voice flowed in, "But what if you die, will we have to go back to the orphanage." He felt sick. William swallowed, as if to push the rising nausea back down. He thought, "I promised not to die." With a sigh, he backed up; he had decided not to continue into the danger. If Connor were there, he would get away.
William returned to the church and asked people if they knew the man with the scar and the Irish accent, offering the suspect's photograph as a final clue. There was one man who had carried on a few polite conversations with him. He said he worked down on the docks, and that he had come here from Ireland about four years ago. The detective headed back to the station. He would have Higgins, "No, another constable," he thought, remembering that it was Sunday, look through the records of boats arriving from Ireland four years ago, for anyone with a first name of 'Connor,' – "It's a needle in a haystack, but perhaps we'll get lucky," he thought.
Once he got back to the station, he called Julia. Eloise answered and said that the family had headed out for a while. He asked her to let Julia know he had called, that they didn't have any definitive evidence on the Inspector or Margaret yet. He thanked her and hung up. Julia's autopsy report on John Lynch was on his desk from Friday. He picked it up and began to look it over.
There was a knock at his door. Meyers walked in carrying the plans and said, "So, no news yet I presume?"
William stood and replied, "No, nothing yet."
Meyers hung his hat on Murdoch's stand and held the plans up, "The dirigible," he said.
William took the plans over to his work table and opened them up. A storage area for grenades caught his eye. He took a deep breath and said, as he pointed to the spot on the plans for Meyers, "Perhaps they use grenades with a timing system – I believe there are such devices with a pin that is pulled out before it is thrown, in this case overboard, giving a pre-established amount of time before it explodes." He tilted his head, evaluating his own idea.
Meyers said, "That certainly could have caused the damage we saw at Brackenreid's house."
"Yes, yes…" Murdoch answered. "But I would think it would take some skill, and likely practice, to be able so selectively hit a target."
"Mm," Meyers mumbled in agreement.
William investigated the plans for any more weapons the dirigible might be armed with. He noticed rows of guns mounted along the bottom of the dirigible, suggesting they could all be fired without the pulling of a trigger, enabling multiple shots at the ground. "Those constables might have their hands full," he thought.
Just then the constable at the front desk called out, "It's the Inspector – He's alive!" Everyone rushed over to hear. He handed the phone over to Murdoch. A few moments later, Murdoch hung up the phone and told everybody, "The Inspector and his wife stayed at a hotel last night as a special way to celebrate their anniversary. They weren't home when the explosion occurred. One of our constables sighted them while asking for witnesses that might have seen them. He is going to stop by and look at the damage to his house, then he will be coming here to the station." There were cheers all around.
Meyers said into Murdoch's ear, "That's a big relief."
With a big smile on his face he answered, "Yes, yes it is." Then he hurried to his office to call Julia. Eloise answered the phone again. Julia was still not back, but she would give her the good news when she returned. After he hung up the phone, his relief became peppered with the sadness of knowing how big of a loss the Inspector had suffered, prompting him to sigh.
Meyers had followed him back into his office and asked, "Do you think there's anything else in the plans?"
"Can you leave them with me?" the detective asked, "I'd like to get the dimensions – There can't be too many places to hide such a large airship." Meyers agreed to do so. William decided to call James Pendrick for any ideas of possible dirigible hiding places. He compiled a list of a few potential locations before the Inspector arrived.
Murdoch, Meyers and the Inspector spoke for quite a while. The Brackenreid's would stay in the hotel until they either rebuilt their house or purchased a new one. He told William to thank Julia for her advice about having a romantic celebration in a hotel, although he had opted for overnight rather than for "lunch" – The decision had saved their lives. The detective shared his speculations about the dirigible causing the explosion at the Inspector's house and the targeted poisoning of a coroner, and any possible connections between these two crimes and Flate's and Lynch's deaths, and Connor's illegal weapons business. They couldn't be certain whether they were all part of one plan, or they represented two different diabolical plots – one to make money off of selling illegal weapons, and the other possibly to disrupt the Constabulary. There was some evidence to suggest they were all part of one plan, but either way it was complicated.
