They wouldn't let me go into Thomas' office. A thin, wooden door separated him and me. Behind that door was his dominion where I had no right to meddle, a sacred place I had to knock for permission.
I couldn't care less.
The presence of a visitor was informed. Was it a woman? I wondered. There was no sound coming from within, at least not loud enough for my prying ears to hear.
"Fucking someone for business isn't infidelity." I remembered he said.
"Does that apply to me as well?" I asked mockingly.
"No." He laughed like it was a joke. But it was an honest question. "Do you think I'd let another man touch my wife like it's some sort of transaction?"
I waited.
"Well." He lit a cigarette before snickering sarcastically.
-----
It wasn't a woman after all, and I was disappointed without a logical or appropriate reason. I had been turning a blind eye to that type of business. There were things I didn't need, nor want, to know.
I watched the man disappear at the end of the hall before I put out my cigarette and let myself in. I couldn't see his face, though he held an odd sense of familiarity. Thomas was sitting behind his spacious, black office table. His brown hair was neatly combed to the side, and no wrinkle could be seen on his clothing. He ensured the maids ironed them thoroughly, asked them to bring his suits in, and made them wait while he inspected their work. They had always been terrified of him when he did that. I knew so because at times, they'd come to me red-eyed.
"Mr. Murphy was mad about the wrinkles. I didn't even see them." Mary would say as if she expected me to show her mercy and talk him out of his ways. I let him have his ways, and he let me smoke anywhere in the house as I pleased.
Two green velvet armchairs were there so I could pick one as my temporary seat. I chose to stand. A half-full glass of bourbon stood on the edge of the desk. The lingering smoke was ascending from the cigarette butts lying defeatedly in the rarely used art deco ashtray. It used to belong to me, for it was a gift from the man before Thomas, the man I wasn't allowed to speak of, ever.
"Yes?" He asked.
"I shot Giulio." I shrugged. He didn't seem to mind. "He knew too much."
"And?"
"It was Lizzie," I said, "though I have reasons to believe she never intended to use it on your father."
"Of course not." Thomas leaned back in his chair. "She speaks of words she can't handle. She'll never have a strong enough heart, or mind, to debut as a killer of any kind."
"If I may, I think Mary stole the poison from her." I bit my bottom lip. "I don't know how. Perhaps another maid was involved since the maids know each other surprisingly well."
"Have you asked Wesley?" Thomas put his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands.
"Pardon?"
"Ask Wesley Lee." He slid forward a bit in his chair and repeated. "If you had asked him, then you'd know a maid of Lizzie's frequents his tavern and is utterly infatuated with him."
"You've planned it all out, haven't you?" I asked recklessly.
He shrugged.
The room was hot, and I was getting nauseous again. There was no water I could ask for, only bourbon.
"Thomas," I had to sit down, almost pleading, "Thomas…."
"Personal matters should never stand in the way of business." He grabbed the bottle from the shelf behind him and poured bourbon into a fresh glass. "We can't have too many empty seats at the table once Victoria's gone, can we?"
"I thought you wanted her in the family." I narrowed my eyes. "Isn't she the daughter of your friend? Wasn't that the reason you introduced her to Laurie so you could build some useful connections?"
"You know why I introduced her to him." He put his feet up on the desk and laced his fingers. "And now they are both miserable."
"No, you are not going to blame me for that." I straightened my back. "You will not sit here, lie to my face, and say that your little matchmaking venture was only for Laurie's good."
"Believe what you want." He threw his hands. "Victoria will be gone. And Wesley will be in."
"You don't trust Wesley, and he doesn't trust you." I slurred. "How are you going to make him loyal?"
My husband moved the previous guest's glass to the side and pushed the new one towards me: "Can't you guess the answer?"
I didn't take the bourbon.
"See, you're smart; you know what it is." He smirked. "Though I warn you, don't run to him and say, or do, anything stupid."
"I know my place very well." I stood up. The heat was unbearable. "I'll keep my mouth shut."
I was angry at him for Wesley. Was there anything I could do? I supposed I could do something. But my wish was for Wesley to stay, and despite the cruelty of Thomas' plan, in this way, my wish would be granted.
"Good." He smiled approvingly, reaching for a pack of cigarettes hidden in his top desk drawer. He made me watch him flickering the lighter, lighting his smoke, taking a puff, and picking up the glass that was meant for me. "Don't take it personally."
I hated when I wondered what he saw me as and whether he had ever cared for me. I hoped he had tried, even just the slightest, for I had tried to care for him. But after everything that had happened and would soon happen, that kind of request would be marked as greed.
"Greed is a cardinal sin," the fair-haired man from before said.
-----
Lizzie sat on her porch stairs with a cigarette hanging off the corner of her mouth with a glass of gin in hand. Her platinum blonde curls were frizzled from the moisture in the thin afternoon air. The tiny, round sweat drops decorated her forehead like those pearl and feather headbands she'd worn at parties.
"Finally." She sighed. I could tell it was out of relief, though she managed to sound bothered. "It's about time for you to show up. Don't think I have all day for you."
"I would never dare." I winked and walked past her.
She scorned and sped up to open the door for me. She didn't do this often. It was a newfound honor of mine to make her nervous enough to forget her silver enamel cigarette holder.
"Is Warren home?" I asked and handed my hat to her young maid.
