Decorum

Guests should not return to the house of mourning after the funeral. “In some sections it is customary to conclude the ceremonies of the day with a dinner or banquet, but this is grossly out of place and not to be tolerated by any one of common sense and refinement. . . . It is the cruelest blow which can be given bereaved friends to fill the house with strangers or indifferent acquaintances and the sound of feasting at a time when they desire of all things to be left alone with their sorrow.”

—Decorum, page 259

“They’ve already been checked,” said Blanche with indignation, as the policeman on duty inspected the basket. She stood outside Edmund Tracey’s cell—a relatively posh cell for the relatively posh prisoners of high society. “You should know me by now.”

“Can’t help it, lady,” said the policeman as he pawed through the clean clothes, soap, a book of poetry, and baked goods. “Rules is rules. You could come a hundred times—”

“Which I have—”

“—and this might be the very time you’d bring an extra special surprise for your friend here.” The gauntlet of authorities had already broken the soap into pieces and reduced baked goods to crumbs before being satisfied that they contained nothing beyond a little comfort the Tombs had failed to provide. “Okay, lady. You’re all clear.” He unlocked the cell and let Blanche enter, then slammed the door behind her and rooted himself outside the door, where he watched them through the bars.

“I brought you a clean shirt and underthings,” she began, trying to keep a light tone. “When I come tomorrow you can give me your laundry . . .”

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” said Tracey.

“Nonsense,” Blanche said as she crossed to the small table, placed where it had caught the last of the day’s sunlight, and made room for the basket’s contents among the books and papers resident there. “I’m afraid the tin of sweet bread got the worst of it this time.” She lowered her voice and tried to offer a sheepish smile. “I saw to it there was a little extra rum.” She opened the tin and the fragrance of the sweet bread drifted genie-like into the cell, which was already warming in the dim morning light of late May. She sat down on a wooden chair adorned with a cushion of once-bright tapestry in gold and blue.

Edmund absently lifted the cover of the book and ran his thumb up the side of the pages, breaking the awkward silence with gentle fluttering. He put a large crumb of bread in his mouth and then looked as if he thought better of it but dared not offend her by spitting it out. Blanche had never seen him look so thin and pale. The whiteness of his collarless shirt and wan complexion made him appear nearly luminous against the cell’s dingy whitewash. The auburn hair and moustache and the freckled face were ashen. The bed looked like he hadn’t slept in it, so taut was the quilt and pristine the pillow. He fingered the clean shirt—gingerly, she thought—as if thinking of the linen shroud that awaited him. She shuddered and searched for something to say.

“I was sorry I couldn’t come yesterday. It took all day to see to these things.” She nodded toward the table.

In truth, the strain of almost daily visits, tamping down her fear and willing herself not to break down in Tracey’s presence, had become a monumental effort. Each time she stepped across the threshold of the Centre Street entrance, sorrow and hopelessness weighed her down. The reckless speed with which Tracey’s case came to trial frightened her, portending a swift and merciless verdict. As she passed like an automaton through the lobby and the hallways with their offices and courts, through the checkpoints, and so up the stairs to the cells, she was torn between abandoning her vigil for the sake of her own sanity and offering comfort to the only man she had ever loved.

“Did anyone come to see you yesterday?” she asked.

“My lawyer, of course.” He drew up a stool and sat down at the table opposite her.

“What did he say?” She pushed out the words. “Will there be another appeal?”

“There’s no new evidence in my favor to make that possible. With the Louisiana business looming it’s unlikely there’ll be anything.”

Louisiana, where they had seen their happiest days together before life had intervened. New Orleans, with the lacy loveliness of its gritty gentility, the refined culture alongside primal superstition. They had soaked up experience moment by moment many a moonlit evening and many a steamy afternoon. Now it was all gone. She wondered if she should bring up the happy past to divert him. She couldn’t, she thought. If he had half the feeling for her that she had for him, the remembrance would only bring pain. That there would ever be a time to come when she could look back on these memories with fondness seemed an utter impossibility.

“Has she come to see you?” Blanche asked.

“To which ‘she’ are you referring?” Tracey smirked. “My wife? My fiancée?”

“Anyone,” Blanche said.

“They’ll let me have no contact with my wife.” Tracey sighed. “It’s just as well. She is also a guest of the City of New York, over in the Women’s Prison. Ironic, isn’t it? This is the closest we’ve lived together in years, but not for long. She faces trial in Louisiana with her brother, as soon as the extradition has gone through. It seems there’s to be quite a family reunion, since I may be joining them. I’m quite popular, you know. Louisiana is haggling with New York State over who will have the pleasure of dispatching me. Louisiana wants its chance to hang me before New York can send me to Auburn and allow me the honor of being among the first to test their electric chair. I don’t know which is more appealing—to hang like a gentleman in my native land or to fry among the imposters like a foreigner.”

“Oh, Edmund, don’t.” Blanche hated the acid tone that crept into his languid voice.

“The Chickadee and the Magpie,” he said disdainfully. “They both have written—frequently.”

“What do they say?”

“I have no idea. The prison authorities know them intimately, of course, having perused my correspondence with interest. I’m sure they found them entertaining. Would you like to read them?” He picked up a little stack of opened letters and held them out to her. “You may as well. I’ve not been able to bring myself to do it. The Magpie would either say that I had been cruelly misunderstood or rail upon me as a villain for having deceived everyone for so long and condemn me to perdition.”

“Might she offer some help?”

“She might.”

“Isn’t it worth finding out?”

