Nellie Moriarty

Two in the Morning

Sunday April 28th

The house was quiet, resounding with the peculiar quiet that is characteristic of the dead of night. Most of the sounds that came to Cornelia Catherine were well in the background: the intermittent fan from the air conditioning unit that kept the house at a moderate seventy four degrees, the occasional muted grind and plop of the refrigerator’s ice maker, and the monotonous tick of the replica grandfather clock in the vestibule. Despite the air conditioning, the front window was open a little, to let some natural air into the house. That meant there was also the noise of light traffic in the distance. Once there had been a distant sound that had been loud enough and sharp enough that her mind had interpreted it as a gunshot, but it had been far away and she hadn’t even flinched. The lamp on the end table threw its circle of sickly forty-watt equivalent light. It was enough to read by if a person was up close enough, leaving the rest of the room dimly lit.

They had once had a cat, a tiny, affectionate striped tabby. Cornelia had named her Esmeralda because she came and went like a gypsy in the night. Rick had gotten rid of the kitty while she had been deployed, claiming allergies. C. Catherine missed the way Esmeralda had sometimes purred like a little motorboat. She missed the cat’s often importunate company. She had always suspected that the reason Rick had gotten rid of her hadn’t been so much allergies as Esmeralda’s habit of occasionally hauling herself up his leg by her claws. There was a further suspicion, usually sternly repressed, that Esmeralda had ended her days at the pound, from whence she had come, feeling betrayed and evicted, and not in another household, as Rick had earnestly assured her in his email.

C. Catherine tried to turn her attention back to her book. She had read the same not very dense paragraph four times and as yet had no idea of what its content might be. Somewhere toward the middle of the fifth attempt she glanced at her watch and saw that it was two thirty. She set the book aside, forgetting completely not only the paragraph, but what it was about, forgetting the title, forgetting the author. None had been very memorable anyway.

Almost on the dot, she heard Rick’s car arrive outside. She knew it was his. Her mind routinely identified it from the sound. It was the unique combination, she guessed, of engine noise, tread, and tire pressure. She could always pick it out, coming or going. Nor was it because she was a mechanically-inclined person, even though she was. All the neighbors’ cars sounded alike. His sounded distinctive. She didn’t know why.

She heard the engine shut off and she made a face of disapproval as Rick drifted into the driveway to further quiet his arrival. He was actually trying to sneak the car in. There was no glimmer of headlights on the window. He had turned them off, so as not to risk waking her. He didn’t use the garage door opener, leaving the car in the driveway. He sat for a few minutes before getting out. She didn’t know if he was gathering his nerve, gathering his resolution, trying to self-induce sobriety, or clearing his phone’s call memory in case she snooped, which was something she had never done. She heard the car door open and then close gently to the latch. There was a subdued bump as he closed it the rest of the way with his hip, avoiding the noise of a slam. It was followed by a quiet clunk as the doors automatically locked.

She heard the creak of the storm door’s pneumatic closer, the faint rattle of its spring chain. Then there was the subdued metallic sound of the key in the front door. Cornelia Catherine sat up a little straighter, gathering the shreds of what dignity she retained.

Rick tried to open the front door without making any noise. That was a futile effort. He know it was by now, but still he kept trying, pushing it open slowly to minimize the noise. It was a futile effort; that door never opened silently. It was a modern kind of door, the kind that didn’t let cold air seep into the house in the wintertime. That meant there was some kind of rubber seal at the bottom of it that made a distinctive sucking noise when it was opened.

All the secrecy was routine. C. Catherine was actually familiar with all the steps, even though Rick wasn’t aware that she was. He intended to greet her in the morning, pretending he had been home two or three hours earlier. She was to assume that he had been out doing guy stuff or office stuff, maybe at the gym until late, perhaps followed by stopping for a drink or two. She was supposed to believe he had come in around midnight or earlier. She was supposed to be slumbering peacefully, courtesy of her sleeping pill.

The sleeping pills were necessary. Without them C. Catherine simply didn’t sleep. She had dreams, many and varied and repetitiously harrowing, that kept her awake. The fact that she needed drugs to drop off at night didn’t mean that she always used them. Sometimes she took them and they didn’t work. Sometimes she didn’t take them until after Rick had come in, while he was creeping up the stairs in his socks. The medication took fifteen to twenty minutes to kick in, assuming it worked. She would  pretend to be asleep when he came into the room. She would be perfectly aware of what he was doing, until she actually dropped off. C. Catherine was keenly, often hyper, aware of what went on around her, especially as it concerned her husband. She was crippled, but she was neither blind nor deaf.