"Is he ever?" Lizzie said bitterly. "I think he's already forgotten what the children look like."
The children. Not our children, his children, or my children. The children. I wondered if this was her way to detach herself and make it impersonal. It hurt less that way, I thought.
"Is that why you wanted him dead?" I was frank. "I know what you bought from that apothecary in Downtown."
She froze before the naked cigarette could touch her painted lips, like an actual photograph, but in color. She had her back to me, and in the slowest motion, she turned around. Her rouged cheeks disguised the paleness underneath.
"I did." She took a puff and confessed remorselessly. "But not anymore. I threw it away. He's a horrible father, but still better than the children to not have a father at all. Plus, I wouldn't like to get into a scandal at the peak of my career."
I curled my lip.
"How did you know?" She asked, pointing her burning cigarette at me. "What business do you have with that place? I'll tell Thomas, you know."
"I won't bore you with my work," I said. "You don't have all day."
She scoffed and put out her cigarette in the glass vase. I glanced over at the maid. She was staring at the floating ashes in her mistress' new ashtray in horror.
"Basement." She gestured as she led me to the destination of my trip.
I felt a void, like the void and absence in Lizzie's voice. The kind of voice she would use only when she was terrified, which didn't often happen either.
In front of the door, she stopped. She looked into my eyes with concern that I had never seen in her. Shaking her head, she lit another cigarette, naked again, and pushed the double doors open.
Two men, one older and one younger. In gowns. The older one came up to me:
"Good day, Mrs. Murphy."
"I prefer not to speak, please," I said. "Pleasantries aren't necessary."
"I'll wait upstairs, ask for me if you need anything." Lizzie leaned against the frame. It was not what was about to happen in this room that scared her. What a pity, she'd say, nothing less, nothing more, with her cigarette firmly in place of that silver enamel holder, the one she claimed to be gifted by a Russian Duchess. The royal in exile was what she felt about herself.
It was her brother that she was afraid of.
The doors were closed behind her. I listened to the echo of her T-strap heels fading away.
I started to undress. It was odd to feel shy when presenting myself in front of strange men when I used to be good at it. There wasn't any shame in that trade. I was a cunning and skillful trader. I traded for cigarettes, for silk dresses, for diamonds, for information, and once, just once, for an illusion of love.
The young one didn't know where to look and decided it was easier for him to stare at the tips of his shoes. Perhaps it was his first time. Maybe he was in training. I could be his training. An organic material, in the flesh, looking at him with real eyes. He could think of me as a soft mannequin, and I him a grandfather clock, like the one by the table. He reminded me of Charlie. Would his hair frizzle in the heat too? I wondered—quite a wrong time to think of him. I let the thought of him go.
I was laid on the makeshift recliner. They tried to make it comfortable with an extra blanket. I could still feel the coldness of the metal, like a slab ready to take me with it.
I stared at the ceiling. There were some watermarks to entertain me. What was happening at the lower part of this recliner was to be ignored for reasonable measures.
-----
The body was a vessel in that basement, and I was a drifter. I thought about him. His dark wheat-colored hair, his amber-colored eyes. His tiny hands reached for me as he smiled. An innocent, worriless giggle, a giggle I would never hear again. Where was he? Perhaps his father had taken good care of him, and he'd gotten a woman to replace me, to love him as it should be. I imagined her to have a finger wave, stand tall, and be generously kind. She would hold him on her lap and smile in the family photo with his father standing behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder. Or perhaps he was dead. His little body dressed in a tiny suit, wrapped in his favorite soft terry cloth blanket, lying in a small mahogany coffin – I'd like to think his father would spend some money on him – buried deep under the ground, eating away by worms, and turning into dust.
He was taken away from me. Disappeared without a trace. He was not wanted. But he was loved. In the sleepless nights, I knelt by the dim-lit mantelpiece, hidden-away photo in hand, tears dried, and said to myself that I'd find him. I never did. It was safer for him to live life remembering nothing of me. Tucked away in a locked chest in my memory, he was safe from any prying eye. Though I was certain Thomas knew of him, even he had never inquired. Those nights I heard soft sighs behind me from the doorway and quiet footsteps fading away. He only cared about selected fragments of my past, where that child was not part of them. He wanted me to know he knew. He wanted me to know my place – a subordinate, an obedient lamb at his feet – and he ruled over me.
He'd be in my prayers tonight. When I knelt by the bed, hands clasped, I'd pray for him to be in peace, to have found peace, or whatever its equivalent was for a child his age.
"The LORD bless you and keep you; the LORD make his face shine on you and be gracious to you; the LORD turn his face toward you and give you peace."
-----
Lizzie was leaning against the banister, my hat in one hand and a burning cigarette in another. That damned silver enamel holder had reappeared. She let the ash fall around her.
"I won't ask," she said, handing over my hat, "and you won't speak of it."
I nodded: "I'll show myself out."
"You can't trust me to keep my lips sealed on this." She warned. Staring at the front door, she wouldn't see me in the eye. "I'm obliged to tell if I don't want to get into trouble."
"I know." My hand was on the door. Half turned, I said: "Thank you."
I received a sigh in return.
"Wait!" She yelled when I turned the doorknob. I didn't look back. Regretting her decision to speak up, her voice began to trail off. "Take care of yourself, all right?"