The Rebel Wife Read Free Page A

at them, his hands prisoner under their weight. He lets out another shuddering groan. His arms collapse against the bed. He exhales with a click.
    And all is quiet. The blankets lie still against the bed. A soft wisp of breath slips from his mouth. His eyes fade. The frenzy and desire in them vanish. They are opaque and bleary. He is dead. My God, he is dead.
    I cannot cry. I do not want to cry, though I should weep for him. And for myself. And for these past ten years we spent together. For this thing that was our marriage. Whatever it was. And now my husband has died and left me a widow.
    The first pale hints of sunrise creep into the sky to color it a hard gray like gunmetal. Simon’s lamp still burns in his bedroom window. He has waited up all night. But I want to linger with Eli. I do not want to move. I do not want to leave this room. Why do I wait? The word widow vibrates in my head. It rolls on my tongue. Widow. My mouth shapes the word silently. I have counted so many days until I could call myself by that name. Widow.

Two
     
    HE SAYS “COME IN” before I knock. He must have heard my steps on the creaking stairs. I push the door open. He is fully dressed, sitting on a chair by his bed. He knows before I say a word. He weeps as I tell him. He slumps in his chair in the inappropriate intimacy of his room and cries into one dark hand as the other rests on his knee. I turn away from him, embarrassed. His tears for Eli come so easily.
    His room is simple. Sparsely furnished. A narrow bed. A table with a lamp. Newspapers are neatly folded on it, papers from Mobile and Montgomery and Nashville. There is a bureau with a mirror and a large color engraving in a simple wood frame. The drawing commemorates Robert Elliott’s speech in Congress. Elliott the Negro man elected from South Carolina because the Republicans kept white men from voting. Equality and freedom, the picture says: “The Shackles Broken by the Genius of Freedom.” Elliott spoke on the floor of Congress in favor of the Civil Rights Act. A Negro man speaking to Congress. Eli talked about it at length, certain it would mean real equality for colored men. Real equality with what? For what? All this talk about freedom and equality never made sense. You take from one and you give to another. That is what has happened. That is what happened to me, and it has nothing to do with equality.
    Simon takes his hand from his face and watches me read the engraving. I turn away from it as if I have no interest. He looks at me gravely, his eyes still wet, but with the sadness wiped away. His hands are large, dark-skinned on the back like oak bark, pale on the palm like the raw flesh of wood. Simon the snake killer.
    “Did he?” he says, pausing. He glances down at his hand and then looks at me. He sighs through his nose. The nostrils flare. It may be discomfort, as if he doubts what he is about to say. “Did he say anything to you, ma’am, before he died?”
    Simon’s loyalty to Eli must make him want to believe Eli was thinking of him as he passed. Should I tell him a lie? Something to comfort him? He doesn’t turn his eyes away from me. His stare is penetrating.
    “No, not a word.” The newspapers on his desk are squared one against the other. They will put something in the paper about Eli. Not too much. People cannot know too much about how he died. “He tried to speak. It seemed like he would. But he never said anything.” I have to turn away from him.
    “Could you make it out—what he was trying to say? Did he indicate anything at all to you?”
    His eyes narrow. I want to go back to the house.
    “No, nothing, Simon. Nothing at all. He didn’t mention any money, either, but I’m sure he has thought of you in his will.”
    His face is grim. He does not appreciate my response, but that is my answer. There is no more to say. He should be happy I answered at all. Maybe I should have made something up.
    “Was there something you wanted to know?”
    “No,