Knowing it was nearing dinnertime and very much wanting to be home, William wrote out a quick list of steps to take tomorrow. His eyes fell once again on Julia's post-mortem report. "Now where do these 'monkshood' plants grow?" he wondered. He went to his book collection in the backroom. After a little searching he found it – The plants have yellow or blue flowers. They do particularly well in the northern latitudes in mountainous areas, sometimes growing wild in meadows. Several species of Aconitum are cultivated in gardens, thriving in garden soils, and they will grow in the shade of trees. They are easily propagated by divisions of the root or by seeds. The book cautioned that care should be taken not to leave pieces of the root where livestock might be poisoned and not to touch the leaves with one's skin. "Our murderer could have grown it himself," he concluded, "Right around here." With that he headed home, hoping to at least catch the last half of dinner.
Dinner was set up in the dining room because the Murdoch's had a guest – Harry Murdoch (William's father). As Eloise brought out the meal, the family, except for William, sat at the table talking. The children were clearly enthralled by their grandfather's story, mesmerized by his big gestures and exaggerated facial expressions. Harry Murdoch was an excellent story teller. The sound of the front door opening caught everyone's attention. "Can we go?!" William Jr. asked for himself and his sisters.
"Yes," replied Julia, her happiness that her husband was home and safe, and in time for dinner, glowing on her face.
William barely had time to hang his hat before the children bombarded him with their hugs and kisses. He knelt down with open arms to receive them. Through laughter he said, "I'm glad to see you too."
Quickly they started informing him about their exciting day. "Daddy, Daddy, We saw pigeons … Pigeons that carry notes on their feet!" Chelsea exclaimed first.
"It was great Dad," William Jr. added, "And we got to hold them and even send a message with one!"
"Really now!" their father replied. "That does sound quite exciting," he continued, looking up to see Julia watching the scene unfold. As often happens between the two of them, once William's eyes met those of Julia's, sparks seemed to fly, it was as if music began to play. Looking at her he asked, with an eyebrow raised in disbelief, "Pigeons?" He stood, approaching her with his head slightly tilted to the side examining her, questioning her, carrying a delightfully playful and teasing look on his face, "Pigeons?" he asked again.
Suddenly, an uneasy feeling rose up in Julia's belly. Only then did she realize that perhaps she had made a mistake, now that she felt this twinge of fear upon encountering the thought of telling William what she had done. She dropped her eyes from his. "Um, Well …" she sputtered as she started to try to explain.
Then William's eyes shifted to the man who had just walked up behind her – his father. The playful look fell from his face to be replaced by one of shock, even betrayal. He looked back at Julia and said, his voice harboring anger, "What is he doing here?" Everyone froze upon hearing his tone. Every heart in the room sped up and took alert.
Harry moved forward towards his son, "Willy," he said jovially, "I came by to see my son, and his beautiful family – my flesh and blood, son."
William's eyes stared into those of the old man. He was trying to think of what to say. All of the choices that sprung to mind seemed too harsh – "Get out! You are not welcome here," and, "Whatever would make you think I would want you anywhere near my family?" Unable to come up with something he found acceptable to say in front of the children, William simply stood there, looking stunned and angry.
It was Eloise who broke the tension, "Dinner is getting cold," her stern voice could be heard from the kitchen. Everyone went into the dining room and took seats. William cast an angry eye at Julia as they settled in. Food was passed around. Silence still had not been broken. The children looked back and forth between their mother and father, their worry apparent in their expressions.
Finally William spoke, "Would you like a chance to explain?" he asked Julia.
Her discomfort was revealed as she wiggled in her chair, adjusted her skirt. She knew she had to tell him everything, and she knew he would not like it. She sighed and said, "Perhaps we should talk in the other room?"
Disappointment covered his face. He sensed a fight was coming, and he really didn't like arguing with Julia. Placing his fork down on his plate he answered, "Perhaps."
The couple went into the parlor. The children all turned to gaze upon their grandfather, demanding some sort of an explanation. Harry told them that he and their father had not always gotten along; that he had made some important mistakes and their father was still mad at him for them. But he had every intention of not making those mistakes anymore. Soon, the conversation had lightened and the group was making plans for training some of Harry's pigeons to fly right here to this very house every day so they could exchange messages.
Once in the parlor, William sat down in his usual seat – the reclining chair closest to the fireplace. Julia took a seat next to him on one of the couches. He stared down at the ground, seeming resigned into letting her start.
