CHAPTER 50
The birth of this child, his child, was almost upon her. She could not imagine how she might manage if she were not here, but how could she birth his child in Constance’s house? How dare she commit such a betrayal of this woman she had come not only to love but also admire?
She was lying on the bed one afternoon, struggling with her thoughts, when Constance knocked and peeked around the door.
“Not asleep, are you?”
“No, come in.” Alice pulled herself up in the bed, adjusting the pillows behind her as she did. They gave her no ease. She could have no ease now, not only from the pregnancy but also from holding her secret in Constance’s presence.
“I brought an afternoon snack, if you’d like.”
Constance held out a small fluted bowl of roasted pecans. She knew these were a favorite of Alice’s. When Alice took them from her and murmured thanks, Constance sat down on the edge of the bed.
“May I?” she said. “I don’t want to bother you.”
“No, you’re fine, Constance.” Alice scooted over slightly to make more room for her.
“Alice, if you feel up to it, I’d like to talk to you. About something quite serious.”
Alice’s heart began to race. She turned her face to the window. She knows. How? How could she know?
“It’s about Benton.” Constance fiddled with the lace on her jabot. “I need to tell you the whole story.”
Alice steadied herself against inevitability, against hearing that somehow Constance had discovered who she was, or perhaps suspected. Was that even possible?
“You will be living with us now. You have become part of our family. Truly. The girls talk about you as their aunt these days. ‘Where is Aunt Alice? Is she coming out to play? Is Aunt Alice sick, like you were, Mama?’ You should hear them. You have become so very special to them. They even talk about their excitement to have a baby in the house, like a little brother or sister.”
Alice shifted, laid her hand over the movements of her unborn baby. She tried to surrender to the thought that Constance knew and had no direct way to tell her. But if this was the roundabout way, it was full of unexpected grace and acceptance. She opened her lips, but nothing came out. No word, no sound.
“In truth, you have become like the sister I never had—more than a friend. So, I owe you the truth.”
Alice steeled herself now.
“I’ve no idea what you may think of me. It may destroy our friendship, but holding this secret means I can never fully be myself with you.”
Constance stood, then sat back down. Alice watched with trepidation.
“So here it is, Alice. You saw that photo of Benton’s fall from the train. You saw that devil’s hand push him. You saw the unknown young man who witnessed all this. What you do not know is that I was that young man.”
A confession of her presence. And what more?
“I’m so sorry. I have no idea what you will think of me, knowing this. I was there, Alice. I was there in disguise. So much happened so fast. I have believed I might have killed him.”
Constance began to cry. Alice reached for a handkerchief on the side table and handed it to her. She wanted to cry herself—for Constance, for herself. Did she dare tell her own truth? Not now. This was a time for listening, for discovering all she had not known about this man, husband to them both, this man she had never actually known.
“He wasn’t ever who he seemed to be.”
Certainly not for me, Alice thought. Not his name or his work, not his home, not his family. Nothing more than a mirage.
“I think he tried. I know he tried to be a decent, ordinary man.”
Married to two wives? Ordinary and decent seemed ironic.
“He could never be the man his father wanted him to be. Married and settled with a woman.” Constance fidgeted. “Well, of course, he was married and settled with a woman. I’m not making myself clear.”
Married and not exactly settled with two different women, Alice thought. Her mind was turning bitter.
Constance seemed to hesitate, unsure how much to say. Alice waited. How much more?
“He could never please his father. A man who drank to excess and was often cruel. I have seen it numerous times myself. His father was so afraid that Benton was not the man—not a man—his father could be proud of. I’m beating round the bush. Somehow his father was so afraid that Benton was drawn to other men, especially very young men, boys really. From the time Benton was a boy himself, his father hated him for being different. Beat him for it at times, but mostly with words. Beat him with hateful words. Even after we were married. After we had children. And I saw that Benton was afraid of our own son.”
Benton-Howard’s father hated his son. Ah, here was a missing piece. If Benton had been a hated son, would that explain his ambivalence toward his own?
“I never saw that difference in him. Not really. I mean, he was different, yes, but I never thought that he was . . . Well, I never thought of that when I got on that train to follow him. I wanted to know what he was up to, why he was hounding me for money, my money from my trust, why he was evading me. It was gambling he was up to on that train. And he lost. Lost a great deal. Then out on that open vestibule, he turned to me. For consolation, I assume. He believed my disguise. He touched me. Only it was that boy he was touching. Until he saw my eyes.”
Constance wept in earnest now.
Alice held her breath. Her marriage to this man began to have a different sense to it, her wedding night, his distaste for her body, her body that was so boyish, yet was the body of a woman. She felt suddenly sick. Her breathing quickened. Her husband, two wives to prove to himself that he was a man. Proving he was “normal and ordinary” in desiring women. Too much was making sense. Her head was swirling.
“It happened so fast then, Alice. So fast. I believed I killed him. That I touched him in shock and made him lose his balance. But I couldn’t know. That man ran through so fast, and Benton knew who I was, and then he was falling.” Constance stopped and raised her head, gazed straight into Alice’s face. “All I wanted was to know what awful trouble he was in, why he lied to me and badgered me for money. I had suspected the debts he might be hiding, Alice, so I got my disguise and I followed him. It was true—the gambling and the Black Hand. You know that already from Pulgrum. But I didn’t know when I got on that train. I hadn’t any way to know. I couldn’t take the lies.”
Constance buried her face in her hands. Something shifted in Alice, something tender, something kin.
“And after David died . . .” Constance took a ragged breath. “Oh, Alice, he didn’t just die. Benton shook him, shook him, shook the life out of him. Shook him until he stopped crying. I wasn’t here, but the children were. They didn’t know. They thought the baby was asleep.”
Alice’s head, her heart, her being filled with the vision of Howard’s hands on her fevered infant boy, the cold water closing over his little face, the tiny bubbles rising before she was able to fight Howard’s hands away in her own fever. But not in time, not in time. Now this other infant boy dead at his hands. Had she married a monster?