In the Shadow of Lakecrest(25)
Christmas passed in a flurry of holiday parties, and then winter swept in. The invitations dried up, and Matthew disappeared along with the sunlight. Pleading work, he began sleeping at the downtown apartment on weeknights and carting home loads of papers on Friday. There were muttered hints about trouble at the office, though Hannah forbade business talk at the dinner table, and Matthew told me it would blow over soon enough. But I couldn’t help worrying that he was pushing himself too hard. I’ve never been the kind of person who needs to fill every silence with chatter, so I was perfectly happy to sit quietly with Matthew in our room, both of us absorbed in our own tasks. But even on those occasions I had him to myself, he seemed distracted, caught up in thoughts he was unwilling to share.
“What’s wrong?” I finally asked. “I’m no financial genius, but there must be some way I can help.”
Matthew’s face sagged into the weary, haunted expression I’d glimpsed on the deck of the Franconia. “You can’t,” he said.
What could possibly be weighing on him so heavily? From offhand comments Marjorie had made, I’d understood Matthew to be largely a figurehead at Lemont Industries. Hannah sometimes took calls from the company’s business manager, and I suspected she had the final say in important decisions, which, given Matthew’s mental state, seemed wise.
“You should be able to share your burdens,” I said, squeezing Matthew’s shoulder. “That’s the point of marriage, isn’t it?”
“It’s my burden to bear, and I hate that I’ve worried you. What a disappointment I must be.”
I protested that of course he wasn’t, that I couldn’t be happier, but my cheery words only made him look sadder. His nightmares had become more frequent—once a week or so—but I kept to our mutual agreement never to discuss them. When I was jolted from sleep by a sound or vibration of the bed, I shook Matthew awake and comforted him the only way I could, with fervent kisses and greedy fingers. When his eyes sometimes spilled over with tears, I pretended not to notice.
My life felt like the grounds of Lakecrest: trapped under a layer of frost, as lifeless as the bare trees that formed a stark tableau against the lake. From time to time, I took the train to Chicago to visit Blanche, but for the most part my excursions were solitary, to a tearoom in East Ridge or the town library to check out the latest mysteries. If the sky was clear, I’d pull on my boots and tramp through the soggy snow along Deertrail Road, the narrow lane that skirted other properties. Only once did I see anyone else outside, a figure on the front lawn of a Tudor-style mansion that had sold for a fortune a few months before. It was a woman—I could tell by the cut of the coat—but she didn’t raise her hand in greeting or call out. She just watched as I trudged on, and I felt more alone and invisible than ever.
One Sunday in late January, as I was on my way to the kitchen for some tea, I heard shouting from the study. I paused outside the door, listening. I couldn’t make out individual words, but I recognized Matthew’s and Hannah’s voices, his heated and demanding, hers curtly dismissive.
Suddenly, I heard Matthew from what seemed like inches away, his declaration crystal clear: “I’m my own man, not your puppet! When will you treat me accordingly?”
Surprise made me pull back, and just as well. The door flew open, and I barely had time to back into the Arabian Room, out of sight. Heavy footsteps stomped down the hall, followed soon after by the click of Hannah’s heels. I hurried to my room, thinking Matthew might tell me what happened. But he wasn’t there. Nor was he in the dining room that evening.
“Matthew’s gone out” was Hannah’s unsatisfying explanation. Her dour expression didn’t invite further questions.
I went to bed alone, and though I stirred when Matthew slipped in beside me later, I was too tired to ask questions. Sleep held me so tight and fast that I didn’t even notice when the unmistakable signs of a nightmare began. It wasn’t until Matthew started screaming that I realized what was happening and dragged my exhausted body upright. Placing a hand over his mouth to block the sound, I began my usual murmurs of reassurance, but Matthew was too lost in his delusions to hear me. He thrashed away, hitting me with a brutal kick to the stomach. Reeling from the blow, I grabbed his wrist and said his name sharply, a mother disciplining her unruly child.
It only infuriated him more. Lost in the throes of a monstrous vision, Matthew attacked me with punches and slaps, hands flailing wildly. I hid my face behind my arms, pleading, but I was no match for such an onslaught. It wasn’t until I’d slid off the bed and cowered on the floor that the Matthew I knew emerged. He stared at me, his eyes wide with shock, as if I were the one who’d gone mad.
“Kate.”
He looked devastated, and I wondered if he’d left marks I’d have to explain to Hannah the next day. I hiked up my nightgown, bracing myself to provide the usual comforts. But Matthew recoiled when I edged toward him, naked.
“No!” he protested, as if I disgusted him.
I covered myself with the sheet, burning with hurt and shame. Maybe I was no better than Ma, offering up my body so brashly. I turned away from Matthew, and tears slid silently down my cheeks and onto the cotton fabric. The top border was still crisp from Alice’s daily ironing.
“What happened?” I whispered.
I didn’t ask because I wanted to hear another account of mutilated young soldiers; in fact, I dreaded it. But if I ever wanted to put an end to this miserable night, I’d have to settle Matthew down by talking to him calmly and rationally.