“I think Jerome may see that as a conflict of interest, since he is doing everything he can to act in the interest of the Chickadee. As to the Chickadee herself, she has sent me three. I can almost predict what they contain.” He did not look at her, but looked toward the barred window. “The first is an appeal to unburden myself as to what drove me down this path—a desire to understand me in a way she had hitherto not bothered. One contains a self-examination and asks me to forgive her for anything she might have done to hurt me. The final one, if I know her at all, requests an interview that we may exchange our mutual forgiveness. I find it revolting and hypocritical—a reminder of everything I hated about New York and her class of people. Had the scheme come off and we had . . .” His voice trailed off. He looked down at the table. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not the man I was when we were both free and knew each other well, when we loved each other in New Orleans.”

“But I still see in you the man I knew.”

“And that’s the man I want you to remember, not the one you see before you.” He raised his eyes to hers. She wondered for a moment whether she had lied, to him and to herself—that this was not the man she had known, but a stranger.

“I don’t want you to come anymore, Blanche,” he said softly.

His statement shocked her. In one instant she felt the fear of being cut off from him and the shame of relief at being released. The distress must have shown plainly on her face, for he continued quickly.

“Don’t think I haven’t appreciated your faithfulness,” he said, almost comfortingly. “No one has ever shown me this kind of fidelity—especially now. If there is such a thing as Christian charity, you at least haven’t been ashamed to visit the prisoner.

“I don’t want you to come because I want to spare us both. I am selfish in this, I admit, but I want to remember you at your loveliest and happiest. I know you’ve tried to cheer me, to look your best and not like some woebegone widow. I also see how visiting me has worn you down. You have seen me waste away day after day. I don’t want to be remembered like that—not by you of all people. Will you please honor my request?”

Blanche could no longer hold back the sadness that welled up in her. She began to cry. He reached across and took her hand. She had feared that the warmth of his touch would stir painful memories. But the cold she felt through her lace glove nearly repelled her. She was glad, but the gladness did nothing to suppress the tears.

“Please listen, Blanche. I have a request to make of you. After everything is over, I have directed my lawyer to find you and send you all my personal effects.”

She shut her eyes and put her hand tightly over her mouth to keep herself from sobbing. He continued.

“Among these you will find a large ring with a crest in it. It belonged to my fiancée’s father. It’s the only thing among my few possessions that is not mine. She gave it to me upon our engagement. Please see that it is returned to her. I leave her to wrestle with its associations. Anything else that’s left, you may keep or do with as you see fit.”

She could not help the sobbing now. He waited for the flood to subside.

“If they send you to Louisiana, shall I follow you?” she offered, knowing—or rather hoping—his answer would be negative.

“No. Leave it alone, Blanche. Leave our good memories there. Don’t scar them.” She nodded her assent. The warmth from her fingers slowly gave his cold hand life.

“You must go now,” he said.

“Can’t I stay a little longer?”

He shook his head. “No. There’s no point. Let’s say our farewells now.”

“May I send you some things—anything you might need?” she asked, nodding toward the basket.

“As you wish. Yes, it does help. But please don’t bring them yourself.” She nodded.

She looked toward the door at the policeman standing there.

“Officer, I’m about to leave. I’m not coming back. May I say my good-byes?”

The policeman sighed and looked to his right and to his left. He made no move to turn away, but averted his eyes.

Blanche and Tracey rose. In their embrace she felt how thin he had grown, the ripple of ribs beneath his shirt and the sharp collarbone against her cheek, but it didn’t matter. She was comforted that he held her for so long, that he might regret releasing her. Then she raised her face to his and her hand to the back of his head and kissed him, not with the passion of a lover, but with an ardent esteem she felt for him now. She held the kiss for a moment and afterward leaned her forehead against his mouth and felt the auburn moustache brush her brow.

“Say my name once more,” she said.

He put his hand under her chin and pulled it up gently until their eyes met.

“Go quickly now,” he said. “Farewell, my dearest Blanche.”

She did not resist as he urged her toward the door. The policeman unlocked it for her and closed it again with a dead clang. She did not look back, but hurried down the hallway and descended the stairs.

She was halfway to the entrance when she saw a tall veiled figure coming through the door. Blanche stopped and waited till the figure saw her. The woman approached and stood before her. Francesca lifted her veil.

“He said you’d want to come,” said Blanche. She felt almost triumphant, as if she owned something this privileged woman never would. Yet this was no triumphant time. There was pain enough without heaping it upon a woman who merely wanted to make her peace. Blanche could not begrudge her that. “He doesn’t want to see you.”

“No. I suppose he doesn’t.”

“Then why come?”

“You think I shouldn’t?”

“I suppose you have a right to try.” Blanche sighed. “No, I suppose I can’t blame you.”

“You’re sure he—”

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Blanche. “He said he doesn’t want to see you.”

“He actually said as much?”

“Yes. Just now when I was there.”

Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes, but her voice was steady. “That’s that, then,” she said. “I’m actually glad to have seen you. I’d rather hear it from you than hear it from some official or embarrass Edmund with a scene that neither of us wants.”

Blanche nodded.

“I’ll go then,” said Francesca.

Both women hesitated.

“I’m so sorry about all this—” Francesca began.

“Don’t,” said Blanche. “Please don’t bother.”

“No. No, I’m sorry.”

Neither woman moved. Blanche thought the other looked a little awkward and was surprised at herself for feeling completely at her ease.

Then Francesca turned and added, “May I drop you somewhere? I have a carriage outside. . . .”

“Thank you. No,” said Blanche. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find my own way.”