Shattered Silk Read Free

too much pride to break down in public and too much consideration for Ruth to subject her to a spectacle of blubbering defeat. She had bathed and clothed her disgusting body and brushed her nasty hair and tried to eat, and pretended that these wearisome and meaningless acts really mattered to her. She couldn't even sob and cry at night, for fear Ruth might hear. But she had looked forward to the moment when she could stop pretending, if only for a few hours, and wallow in self-pity. Get out of her bra and girdle, which were too tight-like every other stitch of clothing she had brought-put on a sloppy old housecoat, lie in bed, reading something banal and mindless, eat everything in the refrigerator that didn't require preparation, go to bed early.
    And cry herself to sleep.
    With a martyred sigh Karen climbed the stairs and entered her room-a guest room now, but once truly her own, when she had lived with Ruth. It looked much as it had then, except that now it was neat; the desk cleared of books and papers and chewed pencils, the floor and chairs uncluttered by clothing, shoes, and other debris. A big mahogany wardrobe served as a closet; houses of the early nineteenth century seldom had built-in closets. "Not that you need them," Ruth had once remarked in a rare moment of sarcasm. "You never hang up your clothes anyway."
    A reluctant, affectionate smile curved Karen's lips as she remembered. What a carefree slob she had been in those days! She had come full circle-still a slob, but no longer carefree. She had intended to go back to school after she married, get her degree. It had seemed easy then; after all, Jack was on the faculty. But somehow there never was time. She had taken a course or two over the years, but there was always a manuscript that needed typing or a list of references to be checked; and of course Jack's work was so much more important than anything she could hope to accomplish.
    She had learned to type. Jack had encouraged her in that-it was such a useful skill. It had certainly been useful to him, but she supposed she should be grateful that he had insisted, for now it was her only marketable skill. (What a hateful word-marketable-as if she were a piece of lifeless merchandise.) She had acted as Jack's research assistant for ten years, but without the formal title, or the salary. That was going to look great on a resume. Perhaps Jack would write a reference for her.
    Karen reminded herself, not for the first time, that she was in a better position than many women whose marriages have failed. Her marriage had only lasted ten years, not twenty-five or thirty. It wasn't too late for her to acquire new skills.
    But which ones? There was nothing she wanted to do. Absolutely nothing.
    Sunlight sifted through the curtains, warming the soft blue print of the ruffled pillow shams and matching spread, awakening golden shimmers in the polished surfaces of the furniture. The tall pier glass reflected the four-poster bed, with its knotted-lace canopy.
    It also reflected Karen. Depression deepened into despair as she studied the pale defeated face and slumped body of the woman in the mirror. What made matters worse-if they could be worse-was that for an instant she had a memory-vision of the girl who had once smiled back at her from that same mirror. A tall, slim girl with long legs and bright dark eyes, and a mane of black hair that shone with a life of its own.
    There was no gray in her hair, but it no longer swung free around her shoulders. Lifeless as charcoal, it lay on her head like a wig that might have been plucked at random from a shelf in a department store. Lifeless like her hopes and her ambition and her self-esteem.
    The eyes of the memory-girl in the mirror seemed to sparkle, as if in mockery. Don't laugh at me, shadow girl. You, of all people, ought to sympathize--
    Karen fumbled with the fastening of her skirt. Her breath came out in an unpremeditated gasp as the zipper parted. She stepped out of the