She was scared, frightened that her actions were going to hurt him, cause him trouble. She realized now that she hadn't really thought things out as well as she should have. She took a deep breath, calling him to look up at her. She planned on telling him the whole story. She began, "Harry rang the bell this morning. He had little gifts for the children – asked if he could visit. I told him you weren't home, but by then the children had already come to the door and had seen him. Harry told them right away that he was their grandfather… He is very charming William – the children fell in love with him within seconds."
William reached up and rubbed his forehead, "Yes, he is very charming," he agreed. "And you should know better – Be able to see through it," he added.
Oh, that made her heart pound faster, her brain cloud up with worry. He was going to blame her. She could only agree, "Yes, I guess I should have," she replied.
He held her eye, knew she wasn't done. "The pigeons?" he pushed.
"Oh my God, this gets so much worse," she thought. "Uh," she stammered, "He stayed for lunch … and over lunch he mentioned his …" she would have to push herself to say it, "Um, his new business…" William threw his hands up in the air and looked to the heavens for strength. Julia sighed and pushed on, "Um, He has started a pigeon carrier business…" William laughed out loud, but not because he found it funny – It was a condescending laugh, a laugh at his utter inability to believe she could be so gullible. She tried to defend herself, "Radio signals can be intercepted, and so a means of sending messages that can't be intercepted has some merit." She added, "And there are many global signals that war is on the horizon – he could make a lot of money if the timing is right."
Shaking his head in disbelief, William said, "Julia, I …" He dropped his eyes away from hers again. He took a deep breath and grabbed eye contact with her once more, his tone was demanding, impatient when he asked, "Did he ask for money?"
She held his eyes. Tears began to well up in hers. When she blinked and looked away, the drops flowed down her cheeks. She said, "Uh…" but ended up only being able to nod her head.
"So, she agreed to give him money," he thought. "How much?" he asked.
Julia swallowed, working to be able to speak, and answered, "Seven thousand."
William's jaw dropped, "Seven thousand dollars – You agreed to give a drunken …" he said, standing, shaking his head. He started to walk away, but turned and came back. Loudly, he said, "You will march in there right now and you will tell him that he will not be getting any money from this family!" William demanded with his eyes burrowing deeply into hers.
"I will do no such thing," she fired back as she stood to meet his glare, finding his male-dominating attitude completely unacceptable. Their voices were loud enough now to be heard in the kitchen and dining room, where all movement had stopped as everyone was tuned in to listen. "Since when do you tell me what we can do with our money, Oh all-mighty man of the house?!" she insisted.
"You say "our" money – But you really mean "your" money don't you?" he charged. He argued on, "If you really thought of it as "our" money, you would have consulted me – No?! It's never truly been our money has it? Deep down you know – and believe me, I know, it has always been your money!"
She walked to stand directly in front of him and said, "Of course I don't think of our money as mine!" she yelled. Then, with her tone softening she added, "And you are right, I should have consulted you…" She took a deep breath and continued, "But I do not think I should rescind on the offer. Harry already told the landlord he had the funds…"
William refused to argue about this with her any longer. He turned and rushed into the dining room. His confrontation would be with the man he felt was really at fault in all this – his father. With Julia on his heels, William burst into the dining room and firmly asserted, "Harry, Get out. Get out now, and don't ever come back. You will not be getting any money from this family. And I will not allow you to break our children's hearts either."
The old man stood, looking ever so the victim. He started to speak but turned to look at Julia as she took up the fight.
"William, you are over-reacting. He is the only grandparent our children have. They have a right to know him," she argued. William's look burned right through her. She had never seen him so angry before. Still, she held her ground.
He turned his eyes back to his father and said through gritted teeth, "Get out!" and he pointed to the door.
Harry ducked slightly and said, "Sure son. I'm going. But you'll come to see that you're making a mistake here, Willy…" he continued speaking as he walked to the foyer and lifted his hat to his head. He glanced down at the children who had followed along and said, "I hope you children know how much your dear old granddad loves you."
Katie ran up to her father and pulled on his jacket, "No Daddy! Please don't make Grandpa go!" she cried.
William didn't think he could get any angrier, but that really did it – That this noxious man could invade his house when he was away, take over his family, and then make him look like he was the bad guy in the eyes of his children! "Out!" William stormed, rushing to the door, appearing as if he would physically remove the man if necessary.
"Alright, alright. I'm going Willy," Harry uttered as he opened the door and left.
