The Promise by Ann Weisgarber

Oscar could have married Nan but he wanted better for Andre. ‘The right way to talk,’ he had told me, ‘manners and suchlike. You do things right.’
    Yesterday, the wedding band was too big, but today my fingers were puffy. From the salt air, I believed. I slid the band past my fingernail and down my finger. Oscar must have predicted the swelling. Today, the band fit.
    In Oscar’s bedroom – our bedroom – the gray weathered barn was visible from the west windows. I opened the back door and went out to the narrow porch where there were two wicker chairs. In the distance, a wide body of water shimmered in the sun. The bayou, I thought. Between it and the house, reddish-brown and beige cows grazed, a few of them in the shade cast by a stunted tree that leaned toward the bayou, its lower branches touching the ground. Other cows were knee deep in the small ponds scattered throughout the rough, bushy land. At one, a tall white bird with a long neck stood at the marshy edge. There was no sign of Oscar. Nor were there any signs of houses.
    I went back inside. My traveling trunks and the stack of hatboxes were next to the wardrobe. From the kitchen, I heard the clinking of pots and crockery as Nan washed the dishes.
    The wardrobe was tall and imposing in this small room. Its two doors were plain and so too was the crown molding that trimmed the top. For months, this wardrobe held the memory of Bernadette for Oscar. I was not the only one to hold on to the past.
    I opened the doors.
    There was no sign of Bernadette, not even a stray button. Instead, there were bare hangers, and Oscar’s clothes.
    So few things, I thought. He had two coats: one was wool for winter, and the other was made of canvas and waxed for rain. Near the coats were a pair of dark trousers, a gray shirt, a vest, and the suit and white shirt Oscar had worn to the city.
    I touched the sleeve of the white shirt and rubbed it between my thumb and fingers. It was mussed from wear but the cotton fabric had body. It was new. He’d bought it for the wedding, I imagined, with the hope that I would think well of him.
    Oscar’s other shirt – the gray one – was faded and the cuffs were frayed. I have left Ohio and am Making my Own Way as a Hand at the Circle C Ranch, he had written in one of his early letters. He had been young and alone, and I couldn’t begin to fathom what it had been like for him when he came to Texas. Nor when his wife died, leaving him with a child.
    One of the lower drawers in the bottom of the wardrobe was empty but in the other, I found a small wood box the size of a cigar case. It was smooth and looked to be made of walnut with light streaks running through the grain. In the center of the lid was an inlaid W . I started to open it, then stopped. It was not mine. I returned it to the drawer.
    ‘Settle in,’ Oscar had told me. From one of my trunks, I took out the navy skirt that I had worn yesterday for the wedding. I shook it, then folded it lengthwise and draped it over a hanger. I hung it in the wardrobe and all at once, I was overcome by the intimacy of my skirt so close to Oscar’s clothes.
    Flushing, I closed the doors and stepped away. I touched my earrings; I thought of Edward but in my mind, I saw him as if he were in a distant haze.
    A different image filled my thoughts. I was on a stage with the two other women in my ensemble. My evening gown was a deep blue, and I was seated before a Steinway. My hands poised above the keyboard, I looked to Helen Christopher, the violinist. Her bow hovered over the strings. The audience was quiet, and a feeling of anticipation filled the concert hall. I waited for Helen’s nod.
    Pain squeezed my chest. I had given up everything I had known for a man whose face was slipping from my memory.
    Outside the house, dogs barked, a wild confusion of noise. Someone whistled, quick and sharp. The barking stopped and was replaced by the creak and groan of moving wagons. Through the window, I saw