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Authors: Kealan Patrick Burke
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make him a fortune, and return him to the level of
prestige and respect his nocturnal imaginings told him he'd once
commanded. The prospect filled him with excitement. But reality, as
had been proved today, was often quick to bring him down to
earth.
The world was going to
hell. Was it any wonder then that he frequently sought the solace
of oblivion, the panacea whiskey offered against the seething
contributions of the impudent, the pious and the treacherous? Not
at all. His own microcosmic existence had imploded at the
realization not so long ago, that his days were a blur, his nights
a time for febrile dreams and haunted recollections. His wife had
cast him off like an old suit and quickly found another, better
tailored than he. He'd become a pale empty shell with spidery
cracks for veins and a mouth used only to dictate diagnoses and
consume the fuel necessary to ensure he remembered to breathe, or
more accurately, to fool him into believing he wanted to breathe when another
morning came around to cast its spiteful light across his
eyes.
And Lord, how angry it
made him. Angry that he had wasted so much time trying to fit the
mold of the caring husband when all the while he'd known he didn't
care at all. Marriage, to him, had been an institution in the
literal sense. There had existed no middle ground, no fairness,
only the gradual emergence of dominant and submissive roles between
two people locked in a cage of fake smiles and dutiful intimacy.
Worse still, the dominance had not been his, and soon his role had
been relegated to that of a silent observer, forever watching but
scarcely understanding just what it was he had wed. Overnight it
seemed as if Agnes's natural reticence had vanished, replaced by an
inexplicable temerity he was not capable of sharing. She became a
chattering whirlwind concerned only with her appearance and social
standing, and frequently taken by a maddening need to be free of
Brent Prior and what she termed 'its grubby underlings.' A woman of
airs and graces, of lofty aspirations; a woman with striking beauty
and no depth at all. Over the years, as he listened without word to
her tirades and feverish monologues---all spoken as if she addressed
a theater crowd and not her husband---the hard shell of irritation in
him had cracked, producing shoots that spun upward into dislike,
which in turn branched out into loathing.
Then the jewelry began to
appear.
At first it was a brooch,
an inexpensive---by Campbell's estimation, at least---cameo he assumed
she had picked up on one of her increasingly frequent trips to
Devon. But as the months went by, more lavish accoutrements began
to gather in her nightstand. At first, perhaps at the behest of
deliberate ignorance, he'd told himself she was buying these things
for herself, but this excuse, flimsy to begin with, shattered
completely the night she came home drunk, reeking of gin and a
musky, manly stench, and wearing a pearl necklace she made no
attempt to conceal from him.
"Who is it?" he'd
demanded, sure he wouldn't know the name she gave him, but unable
to stop himself from asking. The lack of anger he felt shamed him.
He didn't even rise from his seat as she danced, flaunted her betrayal in
front of him as if he were her brother, or friend, a confidant,
anything but a husband. He simply sat, hands hanging between his
knees. Her response should have enraged him. It didn't, but merely
ran stiffened fingers over heartstrings gone taut with
age.
"His name is Simon, and
he's a gentleman."
What bothered him the most
was not the treachery itself, but the complete lack of guilt she
displayed. She seemed almost proud, and acted as if he should have
known of her affair all along, or at least expected it.
Four days later she was
gone, no note, no farewell, just the lingering scent of her in a
cold dusty house.
It took weeks for the
anger to come. To quench the flames, he returned to drink after
fifteen years of abstinence at Agnes's request. In some small
prestige and respect his nocturnal imaginings told him he'd once
commanded. The prospect filled him with excitement. But reality, as
had been proved today, was often quick to bring him down to
earth.
The world was going to
hell. Was it any wonder then that he frequently sought the solace
of oblivion, the panacea whiskey offered against the seething
contributions of the impudent, the pious and the treacherous? Not
at all. His own microcosmic existence had imploded at the
realization not so long ago, that his days were a blur, his nights
a time for febrile dreams and haunted recollections. His wife had
cast him off like an old suit and quickly found another, better
tailored than he. He'd become a pale empty shell with spidery
cracks for veins and a mouth used only to dictate diagnoses and
consume the fuel necessary to ensure he remembered to breathe, or
more accurately, to fool him into believing he wanted to breathe when another
morning came around to cast its spiteful light across his
eyes.
And Lord, how angry it
made him. Angry that he had wasted so much time trying to fit the
mold of the caring husband when all the while he'd known he didn't
care at all. Marriage, to him, had been an institution in the
literal sense. There had existed no middle ground, no fairness,
only the gradual emergence of dominant and submissive roles between
two people locked in a cage of fake smiles and dutiful intimacy.
Worse still, the dominance had not been his, and soon his role had
been relegated to that of a silent observer, forever watching but
scarcely understanding just what it was he had wed. Overnight it
seemed as if Agnes's natural reticence had vanished, replaced by an
inexplicable temerity he was not capable of sharing. She became a
chattering whirlwind concerned only with her appearance and social
standing, and frequently taken by a maddening need to be free of
Brent Prior and what she termed 'its grubby underlings.' A woman of
airs and graces, of lofty aspirations; a woman with striking beauty
and no depth at all. Over the years, as he listened without word to
her tirades and feverish monologues---all spoken as if she addressed
a theater crowd and not her husband---the hard shell of irritation in
him had cracked, producing shoots that spun upward into dislike,
which in turn branched out into loathing.
Then the jewelry began to
appear.
At first it was a brooch,
an inexpensive---by Campbell's estimation, at least---cameo he assumed
she had picked up on one of her increasingly frequent trips to
Devon. But as the months went by, more lavish accoutrements began
to gather in her nightstand. At first, perhaps at the behest of
deliberate ignorance, he'd told himself she was buying these things
for herself, but this excuse, flimsy to begin with, shattered
completely the night she came home drunk, reeking of gin and a
musky, manly stench, and wearing a pearl necklace she made no
attempt to conceal from him.
"Who is it?" he'd
demanded, sure he wouldn't know the name she gave him, but unable
to stop himself from asking. The lack of anger he felt shamed him.
He didn't even rise from his seat as she danced, flaunted her betrayal in
front of him as if he were her brother, or friend, a confidant,
anything but a husband. He simply sat, hands hanging between his
knees. Her response should have enraged him. It didn't, but merely
ran stiffened fingers over heartstrings gone taut with
age.
"His name is Simon, and
he's a gentleman."
What bothered him the most
was not the treachery itself, but the complete lack of guilt she
displayed. She seemed almost proud, and acted as if he should have
known of her affair all along, or at least expected it.
Four days later she was
gone, no note, no farewell, just the lingering scent of her in a
cold dusty house.
It took weeks for the
anger to come. To quench the flames, he returned to drink after
fifteen years of abstinence at Agnes's request. In some small
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