Barton’s father was already dead.
His mother shared this news once Barton and Roslyn were settled into the home’s parlor with cool drinks in hand, finger sandwiches and cookies on the table. Hospitality to the point of absurdity, Roslyn thought. But then, how does one behave in the company of an adult son, more than a half decade estranged and clearly changed for the worse, and his unfamiliar female chaperone? Perhaps any course of action would have seemed absurd.
Mr. Heydale had passed away two years prior, the result of some heart-related troubles.
Roslyn looked to Barton, trying to read his reaction. She couldn’t tell if he was sad, angry, or even disappointed. She couldn’t tell if he cared at all.
“Why didn’t you ever write to me?” Barton’s mother asked him. “I had no idea where you went.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that. I never intended to hurt you.”
When he said this Roslyn felt a weight lifted from her. She had been right to bring Barton home after all. Here was someone who loved him, and who could still evoke from him a real, human response.
They sat quiet for a moment. Then Mrs. Heydale’s attention turned toward Roslyn.
“And how are you acquainted with my son, Miss Beck?”
It was a question Roslyn had anticipated. Still, she was not prepared to answer, at least not in Barton’s presence. She found she did not have the words to explain her role there.
Barton, however, was at no such loss.
“My apologies, Mother! I should have explained sooner. Roslyn is my fiancée. We are in love, and engaged to be wed.”
“Oh, how wonderful!” Mrs. Heydale said, and Roslyn thought the woman might stand to hug her, or bombard her with questions about wedding plans or how the pair had met. She braced herself for this onslaught.
But no further show of enthusiasm was forthcoming.
Since they were not yet married, Barton and Roslyn were forbidden to sleep in the same room. Mrs. Heydale explained this to them after dinner. She would have no impropriety under her roof, she said, in a tone that suggested an enthusiasm for scolding others about impropriety, and an excitement at being able to use said tone now. This arrangement came as a relief to Roslyn. Mrs. Heydale escorted her to the quarters that would be hers—a small bedroom and washroom at the top of the stairs, on the opposite end of the house from where Barton would be.
This was how she would make her exit, Roslyn thought. She would leave after Barton and Mrs. Heydale were asleep. She could walk right down the stairs and out the door without them hearing. She’d leave a note, something kind for Barton, and her job would be done. He was home safe, cared for and loved. He was not dead and he was no longer alone. It was better even than she’d hoped. Better than he deserved.
When it came time to retire for the evening, Roslyn went through the motions of getting ready for bed, so as not to arouse suspicion. Not that it mattered. Mrs. Heydale’s attention was for Barton. Roslyn could hear her tending to him at the end of the hall. Did he have enough blankets? Did he want tea? Milk? What about sleeping clothes? A light snack of toast or a turkey leg? Barton as well seemed caught up in his mother’s affections.
Roslyn lay in bed until after midnight, breathing the stuffy air of the guest room. She listened to the house, heard nothing, and was certain the other occupants were asleep. She dressed, gathered her things, and made her way down the darkened stairs.
She almost didn’t believe it was him at first. He was sitting so still, she wanted to think he was a statue, or even a ghost—an apparition of one of this unsettling home’s previous residents. The late Mr. Heydale himself. But then he spoke, and of course it was Barton, slumped in an armchair, waiting for her.
“You’re leaving,” he said, like he knew it to be fact.
“Yes,” she said.
“Please, don’t.”
In the slats of moonlight that escaped that parlor’s curtains, Roslyn could see Barton was recently groomed—hair slicked and bushed—and he was wearing pajamas a size too small. Had Mrs. Heydale bathed him? Whatever the case, he’d never actually gotten into bed.
“Barton,” she said, “you’re home with your mother now. You don’t need me anymore.”
“That’s not true! Mother is expecting you and me to marry. It will break her heart if we don’t. I need you more than ever. If you go, I’ll kill myself. I was planning to kill myself before I fell in love with you. You saved me. But without you I’m nothing. I’m already dead. I’ll do it right here and now.”
In her vision, Barton’s body was lying on the side of the road. Because no one was with him when he died, his corpse remained exposed, curled in an odd posture. The cause of his demise was unclear, as was the location. Roslyn had assumed the street on which he lay was in Spokane Falls. But what if it was Portland? By returning to Barton, she hadn’t saved him. She’d put him on a path to self-harm, creating within him the willingness to take his own life.
“It’s okay, Barton,” she said. “I wasn’t leaving. I was only coming down for a glass of water.”
Then she went back up the stairs, where she returned to bed but did not sleep.
