She didn’t know how to discuss it further, and had the distinct feeling that, if she pointed it out, he wouldn’t know what she was talking about. There was a part of him immune to her, and he could withdraw to that place at any moment. This was a cold, stark realization, akin to the sense of insignificance she felt under the night sky. She wondered if it was possible this impasse could be reached with anyone, if a nerve was touched, or if this was a problem unique to John Manning. She’d been happier alone, even if her contentedness was based on a delusion about the closeness of her ties. Or was this vast gulf between people a feature of romantic love?
They went on as if nothing had happened, but in fact the relationship had ended then and there. He began to show a temper, and became angry with her if she went away, which at first she took as a compliment; but he became angry at her, too, if he were the one to go away, and their reunions were far from happy. She often displeased him. He shouted at her in a tight, controlled voice, his neck reddening. She had to remain calm until he relented and forgave her. She supposed out loud that this furor would end when they’d known each other longer, a remark that once again prompted a suspicious glare. He declared he wanted to be free to go places and see people and for her to display a cheerful willingness to wait for him to return when he was ready, a proposal so absurd she chalked it up to naivete. Whoever would think a woman would want such an arrangement? Had his mother taught him to expect that?
On the other hand—he had a keen sense of duty and was on hand for all the events he should show up for—but that seemed more to do with his opinion of himself than with wanting to share Christmas or a birthday with her. He placed great value on being beyond criticism, and believed if he hit his marks, he was square with the world. But she began to feel that because he loved her he hated her. His attachment to her represented a weakness to him rather than a broadened source of support. It made no sense, and she kept hoping she was imagining it. He kept getting angry. Yet they became engaged, and she imagined that would calm his fears.
She told her sister about her misgivings, the only person she could confide in without feeling she was being disloyal to John. Elspeth had had no experience of men and never would, but she was wise and smart and believed in love. She listened carefully to Agnes while tactfully pretending to be busy dressing her hair. She asked for time to think it over, which Agnes granted. Two days later Elspeth came back saying she thought Agnes should break the engagement.
“He’s a lost soul,” Elspeth said, her large eyes revealing the trustworthiness in her own soul. “He will always find a way to believe he’s right—even if he offers an apology. He’s broken, Ness. Everyone is—we all fell and broke when we were born. Some are lucky enough to understand this and devote themselves to making repairs. Others don’t see it and blame what is around them for pain that is universal in nature. John is one of those. I’m so sorry.”
Elspeth was exactly right. How did she know so much? Yet Agnes couldn’t give up. She rededicated herself to John and did all she could to anticipate his moods and reactions and to keep him even. He grew more and more restless, however, and rejected her touch. One night when they were alone in the parlor at her house she decided to take a chance. She didn’t have a plan when he came over, but after about an hour she unbuttoned her shirt and removed it, lifted her chemise and removed it. He stared at her and she smiled. “John.” She reached out her hand. “Let’s.” She was certain. So sure that she didn’t notice for a moment—probably only a second—that once again, he hated her.
He twisted his hand out of hers and flung it away. He jumped up and turned his back.
“Get dressed, Agnes. You’re behaving like a prostitute.”
She barked a laugh, surprising both of them. He frowned. She laughed again. It was funny. It was really terribly funny. Even in the moment, she was sorry there weren’t others there to see it. She was showing him more of who she was and he was seeing her less clearly than ever. Yet he was utterly revealing himself.
“No,” she said.
“Do it right now or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?”
He raised his arm and curled his hand into a fist. He could really hurt her, she was fully aware of that, but she couldn’t help laughing. This gesture—all his gestures—seemed grandiose and false. How had she gone this far with such a husk of a man?
“All right.” She put her shirt back on.
“That’s better,” he said. “What got into you?”
“Please leave, John.”
“What?”
“This is over.”
He opened his hand. “Give me my ring back.”
She pulled the ring over her knuckle and handed it to him.
“Bitch,” he muttered on his way out.
“Gentleman!” she hurled after him.
She went up to bed feeling strangely elated. She had stood up for herself. Many people in her life would say she always did, but that wasn’t entirely true. She voiced her opinions and she said no to invitations, but that wasn’t the same as sticking up for herself. John had tried to shame her, and she’d refused to feel shame. That refusal was for her own good. She left the relationship whole.
She’d known only a little at the time about psychological pathologies, but knew she was not the cause of his explosion. Marriage should be a long conversation leading to freedom. She might have had true communion later, with Virgil Reed—but no point thinking about that. None at all. Especially as the speculation had no basis in experience. It was the last trace of her interest in romance, beyond her work. Best to leave it there.
She saw John many times over the years, but he never gave the smallest acknowledgment of having once been attached to her. If he had to speak to her, he offered the fewest number of words possible and walked away.
* * *
She shook herself back to the present. The ducks were already at the shoreline! She’d missed their approach. There were still five tiny windup toys paddling along, looking as though they had no idea what they were doing or any sense of danger. But danger was right there, on the beach. Two gulls stood quietly on rocks several feet apart, waiting for the targets to come to them.
“Get away!” she shouted, to no effect. Agnes wished she could run, but that had ended a long time earlier. Instead she lurched down the stairs careening between the walls. “Come on, Maisie! Sylvie! I’m going into the fray!”
Sylvie appeared in the front hall and handed Agnes her walking stick. “Don’t knock your brains out.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll come.”
Agnes glanced at her clogs. “No—keep watching for Robert. Send him to me as soon as he arrives.”
Agnes went down the front steps and across her driveway and the meadow and finally reached the shore. It wasn’t easy to get down the bank. The path was narrow, cutting between sturdy rugosa rosebushes that sent bulging roots snaking through the dirt and causing her to stumble as her heart skipped with fear. She reached out and grabbed a branch and yelped when the thorns pricked her hands. Dammit!
“Get the hell away from here!” She crashed onto the rocky beach. The gulls took a few steps, and then turned toward her. “I mean you!” she yelled. “Get away!” They tipped their heads and blinked. She approached them with as much vigor as she could assume, but she was not what she used to be. She turned her stick upward like a sword and brandished it from her waist.