The Sister's Tale by Beth Powning (e reader for manga .txt) 📕

“Of course, Harland. I have asked the same of you, so many times.” She thought of Lucy’s letter. We refuse to absorb these false descriptions. If a woman had asked for her advice, she would not demur. She reached forward and touched the cuff of his shirt. “What is it, Harland?”

“Permelia and I have had the most terrible fight of our marriage. Words have been spoken that can never be forgotten. Words have been shouted that cannot be unsaid. It began after supper, last night. We raged on and off, and then it started up again after breakfast. She came to the store. She laid down her demands. She had them all written out on a piece of paper. She…she simply laid down the paper and walked out. I have not been home yet.”

He pressed a hand to his face. In the cave of his palm, his breath was shaky, hoarse. He took down his hand and leaned his head against the back of the chair. A tear brimmed in one eye and rolled down into his moustache.

“What were her demands?”

“Most were to do with the business. She feels I am not running it well. She thinks I spend too much time on my weather station and my notes. She thinks I’m resting on my father’s accomplishments and am not responding to the ‘changing times.’ She has been going over the books behind my back. She wants me to fire the people I now employ, except for my daughters, of course. She wants changes made to the store—how it looks, what I buy, who I hire. She wants things for herself, as well. A new stove, dresses for the girls, things I have been…putting off.”

“Well. It could be worse. I would assume you can afford to do at least some of those things.”

“Yes. That is not…really…I should not paint my wife in such a negative way. She is a good friend to the girls, a loving and attentive mother. She is an upstanding citizen, as you know from all her committee work and…”

He made a circle in the air with his fingers.

“…and so on. In fact, Permelia has more business acumen than I do. Were we better suited in temperament, perhaps we could run the store together. But that is the crux of the issue. We could not run a business together. We cannot make a marriage together.”

“Oh, Harland.”

“Truly, Josephine. I do not know how I am going to return home tonight. I don’t know how I can walk into the house and smile at the girls and sit down at the dinner table and talk about the day. I feel like…”

He held his gaze on the uppermost part of the tall windows.

“I would like to be heading west with—”

“A fur cap?” She smiled, joking. “A gun and a tent and a trapline and snowshoes?”

He dashed at the wetness on his cheek with the back of his hand. She wanted to do for him what she would have done for Simeon. Run a hand through his hair. Straighten his collar.

“Josephine. I have only one life. And you have only one life.”

“And you have a good life, Harland. You will repair this.”

“No. My marriage is a thing that never existed. There is nothing to repair.”

“No love between you?”

“Love. So much talk of love. Love for Christ. Love for our fellow man. I search myself. I suppose I love my daughters, in a kind of way. Although sometimes I wonder if they love me. They take on their mother’s attitudes. Sometimes I wonder if I…I think that what I feel for…”

“Love is…wanting to tell someone every beautiful thing you see. Sharing the love you feel for your children. Not…oh, not finishing a sentence because you know the other person could finish it for you. Love is…feeling your…your…”

Her voice thickened. Even as the tears came, she watched herself, as if another Josephine were acting a part; she forbade herself to cry, and still the tears came, changing her into a person of whom she had no control, who might say anything.

“My last gift to him…remember, Harland, it was Christmas when he was expected…still wrapped, still in his…bureau…”

Harland was on his knees beside her chair. He took her hand. He slid an arm over her shoulder and pulled her to him. She wept against the white linen jacket, smelling Permelia’s Sunlight soap, feeling his lips pressed to her head and his breath on her scalp.

Just for a minute, she thought, just let me rest here for a minute, as if he is the husband I have lost. It occurred to her, then, that although she was not in love with Harland she did, indeed, love him dearly.

Her tears subsided. She was in her own parlour. A man was on his knees beside the tea table with his arms around her. She pulled away. He returned to his chair.

“We could marry, Josephine. I could divorce.”

She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. She avoided his eyes and knew that in this avoidance he, too, returned to himself. He patted his vest and looked down.

The buttons. Awry.

“Have they been that way all day, Harland?” she said.

He looked up at her.

“You know, I care for you dearly,” she murmured. “We can go on together, caring for one another dearly. You know this, Harland. It is another kind of love.”

He bent his head and did not answer. She watched his fingers, working the buttons.

—

No one watched as Josephine pulled her nightgown over her head. No one noticed how the satin ribbons were worn or observed the stitches where she had repaired the cambric ruffle. No one murmured tender words.

She climbed into bed and lay back against the pillows. The kerosene lamp on her bedside table pulled from the darkness the wallpaper’s entwined flowers. Out the window, she could see the lights of a neighbouring window, interrupted by the shiver of leaves.

She put her hand to her hair,