The Swan Wife, by Adrienne Clarke. Page 6/8
Husband:
That evening by the lake was not the first time I thought of giving her back the dress. I have thought of nothing else for weeks. Not since the night I came home two days early from a conference for no other reason than I missed her. I wanted to watch her raise her hands over her head and let them fall into her hair the way she does when she’s tired or anxious. But as much as I longed to see her I didn’t expect her to return my ardor. It is not her way to run to the door and greet me with kisses. I do not think that would be her way even if she loved me.
But when I opened the door she didn’t greet me with her usual restraint. She rose from the floor where she had been looking at one of my books on Michelangelo and ran into my arms that opened to receive her. “Did you miss me?” I asked, scarcely daring to breathe.
That night was the beginning of an understanding between us. If she still didn’t seek out my touch she no longer turned from it either. And sometimes, when we lay intertwined in the dark, I felt her long graceful fingers wind their way into my hair and pull me ever so slightly towards her.
I want everything to be forgiven between us. If I give her back her dress will she stay because she loves me? Can I hope for that much? And if her love for me isn’t enough surely she would stay for the child? These are the questions I ask myself over and over again. So much and yet so little has changed since that day in the woods. A pile of feathers still stands between us.
It is done. This morning I got up earlier than usual so I could make everything ready before leaving for work. My wife was still sleeping when I left her; pale hair spread out on the pillow like liquid silver. She sleeps quietly my wife; so quietly I sometimes forget that she is there. Even after two years her body beside me in bed is like a dream I fear I will wake up from at any moment.
As I made my way down to the basement, the stairs creaking beneath my weight, I thought it is not too late; I could turn back now and everything will stay the same. But still, I took the crow bar from my tool chest and went to work prying open the floor boards until the wood came away, revealing my secret hiding place. After removing the small package from the ground, I slowly began to remove the layers of paper and plastic that I had used to protect it from damp and insects. The feathers were as soft and snowy white as the day they fell from her body beside the pond. Brushing them against my skin, the silver tips were cool and dry. Once more I fought an urge to thrust the thing back into the ground and forget that it ever existed, but I knew that if I changed my mind I would be my wife’s jailer forever.
I laid the dress carefully on the dining room table where I knew she would see it when she came down the stairs for breakfast. This done, I went to my daughter’s room so I could look at her peaceful sleeping form before I left. Watching her tiny chest rise and fall I was moved - as always - by her helpless beauty. The swirling perfection of her inner ear and the shape of her curled fist never ceased to bring me pleasue. No matter what I had done, the child was blameless. My wife loved our daughter, it was one of the few things, perhaps the only thing I knew for certain about my wife. She wouldn’t leave her. What kind of mother would leave her child?
