Another woman had taught her how to make up her face, sold her an assortment of mirrored compacts and a fistful of brushes and pencils. Her skin had been powdered and rouged until her freckles vanished; her eyes were ringed in black, her lips painted red. When she caught sight of her reflection, she had the same uncanny feeling she’d had at Miss Dolly’s, of glimpsing a stranger who turned out to be herself.
What would have happened if, when they’d first met, Barclay had simply set his mind on seducing her? She would have gone willingly enough. Why all the fuss? He’d needed to break the feral pull between them, tame and subdue it. Since the wedding, though, she had sensed some buried, unacknowledgeable regret in him. He could neither tolerate wildness nor reconcile himself to its loss.
In the salon, a girl getting her hair set had told Marian about a party she was going to—“Well, it’s the kind of party that happens every night”—with her brother and his friends in midtown. In a certain alley, she explained, there was a certain steel door that was plain except for a small plaque that read no entry. “That’s what they call the club, see? No Entry. So it has a sign out front after all. Inside it’s classy as anything—you just need to say the password. Even now there’s always a big cheery crowd. And there’s a full band playing, and dancing and cocktails and all of it. I’ll give you the address. The password this week”—she lowered her voice—“is ‘rodent.’ Don’t ask me why, and don’t worry, there aren’t any. I’m telling you honestly, it’s as swank a place as you’ve ever been.”
Marian did not let on that, indeed, such a place was guaranteed to be far more swank than anywhere she had ever been.
“I like your dress,” the girl added. “Where are you from?”
“I was born in New York,” Marian said.
“Were you?” The other’s round, benign face was full of interest. For a terrible moment, Marian thought the girl was about to unleash a cascade of follow-up questions. All she knew was the address of the house in which she had been born, given to her by Wallace. Barclay had promised they would go by it in a taxi if there was time. But the girl only said, in a confiding voice, “Lucky you. I’m from Pittsburgh. Could you tell?”
“No,” said Marian.
Over dinner she suggested to Barclay they might investigate No Entry, just to see what it was like.
“Those places are all the same. Lots of talk, lots of drinking.”
She picked at a piece of fish. “It might be nice to hear some music.”
“There’s not much to do in those places for us,” Barclay said, “since we don’t drink.”
That Marian would turn teetotaler after their marriage was a decision he’d made without consulting her, a rule she’d awoken to find hammered into place. She would have liked to try a cocktail in a jazz club but didn’t wish to argue. She hadn’t anticipated how much of her behavior after marriage would be motivated by a wish not to argue.
The night she’d gone to Caleb’s cabin and then to the green-and-white house, after she’d told Barclay she loved him, he’d confessed he had been carefully and quietly buying up Wallace’s debts, consolidating them. He’d grown tired of waiting for her, had been worn down by the prolonged uncertainty. He’d been maddened by jealousy when he learned she’d gone to Caleb’s cabin, he said. He told her he felt nothing but disgust for Wallace, for all debtors; he wished someone had punished his own father for his waste and foolishness. He believed he was serving justice when he sent his emissaries （his goons, Marian thought） to inform Wallace of what had come due. A huge sum, unpayable. Despair in a number.
I’ve done a terrible thing, Barclay had said. But you made me wait too long.
Seeing his confession detonate in her, he had become frantic, told her he could undo it. She must forgive him, she must forget he’d tried to ransom her uncle because everything was fine, he would make everything fine always. Wallace’s debts were forgotten! Forgiven! Pretend this never happened! Please!
She had bolted from the green-and-white house.
At Wallace’s, she had eased in through the dark kitchen, shushing the dogs. She was suddenly angry at Jamie for being off on his summer adventure, leaving her alone with this mess, even if she bore more than a little responsibility for it. Though the house was silent, she’d sensed Wallace’s presence somewhere, a cloud of suffering. She passed through the sitting room, turning on lamps, calling softly for her uncle until she found him upstairs in his dark studio, sitting in his armchair with a pistol on the small round table beside him. When she appeared in the doorway, he snatched up the gun and brandished it wildly, like a man trying to take aim at a bee. “Don’t come in here!” he cried.