The Secret Life of Mrs. Smith
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Mrs. Smith sat in the parlor with her back to the door, watching me write. “I am very glad that you are so much better, my dear.” She smiled and put her hand on mine; then she leaned toward me and asked, “Will you do me a great favor?”
It was not until I heard my father’s voice behind us say, “What’s this, Mary? What is all this about?” that I understood what had happened. Father came into the parlor as if he’d been waiting outside for me to finish up and take him home again. I looked at her, trying to see how serious she was. She looked away from me and said quietly, “You will be careful?”
My mother nodded, smiling faintly as she took out her sewing box. Then she glanced at my father over my shoulder and murmured to Mr. Smith: “I shall be glad when this is finished!”
We both looked away from one another, pretending to look busy with our letters. But there was something strange about the look of the room—not that it seemed unusual for Mrs. Smith to come here without an invitation. It was more that I felt suddenly shy and embarrassed, though I knew nothing had happened. She had just been curious.
It had started like a game. My mother and I both turned red as we waited for Father’s response. “Why didn’t you bring your book today, my love?” he asked. He looked down at his desk and added, “Are you coming tonight?”
“No, no,” I whispered, looking down at my notebook. We were standing so close together that I could feel the heat of Mr. Smith’s body through the tablecloth. When I saw his lips twitch, I realized that Mother had asked him whether he would mind waiting while she wrote. “Oh! Yes, I’ll be along presently, sir.” His tone was brisker now. “You know what the traffic is like on these streets after dark.”
He was still smiling, but as he went out of sight I couldn’t help thinking that his manner seemed a trifle abrupt. Mrs. Smith smiled too and turned around slowly as if she were trying not to stare at Mr. Smith. Her smile faded into a look of wonder and pleasure as she stared past me. And then we heard him laugh and clap Mr. Smith on the shoulder. It wasn’t the same sound as when he spoke to Father or even when he talked to Mother, which was why my mother’s eyes opened wide with surprise.
I don’t know how long it was before we left. The sun was already low in the sky when Father came out onto the porch and said, “Let’s go home, child.”
She smiled at me, her face brightened by some new thought, but she was not looking at me. I watched her as my father pulled open the door. I had no idea how to answer him. I did not want to leave.
“Yes, Papa, let’s go home!”
We got in the carriage, and I looked out the window and tried not to think about the darkness creeping closer to us. As we rode away, I wondered whether we should have gone inside after all.
Mrs. Smith walked with my parents. I was afraid that they might try to stop her, but she only stopped once and said something about going back in case the housekeeper needed anything. She was not wearing gloves; and I noticed then, for the first time, how white her hands were and that she wore no wedding ring.
As soon as the carriage moved off, Mother said to him, “You’re a little late getting home.”
He shook his head. “I wanted to wait for you two.”
I looked at them both, feeling uneasy. They looked at me as well. “What’s wrong with my mother?” Father said softly. “What’s the matter? Are you unwell?”
Mother answered for me, saying, “Your father has been asking questions. He thinks it must be the flu.”
I was staring at Mrs. Smith. “Is she ill?”
Father was gazing out the window as he sat there with her hand in his. “You don’t know where to put yourself in life,” he told Mrs. Smith. “You have everything and yet you can’t enjoy it; so you’re always searching.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Smith said quietly, looking at me. But she seemed more puzzled than angry. “Yes, she knows what I’m talking about.”
My father turned around suddenly, frowning. “Mary, what do you know?” he asked me as the carriage began to move again.
Mrs. Smith smiled again. “The world is full of people who have not found themselves.”
My father sighed. “Well, we’re very good at finding things out for ourselves,” he murmured. Then he leaned toward me. “You’re sure you’re all right? You look feverish.”
“I’m fine,” I replied, wondering if we could have been overheard.
I felt the carriage slow down and the carriage door slam shut. The carriage rattled over cobblestones. We had reached the house. Mr. Smith’s voice sounded outside the window, but he kept quiet when Father spoke. “I’ve told her, Mary. I’m sorry.”
I was silent. I knew nothing had happened. I could tell Father didn’t believe what we had just said, and I was afraid Mother wouldn’t either.
But we had made up a lie. There was no point in telling him the truth. It would not explain anything.
“Mary?” Mother asked. “How long will it take to get home?”
Father glanced at her as if he were thinking aloud, and then said, “A few minutes.”
“Good,” Mother said as we drove on. She gave me a sidelong glance and whispered, “Do you think we’ll ever be able to trust them?”
“Don’t worry. They won’t bother us again.”
I nodded, but she shook her head. “Papa, I’m going to stay with your wife for a while. Will you please come home early?”
He frowned, and I turned away from her as he said, “I think so, yes. Good night.”
***
After dinner, Mother took a nap and slept through supper. When she woke up, she went into the parlor, and my father and I followed her.
She was sitting beside her grandfather’s picture. She looked up at us as we entered. “Where have you been?” she asked us. “I waited up for you.”
Then I understood. “Oh, no! I forgot,” I exclaimed. I remembered what I’d been supposed to do, and I turned toward the kitchen. My mind was still fuzzy with sleepiness, and I did not hear my father’s question. He spoke to Mother. “Did you need anything else?”
