1940
Soapy water sloshed over my rubber gloves as I washed the dishes, my insides wound tighter than a music box. Last night, after the pageant, Charles squeezed my hand hard during the celebratory fireworks, and I’d been too frightened to breathe.
But Frank and Evie had been there with us, and Charles would never raise his voice to me among company. At home, after I’d taken off my girdle and put on my dressing gown, I’d braced myself for his words, sharp as shards of glass: stupid, selfish, whore, embarrassment. But they hadn’t come. Instead, Charles had turned his back to me in bed, lying stiff as a board, impenetrable. I’d gotten lucky.
I removed my dishwashing gloves, wiping my hands on my floral apron. Turning to the window, I watched as a burst of sea spray shot upward, while a large wave crashed against the cove. A bicycle bell jingled on the footpath. Our lovely Spanish-style bungalow on West Cliff Drive, overlooking the ocean, was the safe haven I had longed for. Yet, this home had become my prison.
The door creaked behind me as Charles entered the kitchen. He took his seat at the breakfast table. I swallowed, turning my gaze to the bacon sizzling in the skillet.
“Good morning,” I said, imbuing my voice with cheer. I turned off the gas and transferred the hot food to my husband’s plate. I touched the hollow at the base of my neck, then picked up the plate and carried it toward him. Charles unfolded the morning paper.
When I set down his eggs and bacon, he said nothing. But I felt something in the air, like an electrical charge before a thunderstorm. For crying out loud! I’d set the radio to a jazz station, and Charles would rather listen to the morning news. I ought to have known better. I wiped the perspiration from my temples.
My husband sipped his coffee, a deep crease dividing his brow. His voice came out harsh as he stared at the newspaper headline. “Norwich has been bombed. Civilians were killed.”
I felt it then. In my stomach. A tiny squeeze. But perhaps he was only upset with Hitler and the atrocities of the Luftwaffe? I looked at the photograph on the front page of the newspaper. In the grainy picture, Nazi planes flew against a darkened sky.
“That’s terrible,” I said, eyeing Charles’s untouched breakfast. I’d taken extra care to make the bacon crispy and the eggs soft, just the way he liked them.
Swift as lightning, he gripped my wrist. Hard. His eyes narrowed. “You don’t give a damn about politics, you stupid cow. What were you thinking, parading in front of those men in your bathing suit like a common whore?”
“Charles,” I breathed. “Let go of my arm. Please, you’re hurting me.”
His nails dug into the soft flesh of my forearm. He pulled me close, so I could feel his hot coffee breath on my neck.
“You are my wife,” he hissed. “You belong to me. Do you know how foolish you looked? How you’ve embarrassed me?”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
When I’d learned that Charles’s first love, a woman named Caroline, had broken off their engagement, my heart had ached for him. Who could hurt such a kind, wounded man? Now I wondered if Caroline had understood something I hadn’t.
His deep brown eyes shone with rage. It was too late. My muscles tensed in readiness.
“You know my dream is to perform,” I said quietly. “You knew that when you met me. You used to like watching me sing.”
My mind conjured up a picture of that fateful summer day two years ago, the afternoon I’d been riding my bicycle up and down the boardwalk with Evie. We’d been carefree in our culottes and blouses, and we’d giggled when we’d noticed the handsome fellas who’d disembarked from the Suntan Special.
I’d turned my head, to make sure Charles was watching me. Then I’d sung along to “Heart & Soul,” while the beach band played the tune. He’d approached me afterward. “What a beautiful voice. May I have your name, little songbird?”
“Violet Sweeting.”
Charles had laughed. “An appropriate name for a sweet girl. May I take you out?”
My little songbird . . .
“Shut your mouth,” Charles said, rising from his chair so quickly it fell over. The crash brought me back to the present—popping the memory like a balloon with a pin. He pushed me hard, and I stumbled backward.
His hands clenched into fists. “Your duty is to serve me, and only me. And yet you stood up there half naked, without your wedding ring. You will let go of these ridiculous notions that you can flit off to Hollywood and let other men appraise your body. You never ought to have entered that goddamned pageant!”
