By now, you know what happened after that awful day, and that horrible drive home. Tom hadn’t hit just any obstacle. He’d crashed into his mistress, who had run out into the street fleeing her husband. Flung to the ground, she’d been crushed by a vehicle headed the other way. It was a gruesome death—one I wouldn’t wish on an enemy—and I took no pleasure in reading and hearing of it over the next days.
At home that night, I hurried up to Pammy’s room, locked the door, and lay down on the small bed reserved for Nanny when the little girl couldn’t sleep.
Tom yelled through the door. “Don’t think I’ll let you go! He’s a social climber. He’s nothing! He’s not like you and me, Daisy! Nothing like us!”
I couldn’t resist, got up, and shouted back, “Thank God!”
Then I heard an engine start up and looked out the window. Our poor butler and housekeeper—Tom must have roused them—drove each of our vehicles somewhere away from our house. He was cutting off my means of escape.
There was nothing I could do. I lay down again and tried to sleep.
The next morning, I concentrated on just keeping the peace. I’d stay quiet and agreeable, not speaking of the afternoon at the Plaza or even the bruise on my cheek.
But somehow, the papers had gotten hold of the accident before going to press the night before, and Tom, his hands shaking so hard he couldn’t hold the pages upright, read that he’d killed his mistress. It was just one paragraph, probably hastily written to make the paper’s deadline, merely the who, what, where, and when of Myrtle’s death under the headline: “Garage Owner’s Wife Killed.”
He said nothing. He got up and walked to the windows. He looked out at the Sound. Then he practically ran to the garage.
Although he’d moved our own cars off property, he had yet to return Jay’s car, knowing I couldn’t start it without the key, so he hurried and made arrangements for it to be driven over to Jay’s mansion. He seemed to calm down after that was taken care of, with the murder weapon placed far enough away to keep his hands clean, and his innocence secure.
I had no doubt that, if questioned, he would say he drove his own car home that night and didn’t know who drove Jay’s. If pressed with conflicting stories, he would probably laugh and admit we were all drunk, and everyone else must have been confused because he had driven the roadster into town, but it’s a circus car and one ride in it was enough for him.
I could hear it in my head, those easy lies. Police would believe him. They believed the Toms of the world.
Now, as sunshine streamed through the windows, he came back into the room, hands in his pockets, and walked to the doors.
“We’re moving,” he announced after a time. “Back to Chicago. I’ve been making the arrangements, as you know, and I’m speeding them up.”
I could sense his fear that the accident would be traced to him, and he’d be held responsible, despite it being Jay’s car, delivered to Jay’s garage, despite any easy alibis he could conjure up.
So this became part of my plan, to use his fear, and I managed to call Nick later that day, simply instructing him to tell Jay to be patient.
That night, after I fed Pammy, bathed her, and tucked her into bed, we sat in the kitchen and supped on cold chicken and beer. Tom had sent the staff home after taking care of Jay’s car, finalizing the arrangements with movers, and securing us a house to rent along the lake in Chicago. I said what we both knew:
“You killed her.” I wiped my face with my napkin. “We hit her. You were driving.”
He swallowed and stared at me, and for one terrible moment, I feared Tom, that he might decide to get rid of this annoying witness to his crime. He stood and strode out of the room to the parlor, where he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and poured himself a tall glass. I followed and stood by the door.
“It’s all right, Tom. I’m your wife. I can’t and won’t betray you. It’s our little secret.” As long as he treated me right, as long as he let me do what I wanted, even taking Pammy on an excursion without him.
He poured and downed another drink, then his head dropped to his chest and he let out an animal-like cry, so anguished that I thought he was having some kind of attack.
I didn’t go to him, though. I let him ponder his fate alone, and, shaken, I eventually sank into an embroidered chair, still close to the door should I want to flee.
He turned and came to me. He knelt in front of me and slurred words of contrition and gratitude.
“I didn’t see her. I swear I didn’t see her,” he cried. “It wasn’t my fault. She ran into the road. It was dark. I didn’t see her! Oh, Daisy, Daisy. I knew I could count on you.”
He wept. He sobbed into my lap like a little boy who longed for his parents’ affection after engaging in some particularly devious mischief. He begged my forgiveness. He promised me everything.
In those moments when he was at my feet and I was stroking his hair, I remembered falling in love with him—prizing both his strength and his vulnerability. I’d seen it when we were younger. It had been the same as mine. The same longing for the world to be kind, not cruel, the same yearning for people to understand and accommodate you, not to judge you.
He’d been stuck, just like me, in a time and place, and he, too, was afraid of being less than the best. The best football star. The best polo player. The best son. The best representative of his class and culture.
He tried so hard.
I remembered him on the altar at our wedding, his face freshly scrubbed, his brown eyes shining with confusion.
I remembered my heart about to burst with love for him on our honeymoon, once I had determined that was my fate.
And I remembered our wedding night, when he was tender, sweet, and gentle, treating me as if I were that bit of porcelain that might break.
How could I not soothe him?
So I did, gently shushing him, telling him things would be all right, that we’d go away, and not look back, that everything would be different.
I lied.
Even in these tender moments of remembrance, I knew he couldn’t be different. I barely had it within me to change, but somehow I had to find the grit to do so.
I knew he would eventually secure another mistress, and it wouldn’t be long before she’d show up with a bastard, and he would be harsher on me now that he had tasted the thrill of roughing me up, as he had Myrtle.
If he had one ability to change, it seemed to be to shed the finer qualities of manhood that his social status had required of him. In these freewheeling years, he was learning he didn’t need to abide by any rules, even self-imposed ones.
He had accidentally killed his mistress, a troublesome woman. It wouldn’t be long before he lost his remorse and realized how convenient that solution was. I didn’t intend to be his next victim.
So I comforted him as best I could, led him to bed, and sneaked back to my own, ever more eager to leave. I was almost ready, but with my leverage over Tom, I could afford to do more. I had some more jewelry I wanted to sell off, and I thought I could do it in at most a day or two, while I finished the details of my plan. I tried ringing up Nick to urge him to tell Jay one more time to be patient, but Nick wasn’t home.
In the morning, we awoke to more news. Mr. Wilson had exacted his revenge, finding and killing the owner of the car that had run down his wife.