life is past. It was a long time ago. It was not your fault. Don’t think about it anymore.”
She looked so far away.
“It doesn’t matter to me. Nobody’s pure. My daughter, my Francesca was pure, but nobody else.”
He passed her in the hall, they sat at dinner, and she was beautiful and unknowable. He wanted to lead her to his bed, his
father’s huge cherry bed with the massive carved headboard and the finely laid, perfectly crisp sheets. He wanted to pull
back the coverlet and lay her gently against the cool and antiseptic white of the linen sheets, the sheets the machines in
his mills wove all day long every day. He wanted with all his heart to stand in front of her as he pulled back his braces,
undid in seconds the buttons and belts of his own clothes. He would lay his father’s heavy silver watch on the nightstand.
He would lie down beside her in his one-piece underwear, washed by Mrs. Larsen, changed every day, always clean, the buttons
buttoned from crotch to neck.
Every piece of his clothing was always clean. He bathed every day before it was light, the water scalding, and the air in
the room like a Turkish bath, thick with fragrant steam. He would stand in front of her and not think about how strong and
solid his body had once been. He would not think about how he had thrown himself away on whores.
They would gasp, the whores, when they saw him naked. At the strength and grace of his body, a strength and grace even he
could see, looking at himself naked in a long mirror. They would giggle with joy, and say things in Italian he could barely
understand. That was a long time ago.
He looked at Catherine. He imagined her in bed. In his bed.
He wanted to hold her face until she finally raised her eyes to look at him. He wanted to look in her eyes and know who she
was, who she was in her hidden soul. He wanted to kiss her with his hands on her cheeks. He wanted her to answer his kiss
with an eager tongue. He wanted to feel the moment her hand moved beneath the cotton of his shirt and touched, for the very
first time, the hair of his chest, the skin of his body. He wanted her to want all this and he wanted her to fear it, but
he wanted her to submit.
Sometimes his loneliness was like a fire beneath his skin. Sometimes he had thought of taking his razor and slicing his own
flesh, peeling back the skin that would not stop burning.
But he knew it would not happen, not happen to him, not ever.
“There’s something I would like.” She stared into the fire. It was the first, the only wish she had expressed.
“Of course.”
“I want a wedding dress. I want to send to Chicago for some material and make a wedding dress. It’s something girls dream
of.
I want a ring. Nothing large or fancy. My father told me I would never have one, and for that reason I want it. Not to spite
him, but to say to myself that sometimes your little dreams come true, no matter what people tell you.”
“I’ll get whatever you want. I told you.”
“You needn’t worry. I don’t expect much. Ours is an arrangement, yes? Not a childish passion. We both have reasons.” And she
smiled at him, the first time he had seen her smile. Her smile aroused in him a longing for something, the past perhaps, that
brought him almost to tears.
“Gray, I thought. Silk, if . . . I could wear it again. After the wedding. Or I could give it to my daughter one day, if we
were to have children.”
“Order whatever you want. Write it down, and I’ll telegraph for it tomorrow.”
He thought of her standing in this house in a wedding dress she had made with her own hands. He thought of the mortal sins
that raced through his bloodstream. He thought his desire had putrefied. He thought his desires would kill her. He thought,
yes, they would have a child, and it would emerge, another monster.
He did not think of wanting the woman whose photograph lay in his drawer, along with the letter which Catherine
She looked so far away.
“It doesn’t matter to me. Nobody’s pure. My daughter, my Francesca was pure, but nobody else.”
He passed her in the hall, they sat at dinner, and she was beautiful and unknowable. He wanted to lead her to his bed, his
father’s huge cherry bed with the massive carved headboard and the finely laid, perfectly crisp sheets. He wanted to pull
back the coverlet and lay her gently against the cool and antiseptic white of the linen sheets, the sheets the machines in
his mills wove all day long every day. He wanted with all his heart to stand in front of her as he pulled back his braces,
undid in seconds the buttons and belts of his own clothes. He would lay his father’s heavy silver watch on the nightstand.
He would lie down beside her in his one-piece underwear, washed by Mrs. Larsen, changed every day, always clean, the buttons
buttoned from crotch to neck.
Every piece of his clothing was always clean. He bathed every day before it was light, the water scalding, and the air in
the room like a Turkish bath, thick with fragrant steam. He would stand in front of her and not think about how strong and
solid his body had once been. He would not think about how he had thrown himself away on whores.
They would gasp, the whores, when they saw him naked. At the strength and grace of his body, a strength and grace even he
could see, looking at himself naked in a long mirror. They would giggle with joy, and say things in Italian he could barely
understand. That was a long time ago.
He looked at Catherine. He imagined her in bed. In his bed.
He wanted to hold her face until she finally raised her eyes to look at him. He wanted to look in her eyes and know who she
was, who she was in her hidden soul. He wanted to kiss her with his hands on her cheeks. He wanted her to answer his kiss
with an eager tongue. He wanted to feel the moment her hand moved beneath the cotton of his shirt and touched, for the very
first time, the hair of his chest, the skin of his body. He wanted her to want all this and he wanted her to fear it, but
he wanted her to submit.
Sometimes his loneliness was like a fire beneath his skin. Sometimes he had thought of taking his razor and slicing his own
flesh, peeling back the skin that would not stop burning.
But he knew it would not happen, not happen to him, not ever.
“There’s something I would like.” She stared into the fire. It was the first, the only wish she had expressed.
“Of course.”
“I want a wedding dress. I want to send to Chicago for some material and make a wedding dress. It’s something girls dream
of.
I want a ring. Nothing large or fancy. My father told me I would never have one, and for that reason I want it. Not to spite
him, but to say to myself that sometimes your little dreams come true, no matter what people tell you.”
“I’ll get whatever you want. I told you.”
“You needn’t worry. I don’t expect much. Ours is an arrangement, yes? Not a childish passion. We both have reasons.” And she
smiled at him, the first time he had seen her smile. Her smile aroused in him a longing for something, the past perhaps, that
brought him almost to tears.
“Gray, I thought. Silk, if . . . I could wear it again. After the wedding. Or I could give it to my daughter one day, if we
were to have children.”
“Order whatever you want. Write it down, and I’ll telegraph for it tomorrow.”
He thought of her standing in this house in a wedding dress she had made with her own hands. He thought of the mortal sins
that raced through his bloodstream. He thought his desire had putrefied. He thought his desires would kill her. He thought,
yes, they would have a child, and it would emerge, another monster.
He did not think of wanting the woman whose photograph lay in his drawer, along with the letter which Catherine
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