Whew, finally! You cannot imagine the relief I felt when I finished this chapter... You'll know why when you read it yourself! Enjoy...
Catalyst
Exactly a year passed. Somehow, I survived, nearly unscathed. Three months after his return, Charles sold his childhood home. Amelia was furious, and barely spoke to him. I voiced my protest just once, and got hell in return. In fact, not many people approved of his decision. To buy a new house in times of such financial instability was folly. However, Charles got a very good price for the Evenson home, because he sold it furnished(he told the new owners that the interior of the house was designed by a very famous architectural firm). Thus, we moved to a more modern building, closer to the bank where he worked. This house never felt like home to me- it had come furnished, and I felt like I was only occupying it temporarily, not living there and making it my home.
Pretty soon a sort of routine was established in the new, lifeless house. My life- the little there was left- revolved around Charles' activities. All day I cooked and cleaned and shopped groceries. When he came back I waited around him, picked up after him, answered his questions the way he wanted. Very soon after we moved to the new house, Charles sometimes didn't come home at night. At first he just said something vague about "staying back at work", and then he said nonchalantly he was going "out with the boys". Soon he didn't even bother telling me.
I didn't say a word. It was very obvious why he stayed away at nights. It was laughable to think a bank would be open that late for whatever official purposes, and as for his "boys"- well, they were all married, and I doubted each of their wives was a submissive imbecile like I was.
So he was having an affair. Or going to a whorehouse. I didn't know and I didn't care. If it was an affair, I actually pitied the woman in question; if it was a whorehouse- well, atleast he didn't need me to fulfil his sadistic needs anymore.
It was obvious to me that Charles' philandering was actually aiding me. I barely had any contact with him anymore, apart from the occasional drunken outburst that always spelt out immeasurable pain and bruises for me. Unostentatiously, I moved my things to a different room, and by the advent of 1920, Charles and I had separate sleeping chambers, without either of us openly discussing the fact.
Later, I was glad that I couldn't remember much from that period of my life. I barely even existed in that year, just wandered about like a lonely wraith. Exactly a year from the day of his return, I had already accepted the fact that my life would forever be grey and miserable.
That day started like any other normal day. I cooked, cleaned, mended the clothes and watered the plants. The day didn't seem very special when the doorbell rang at dusk. When I opened the door, I felt surprise for the first time since ages- it was Charles.
"Charles!"-I squeaked, my voice breaking because of disuse.
He stalked inside without answering me. He seemed to be in a terrible mood.
"Get dressed," he barked. "We're going out to dinner."
Another, bigger surprise, but I knew enough not to say a word. I quickly turned away to get dressed, but he caught hold of my wrist in an iron grip, and swivelled me roughly around to face him again.
"Who have you been telling about our anniversary?"-he breathed.
"What?"- I asked blankly.
"Tommy's wife knew it was our anniversary today. I've got to bloody treat them all to dinner now."
"I-I must have told her ages ago, Charles, I-"
"Well, stop blabbering, you stupid wench and get dressed." Then he pushed me away violently, and I stumbled against a little table. I simply bent my head, straightened the table, and hurried away, despite having some very good arguments in my head for each and every one of his grievances.
Like why it caused him so much displeasure to buy dinner for his own "boys", his drinking buddies.
Or how I could have denied Tommy Sharpe's wife the knowledge of my wedding anniversary. What could I have said? "I'm sorry, dear, but if I tell you, my husband will beat me to death because he really hates to treat your husband, who is also his best friend." Ha. I had a good, long, sarcastic laugh in my head over that as I got dressed.
My clothes were terribly out of fashion- I hadn't bought anything new since over a year- and they smelt musty. When I managed somehow and went downstairs, Charles nearly hit me again.
"You can't go out wearing that piece of garbage! What will they think of me? Have you even seen what the girls wear outside?"
Somehow, I managed to say calmly, "No, I haven't, Charles."
He opened his mouth to argue back, then suddenly seemed to realise that there indeed wasn't any fault of mine in this matter.
"Fine," he mumbled. "We're going to the store on the way, and you'll change there."
I blushed with mortification, but didn't say a word. It was a very embarrassing thing to do.
In the end, I went out in some shiny old silver heeled shoes that I had, wearing jewellery to match and hoping that I'd get a dress to go with them. I was lucky enough to do so, and found a perfect black and white dress that would do just right for the occasion. Through the rest of the drive to the restaurant, we didn't say a word, reminding me of that night, exactly three years ago- my first, cold night with Charles. I was still rather curious and indignant that Charles seemed to be so up-to-date in women's fashion. I had to admit I was jealous- not because there was another woman in his life, but because he was probably an angel to that other woman, and saved all the unpleasantness for me. It was a disheartening thought.
When we arrived at the restaurant, three more couples were already waiting for us. I had met all of them before, but wasn't especially close to them. The men were so much like Charles in behaviour that I didn't want to be around them, and their wives, all younger than me, were rather vapid and catty.
