After dinner, Philip removed his tie and situated himself in his snug velour armchair in the back sitting room, a glass of brandy and a freshly lit cigar resting on the end table next to him, the Springfield Republican clasped between his fingers. He stretched out his legs with various groans and grunts, digging his rump deep into the thick fabric until he was quite satisfied, and perused the latest accounts of the atrocities in Cuba. The damned Spaniards were still causing scads of trouble down there, killing off Cubans like it was hunting season, but President McKinley wasn't ready to be bothered about a war, so it seemed.
The July humidity bathed his fleshy body until he was as warm and soggy as the boiled beef digesting in his belly. But no matter. His seat was comfy, his mind adequately stimulated, and he knew his wife was waiting for him upstairs, undoubtedly perched upon the edge of her bed, brushing out her waist-length, honey hair. Her skin smelling of lavender.
At precisely eight o'clock, he was ready for her. He trotted up to the second floor, his feet creaking against the wooden steps at a brisk, no-nonsense pace, and then, when he reached the top, he noiselessly squished his way across the deep-green carpet to his bedroom.
Emma resolved to wait in her own room, letting him settle in for a while before moving to join him, her face as firm and pinched as if she were seated upon a bed of nails. After a few moments of hearing him open and close his armoire and poke around in his dresser, however, she reasoned that it would be best to wait until he actually asked her to come. There was no need to scurry over there, after all, especially if he had somehow forgotten the plans for the evening.
The minute hand reached the five. An almost inaudible belch erupted down the hall, and then, "Emma." The deep, rasping voice.
She drew in her breath, letting it out in a long, soothing sigh.
"Emma? You didn't fall asleep, did you?"
She grated her teeth together, hearing the powdery scraping of her molars. "No," she called back, getting to her feet with the enthusiasm of a convict heading toward the gallows. "I'll be there in a second."
Nearly two minutes later, she wandered out of her room.
By the time she appeared in Philip's doorway, he already had his shoes and trousers off and was unbuttoning his white dress shirt to reveal his ever-expanding stomach. It seemed that the longer he served as Hollybrook's mayor, the fatter he grew, as though his entire body was swelling up as rapidly as his head.
"Did you do anything today?" he asked when he saw her.
She had almost forgotten the turbulent event experienced that afternoon--it had gotten pushed aside the moment Philip bombarded the house announcing his bodily urges.
"I received some horrible news," she answered, stepping a few feet into his room.
"Oh?" The last button was undone and his shirt came off his shoulders.
"I had tea with friends this afternoon, and Lottie informed us that she became engaged to Thomas Scott last night."
"That's the horrible news?"
"Yes. She despises Thomas Scott."
He pulled his hands out of the shirtsleeves. "Well, she's getting far too old to be selective about whom she's going to marry."
"She's the same age as I am."
"If you were twenty-four and unmarried, you wouldn't be selective either."
"I really don't..." She began to contradict him, yet silenced herself quickly. Arguing with Philip before climbing into bed with him would only make the situation worse. "Anyway, Yvette and Mary were at tea, as well, and we all firmly argued with Lottie about how she's making a miserable mistake and how she's obviously marrying Thomas merely because she's afraid that she'll never find a husband."
"That was a terrible thing for the three of you to do," he said as his dress shirt fell to the ground. He pulled his undershirt off, as well, standing there in only his ankle-length, linen drawers.
Emma's stomach contorted.
"Why is it so terrible to keep a friend from making her life intolerable?" she asked, planting her eyes upon the dark wooden panels of the wall in case he was about to pull down the underclothes. "Lottie burst out crying when Yvette reminded her that marriage is for the rest of her life, so, clearly, she's unhappy about the matter."
"Yvette is a woman who needs to keep her mouth shut more often."
"Yvette is a woman married to a drunk who makes a fool of himself with disgusting women, so I think she has a right to be wary of unfavorable marriages."
"If I were married to Yvette, I'd also be a drunk who makes a fool of himself with disgusting women."
The pants plummeted to the ground, and his pale, naked body glowed in the electric lamplight. Emma witnessed it out of the corner of her eye and immediately experienced a tremendous, painful, pounding sensation against the walls of her head.
He pulled the underwear free from around his ankles and tossed it in the corner, quite content with his forty-seven-year-old body, no matter how overweight it was becoming. In fact, he rather enjoyed the indulgent look of ample meat upon his bones--it was a clear, indisputable sign of success. As a lanky boy in Pennsylvania he had been nicknamed "Bones Brandenberg" on account of his family's meager food money, which was despicable. Never again would he look in the mirror and witness his ribs poking out of his skin like a chicken carcass.
"I had a ridiculous conversation this afternoon with the owner of that hat shop that's opening up next week," he said, abruptly changing the subject without Emma even noticing.
"Really?" she asked, making her way to his bed, her eyes transfixed upon the Persian rug below her bare feet.
He peered at himself in the mirror on the wall, combing out his graying beard and the receded remnants of his black hair, his body still quite naked. "Yes, that fellow Ash that I told you about came to me with preposterous plans of a major to-do for the opening of the shop. He told me he was already arranging to have a band playing when everyone arrives, and the Church Committee women have volunteered to sell cookies and lemonade. Although I can't imagine why they would when he hasn't even had the decency to attend the Sunday services." He stopped brushing for a moment to see if Emma was paying attention. She sat silently on the edge of the bed, her back toward him, so he proceeded to talk while facing her direction. "So, I laughed in his face, reminding him, 'This is a hat shop you're discussing here. A ladies' hat shop--not the christening of a ship.' I thought he was mad--'mad as a hatter,' as they say." An amused chuckle. "Anyway, he went on to tell me how he's done this sort of thing before and it's proven to be quite profitable, so I eventually told him to go ahead with his little venture. It might boost Hollybrook's commerce, after all. And, apparently, this afternoon he already had people handing out handbills to announce the thing, and he's posted signs as far north as Greenfield. Did you see any of the handbills when you were in town?"
