Massonville 1897
When Ophelia saw Edward and Jonathan descending from the train together, she told herself nothing was wrong. There was nothing in the quick look Edward threw back over his shoulder at Jonathan, and when Edward greeted her there was no tension in his embrace. It was only her imagination at work, she told herself.
But her imagination kept on working. When Edward came to their bed that night, he did all the things that had made him so happy only two months earlier, but somehow it was different. After it was over, he did not put his arm around her. He did not talk to her. And she knew when she woke in the morning that he had not slept.
It does not mean anything. It cannot mean anything.
The next night he avoided her, staying awake to read until after she finally pretended to be asleep.
I will not say anything to him. As long as I don't say anything, there is nothing wrong. There are only two weeks to keep silent. I can last for two weeks.
But Edward—her honest Edward—couldn't keep silent. “I must talk to you about something,” he said on the third morning of his homecoming. His beautiful face was tired, but he was resolute.
He has decided to tell me the truth. No, don't think that. There is no truth to tell.
“I have some work to do for Mama,” she said quickly.
“Later, then.”
“Yes.”
Now it was she who avoided him. She managed it for the rest of the day, and that evening she saw to it that Mama had supper with them in the restaurant. Ophelia dragged out the meal as long as she could, but eventually the last forkful of cake had been consumed and it was time to retire to the family apartment. To the bedroom she shared with Edward.
But then there was an unexpected reprieve. Mama rose from the table and said, “Edward, will you excuse us? I need Ophelia for a moment.”
He wasn't happy about it.
He wants to tell me. But there is nothing to tell.
He didn't argue, and went upstairs alone. After he was safely out of the way, Mama led the way through the restaurant, out into the lobby, and to the stage.
Once again, Ophelia and Juliet stood on the stage with only the work light turned on. “We had another offer to book Othello into that theater today,” Mama said. Then she added carefully, “The one in New Jersey that is managed by Jonathan Tyrell's friend. ”
You didn't have to tell me; I knew which theater you meant.
In the semidarkness Mama grasped Ophelia's arm so hard that she thought she would cry out. “There cannot be any scandal connected with this opera house,” Mama whispered. “Massonville is a small town. People here will not accept what might be overlooked in New York.”
You needn't have bothered to tell me that either.
“Do not allow us to be disgraced,” Mama said, and she began to walk away.
“Mama,” Ophelia called out. Juliet turned. “I'm not … I don't know what to do,” Ophelia stammered.
Her mother stood still for what seemed like a long time. Finally she spoke. “Edward is an honorable man,” she said slowly and deliberately.
The shadows cast by the work light played on Juliet's face. Even in this dire situation, Ophelia couldn't help thinking, What a Lady Macbeth she would have been!
“If you were carrying Edward's child,” Mama went on in the same measured tone, “I am sure he would never think of leaving you.”
“But I'm not carrying his—”
“Not yet,” Mama broke in. “But things happen. And you are his wife.” She turned off the work light. “My father always used to say, if we take care of the present, God will take care of the future,” she said. “There is always something we can do, Ophelia. We are never helpless.” She walked out, leaving Ophelia alone on the stage in the dark.
In the plays in which Ophelia had appeared, when the heroine encountered difficulties in her marriage, she tried to arouse her husband's passion. But Edward's passion was not hers to command.
Not anymore. If it ever was.
Yet she was his wife.
Edward was waiting for her in their bedroom. She wished she had time to brush her hair and tie a ribbon in it. She wished she had time to put on her prettiest nightgown. But he was waiting right now.
“Ophelia, I—” he started to say, but she rushed to him and took his hands in hers.
God will take care of the future if I take care of the present.
“Have I told you how much I missed you while you were gone?” she asked. “I'm afraid you married a bride who needs you very much.” As she heard herself say the words, she knew they were true. Her voice began to waver. “You are the only person who has ever really seen me, Edward. You helped me clean the hotel. You said I have talent.” With each word she found it harder not to cry. “You are the only one who cared what happened to me.”
He didn't pull his hands away, but she knew he wanted to. As they faced each other, the misery was almost like a presence in the room. She searched frantically for something to say to make it go away, but in the end all she could think of was, “I think I loved you from that morning when I first saw you.”
If it had been a line in a play she would have said it was banal—worthy of bad melodrama. But it was honest, and that moved Edward. He leaned down and kissed her hands, which had grown cold in his. And she knew that for one more night, she had escaped; that the words he had wanted to say to her would not be said.
When she got into bed, so did he. He held her tenderly throughout the night, like one would hold something small and fragile. But there was no kissing. Edward did not do the things he had done before.
The next morning, Edward was gone before she was awake. For a second, Ophelia panicked. Then she remembered that at least she had managed to avoid Edward's fatal “talk” one more time. For the moment she would have to be content with that. She dressed in her scullery attire and headed for the fourth floor to do her usual morning cleaning.
Once, when he was still her best friend, Edward had told her about Dr. Sigmund Freud, who believed that there were no accidents in human behavior. When people tried to hide certain aspects of themselves, said the good doctor, there was an uncontrollable portion of the mind called the subconscious that would force a “mistake” that would reveal the truth. This mistake could happen even if the conscious portion of the mind wished to suppress that truth. The theory was as good an explanation as any for the reason why Edward, who knew her morning schedule so well, would choose his room on the fourth floor for a rendezvous with Jonathan.
When she recognized the voices through the thin door, Ophelia wanted to run. But then she heard her husband say, “You know I can't stay here, John. I have to tell her.” There was not a doubt in Ophelia's mind who “she” was. Her impulse to run faded immediately. She leaned against the door to listen.
