I dropped the letter to Gina in the corner mailbox as I walked the short distance to Henry’s new house. I still couldn’t think of the house as ours. With Andrew gone, I didn’t want to.
The day was beautiful, the blue sky dotted with cottony white clouds, and I began to dream about the future as I walked. If our marriage ended, was returning to Baltimore the best plan? I wasn’t sure. I would be too close to Vincent if I were in Baltimore and that would be difficult, but moving in with Gina and her mother for a while would allow me to get on my feet again. The best part of ending my marriage to Henry would be leaving Hickory. Leaving Ruth and Lucy. I could leave the husband who treated me kindly but not warmly, the way you’d treat a stray cat you came across from time to time. I needed to get out of this marriage to find myself again. I wanted Tess back. I’d lost her these last few months. More than anything, I wanted my freedom.
Henry’s new house had changed dramatically since I’d last seen it. It was no longer a simple wooden frame. Now encased in rich red brick and two stories tall, it had a warmth that had been lacking before. I stood on the curb, staring at it, trying to decide if it was imposing or inviting. A bit of both, I thought.
Henry’s Cadillac was parked on the street so I knew he was already there. I picked my way carefully up the long dirt driveway and he met me at the side door.
“What do you think?” he asked, smiling.
“It looks beautiful.” I returned his smile. “I love the brick.”
“Come in.” He held out his arm to guide me inside.
We walked through the main level where the space that had earlier been a network of posts and beams now boasted actual rooms with solid white walls and ceilings and hardwood floors, a clean canvas waiting to be filled with life and color. The stairs were finished and we climbed them carefully, since there was no banister yet in place. Upstairs, the hallway opened onto four bedrooms and a den. I bit my lip. I remembered him asking me which bedroom I would like for the nursery. He may have been recalling the same conversation, because as we explored each room, he lightly rested his hand on my back. He was being sweet this afternoon. Why was he picking today to be so loving when I was gearing up to suggest a way we could end our marriage?
“Now, finally,” he said, as we stood in the middle of the largest bedroom, the one we would share, “it’s your turn to make decisions about the house. You can pick out the wallpapers and paint colors. And we should shop for furniture.” He smiled at me. “You can select a spot in the yard to plant that tree for your mother.”
I’d almost forgotten about the tree, there were so many other things on my mind. I was touched that he remembered.
“It’s going to be a very busy few months,” he continued. “I’ve secured a professional designer to work with you. You’re to give her a call and she’ll meet you here. How about sometime next week?”
“Henry,” I said, “can we talk for a minute?”
He raised his eyebrows. “About what?”
I looked around us, wishing there was a place to sit, but the bare rooms offered nothing more than floors scattered with sawdust. I leaned back against the wall.
“I know you don’t want a divorce,” I began, “and neither do I. Neither of our churches support it, and—”
“What do you mean, ‘neither of our churches’?” He frowned at me, slipping his hands into his pants pockets. “Tess, when are you going to accept that you’re no longer Catholic? I’ve wanted to talk to you about being baptized in the Baptist church, but I didn’t think it was the right time yet, with everything that’s gone on. But—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” I said quickly. I’d started this conversation the wrong way. “I’m not talking about our religions, really. I’m talking about a possible … annulment.” There. I’d said it. “It might be possible to have our marriage voided,” I said. “It would be like we’d never been married at—”
“I know what an annulment is,” he said. “I’m not interested in it.” He stared at me from beneath knitted brows. “I don’t understand you,” he said. “I just said you can have this house, for God’s sake.” He looked around us at the four walls of the room. “You can decorate it any way you like, to your heart’s content. Most girls would leap at that chance.”
“It’s a beautiful house,” I agreed, “but if we don’t have a … true marriage, then … will we really be happy anyplace?”
“We’re married, Tess,” he said. “If you would just relax a little … try harder to fit in … then yes, we can be happy here.”
I struggled to figure out what to say. He looked so mystified by my complaints, and those downcast eyes suddenly hurt to look at. I knew I couldn’t say anything about impotence now. It was too personal. Far too insulting and emasculating.
“It’s just that we haven’t … if there’s no … you know … consummation, then it’s possible to get a marriage voided. Annulled. It’s as if there’s no real marriage.”
He pulled his hands from his pockets and rubbed the fingers of his right hand over the knuckles of his left as though they ached. “I’ll give you the number for the interior decorator,” he said, heading for the door of the room. “You can call her at your leisure.”
I shut my eyes, not budging from the spot where I stood leaning against the wall. I hadn’t handled that well. I would give him time to think through what I said. Surely he had to acknowledge that what we had was not a real marriage. He couldn’t possibly be happy with our relationship the way it was. Could he?
* * *
I fell into a troubled sleep that night, curled on my side. Sometime after midnight, I awakened to realize that Henry was lying behind me on the narrow bed. He touched my breasts through my negligee, his fingers light, the tips of them like feathers on my nipples. The touch was enough to arouse me and I rolled over to face him. In the dark, I couldn’t make out his features. What would I see in his face? I wondered. What would he see in mine? He lifted the hem of my negligee and gently spread my thighs apart with his hands, and then, for the second time in my life, I felt a man inside me. I prayed we were not creating another child. Not yet. I was still grieving for Andrew. I always would be. I lay there, moving with him, feeling very little other than the automatic response of my body to his thrusts. I knew it wasn’t desire motivating him, and it certainly wasn’t love. I knew his true motivation as clearly as I knew my own name. Henry was locking me into this marriage for all time.
I knew what he was doing. I just didn’t know why.