Emma didn't respond, but continued to dwell upon the fact that Philip was standing behind her, naked as a newborn.
"Are you listening to me?"
She looked over her shoulder at him, catching an unfortunate glimpse of the frightful little organ.
"Pardon?" she asked, turning her eyes quickly away again.
"I said, did you see any of the posters or handbills when you were in town?"
"No, no I don't believe so."
He put the brush down and made his way to the bed. "Well, anyway, it sounds like a ridiculous waste of time if you ask me. Although I suppose I should attend the thing in order to appear as though I'm supporting a local business." He tugged on the blankets, prompting Emma to get up and help him pull them down. "Giddy women drooling over ludicrous hats--what a tedious way to spend a day."
They climbed into bed, an imported, four-post, German antique in which Philip had diligently tried to impregnate her since 1892--five years before. It didn't matter that he slept with his late wife, Rose, for sixteen years without producing a single child; Philip Brandenberg would not accept failure in any task that he undertook.
Clutching her stomach, Emma laid back against the cool silk sheets, keeping her nightgown on in hopes that it wouldn't present a problem, struggling to control the turbulence in her stomach. After Philip pulled the blankets back over them, however, he immediately yanked the garment--as well as her underwear--off her, tossing the cambric articles over his shoulder, where they fell upon the floor in a wrinkled heap. He moved close and leaned his already sweating body against her, his head propped against one arm and his breath reeking of brandy and tobacco.
"Oh, I forgot to mention that we're having a meeting here next Wednesday morning," he said as he stroked the curves of her neck with his index finger. "Hollybrook men and Chesterfield men will be gathering together to create a transportation committee. I'd like to start by serving pastries and coffee, so we'll hire Nora for the day and you can help me host until we start discussing business."
He ran his finger down to her chest, becoming aroused by the soft young flesh coated in a thin layer of perspiration. Although his own clammy skin was melting into a rancid, unwashed stench, hers still emitted a sweet, inviting, perfumed odor. He placed his mouth against her warm throat and breathed in her smells, an experience that intoxicated him far more than the glass of brandy had. He simply ignored the fact that she was lying there as rigid as a woman undergoing a medical examination.
"It's an extremely important meeting," he continued when he lifted his head again and continued perusing his fingers over her body. "So I want you to look and behave your best."
She breathed in deeply, scarcely hearing a word that he spoke.
"I'd like you to wear that white dress that we bought you in Boston--the one with all the lace on the front. And please pay careful attention to how you pin up your hair. I want you appearing neat and well kept. A generous amount of jewelry would also do you well. You never seem to wear enough jewelry."
He climbed his way on top of her, his heavy body pressing down onto her lungs as he shifted himself into a comfortable position. She struggled to relax, but her limbs remained solid.
"As I said, it's an extremely important meeting, so I don't want to hear hardly a word out of you. I want you to smile politely, greet the men, respond to any questions with short, intelligent answers, and keep yourself from looking like an idiot at all times."
And, with that, he went about his business, in a short while grunting and moaning and drenching her entire body with his alcohol-scented sweat.
He always undertook intercourse with the same forcefulness, determination, and thirst for gratification that he was known for in politics. Such qualities had led him to become a highly successful and respected mayor, but they made for miserable marital relations. Emma withstood the ordeal with clinched fists and a firm resolution not to be defeated by the displeasure of it all--above everything not wanting to cry. She closed her eyes and strove to enjoy the experience--it wasn't as if she didn't want to find any shred of pleasure in it--but there was nothing that he did to make it the least bit fun for her. Perhaps if he smelled better or if his weight didn't squash her stomach, knocking the breath out of her, then maybe she could see what other women found so amusing about the thing. But as far as she knew, the sex act consisted of five minutes or less of some panting, perspiring man getting the most out of a woman while he himself became transported to some indescribable realm of ecstasy. Even when their marriage was new, and they actually loved each other, it was all hurry, hurry, hurry. Shove, shove, shove. As though he were racing to obtain his moment of euphoria first.
Before long he was shaking like a pathetic animal and clutching her so tightly that her head ached from having her hair pulled. When it was all over, he collapsed on top of her, weighing twice as much as he had before. He rested in that position like a dying fish for about a minute, gasping for breath, crushing Emma's thorax.
"You can return to your room if you'd like," he eventually said, rolling over and rubbing his sopping forehead.
Without objection, she slipped out of bed, pulled her clothing back on, and disappeared from the room, her stomach returning back to its normal, settled state. She rinsed off her skin in the sink of the upstairs bathroom before sliding comfortably under her covers, relieved to be alone again. To keep insects from dining on her blood while she slept, she untied the mosquito netting that draped her canopy bed in the summertime, sealing herself snugly inside a transparent membrane.
As sleep tumbled closer, she repeatedly reminded herself exactly how hideous and hellish divorce was made out to be--its unspeakable vulgarity being an easy concept to forget at such times. Before succumbing to slumber, she forced herself to envision images of her ragged form being turned out to the streets by respectable society: spit out, cast aside, and left painfully alone.
More importantly, she told herself that, as far away as she might run, Philip Brandenberg would inevitably find her. She didn't know how, she wouldn't know when, but he would sniff her out like a bloodhound, banging down any door she might hide behind. And then he would wedge her right back underneath his bulky body.
)
