William Lashner - Bitter Truth

I know how he will behave when he comes home; I can imagine the scene as clearly as if it were in one of Mr. Belasco’s theatrical productions. The automobile will let him off in front of the house and he will charge in, his rain cape splaying blackness in his wake, and he will leap up the steps, two at a time, to get to sister Hope’s room. I will be in the center hall, hands clasped before me, but he will ignore me as he climbs to the one person in this family who still has some claim to his affection. And in that room, with all the melodrama he has sucked this night from his bottle, he will fall to his knees and clasp dear Hope’s cold tiny hands in his own and place his head on her stomach and allow his tears to drip upon her blanket, only to be startled by Hope’s irreverent laughter .

He will spend a few moments more with her, grateful for her condition, and he will be forced to hear the kind words from our sister’s lips about me that this very afternoon I implored her to speak to my husband at her first opportunity. In her faltering voice she will tell him of her fervent hopes that Christian and I can reconcile our difference and be husband and wife in more than name and create for ourselves an heir. He will keep his smile through the speech, and try to show only love for the saintly convalescent, but his face will redden and his eyes darken and when he takes his leave there will be only anger, anger at my scheming and the deceptive note that cut his precious evening short so that he could be forced to hear a lecture. My dear husband Christian hates to be lectured to and hates most of all to be lectured to about his manly duties. I have noticed that it is after lectures of that sort by my father or Christian’s Uncle Sullivan that my husband’s anger is most aroused . I only pray he had enough time to guzzle his stomach’s worth at the club before the note came, that his mind is suitably enraged and his sensibilities suitably dulled .

I hear his car rattling with desperation up the rain-slick hill of our drive as he rushes to our sister’s bedside. I must leave my room now, must take my place on the stage as the curtain rises and the drama is about to be unleashed

June 24, 1914

My Dearest Charity,

I feel like a blindfold has been lifted from my eyes and finally, for the first time in my life, my path is visible. I won’t dwell on the selfishness of my history except to say that suddenly I see it as a wasteland, full of regret and lost opportunities for grace, and am grateful to the heavens that I have come through it alive and with child. This life within me, still as yet unformed, contains the roots of all meaning for me now. I am as blessed as the Mary herself, and certain every mother feels this same sense of divinity. Father is delirious with joy, Hope fusses over me for once, and everyone moves about the house as if in a dance around the soon to be crowned king, including my dear husband .

The shock of the announcement has worn off and, though he tries to hide it, I can see the excitement in his eyes too. Whatever dark and heavy load it is he carries, it seems to have lightened with the news of his impending fatherhood. He can bear once again to touch me with a gentle hand, caressing my swelling stomach. Sometimes, at night, we stay up late together and talk of the future, almost as it was on those long nights of our innocence before the tragedy of our wedding. Just last night he told me, with all his earnestness, that everything must be done to secure our child’s future in every respect. His devotion is an inspiration. Everything I do from here on to forever, every breath I breathe, will be devoted to nurturing that life to fullness and ensuring its blessed future

August 29, 1914

My Dearest Charity,

Our sister has relapsed into a crushing illness. She has taken once again to her bed and lost all strength. The news from Europe has disturbed everyone but it appears that our dear sister’s sensibilities are finer then the rest of us and it has affected her more, weakening her defenses against whatever beastly curse has been afflicting her all these years. We hired the finest nurse but still I insist on making her broth every morning and spooning it past her quivering jaw. I can feel the power of this life that swells within me flowing into the broth I cook each morning for our sister and in my heart of hearts I feel that power will be the key to her recovery. Her eyes are as ever alive with goodness and strength but there is about her body a feebleness that is frightening. I spend hours with her, reading her the latest novels and some poetry from the collection in your room, I hope you don’t mind, and her spirits are buoyant still, but there is about this spell something deeper and darker then previous bouts. Dr. Cohn patted our shoulders but his eyes were the eyes of worry

September 18, 1914

My Dearest Charity,

As I was making the broth this morning for our dear sister, I felt the life inside me contract. With each stir of the spoon my baby twisted and turned and then the contractions sent me to the red tile floor with a scream. It isn’t time yet, it can’t be yet. The nurse rushed down and seeing what had happened helped me to the parlor couch where I stayed until Dr. Cohn came. He gave me some medicine and prescribed rest and so I have been banished to the bedroom for the time being. When Christian heard he rushed home and clasped my hands and we prayed together for the health of our child. I have never seen him so devoted, never seen him so full of love

October 9, 1914

My Dearest Charity,

Hope was well enough today to sit up in her bed. Due to my condition I cannot spend the time with her I would but Christian is by her side for hours every evening, reading and talking. She is goodness incarnate and it appears the ministrations of dear Christian have delivered to her another measure of strength. Christian is a saint, doting on dear Hope’s every wish. It seems my pregnancy and Hope’s illness have finally turned us into the family I’ve dreamed we could be

November 15, 1914

My Dearest Charity,

While under Christian’s care Hope relapsed into her deep illness and fear has now replaced whatever good cheer had been extant at Veritas. The doctor has allowed me to rise from my bed and I do so with the gravest concern for our dear sister. This morning I was back in the kitchen, chopping the vegetables by hand, butchering the chicken, spooning off the scum from the bones and stirring the sweet, clear broth that I pray will cause the wishes I hold most dear to become realities. I work with all the will passed to me by my father. She barely takes a drop, but it is enough, I pray, to do its work. It is uncanny but with each stroke of the long wooden spoon this morning I again felt my child turn within me, to kick out, and I again felt my stomach contract around my fetus, but still I continued, in silence, wanting nothing or no one to get in the way of my sacred duty. Our father is desolate with worry, Christian wrings his hands with pain and dulls his sense with drink through the long evenings while she sleeps. That tragedy should swipe at us again is unthinkable. If only you were here, dear sister, to encourage us with your loveliness and give us the strength to bear the future’s pains

November 19, 1914

Struck numb with heartbreak, I can barely lift the pen. What have we done to deserve such misery? What? What? Why are we so cursed? It seems that from the moment I first laid eyes on Christian Shaw tragedy has stalked me on clawed paws and I can’t yet figure out why. Why? All I know is that life has become too much to bear alone