I POURED COLD WATER from the pitcher into the basin, then washed my face with the coarse brown soap, scrubbing so hard I threatened to take the skin off.
Next I took a sheet of writing paper from my valise, along with a pen Meg had given me for the first anniversary of our marriage: a beautiful Waterman pen.
I pulled the wobbly chair up to the wobbly table and uncapped the pen. Immediately I felt all my lawyerly eloquence disappear.
Dear Meg,
As your husband, and your friend, I must tell you that you have some things wrong. I do love you. You are simply wrong to say that I don’t. A separation like this is a rash thing to do, especially considering that we have never even discussed these problems face to face.
I don’t care about your father’s opinion of our marriage. But I do care that our parting will break the hearts of everyone involved—Alice, Amelia, my own heart, even yours.
Before you take any further action, please, my darling Meg, we must discuss this—together, as husband and wife, as mother and father of our two little daughters, as Meg and Ben who always planned to spend our lives together.
Suddenly I came out of my writing trance…
“Mr. Corbett! Mr. Corbett!”
It was Maybelle, hollering from the foot of the stairs. I quickly wrote,
Your loving and faithful husband,
Ben
“Mr. Corbett!”
I put down the pen and walked out to the landing.
“What is it, Maybelle?” I called.
“Mrs. Nottingham is here to see you. She’s here on the porch. She’s waiting on you, Mr. Corbett. Hurry.”