Viv Sharpe scrutinised me from head to toe critically while she indulged in congratulatory wishes with beaming smiles that never reached her eyes. She was the worst of the lot, but she somehow seemed to have grudgingly accepted me as properly turned-out. Too bad for them, no new topic to gossip about, I thought scathingly as the other women wished me in turn. It was with relief that we retired to dinner.
During dinner, I found myself getting rejuvenated more and more. I suppose the white wine helped, and meanwhile, I was temporarily allied with Charles to make a show to be an absolutely thrilling wife and hostess. My hidden vamping talents, long buried, came to the fore again. I flirted carefully with the "boys"- carefully because I shouldn't cross the line and anger the already sullen women, not to mention Charles. I felt good again in a long time, feeling smug in the fact that the men knew and appreciated me for what I was- not just tinkling laughs and fluttery lashes.
By the time the desserts came, I had the men eating from my hand. They listened to me- and just me- talk, and if they did talk, I was the one they talked to. Charles often gave me a look that ought to have terrified me, but I had drunk enough wine to not feel any fear or panic.
As I sipped my last glass of wine, I suddenly interrupted Tommy Sharpe with a bewitching giggle and murmured, loud enough for everyone at the table to hear, "Why Tommy, that's enough tales! Look at poor Viv, she looks so lonely!"
There was a moment of silence. Charles and Viv had identical livid looks on their faces, the other girls looked scandalised and the other men embarrassed. It was one thing to blatantly keep a woman away from her husband's conversation, it was another to point the fact out.
I knew I had crossed the line there, but I didn't care. I also knew that I'd had too much wine, but that actually felt good, since I was drinking after a long time. And it was pretty obvious that hell's fires awaited me at home, but at the moment, I just didn't care. I knew I'd never get another chance to go out like this. I'd never get a chance again to flirt, and that furious look on Viv's face was just priceless.
So I just gasped, gave a tinkling laugh again, and said, "I'm so sorry, Viv darling, I didn't mean it like that. After all, you are his wife."
Tommy looked rather disconcerted and turned guiltily to his wife, edging his chair towards her(he had moved it closer to me during dinner). With a controlled, languid grace, I turned towards Julia Price and began a conversation as though nothing was the matter. Her husband joined in eagerly, making a frown appear on Julia's brow momentarily. I could still feel Charles glaring at me, and finally, out of the corner of my eye, noted him turn away with much relief.
It was quite late by the time we returned home. Charles unlocked the door, because I was still in a pleasant, floating state of mind. He was still very silent, ominously so. I could feel the fear somewhere deep beneath all the pleasant buzzing in my head, but I didn't say a word. He took my hand in a firm grasp and guided me upstairs. When I tried to pull away from him to go to my room, he held me in place.
"I sleep in a different room, Charles. In case you haven't noticed," I said with much bravado, my words slurring.
"Yes, I have," he said quietly, almost mildly. But I knew he wasn't calm inside. I could tell by how hot his hand felt against mine, and how tightly he held it.
"Well?"-I demanded.
"You're sleeping in my bed tonight."
And then he dragged me into his room, despite the fact that I had begun to scream.
That night had been the worst, so far. Charles hadn't- well, taken me into bed with him since a long time- most of my physical torture had reduced to just unexpected blows, cuffs and punches for the tiniest, silliest, unexpected provocations.
However, this latest session had proved to be incredibly violent. I was aching for weeks after that and had bruises for months. The rest of February and half of March passed in a blur of ache and fear. I had avoided him as much as possible after that night, and he, thankfully, resumed staying out late from the very next day.
Then, in March, I got a huge, life-defining shock.
It was the twenty sixth. I remember the day so well. I was sitting in the living room, next to the fire, waiting. I had sat there since sunset, and hadn't budged all through the night. I had just sat there thinking, planning, praying, wishing, thinking…
Finally, at around three in the morning, I heard the key turn. The front door opened with a near-silent creak and Charles trudged in. I watched him as he shut the door to carefully, noiselessly. It amused me to realise that he wasn't being so quiet for my benefit- it was for the neighbours.
He turned away again, making his way to the stairs, not even noticing me there.
"Charles," I spoke.
He jumped and turned around.
"Jesus, what the hell are you doing, Esme?"
"I have to tell you something."
"What- here? Now?"
"Yes,"-I said firmly.
"I'm not in the mood," he growled and turned away.
"We are having this conversation right now," I said, sounding braver than I felt.
He turned back to me exasperatedly. "Well, get on with it!"-he snapped.
"I'm pregnant."
There was a second of silence. Then-
"Is that it?"
"Yes," I said incredulously. I was stunned. Is that it? That was all he had to say?
"Come… er, go to bed. We'll discuss this in the morning."
Slowly, I stood up and followed him up the stairs. I had noted that he was finally accepting the fact that I would sleep in a different room. But I was still too stunned, too hurt, that Charles did not seem to think this news wonderful, as I had.
In the morning, we did discuss it over breakfast. He was a little more curious and involved, but it did not really soothe my offended feelings.
"So when did you find out?"-Charles asked, opening the topic himself.
"I went to Dr. Humphrey's yesterday morning."
"You didn't tell me."
"No."