As soon as the door shut behind him, all eyes turned to William. "Really William," Julia said with an air of disapproval.
"But Dad, we really liked him?" William Jr. added.
Knowing he could not stand to stay, William grabbed his hat and headed out the door as well. This time it was closed with a slam.
All eyes turned to Julia. She herself felt stunned. There was a buzzing sound in her head and she realized that her mouth was agape. Battling for words that were too slow to come, she simply stood there, glancing at her children and the slammed-door intermittently.
"Why is Dad so mad?" William Jr. asked.
"He, uh…" she said, turning her attention from the door to her son, "He…" An emotion finally emerged out of the startled, soupy mix she found herself in – Regret. Julia sighed. She suggested they go back into the dining room. The four of them sat at their seats, not one lifting a bite to their mouths. Chelsea and Katie played with their food, pushing it around with their forks.
"I should have known better," Julia thought. She reminded herself of the struggles and hardships William had encountered in dealing with his father. Not the least of which was having spent most of his life believing the man had caused his mother's death. Upon looking into her son's eyes, she knew she had to help their children somehow see that their father was not completely unfounded in the way he had just acted.
"I want you all to look at me," she said, her tone signaling the importance of what she was about to tell them, evoking them to lift their eyes to meet hers. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, to prepare, she said, "Your father has very good reasons to have gotten so upset…" She found it hard to say what she was about to say, dropping her eyes away at first, but then quickly and firmly connecting them back with the children. "I made a mistake… I did not consider your father's feelings when I decided to let Grandpa in, and for us to go to his house and business, and even worse, to give your Grandpa money. Your Daddy has good reason to be angry with me," she explained, more deeply recognizing her mistake upon hearing it said out loud.
Katie asked, "Will we still be able to see Grandpa?"
"I don't know… I don't know… I will talk to your father about it," she answered.
William Jr. asked, "Why does Daddy hate his father so much?"
The words stung, sounding harsh and hopeless. "It's not that he hates him. It's that he doesn't trust him," she said.
"Why not?" Chelsea asked.
Julia picked up her fork and took a mouthful of food, giving herself time, and signaling a calmer mood. "Your Grandpa made many mistakes – mistakes that hurt your father and his little sister, Susana, and their mother too," she answered.
"What kind of mistakes?" Katie asked.
Julia sighed. She noticed that the children were eating again too, feeling grateful for the relief that came with the realization. "Your Grandfather often got drunk and yelled … And he, well, he …"their mother leaned in towards them, increasing their intimacy, as she reminded them, "You know that your Daddy's mother died when he was eight-years old, like William Jr. is now. Well, after that happened, your grandfather took your father and Susana to live with an aunt … and they ended up in a home, and well, your grandfather just left them… He never wrote or contacted them again. It was only by accident that your grandfather and your father ever ran into each other again, and by then your father was thirty-years old or so," she explained.
Everybody was quiet for a few moments, letting their imaginations help sink her words into their understanding. William Jr. lifted his head from his plate and said, "But Mom…"
"He sounds so optimistic," Julia thought. Her son's eyes glimmered with an important discovery, reminding her of William.
He put his fork down for emphasis and leaned into the table, "Dad says it's not the mistakes that define a man, but what he does to fix them that does. Why not give Grandpa a chance to fix them?"
"My God, he has an amazing memory like William too," the thought distracted her from answering for a moment, giving time for Katie to ask …
"Do you think Grandpa can fix his mistakes, Mommy? Do you think if he did, Daddy would trust him again, and let us visit him?" her excited voice ventured.
Julia did not feel as hopeful. "It's complicated," she said with a sigh.
By the time Julia tucked the children into bed, it had started to rain. She sat alone in the living-room, trying to focus on reading a medical journal, finding that instead, her mind either replayed images of William yelling and being so distraught, or raced ahead planning for what she could say to him when he came home. With a deep sigh, she glanced at her watchlet. It was ten o'clock, "Ironic," she thought. It was only a week ago that she stood at her prison cell window, having used his pocket-watch to be sure it was ten o'clock, and then sharing a thunderstorm with him rather than the moon as they had planned. She decided she would wait for him out on the porch. Upon opening the front door, she immediately felt the mist from the windblown, teeming rain sweep over her. He was outside in this, and he was likely hurting. She so wished he would come home, that they could talk. The weather deterring her, she closed the door and went upstairs. She would prepare for bed.