Rick was out late most nights now, more often and later than a respectable married man should be. C. Catherine knew very well why he was out so late. Sometimes he was even telling her the truth about what he had been doing. More often it was a combination of the truth and deceit. Many nights she could even smell the woman smells on his body when he lay next to her, pretending he had been there all along, pretending he was asleep.

Previous discovery had made him less, not more discrete. She had never realized what a poor learner he was.

Hey, he greeted her with simulated concern when he saw her. He was surprised, his expression slightly deer-in-the-headlights. He was looking guilty, transparently trying not to. He really did lack any talent for intrigue. She seldom overtly waited up for him. Why up so late? he asked. Pills fail again?

I thought I’d wait up for you until you got home, she said quietly. We need to talk for a bit.

She marshaled her resolution to keep it civil. She didn’t want a shouting match. Recriminations and name calling would accomplish nothing. They were neither her style nor her personality. Nor would they have worked with him; he was the type of person who simply becomes more sullen with pressure. She couldn’t even make herself feel any malice. The time for that was long past. Lately when looking at him it had been as though she was looking at a bug, watching it while it was busily doing pointless or incomprehensible bug things. Only elementary good manners imposed polite civility upon her.

C. Catherine was actually feeling something like a sense of accomplishment. The fights, the hurt, the attempts at understanding,  all of them from this point in the process, looked like chores that had had to be gotten out of the way to get to this next crucial step.

Rick said nothing. He barely had the grace to hang his head. He was sensing, correctly, that he was cornered, caught fair and square. Perhaps he even realized that this was the sort of head such things eventually came to. Perhaps he was relieved to find an end in sight. It hadn’t been easy for him either, as he had periodically reminded her.

Cornelia Catherine had a cup of tea sitting on the end table within convenient reach. It was still faintly warm when she took a sip. She was thinking she should leave the tea alone, that she had had enough for the evening. She had been drinking one every forty minutes, approximately, since ten p. m. She might as well sleep in the bathroom. She guessed the sip was for effect, even if she didn’t consciously intend it to be, so she wouldn’t light into him directly.

This girl is number four, Rick, she pointed out finally, setting down her china cup. She kept her voice calm as she centered the cup precisely in the center of the saucer. It’s four by my count anyway. Or are you back with Marianne?

He shook his head, not in negation, she guessed, but declining to answer, taking the Fifth. She thought of it as a lawyerly response.

It doesn’t matter to me at this point, she told him, her tone icily calm. She could be number three, four, or five, I guess. Or more. I’m not even concerned with who she is. By this point whoever she is, it’s just a habit you have, like cracking your knuckles or biting your nails or smoking would be. Her voice was chill, brittle, even to herself, a key or two higher than she normally spoke. She had gotten most of her tears out of the way the first time she had discovered his infidelity. She had been broken up then, devastated. It had been going on even before Walter Reed had let her come home from the rehabilitation center.

She hadn’t even had to ask herself what did I do to deserve this? She had, and many times, but she hadn’t really had to.

The second affair had been brief, nearly – as Rick had explained it – accidental. Still, it had been only nearly as bad as the first for her rickety emotions. She had never had an affair herself, accidental, nearly accidental, or intentional. Then had come the third, with Marianne Maisel, hot on its heels. She suspected it may have even overlapped.

Compared to the first affair, she had barely reacted to Marianne, the receptionist in Rick’s office. She had met her, when Rick had first shown her around when she came out of the rehab center. The receptionist was a tall, pretty girl with a nice smile and an even nicer figure. She had long, soft, natural red hair, with the creamy complexion most redheads wish they had. C. Catherine could understand why her husband had been attracted to her, even though the girl didn’t look like a femme fatale; she had looked exactly like what she was, a receptionist who had wanted to snag a handsome up-and-coming lawyer, even a married one. Her nose was slightly too pointy and she could have used a tiny bit more chin, but that was probably the sort of thing it took another woman to notice, and then only under certain circumstances. The girl hadn’t seemed particularly bright, but that may have simply been cattiness on the part of the spurned wife. Maybe Rick wasn’t looking for brilliance in his conquests. Maybe brilliance was an actual hindrance.