"Wait a minute, Humphrey's… you drove?"-his voice rose angrily.
I sighed exasperatedly. Of all the things to think about. "Yes, Charles, it was either that or calling the ambulance. I was in pain."
He looked very furious at my nonchalant treatment of this seemingly important matter. However, he seemed to know enough about pregnant women to not hit them. I was carrying his child, after all.
"Very well," he said in an effort at staying calm, "what did he say?"
"I'm due late December," I said quietly.
"Good, good."
There was silence after that. I strained my ears throughout, waiting for him to say something else, anything else.
As he folded up his newspaper and stood up, I burst into speech desperately. "Charles!"- I said hurriedly.
"What?"
"What- what do you think?"- I asked him blabbering out words without thinking about them.
"Eh?"
"What do you think- how do you feel? About the baby?"
I had to know. He may have been the worst monster in the world, but he was the father of my child and I had to know.
"Oh, that- er, good, of course." I still stared at him, waiting for more, so he added quickly, with familiar cruelness seeping into his tone, "Just hope for your sake it's a boy." Then he walked away briskly, leaving me in a stupor at the kitchen table.
Oh God. What if I had a daughter? What if- how could I possibly bring up a girl in this household? I shuddered when I remembered what Charles had told me one night in bed, what men like him really thought about girls. Slaves and playthings. That's all we were to them.
This thought disoriented me so much that I lay in bed the whole day- thinking, fearing, worrying.
In the evening, I went and sat downstairs to wait for him again. Somehow, some part of me was hoping that Charles would change his ways and come back home. Atleast pretend to live in a happy marriage, atleast for the child's sake.
I didn't even have dinner, which I knew was bad for me. I just set the table and waited. And somehow, while waiting, I drifted off to tired sleep.
I woke again to the sound of a car door shutting. It was two in the morning. Though my conscious mind still couldn't grasp why, my subconscious seemed to recognise that it was time to go upstairs. Immediately.
Quickly, I got up from the uncomfortable armchair, turned off the shaded lamp next to me and hurried upstairs. I paused on the landing, just out of sight as the front door opened.
Charles wasn't trying too hard to be silent tonight. I quickly understood why.
"My, Charlie, I told you you were having too much to drink."
I froze. The blood in my veins seemed to have turned to ice.
He had a brought a woman home.
"Nonsense, Esme!"-he said much too loudly in a ridiculous, affected British accent.
The woman hushed him, giggling all the while. "Hush now, husband, you'll wake the neighbours!"
I felt a sickening sense of disgust creeping through me. The woman's voice was horrible- high-pitched and airy. The front door clicked shut, but the woman never stopped giggling. I had a sudden wish to strangle all the damned giggles out of her once and for all. My hands shaped themselves into claws, and I listened, still frozen, fury burning through me. I was all ice and fire.
"That was fun!"-she giggled. "Does your wife talk like that, Charlie?"
"Hell, no!"-he said loudly, with a sound that suggested he had collapsed into a sofa. "She sounds much better!"
"Oh go on, you!"-she laughed.
The nausea within me increased. How dare he, how dare he bring his mistress home with him? When I was home, no less. Look at his damned audacity!
"C'mere Bessie my dear," he said in a false grave tone. I heard her shoes clack on the floor as she walked over the sofa, and in all probability, sat next to him.
"You do have a nice home, Charlie. Mrs. Evenson must be very happy."
"Mrs. Evenson doesn't know half of her luck in landing me."
They both laughed, and I clutched the banisters for support as the nausea started to make me dizzy.
"Still, Charlie, won't she wake up?"
"My dear Bessie, darling Esme snores in her sleep. If she can sleep through that, well, I think it's a safe bet she can sleep though anything."
They laughed again. "I'm sure you're lying! Why, you're the one who snores!"-she said in mock indignation.
"Do I? Really?"- he asked, matching her tone.
"Why, yes! I've seen you snore scores of times."
"You should know," I could hear the grin in his voice. Tears of anger and betrayal poured from my eyes. Oh, that wicked, lying bastard.
"Well, c'mon, Bess baby. Wanna see my room?"
I nearly gasped out loud.
"Mr. Evenson!"- the hateful woman whispered loudly. "I am shocked at you! Where are your principles?"
"Same place you left them, Bessie darling!" They burst into laughter again.
That was it. That was all I could take. I stumbled into my room and locked the door behind me where the first thing I did was to retch into the washing basin. An empty stomach and pregnancy weren't the main reasons for this vomiting attack.
After I was done spewing out the little there was left in my stomach, I collapsed into my bed, exhausted, not bothering to change. All my plans, all my dreams, all my hopes were burnt to ashes.
Forget a girl, how could I bring up any child in this household? With him finding every reason to beat and terrorise me at home and then going out and behaving in such a shameful, blasphemous manner, how on earth could a child be brought up in a family with such horrible, twisted ideologies?
I lay awake the whole night, alternately crying at mine and my child's fate, and thinking, planning, bolstering the decision I had made on the upstairs landing as soon as I heard that woman speak. By the time morning came, I hadn't slept a wink, but I had finally made my decision.
I would leave him.