Julia changed into her nightgown and brushed her teeth. She stared at the bed, considering what would likely happen when he came home. Figuring he would still be upset, probably even angry, she decided to bring some bedding down to the couch for him. She brought along his pajamas, and a towel, too. She sat on the couch next to the pile, unable to leave it for him without an explanation, without making sure he knew that she wanted to make up, that she wanted to sleep with him in their bed, and the pile of bedding did not signify otherwise.
The door opened, carrying with it the sound of the pouring rain and the wind. Julia bolted out of her seat, hurried to meet him. He saw her out of the corner of his eye as he hung his hat. She halted. "William," she said.
His eyes met hers, briefly. He noticed the towel in her hand. She offered it; he took it from her, used it to wipe his face and then rub it vigorously over his hair, finally wrapping it around his neck. He turned his attention to removing his drenched shoes. He spoke as he did so, seeming to talk to the air. "I did not come back to talk to you Julia… Not because I thought you would be worried. I came back in spite of your being here … Because I was wet, and I was tired," he sighed. He looked up at the ceiling and said, "And because this is my home," he exhaled, dropping his eyes to the floor. He swallowed, attempting to push away his burning emotions and added, "And, even if I don't have as much claim to this house as you do, it is the only place I have."
She was reminded of his earlier claim that she, and he himself too, believed their money was more hers than his – and she thought that the result of this was that he felt like he didn't belong. She stepped closer to him, tried to catch his eye, and said, "But it is just as much your home as it is mine William. We built it together. There is no reason you should feel …"
He interrupted her, his tone impatient and annoyed, "Julia, you didn't pay attention to what I think, didn't care what I felt, before I came home earlier today. Don't be a hypocrite by acting like you care how I feel now." He pulled the towel off of his neck and turned to look towards the stairs. "I'm going to go upstairs and get dry, and then I'm going to sleep on the couch. I want to be left alone," he stated as he headed up the stairs.
William collected a pair of clean pajamas from the drawer. He went into the bathroom and closed the door. Julia waited. She knew she wanted to, needed to, apologize. He left his soaked clothing hanging in the shower. When he came out, drier and dressed for bed, he looked around and figured out that she had already brought the bedding downstairs.
Julia decided to try saying she was sorry. "William, I … should have thought, considered, how you …"
He walked away, went down the stairs. She followed. It was going to be tougher than she had thought. William began to prepare the couch for sleep.
Julia continued to try to talk to him while he did so. "I'm sorry William. I really am. You are right that I should have consulted you; that I should have known you wouldn't agree to lend your father money … that you would worry about him disappointing our children…"
William sighed loudly as he reached for the pillow. "Julia, sometimes an apology is not enough. The damage is done … now," he said standing with eyes fixed down on the couch, unwilling to look at her.
"What do you mean," she asked, "What damage?"
Rubbing his forehead, he simply looked at her. He offered no words. Then he looked away again.
"We won't give him the money, William. He won't visit with us, see the children," she said, shaking her head, confused, she asked, "What damage can't be undone?"
He slapped his hand down to his side abruptly and said impatiently, with a sense of warning, "Julia, I said I wanted to be left alone." He stood staring down at the couch, jaw tight.
Julia stepped closer to him, tilted her head seeming to peer into his face, "But William, you're not being reasonable. I have apologized. I have yielded; we can do what you want …"
William sat down on the couch. He tried to explain, "Julia, you are the one person in the world who I thought really knew me, really cared for me. And if that were true, then I think you would not have let him in, not have let …" his voice rose in anger again, "Now it looks like I'm the bad guy because it has to be me pushing him out – when he should never have been let in here in the first place."
Julia charged, "If that were true?! … If that were true! Are you truly questioning whether or not I care for you? I can't make a mistake, huh William. I have to be perfect or I don't love you. Is that how it is? Well, that's too much pressure," she argued.
His eyes pierced into hers. They steamed with anger. "I mean it Julia. Go upstairs, now. Or I swear," he said, raising his arm to point at the front door, "I will walk right back out that door. I don't care that I'm in my pajamas."
"Fine," she steamed. "Then stay here by yourself and have you little self-pity party," she said before she stormed out.
Big storms are on the horizon, and the one thing William and Julia have always had going for them is how powerful they are when they work together. But now…