In the morning, Roslyn was filled with self-loathing. She felt certain Barton didn’t really intend to commit suicide if she left. It was just another one of his lies to keep her nearby and helpless. But she had no way to be sure. She didn’t know what to do. To go or to stay? And if she stayed, for how long? How much of her own life did she need to sacrifice in order to preserve Barton’s? She wished for another vision, for some direction outside herself. Nothing came. She thought of levitation. Wasn’t this a worthy reason to break her promise? But there was no benefit in trailing Barton unseen. Everything there was to know of him now was already on full display to her. There was no influence she could exert that would change his course, whatever it was.
She lay in bed until she heard Mrs. Heydale stirring in the kitchen. She went to see if she could be of help.
Barton was still in the armchair, though now he was dressed for the day, this time in an outfit as poorly fitting as his pajamas had been. More of his father’s clothes, Roslyn assumed.
“Doesn’t he look sharp?” Mrs. Heydale asked, appearing from the kitchen.
Roslyn thought Barton looked like a sausage stuffed in too tight a casing.
“The fashion is changing so quickly for men these days,” Mrs. Heydale continued. “Tell me, do you prefer sack coats or frock coats?”
“I’m sure both are fine,” said Roslyn, having no idea as to the definition of either.
“See, that’s just the thing,” Mrs. Heydale said. “I’ve always liked the frocks myself, but I don’t think the younger men care for them anymore. A shorter coat is all the rage now. Though, aren’t they not as warm? That just seems impractical to me. A shorter coat and a longer beard—that’s what the young men want and so they’ll have them, I suppose.”
“I do like a long beard sometimes,” Roslyn said.
“Well, if you listen to the magazines, then there’s plenty more where that came from. Beard-wise, I mean. And I do listen to the magazines, myself. I take several. But it gets lonesome without anyone to talk to about them.”
“Are none of your friends very interested in fashion?” Roslyn asked, but then regretted the question, as she suspected she already knew the answer.
“No. No friends interested in fashion. Isn’t it a pity?”
Roslyn agreed it was.
Meanwhile, Barton, who wore no coat or beard, had begun to hum slightly to himself. She knew the melody; it was a song her father had taught her, which she loved and had played on Barton’s piano while in his home as a way of grounding herself, reminding herself who she was and where she had come from. She was gripped by the urge to slap it from Barton’s mouth. How dare he take that song as his own. But of course she did no such thing.
The day dripped by. Mrs. Heydale doted on Barton, offering snacks, blankets, books, reading aloud to him from the paper, and enlisting Roslyn to help in his care. Roslyn wondered how the woman had been filling her days before their arrival. Anytime his mother was out of earshot, Barton hissed at Roslyn the most awful things. Don’t go. Don’t go. I’ll die if you go. I’ll drink poison. I’ll do it right now. Say you’ll stay. I’ll hang myself. I can’t suffer this earth without you. Desperate to calm him, she assured him over and over she wasn’t going anywhere.
She remained true to this promise for four more days.
Mother and son slipped into an easy routine. Barton spent most of his waking hours reading, or simply sitting in the parlor, staring at nothing. He napped frequently. Roslyn couldn’t tell if he had come to think of himself as someone very young or very old.
At first, Mrs. Heydale included Roslyn in her ministrations to Barton, asking her to take him tea or seeking approval for a change of clothing. This didn’t last. Roslyn was in the woman’s way. Mrs. Heydale made it clear she would be happier, her life simpler, without Roslyn around. Barton, however, still clung to her, alternating threats and platitudes, though only when his mother was out of the room. It was as if he needed some woman doting on him at all times; it did not matter who.
And then, after a while, they were never alone. In the first days, Mrs. Heydale was a flurry of activity, in and out of the house on constant tasks. But her travels slowed, then ceased. Roslyn realized what she’d witnessed was a kind of laying-in. The older woman had been making preparations so she would not have to leave her son’s side so often, or maybe not ever. The pantry was stocked. The linens were cleaned. New books had been purchased. All through this, Roslyn waited. She felt paralyzed by her desire to ensure Barton’s safety, and also by her resentment of the very same desire. She found herself envying Barton. In spite of his failings, the man was never at a loss for action. Even when he was living in his lean-to, he had managed to justify his life circumstances to himself. In his own mind, he was never wrong, and so he was never lost. Roslyn longed for such certainty, such selfish clarity. She’d come into the Heydale house without an exit strategy and for that she’d been a fool. She was a captive of Barton’s once more by her own acquiescence.
On the fifth day after their arrival, Mrs. Heydale did not leave Barton’s side in the parlor at all, except to prepare food for him, and neither of them spoke to Roslyn beyond passing pleasantries. At supper, Roslyn dragged herself from her room to the dining table to find only two places set, Barton and Mrs. Heydale already installed in them. They were talking animatedly, and though Mrs. Heydale gave her a sharp look from the corner of her eye, Barton did not seem to even register her presence.
“I’m going to pack my things and go now,” she said, testing the waters. And when she got no response from either Heydale, she knew she ought to feel relief, but she found instead a shame so deep it nearly brought her to her knees.