Confessions
When Margaret returns, Shirley has come down from his perch and leans against the crate with his head bowed. “You will not like to hear this, and you may call me all the hard names you wish when I have done, but I must say it, and you are the only person alive I can say it to,” he says, without raising his head.
Whatever it is, she is ready. She simply nods, standing very close.
“One last piece of the talk I had with Jimmy I have neglected to mention. Just before he left, he offered to come with me on the Ellipse. He would have done anything needing doing, he said. Well, I—obviously I could not—it was quite impossible, out of the question. But, Margaret, to have gotten him out of London—I am haunted by the hope I saw on his face, I cannot escape it! And so—when I see you so very adamant about not leaving me—I—” His voice fails him; his shoulders shake like those of a frightened horse.
Margaret moves very quickly; one arm going around his shoulders, the other coming up to press his head very gently into the hollow of her shoulder, stroking his hair. He stands rigid, arms at his sides, fists clenched, fighting not to make a sound. “Oh, dearest… and to have carried that all this time! No wonder you have felt all along this was your burden. I wish I had understood sooner.” She stands holding him for a time. Slowly, his hands loosen; tentatively, he brings them up behind her back to curl his fingers over her shoulders. When she does not protest, he draws yet closer, close enough for her to feel his ribcage shudder at breaths too long held in, and contract violently with each gasp for air.
She lets him choose, but as he draws closer she tightens her clasp. She knows how long it has been since anyone has touched him, let alone held him. She can guess how he must be fighting what he has taught himself, long and hard. But she tries to tell him, with her arms and herself, that he is welcomed, is wanted, is safe and loved.
Then she says, very gently, “My dear? You didn’t know; you couldn’t have known. There is no comparison between me and Jimmy. His choices were entirely circumscribed by his circumstances; so were yours. I have the good fortune to be able to make my own choices. It isn’t that you didn’t want to help him; it is that you could not. And if you say that you would have found a way… you would first to have known what awaited him.” She realizes that he probably hasn’t heard a word she’s said, in the midst of the storm. It has been a long time building, she knows. So she stands, and holds him as tightly as she can, and simply whispers, over and over “I am here. You need never be alone again, Shirley. I am here.” And finally, a bare whisper of breath, “I am here, Elizabeth.”
The sound of that name looses the tempest. The head nestling into Margaret’s shoulder is thrown back to give a thready cry of anguish, fortunately so like the shriek of a distant seabird that it occasions no alarm. Then comes the rain of tears, shed in fierce silent bursts that shake them both, as the hands on her shoulders clutch at her nearly hard enough to cause pain.
Though intense, the storm blows over quickly, leaving Shirley limp as a rag. He disengages himself from her slowly, his knees hardly willing to hold him upright. When he pats his pocket for his handkerchief, he realizes she still has it; he ducks his head into his arm like an awkward boy to wipe his face on his sleeve. Margaret realizes then that she has tucked his handkerchief into her sleeve. She pulls it out, wordlessly reaching to dry his face as he so recently did for her. Her shirtwaist is wet, and so is the handkerchief. Both will dry.
The crate again serves to prop himself against; he stands with his face in his hands, quiet, to recover himself. She thinks randomly that there was far more in this than just regret for Jimmy. There must have been the terror engendered by Addison, and his brother’s loss, and all the years of fearing discovery… yes, and fear of the vulnerability she had brought to him. She leaves one hand, very lightly, on his shoulder.
When he raises his head he is almost presentable, though his eyes are yet reddened and his hair is disarranged. “I hardly know what to say, except to thank you,” he says. “Not even my own brother was ever so good to me as this.”
She shakes her head, with a tiny smile. No thanks needed, it says. Aloud, she says only “Your brother was a boy, and younger. I’m sure he did his best.”
“Oh, G-d, Margaret, I am tired. If I sleep through dinner, will you tell them I have a touch of seasickness?”
“Hmm, you’re not known for seasickness. I’ll tell them you have a bit of a headache. I’d venture to guess you do, at that. A ten-year storm is bound to leave some leaves strewn in its wake. You’ll sleep through the night, I should say. You’ve been running on sheer nerve at least since Alexandria, and probably long before that. But if you sleep through breakfast, I may exercise my physician’s prerogative and check on you.” As she is talking, she is walking with him to his cabin. No one is in sight, so she whispers “sleep well, love” and gives him a swift, very gentle hug at his door.
He reaches for her hand as she turns to leave, but, nearly asleep on his feet, misses his hold. “Wait,” he calls softly after her, gathering what little lucidity he has left. “Check through your papers; you will find something I left there. I leave it to you what to do with it. I doubt it will be needed, now.” Without additional explanation, he opens his cabin door and half-stumbles inside.
Margaret is of two minds whether to believe him; he sounded half-drunk, half-dreaming, tongue weighted with lead. She turns, shakes herself a little, and goes looking for Esperanza. She is quite certain the girl is bubbling over with questions. She realizes rather wryly that she is nearly as exhausted as Shirley. Certainly she will sleep well tonight!
Still, when she riffles through the welter of telegrams, maps, schedules, and notes that Esperanza has tried valiantly to bring to order, she finds a fair-sized sealed envelope with her name written on it in Shirley’s tidy lettering. When she opens it, she finds a letter and two smaller envelopes.
Margaret reads it through several times, with tears in her eyes. It has brought home to her just how much he expected to die. But she does not understand why he wants her to see this now, when he did not in—she thinks back—Bahrain, it must have been. She conceals all three letters in the false bottom of one of her trunks, and resolves to ask him directly.
Powered by FireStats