XXVII

Martha’s presence had a very palpable effect on Mrs. March. She wouldn’t have made the effort to get out of bed and dress on the few days that George was away if Martha wasn’t due to arrive each morning. The prospect of Martha’s silent judgment of her sloth was incentive enough to get her up. In fact, Mrs. March had gotten into the recent habit of clearing away anything Martha might have to clean. Each morning before Martha’s arrival, Mrs. March would get on all fours, peering under the furniture and in the corners of the bathrooms in search of cockroaches, wiping away any traces of ashes from Gabriella’s cigarettes (she still occasionally smoked in secret, savoring the dwindling stash as she would a box of chocolate truffles), and removing any wineglasses she may have left atop dressers or night tables without coasters, where they left dark rings. She would sweep the sheets for crumbs—she had taken to nibbling late-night snacks in bed, a masochistic habit given the roaches. Lately, her clothes stretched a little tighter than was comfortable over her midsection. She now enjoyed longer, hotter baths so that the room filled up with steam, misting the mirror and obscuring her naked form when she stepped out of the tub.

She went about her daily routine in a daze, an endless series of cold walks to buy olive bread from subpar alternatives to Patricia’s patisserie, or to visit the museum. One day she forgot her gloves, and her fingers went so numb that she was unable to unlock her own apartment door when she arrived home. She stood in the hallway for a few minutes until she could feel her cracked, pink hands return to life in painful pricks.

It was on one of her frigid walks one morning, heading down 75th Street, when she chanced upon the headband in a shopwindow. It was just like the one Sylvia Gibbler wore in the most recent photo released by the press. Sitting on a blanket in a wooded area, the dead girl smiled at the camera (she seemed always to be smiling), holding a peach and wearing a simple, black velvet headband.

Mrs. March contemplated buying it. Trying it on at home. Looking at her suddenly more attractive reflection in the mirror. Perhaps Sylvia would look back at her. She studied the possibility as she strolled past the shop, leaving the headband behind, navigating the masses on Third Avenue.

She joined the ranks of pedestrians at the crosswalk, all standing bravely against the whirlwind stirred by the passing M86 bus. It was then, as she was about to cross the street, that she noticed the woman in front of her. The woman wore a fur coat and polished tassel loafers, her hair arranged into a thin, limp bun. Mrs. March stared at the back of her head until the light turned green and she was jostled into the crosswalk so violently that she lost the woman in the blur of bobbing hats and swinging bags. After a few seconds she spotted her again, walking past the luncheonette on the corner. Mrs. March hastened after her, careful to keep a few steps behind. At present they were heading in the same direction, so Mrs. March reasoned that there was no harm in continuing this little game of Follow the Leader. The woman walked at a steady pace, the clacking of her loafers matching the rhythm of Mrs. March’s own. When the woman turned her head to look into a shopwindow, Mrs. March’s heart fluttered as she studied the familiar rise of the woman’s cheekbones, the patrician curve of her nose. They walked like this for a while, one Mrs. March following the other, like ducklings, until the woman turned the corner and Mrs. March, who was meant to go in the opposite direction, stopped in her tracks. She stood staring at the woman’s back as she made her way down the street, and, invaded with a liberating, buoyant feeling—like red wine warming her chest and blooming into what could almost be described as happiness—decided that she simply couldn’t walk away now. She swerved to the left, narrowly avoiding a passerby hidden behind a massive floral bouquet.

Mrs. March followed the woman in the fur coat to a street lined with identical townhouses. She kept her distance and watched the woman walk up the stone steps to one of the brownstones. The woman did not fumble around for any keys, instead turning the doorknob and pushing the front door open. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Mrs. March stood watching the front door a while longer, looking up and down the quiet street, before deciding to approach. It seemed so inviting, this sleepy brownish-purple building, with its arched front door and windows that curved under bracketed cornices. It looked so friendly. She went up the front steps slowly, her loafers tapping on the sandstone, her hands clasped in front of her as if in prayer. When she reached the top step, she placed her gloved hands against the heavily varnished wood, feeling for a pulse, then pushed. The door swung open with a satisfying creak, her reflection on the glossy veneer swinging along with it. She closed the door behind her, as softly as she could, and stepped into the foyer.

