S Is for Silence

for what he’d learned. She’d brought him to life after years of ministering to Mary Hairl’s pain. If Mary Hairl would go—if she’d only get on with it—he knew the suffocating sense of desperation would pass. At the same time, though he could barely admit it to himself, he harbored the fantasy that with his wife gone, Violet might become a permanent part of his life, filling the void that Mary Hairl had left.
    He turned off the shower knobs with a screech, stepped out, and then dried himself off. He dressed, pulling on the jeans he’d hung on a peg behind his closet door. He picked up the bundle of Mary Hairl’s soiled nightclothes and moved into the mud room, where he’d hooked up the washer and dryer. He opened the washer lid and found himself staring down at the tight coil of wet clothes he’d neglected to remove. He couldn’t remember running a load, but when he pulled out the first article, he realized it was Mary Hairl’s laundry from the week before. The clothes were still damp and now smelled of mildew because the garments had sat so long. How could he have done such a thing? Bringing Mary Hairl clean clothes was something he’d taken on to demonstrate his care and concern. She’d never mentioned the fact that he’d failed to return her nighties and her step-ins. What had she worn all week?
    Face burning, he started the load again, adding this week’s clothing to the one before, hoping that a strong dose of soap powder would eliminate the rank odor of wet cotton gone sour. He went into the bedroom and opened Mary Hairl’s dresser drawer, relieved to see she had plenty of other nighties. Everything was neatly folded, a plain virginal white. He pulled out four nightgowns and piled six pairs of step-ins on top. He hesitated and then laid the pile on top of the dresser.
    He went through the remaining drawers, searching her belongings, something he’d never dreamed of doing before this moment. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to forage among her things. Perhaps some morbid curiosity about the personal effects it would soon be his job to pack up and give away. What did he hope to find? A dildo, evidence of some hidden vice—drink, kleptomania, pornography? He knew, without having to look, that the dresses hanging in her closet were washed colorless, starched and fastidiously ironed. Why did this generate such anger in him? Why was his life filled with degradation while hers was so barren and apologetic?
    In the second drawer from the bottom, hidden under her cotton slips, he saw the corner of a bright yellow box. He moved the slips aside. The drawer was lined with unopened gift sets of Jean Naté After Bath Splash and Cologne. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought of giving her anything else. Why would he? Birthdays, she always asked for Jean Naté. He thought she loved it. Opening his gift, which he inevitably prevailed on the clerk to wrap, she’d seemed pleased and surprised, her appreciation sounding so heartfelt that he hadn’t thought to question her sincerity. Christmas meant nothing to him. They gave gifts to the children, but the exchanging of gifts between the two of them felt awkward so now they skipped the practice on mutual agreement. Or so he’d assumed.
    Seeing the Jean Naté, he was deeply ashamed. He’d been complacent about her, so oblivious that it hadn’t occurred to him to give her anything more personal, lavish, or spontaneous. He was embarrassed that she hadn’t felt comfortable telling him the truth, that she’d thought so little of herself she hadn’t been able to ask for what she wanted. She probably didn’t even know what that was. By her birthday, which would fall on September 12, she’d be gone, and in a flash it occurred to him that if he’d betrayed the marriage, so had she. The difference was that she’d die being thought of as saintly and good, and he’d be forced to live on without her, burdened by rage, corruption, and guilt. He might be a man without character, but she was a woman without courage. Of the two, which was worse?
    Once the laundry was done, he left the house and drove to Serena Station. It was only 10:35 in the morning, but BW opened the Blue Moon at 9:00. There was no explanation for the absurdity of the hour. The place sat empty most of the day, half dark, door open, as cool and welcoming as a church. He parked and went in. At a table to one side, Winston Smith sat by himself, his back to the bar, his expression