Bedelia by Vera Caspary Page A

wildness of the wind and river.
    He cursed the storm and begged God for its cessation.
    Bedelia lay in bed and watched as Charlie hung up her dress, set her shoes on the shelf, rolled her corset in its string and put it into the proper drawer. The room smelled of sachet, cologne, and the dry heat of the steam radiator.
    â€œDon’t ever believe a word Ben tells you,” Bedelia whispered.
    Charlie whirled around. “Ben? What’s he got to do with it?”
    â€œHe’s against us.”
    Charlie sat on the edge of the bed, took Bedelia’s cold hand, and scowled down into her face. “Don’t be ridiculous. Ben’s a fine chap. You’ve always liked him.”
    â€œHe’s against you, Charlie.”
    â€œI don’t know what you mean.”
    â€œHe’ll hurt us. That’s all he cares about, to hurt us and ruin our lives.”
    Charlie looked at the window, tried to measure the storm’s intensity, wondering whether it would be possible for the doctor to reach the house that night. The curtains had not been drawn and the darkness outside made the window a mirror so that Charlie saw reflected the lamplight, the pink chair, and himself at the edge of the bed, holding his wife’s hand. It was a reassuring picture. Solid walls shut out the blizzard.
    â€œPlease, Charlie, let’s go away. I don’t want to stay here any longer,” she said pathetically. She made it sound as simple as if it were an afternoon’s excursion that she had suggested.
    â€œWhat’s the matter? Has Ben done anything to you? Has he insulted you?” The blood ran hot in Charlie’s veins, his fists clenched, his head throbbed. He recalled Ben Chaney’s wayof watching Bedelia, remembered the night at Jaffney’s Tavern when she had worn the black pearl and her white hand had rested in Ben’s swarthy hand above the platter of lobster and lemon wedges. “By God, I’ll strangle him.”
    She had buried her face in the pillow and was shaking and sobbing again. The wind split the world, shattering rocks, dividing the rivers. The sky was about to fall, the earth to explode, the waters to rise up and devour them.
    Against his wife’s hysteria Charlie was impotent. And impotence aggravated his fury. He was wildly angry, his eyes bulged out of his head, his face was stained a purplish red, and when he spoke his voice shook with anger. “Tell me,” he implored. “Tell me!” he commanded, but all in vain. She burrowed deeper in the pillows, hid her face, stiffened if his hand brushed against her.
    The storm’s fury died. The wind retreated, the waters were lulled. The earth became solid again. And Bedelia fell asleep, her head on her bare arm. Emotion had exhausted her. She slept like a child, breathing aloud. Charlie covered her, lit her night lamp, and went downstairs.
    He vowed that he would think calmly, he swore that he would banish all suspicion from his mind, he struggled to find reasons for his wife’s sudden hysteria. And this was as vain as his commands and his pleadings to Bedelia. Why had she begged him to run off with her? Why was she afraid of Ben Chaney? He’ll hurt us . Why, for God’s sake? That’s all he cares about, to hurt us and ruin our lives. If this were true, if Ben were, as Bedelia had argued, against them, why had he shown no signs of enmity until today? Had he tried to be . . . or, God deny such treachery, been . . . Bedelia’s lover? Was he urging her to desert her husband and run off with him? Had he, when Bedelia refused his entreaties, threatened to expose her infidelity?
    Charlie could not believe it. The idea of such betrayal was the fruit of a sick imagination, rotten fruit fertilized by suspicion, fear and lack of self-esteem. In Charlie’s house there was no room for such treachery. Infidelity had never dwelt in the old Philbrick house, could never dwell there. The ceilings would rot,