My insides crumpled. I’d dreamed of doing a screen test for years. Success was so close I could see the Hollywoodland sign rising from the golden California hillside. Every pageant winner got an audition. How could I make my husband understand that this was the chance of a lifetime? I had the talent to sing and act in front of a director, to make an impression.
I braced myself against the countertop. “Charles, I’m terribly sorry. You see, it was Evie’s idea—only to get around the pageant rules. In no way does it diminish my commitment to you. I’d only be gone for a few days. You can come with me if you’d like. It’d be a nice vacation for both of us. Wouldn’t you like to travel to Los Angeles and then to Atlantic City?”
Charles grabbed the handle of the heavy iron skillet. He flung the pan at the wall with all his might. Droplets of hot bacon grease seared my flesh, burning the inside of my wrist. I screamed in pain. Splatters of fat covered my apron and pinafore. I shielded my face with my hands as the pan clattered to the ground.
“You will not go to Atlantic City,” Charles yelled. “Nor will you go to Los Angeles, to entertain your delusions of becoming an actress. You will never perform on any stage, anywhere. Do you understand? Now clean up this mess.”
Tears pushed against my eyelids. Throbbing, the skin on my wrist bubbled into a blister. That would leave a scar.
I turned on the tap, sticking my arm beneath the cool, running water, and winced as it cleansed the wound. As I felt the tension in the air slip away, I pictured Charles’s eyes unclouding and regaining their focus. Caring eyes. The eyes I had fallen in love with. He put his arms around my waist and I flinched.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It was an accident. You know I’d never hurt you.” He let his arms fall by his sides. “I’ll get the broom and dustbin.”
I turned off the tap and placed both of my hands on the edge of the basin. My breath shuddered as I let it out. Why did he have to wrench my heart from my chest? I loved my husband. And he loved me. But I was frightened for my life.
Lately, I had been able to sense when his episodes were coming. The air between us would crackle with static. Anything could set him off. I’d say the wrong thing, cook the wrong food or place a household item in the wrong spot. Careless, he called it. Absentminded. Or worse—I’d ask him how business was doing at the Oceano. This made him incredibly angry, as if I had intruded on a private matter.
And it was my fault. If only I’d been more patient or learned to hold my tongue. Yet, sometimes, I got so tired of stepping on eggshells around Charles that I’d deliberately set him off. I wasn’t Caroline! How could I prove to him that I wouldn’t ever leave him? But entering the pageant had been far too dangerous.
After our spats, when Charles felt remorseful, weeks would go by without incident. Heartbroken, he’d promise it would never happen again, and purchase beautiful gifts, like the pearls I’d worn yesterday. That necklace was more than an anniversary present. It was an apology for the broken rib no one could see.
This was only a bad fight. All couples fought.
I looked at the cream-colored walls, stained with bacon grease. Baking soda. I reached into the cabinet and removed the box, stirring three tablespoons of powder into a glass of warm water. I dabbed the corner of a tea towel into the mixture and began to scrub. The blister on my arm throbbed. Scrubbing harder, I clenched my teeth. Charles returned with the broom and the dustbin.
“Well,” he said, leaning against the wall. “I’ll take breakfast at the club. I trust this will be clean when I return.”
His eggs and bacon sat untouched on the breakfast table. With a war on in Europe, I’d heard about the bacon, butter and sugar rationing in England. Charles dumped the contents of his plate into the trash bin. All that good food wasted.
He placed his fedora atop his head. “Violet,” he said, stroking my cheek. “I love you, darling. Please don’t give me that look.”
When the door shut behind him, I wept, picturing Charles driving the winding road to the Oceano in his gleaming black Cadillac. He had the freedom to soar through the verdant countryside, to his palace on the hill, away from our problems. A waiter in a crisp, white uniform would be waiting, handing him a Bloody Mary.
And I was left here, alone, to clean up this mess. My burn stung, and I rubbed the rag against the wall as hard as I could. But nothing would remove the stain from our marriage. It was stuck forever, a dark, dirty secret.