Page 39 - the NOISE April 2014

a long library table with two elaborate lamps completed the decor. Everything looked brand new.
“Helen, didn’t Sylvia say the furnishings were original and that the house has been vacant for more than a year?” he asked.
“Yes. So?” Helen’s tone was clipped. His question irritated her.
“This room, did you look at it? I mean, really look at it? Everything is new. It’s like the furniture
arrived yesterday.” Bill ran his finger over a tabletop. “Look. There’s no dust.”
Helen continued through the room and opened another set of doors to a stone patio.
“Look Bill, a fish pond with a dragon in the middle.” She pointed excitedly at the Oriental sculpture.
Bill loved to make Helen happy. In any other circumstance, her happiness would have been infectious, but not today.
He thought about the coat in the closet. “And what about that WWI jacket? Have we stepped back in time or something? I don’t understand.” Bill was genuinely confused.
“What’s to understand? We’re home,” Helen said bending down to touch the water in the fishpond.
“Don’t you find this just a little odd?” Bill insisted.
Helen stood up. She straightened her back before turning to face her husband. “I said, we
are home, William.”
Bill opened his mouth then paused. Helen never addressed him as William — not even once
in thirty years. That wasn’t all he noticed. “What have you done to your hair?”
Helen stared at him icily. “My hair is the same.”
He reached out to touch a stray tendril on her forehead, but before he could, Helen turned
her head away.
“Helen, it’s a different color. There’s no gray.”
“William, I said it was the same.” She was angry.
“What’s happening, Helen? You’re calling me William and your hair is different.” Bill reached
out to her. “What’s happening?”
“Dinner will be served in one hour. Dress appropriately.” Helen’s eyes registered distain at his
appearance. She pushed him away and left him alone by the fishpond.
Bill threw his hands up in the air. “Dinner in one hour? Dress appropriately?” He looked down
at his polo shirt and jeans. “Helen!” he called following her to the door.
“Helen!” He called again. Then he froze. The moving boxes brought into the house moments
before were gone. Puzzled, Bill walked into the living room to see if the boxes were there. “What’s happened to those boxes?” Bill stood in the middle of the large room debating his
next course of action when the smell of cooking food surrounded him.
“She really is cooking dinner,”The missing boxes were now forgotten. Bill turned towards the kitchen. He was about to leave the room when the portraits of a man and a woman caught his eye.
“Helen, have you seen this portrait?” he called to his wife. “If I didn’t know better, I would swear it was you.” He studied the details of the painting. The similarity between the portrait and his wife was stunning. The shape of her face, the soft curly brown hair even the slight smile brought to mind the first time he had met his wife. It was uncanny. He read the inscribed brass plate at the bottom of the frame: “My beloved wife Helen, 1918.”
“That is really strange.” He felt a chill run up his spine. Bill’s eyes moved over to the other portrait, but a man dressed in a black suit carrying a small silver tray interrupted him. A single glass half filled with a brown liquid sat in the middle of the tray.
“Your drink, Sir,” he said.
“Who are ... what the ... Helen?!” Bill yelled for his wife.
He brushed past the butler and his awaiting drink. He dashed down the hallway into the dining room. The long mahogany table was elaborately set for an impending meal. Four place settings, a large bouquet of flowers and lit candelabras adorned the table. Bill glanced at his watch. It was only 11 a.m. He and Helen had eaten breakfast a few hours earlier. Why was the table set for dinner? Who was Helen expecting?
Incredulous, Bill hurried out of the dining room through a swinging door. He walked down a long narrow pantry before turning the corner into the main kitchen. Helen was standing over a kitchen table sampling a tray of appetizers. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. Soft curls rimmed her face. She was wearing a straight black dress adorned with black beads. It hung be- low her knees. A small, withered old woman wearing a gray maid’s uniform with a white apron stood in front of a stove stirring a pot.
“William, why aren’t you dressed for dinner? Our guests will be arriving soon.” Helen studied
Bill from head to toe with a disapproving look. She nodded towards the old woman. “Ann spent quite a bit of time making sure your uniform was brushed. It’s hanging in the hall closet.”
“Where did you find that dress? It looks like something my grandmother would wear and ... and ... you look so young,” Bill couldn’t believe the changes to his wife.
Helen sighed with exasperation. “It’s your homecoming, darling. The war is finally over. I’ve planned this for months. Must we argue?”
Bill took a step back. Her words stunned him. “My homecoming? The war? Helen, what’s go- ing on? What war? I haven’t been anywhere.”
“Darling, go change. It’s getting late,” Helen turned her back on him and continued sampling the appetizers.
At first, Bill refused to leave. He wanted an explanation, but the longer he stood there the more he felt compelled to do as his wife requested.
“Guess I’ll change clothes,” he said with resignation.
A tinkling dinner bell summoned him to the dining room. Bill was amazed the military jacket he found in the closet fit him so well. He could have sworn it was several sizes too small. A hall mirror allowed him to inspect his appearance before joining his wife. He wasn’t prepared for what he saw.
“Dear God,” he gasped. He was young — maybe 25 years old at best. The fifty pounds he always meant to lose were gone. His hair was once again dark brown and it covered his entire head. The military jacket fit him perfectly. It was as if it belonged to him. He touched several medals dangling on the front of the coat. “How can this be?”
“William, our guests are here. Quit preening. You look lovely,” Helen pulled him into the dining room.
A handsome man seated at the table rose to greet him. “Wonderful to have you home safe and sound, William.” He took Bill’s hand and shook it strongly.
“Thank you, Robert,” Bill didn’t know how he knew the man’s name.
A rather dowdy young woman came around the table and hugged Bill. “Save some sugar for
your sister,” she said.
“Always, Mary.” A sister? Bill thought. He was an only child. He looked at Helen for answers but
she was busy whispering to Robert. Then she touched the handsome man’s arm. It was a far too familiar gesture. Bill felt an unusual wave of jealousy wash over him.
The butler entered the dining room carrying a tray of champagne glasses. Helen took a glass and sat at one end of the table. Robert and Mary did the same. Only Bill remained standing. He took the last glass and waited for the butler to leave. The jealousy he felt moments before was now uncontrollable rage. His hand shook as he raised his glass.
“A toast to my beloved wife, Helen,” he nodded in her direction then turned towards the hand- some man. “And to her lover, my best friend, Robert.”
“William!” Helen exclaimed. Her champagne glass fell to the table.
“Did you really think I didn’t know?” Bill felt his heart beating out of control. He walked to the head of the table. “I’ve known for some time. You’re not a very good liar, Helen.” He put his hand on the white napkin next to his plate. “Yes, I had to wait for the right moment when I had the two of you together.” He pulled out a small revolver hidden under the napkin.
“William, please!” his wife pleaded. “Goodbye, Helen.”
**** *
“This home has been vacant for more than a year,” Sylvia March said as she showed her pro- spective clients the elegant living room. “All the furnishings are original and are part of the deal. By law I am obliged to tell you ...”
“Evelyn, look at this painting.” The young man interrupted Sylvia’s speech. He pulled his wife up to the portrait at the far end of the room. “How strange is this? Except for the clothes and hairstyle, you look just like her. She even has your red hair.” His eyes dropped to the inscription on the brass plate at the bottom of the frame: “My beloved wife Evelyn, 1918.”
| Nathalie Goldston is a Prescott writer whose critically- acclaimed novel, Valley of Sorrows, is available for free download on Amazon. njgolds1950@gmail.com
thenoise.us • the NOISE arts & news • APRIL 2014 • 39