A Widow for One Year

“Mommy!” Ruth called, but Marion didn’t hear her—she didn’t even blink. Eddie froze, waiting for the patter of the four-year-old’s feet across the bathroom floor. But the child was staying in her bed. “Mommy?” she cried, more tentatively now. There was a hint of worry in her voice. Eddie, naked, tiptoed to the bathroom. He wrapped a bath towel around his waist—a better choice than a lamp shade. Then, as quietly as possible, Eddie began to retreat in the direction of the hall.

“Eddie?” the child asked. Her voice was a whisper.

“Yes,” Eddie answered, resigned. He tightened the towel around himself and padded barefoot through the bathroom to the child’s room. Eddie thought that the sight of Marion would have frightened Ruth more than the child was already frightened—that is, if the four-year-old had seen her mother in Marion’s newly acquired, seemingly catatonic state.

Ruth was sitting up in bed, not moving, when Eddie walked into her room. “Where’s Mommy?” the child asked him.

“She’s asleep,” Eddie lied.

“Oh,” the girl said. With a look, she indicated the towel knotted around Eddie’s waist. “Did you take a bath?”

“Yes,” he lied again.

“Oh,” Ruth said. “But what did I dream about?”

“What did you dream about?” Eddie repeated stupidly. “Uh, I don’t know. I didn’t have your dream. What did you dream about?”

“Tell me!” the child demanded.

“But it’s your dream,” Eddie pointed out.

“Oh,” the four-year-old said.

“Would you like a drink of water?” Eddie asked.

“Okay,” Ruth replied. She waited while he ran the water until it was cold and brought it to her in a cup. When she handed the cup back to him, she asked: “Where are the feet?”

“In the photograph, where they always are,” Eddie told her.

“But what happened to them?” Ruth asked.

“Nothing happened to them,” Eddie assured her. “Do you want to see them?”

“Yes,” the girl replied. She held out her arms, expecting to be carried, and he lifted her out of bed.

Together they navigated the unlit hall; both of them were aware of the infinite variety of expressions on the faces of the dead boys, whose photographs were mercifully in semidarkness. At the far end of the hall, the light from Eddie’s room shone as brightly as a beacon. Eddie carried Ruth into the bathroom, where, without speaking, they looked at the picture of Marion in the Hôtel du Quai Voltaire.

Then Ruth said, “It was early in the morning. Mommy was just waking up. Thomas and Timothy had crawled under the covers. Daddy took the picture—in France.”

“In Paris, yes,” Eddie said. (Marion had told him that the hotel was located on the Seine. It had been Marion’s first time in Paris—the boys’ only time.)

Ruth pointed to the bigger of the bare feet. “Thomas,” she said. Then she pointed to the smaller of the feet; she waited for Eddie to speak.

“Timothy,” Eddie guessed.

“Right,” the four-year-old said. “But what did you did to the feet?”

Me? Nothing,” Eddie lied.

“It looked like paper, little pieces of paper,” Ruth told him. Her eyes searched the bathroom; she made Eddie put her down so that she could peer into the wastebasket. But the maid had come to clean the room many times since Eddie had removed the scraps of notepaper. Finally Ruth held out her arms to Eddie; once more he picked her up.

“I hope it doesn’t happen again,” the four-year-old said.

“Maybe it never happened; maybe it was a dream,” Eddie told her.

“No,” the child replied.

“I guess it’s a mystery,” Eddie said.