The three of us were out on the street.
Tess, me, Seymour. We peeled off our masks, walked away from the house. My face wet. Cool air on my skin.
We returned home. There was no sense of relief, of satisfaction, of pride. All that ferocious determination departed from Tess.
Something had broken.
In our living room, she looked at Seymour with a frightened openness I’d thought was impossible.
“Are we going to jail?”
I’d never seen him so angry. He shrugged as if anything could happen. He wouldn’t speak. He drank and smoked and stalked around and shook his head. I thought he might attack her, so I kept myself coiled, not that I’d have been much good if it had come to that. Anyway, I watched him opening and closing his hand until at last he walked away.
When he’d left, Tess said, “I’m so sorry, Joe.”
I locked the front door and we went upstairs. I drew her a bath and helped her undress.
There was blood on her sleeves.
I put her clothes in a plastic bag the way you’re supposed to, then I came back, turned off the lights and sat next to her on the cold tiles.
She took my right arm with both her hands and held it against her belly beneath the water.
There was blood on her wrist.
She said, “I love you, Joe. I love you so much.”
“We’ll go away,” I said. “Okay? I promise I’ll protect you. I swear to God, I swear to God I will protect you, Tess.”
She dug her nails into my arm and began to cry in a hard way I’d never seen. I watched all her fury and conviction dissolve into simple sadness.
It was many years before we saw Seymour again.