“No. I don’t think so, Papa.” She turned to us. “Would you mind waiting for us?”
My father nodded. “Of course.”
I ran down the steps to our room. I opened one of my drawers, and my fingers touched paper money that I had taken from the safe. I stared at it. I was surprised to see that there was quite a lot of it, almost ten guineas altogether. I had no idea why Mrs. Smith had asked for it. Was she planning to pay for the dress herself? Or perhaps she’d meant to give it to Father, and he had forgotten all about it. Either way, she wasn’t giving it back. And even if she were, she wouldn’t tell me what I wanted to know. So it must stay hidden in my drawer until my parents came home.
It wasn’t till I lay down in bed later that evening that I realized that I had been too tired to eat supper. My mouth watered and my stomach growled as I listened to my parents’ voices coming from downstairs. It was late when they finally came up to our room. Mrs. Smith stood at the foot of the stairs, her face pale. “We couldn’t find the book you mentioned last night,” Father said to Mother. “Perhaps it got misplaced.”
“That’s possible,” she replied. “And it seems you’ve lost some of the books.”
“Well, we’re trying to sort out everything at once. Perhaps we should leave it till tomorrow,” he suggested.
I heard Mother’s voice saying something. But I pretended to be asleep. Then Mrs. Smith went downstairs and closed the door.
I didn’t hear them come into the bedroom. I felt a sudden stab of fear, and I tried to turn over on my side without moving any part of my body. I had been sleeping soundly till this moment, when I was abruptly awakened by the sound of voices in the next room. Mother said, “What are you doing here? What are you playing at?”
The words were muffled because she was shouting through the door. “I’m not playing anything, and you know it.” My mother’s voice was shrill and high-pitched, like a bird screeching. “I want my daughter to go home!”
There was another noise: footsteps, and a thump. And then silence. Silence except for the heavy breathing from outside the door. And yet they didn’t go away. Not immediately. It was almost as though Mrs. Smith had decided to wait there till morning. I could feel the bed shaking beneath me as if someone had just sat down on it. The sound of my father’s voice made me flinch, and then there was silence again. After a while, I heard a rustling, and Mother said, “Mary?”
It sounded as though she were speaking very quietly. I heard my father mutter, “Go home, Mary.” Then, louder, he said, “Mary, come out of there now!”
Mother’s voice was quiet too. Her reply was a whisper: “Yes, Papa.” She was talking to Father, I thought. Then she said, “Come here. You shouldn’t be alone with him.”
“What’s wrong? Why haven’t you gone home?”
There was a pause, and then Mother said, “You’ve done nothing.”
I was startled to realize that Father hadn’t answered her. He was silent for such a long time that I grew restless. There were two hours left before daylight—not nearly enough time to do what I had in mind. The clock chimed eight times as the seconds dragged by. And then I heard Father’s voice: “You’re lying.”
“I’m not!” Mrs. Smith cried. “I won’t say I’m not!”
The sounds from the other room became more agitated. I heard Mr. Smith’s voice too, but it was barely audible. Father said, “Where is the book, Mary? Come out, and give it to me! Give it back to me!”
My parents’ voices were raised together now, louder and closer. The door shook under their weight. They had begun to move toward our bedroom.
But Father said, “Wait a minute.” There was another silence. I could hear Mother’s voice again. “Mary!”
She said, “Papa… I love you…” I didn’t know why she was whispering now, and I did not understand why she seemed afraid of Father.
Father said, “Tell me where it is!” His voice was so faint that I wondered whether Mother was still trying to talk to him.
“Why should I tell you that?”
Then I heard a loud bang. It sounded as if the bed had moved. Father’s voice spoke in my ear: “You must answer me first! Tell me where the book is!”
And Mother said something else—something I couldn’t make out. It was only after it came to an end that I realized my hands had clenched tight around my blankets. I could feel my heart hammering inside my chest, and I had to fight hard to keep myself from crying out in fear.
The voices had changed: my father was saying, “If you don’t open your eyes, you won’t be hurt.” I waited for my mother to speak.
I heard her reply: “It isn’t the same as before. I can see.” A sigh of relief escaped me; Mother’s voice sounded relieved too, I thought. Then she added, “No one will hurt me anymore.”
The voices were louder: my mother was sobbing. It was as though she was pleading with Father and he was answering her. “That’s right.”
Then there was silence. I was still holding my breath, waiting for Mrs. Smith to open the door, but all I could hear was Father’s heavy breathing.
“What shall I do?” Mrs. Smith whispered. She sounded frightened.
“Just lie down on your stomach,” my father said. I strained to hear what they were saying. “Stay down.”
A pause. And then, faintly, “All right.”
They were still whispering. Then Father said: “Go home, Mrs. Smith.”
“Oh!” There was an exclamation of surprise. “You mean… I can go now?”
“Yes!” Father said. “Go home!”
I listened to them going away. The door opened. Mrs. Smith went out into the dark. I felt my way over to the window. The door closed behind me.
My heart was pounding as I climbed onto the windowsill and looked out at the road below. It was very quiet. All the street lamps were dark. I could make out the outline of the house next door through the darkness.
The End