“Your leaving is not in dispute, ” said Jonathan. “But I fail to see why she must be told anything.”
“I have to be honest with her; she deserves that much from me.” Edward's voice was low and troubled. She could picture the way his brow was furrowed. “I want her to understand.”
“You are proposing to tell your wife that you wish to end your marriage to her for reasons that she will find repellent and enraging. I assure you that she will never understand.”
There was a sound. Was it bed springs?
I don't want to think of that.
Now it sounded as if Edward were moving about the room. “It was my fault. I should not have married her.”
Jonathan's voice came back clearly. “You're not the first man to marry because he hoped it would cure him. Or help him escape from who he is. We are told we are degenerate, we are made to—but you don't need to hear a speech.” There was a silence. Neither of them was moving now. “Have you thought of the danger?” Jonathan asked. “If you tell her, have you thought of what she could do to you?”
“She wouldn't,” Edward said. As if she were in the room with them, Ophelia could see Jonathan's cynical smile. “I do care for her,” said her husband.
“Eddie, you wanted to believe you were something you were not, and you made a mistake. Don't punish yourself for it. And don't punish her.”
“I want to free her.”
“For what? So she can suffer the disgrace of being a divorced woman?”
She hadn't thought of that. Oh dear God.
“She's young, she can still find—” Edward started to say, but Jonathan broke in.
“A good man? Who will love her in spite of her past? Really?”
Edward, no! You can't do that to me.
“It doesn't have to be so histrionic, Eddie.” Jonathan's voice was gentle. “After our booking in Trenton, you will have work in New York, I promise you. It will be an easy thing to tell her that you must stay there for a few months, and the months will extend. Then, when she has had time to grow accustomed to your absence, you can discuss divorce proceedings, without the need for confession. If you still wish for that.”
I hate him.
“Or perhaps by then you will see that to have a wife in the background would not be the worst thing for you. In your circumstances.”
“My circumstances?” Edward asked.
“Not all of your … friendships will be as discreet as ours. Don't look at me that way. You won't stop with me. Be grateful that I know it.”
“And while I am building my career and having my affairs,” Edward said so quietly that Ophelia could barely hear him, “Ophelia will become—what exactly? The duped wife? Like the pathetic creature who is married to Oscar Wilde?”
“I don't think she will remain duped for long. She's no fool. But she will accept what she must. She would not be the first.”
Oh, how I hate him.
“Eddie, I agree it's a bad business,” Jonathan continued. “But don't make it worse. For everyone.”
“So I'm to turn her into a liar?”
“Call her your partner, if that's easier to say. Or your conspirator. And remember, she'll do it because it will be in her own best interests.”
“I will not use her.”
“What do you think she and her mother wish to do to you? Their theater was on its last legs when you walked through their doors to revive it. The old girl must have thought you were manna from heaven! And before you start bleating that Ophelia is not her mother, let me tell you, my love, that your little wife is cut from the same cloth. They will both bury you in the provinces for the rest of your days to save their precious opera house.”
I would like to kill him.
“ And that would be a tragedy, Eddie. You have such a gift. You don't even realize—”
“Oh yes, I do realize,” Edward broke in. “This tour has shown me what I could be. That's why I have to go to New York with you.” Through the door Ophelia heard Jonathan laugh. “What's so amusing?” her husband asked.
“Does it occur to you that, for my sake, it might be more … tactful to pretend that I am the main attraction in New York?” There was a pause. Ophelia could picture Edward's face reddening. Then suddenly he laughed. The dimple would be showing now.
“Oh, John, I'm such a selfish dog! Run while you have a chance.”
“And miss watching you cut your swath through New York City? No, thank you. And you are not selfish, my child, you are greedy.”
“Yes! I know!” There was a joy in Edward's voice that Ophelia had never heard before.
He feels free to be himself with Jonathan in ways that he could never be with me. And that was when Ophelia knew that Edward, who did not want to be a liar, would not repeat their wedding night—or even the night of his homecoming—again. And she knew that she would never feel like the young girl he had kissed in front of the elevator.
“I want it all,” her husband was saying. “I want fame and fortune and you, John. I want to be happy.”
The last word was smothered, something was happening between the two men. But now the thought of it didn't hurt. At least, it didn't hurt as much as it had.
When Edward continued, his voice was more subdued. “I want a clear conscience. Don't you see? I have to be honest with her. So she can make a new beginning.”
No! You want to desert me and feel good about it. Then you will have a new beginning. I'll be alone with a sick mother, a brother who is worthless, and an opera house we can't keep. For a moment she thought she really could destroy him as Jonathan had said. But then she remembered Edward making up games when he helped her mop the floors. She remembered watching him on the stage when he acted. And then she remembered the canopy in front of the opera house with the Venable name on it.
Do not allow us to be disgraced, Mama had said.
Behind the closed door, Edward was saying, “I can trust Ophelia, I know I can.”
If you were carrying Edward's child, I am sure he would never think of leaving you, Mama had said.
“Then, if you are determined to tell Ophelia, do it right away and be done with it,” said Jonathan.
“I meant to,” Edward said. “But now I think it would be wrong to say it and then just leave her. I'll wait until the tour is finished. Then I'll come back and tell her and stay with her as long as she needs me. I owe her that much.”
Ophelia could see his face, the eagerness and sweetness in it, as he tried to find a way to make this horror right for her. That was when she began to cry. She turned from the bedroom door and ran down the hallway so the two men wouldn't hear her. She cried for herself and for Edward. Because she knew now what she had to do to both of them.