Maybe he was just looking for what he couldn’t get at home, which was two arms and two legs.

For awhile C. Catherine had tried desperately to atone for her shortcomings, for her obvious limitations. She had tried hard not to be a burden, to be special for him in other ways. She tried to be a help to him, not solely a responsibility. She had lost that fight. There hadn’t even been any contest. There was simply no possible way she could be physically whole for him. C. Catherine remained ugly to her husband, no matter how hard either of them tried.

Cornelia Catherine had tried being indifferent, tried to tell herself that the other women got a bit of adventure, a roll in the hay or between the sheets or wherever it took place. She got to keep Rick for the long haul. She had tried to convince herself there would be a long haul, that their life together would get better, that it would settle down as she recovered. She tried to convince herself that their lives would become normal. C. Catherine had tried to picture them sharing a cottage in the country, whiling away their golden years till death did them part, like they had promised each other at their wedding. It wasn’t a vision that would come easily.

She had wished, starting at some point between the third and the fourth Other Woman – at least those she had known about – that death had parted them the day of the explosion in Afghanistan. That hadn’t happened, but it could have, perhaps even should have. She could have bled out in about twenty seconds through either her leg or her arm. Instead both had been tourniqueted in time. Her medic and her flight nurse had actually been riding in the same vehicle with her when the bomb went off. Neither Sergeant Eades nor Captain Stewart, the medic and the nurse, had been severely injured. They had been there to control Cornelia Catherine’s bleeding. She had actually stepped out of their vehicle and drawn her weapon, disrupting the suicide bomber’s approach, causing him to blow early. She had gotten the full force of the explosion.

They had stopped the bleeding and they had treated her for shock. She had been evacuated to the other end of Bagram airbase – not by helicopter, but by ambulance – for surgery. Bagram had held her long enough to get her stabilized. Then she had gone to Landstuhl, in Germany, flown by the Air Force for more surgery. When she had finally pronounced fit for more travel, she had come to Walter Reed, in Maryland, for multiple but less urgent surgeries. The surgeries had been followed by rehabilitation with other people who were damaged like she was, some of them damaged worse than her. From there she had gone as an outpatient, to the home she and her husband had bought in Maryland before her latest deployment.

Now Rick sat in the overstuffed chair opposite her, looking tired, looking like he had put his clothing on out of the hamper. He was looking not so much ashamed as defensive, not so much defensive as simply tired because of the late hour.

Cath, he told her, I’m sorry. I really am. He even sounded sincere, or as sincere as an attorney can sound, when he said it. I’ve tried. You know how hard I’ve tried. I just can’t… I just needed a break, I guess.

Stop, she ordered. If you tell me it’s not me, it’s you or something stupid like that, I’ll scream. I promise I will.

I know I’ve failed you, Cath, he said humbly, settling for another cliché, even though it was true. I really am sorry. It really is my fault.

It was like everything inside her had been drained. Of course it was his fault. Infidelity was a one person operation; it takes two to tango, but only one person leads. If either person sits it out they both have to. Infidelity doesn’t really ever happen by accident.

I’m sorry too, Rick, she responded, just sounding tired, just feeling fatigued. The hour was just as late for her too. We have mirrors in the house. I can see myself. My eyesight’s not damaged. At my best I’ve got a mechanical leg and a mechanical arm. I’ve always got a smile on my face, whether I’m smiling or not. When I’m naked they’re just stumps. The skin on my side’s not smooth and pretty, is it? The smile’s not for you, it’s just a grimace, caused by a scar, isn’t it?

It had been too much for him.

She remembered the pride with which he had regarded her when they had first married, back in her senior year at Penn State. He had been proud of her good looks; she had been blond, blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked, tall and straight. She remembered the pride in his face when she had graduated, when he had pinned on her bars when she had been commissioned, her wings when she had graduated from flight training. He had liked showing her off. She hadn’t been a run of the mill girl. Having the normal ration of female vanity, perhaps more because she was exceptionally accomplished, she had usually enjoyed being shown off. Rick had married her, in part, because of her looks. She simply hadn’t been aware of how large a part that had been.