Inside, the air felt different. She walked across the black and white mosaic tiles, and thought she recognized her own mirror and the narrow coat closet in her own entrance hall. She walked further and encountered, to her right, a large, bright living room. Framed pictures gleamed from the white marble mantel. Strangers’ smiles beamed at her from their silver frames. She surveyed the living room. Velvet fringed cushions lay propped up on an antique sofa, and a large gilded edition of Jane Eyre sat upon a quaint rolltop desk. She felt comfortable, soothed even, as if she’d been here before. Perhaps, she told herself, she had. She proceeded to a mirror, and thought she could distinguish, rather than a reflection of this woman’s room, her own living room with its Hopper under the brass picture light and the bookshelves on each side of the fireplace.

She took a few measured deep breaths as she returned to the foyer, sensitive to any footsteps from upstairs, but she refused to flee, almost as if she was waiting for someone to discover her.

When no one descended the staircase, she opened the front door and left, taking a flowered umbrella from the porcelain umbrella stand on her way out.

SHE WAS in a dreamy sort of mood when she arrived home. She left the stolen umbrella in the coat closet, along with her coat and hat. Martha was in the bedroom—she usually turned down the beds at this hour—and Mrs. March sneaked into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. She loitered awkwardly by the stove as the water boiled, then took her cup of tea and an embroidered napkin to the living room. She set the tea down on a side table, turned on the television, and was just sitting down when there was a knock on the front door. She froze mid-sit, hovering over the couch, listening for a second knock to confirm that someone was indeed at the door. When it came, much louder, more insistent, than the first, she sprang to open the door, forgoing the peephole in favor of speed.

There was no one there. The hallway, adorned in its familiar wallpaper, its sconces casting a warm, reassuring light, was empty. She glanced at the open elevator, its buttons unlit.

Slowly, she closed the door. A third knock, quick and light, almost shy in its hesitance, was barely audible through the door. She swung the door open with force and held it open, looking up and down the hallway, seeing no one. One of the children in the building, perhaps, playing a prank?

When she heard George’s voice behind her she started. His voice was emanating from the living room into the foyer, where it seemed to poke at her mockingly. She closed the front door and followed the voice. Had George returned from London early? Her breath wavered, jagged, and she stepped gingerly into the living room to find it empty, but George’s voice continued, uninterrupted. Puzzled, she stuck her head through the French doors into the dining room, only to realize that the voice was behind her, issuing from the television speakers. George was on TV.

“I do believe Johanna is regarded with a definite sort of derision in the book, particularly by the narrator,” he was saying, eyes focused downward as he did when he was trying to appear thoughtful. “It was absolutely unintentional, but I did find myself gradually growing to dislike her, detest her even.” Tittering erupted from the audience.

“What is it about her, do you think, that readers seem to be finding so compelling?” asked the interviewer.

“Well, to start with I think that she’s very real.” George looked directly at the camera, at Mrs. March, his gaze boring into her like a deliberate, almost erotically slow stab. He looked back to the interviewer. “Or at least I hope she comes across that way.”

“She certainly does. You’ve crafted a rather clever story around such a tragic creature.”

“And to answer your previous question, I would consider selling the movie rights, yes. I think the book does lend itself to what I’d call cinematographic language.”

“Do any actresses come to mind for Johanna?” asked the interviewer.

“You’ll not catch me on that question, sir. I wouldn’t want to offend any actress by naming her directly.” George laughed.

“Well, I can guarantee there would be a long line of actresses willing to ugly themselves up to play this part. It has all the makings of an award-winning role.”

Mrs. March envisioned a line of prospective Johannas, all looking like her, moving like her, like hundreds of mad reflections. She reached for the remote in the deliberate manner of one reaching for a hidden weapon, and turned the television off. She drank her cup of tea in silence, looking at her reflection on the screen.