Cath… His face was pale and she saw he was actually close to tears. God, you were so… so lovely! I keep thinking how lovely you were. I wish so much that…

Yeah, she supplied. You wish so much that I wasn’t disfigured. Get some rest, Rick. You’ve had a long day. It’s over now. Problem solved. I’m leaving in the morning.

Everything was now past tense. He had just pronounced it so, even had she not already decided it was.

Where are you going? he asked without moving. He didn’t look shocked or surprised or even very dejected. He knew she wouldn’t be back. He accepted it. There wasn’t even a polite request that she stay. She could even, though he tried hard to conceal it, feel his surge of relief at being rid of the responsibility of her.

I’ll go to my parents’ for a bit, she told him, until I can find a job. I talked to them while you were… out… busy. I’m going back to my maiden name. You can have the house. I’ll take my car, you can keep yours. I don’t want anything from your practice. You’ve built your own success; it’s not mine. Law’s not my field, I’m not an asset. I’ll take my half of the money in the bank. We’ll keep it simple, keep hard feelings to the minimum. We’ll untangle our investment accounts later. There’s no real hurry. I want to be fair, do it right.

That’s more than fair, he allowed, refusing to meet her eyes. I can pay something toward your expenses…

I don’t want anything, she told him, her pride kicking in. If you’ve had a hard time the past year and a half, mine has been worse. I can get by on my own now. You’re working toward full partner. You don’t need a mutilated millstone around your neck. I get disability compensation from VA, and I get my medical retired check from the Army. My parents won’t charge me more than nominal board, if that. I’ll get along just fine.

I’ll… help you pack in the morning, he offered tentatively.

I’m just taking my clothes and personal items with me. I packed this evening. That’s all I’ll need. I’ve already got everything in my car. I’ll leave as soon as I’ve had some sleep. We can part on good terms and not bother each other from here on out.

On the Street Where She Lived

Sunday April 28th

The drive from Montgomery County, in Maryland, to Carbon County, in Pennsylvania, isn’t all that long. Nor was Cornelia Catherine in any particular hurry to finish it. She knew where she was going. She knew why she was going. It was a pretty day, sunny and clear and only a couple days short of the Merry Month of May. She had time on her hand. Once she got there she was afraid she was going to be made over and babied, and she didn’t want that. There was always the danger she would relax and let it happen.

She knew her parents would try to do it, but Cornelia Catherine, formerly Richardson, now Moriarty again, didn’t want to be coddled. She didn’t want to be made over. It was the absolute last thing she needed, even though Rick had been convinced it was all she wanted. Her parents had tried to coddle her when they had come to see her at Walter Reed, during her rehabilitation. They had tried it when they had come to visit her and Rick when she had been an outpatient. She supposed that was the natural inclination of parents everywhere, even when their babies were grown. She wasn’t going to coddle her own children, but she realized that was only because she would never have any.

The Maryland to Pennsylvania drive could have been done almost entirely at freeway speeds, on four lane and usually better roads. There wasn’t any congestion other than a bit of a tie-up crossing the bridge over the Susquehanna River at Harrisburg. Perhaps to put off what she knew would be her family’s fuss, she made scenic detours on the way. By dawdling, C. Catherine could arrive at her parents’ house five and a half hours after leaving her home with Rick for the last time, rather than three and a half hours.

She took her time on the side roads in Baltimore County. The county and the city of the same name are two separate entities, the northern end of it farm country or large homes on large tracts. In Monkton she stopped at an iron bridge going over a drinking water-clear stream. They had once met a very old man fishing there when she and Rick had been out for a weekend drive. Rick had lived in that area while growing up. The man had told them he was past his hundredth birthday. They had walked to the his house, which was on the little rise overlooking the stream, adjacent to the bridge. They had helped him grill the stringer of fish he had caught, and had then helped him eat them, with sweet white Arundel Queen corn, grilled in the jacket, and potato salad his great-granddaughter had made for him. He had flirted with Cornelia outrageously. He had shown her a picture of himself holding a cornet, looking proud in his band uniform. The picture had been taken the day the First World War had ended, when he had been twelve or thirteen.

He was gone now, of course. Someone else owned the house, a much younger man. He looked at her as though he was afraid she was going to come onto the property and steal something.

The short little one-lane bridge was still there, whether the new owner trusted her or not. She had no idea where it went. They had been exploring, and after their impromptu fish dinner they had turned around and gone home because it had been late in