Free Quiet Dell: A Novel by Jayne Anne Phillips

that rinsed her clean.
    After, she lay in the deep bath in steaming, fragrant water, easing her soreness, weeping with relief and gratitude. He would not leave her. She would do as he asked whenever he asked and pose no questions and it would be as though he had never left her. Daily, she changed their sheets, scrubbing the pale gold stains with bleach. Her complete dependence was established anew between them. The safety of her home and children and her only hope lay in his hands that bruised and caressed and demanded an animal intimacy. They must be creatures feasting on one another. His desires demeaned and humiliated her; she performed base actions and lost all sense, for he dissolved all boundaries by which she kept herself apart. She could only surmise, throbbing in the hot bath, that childless Dora pleased him in all ways, that Dora welcomed and encouraged him, while Asta had forced him to deny himself, had evaded and denied. She would never again deny him.
    The accident was four days later. A streetcar, in the Loop, in darkening, swirling snow. Instantaneous, she was told. He did not suffer.
    Suffer? A chasm opened before her and she stood on a precipice, surveying vast dimensions, for there was no way to cross over. His life insurance of two thousand dollars was smaller than expected, for he had taken his commissions in cash and not reinvested a percentage. Lavinia’s funds were set aside to educate thechildren. The house, free and clear, was their only other asset. They would borrow against it, even as they rented out rooms and lowered expenses.
    Mr. Malone at the bank was most kind. He first met with her in the week after the funeral, leaning toward her over his broad desk. “Mrs. Eicher, may I ask the ages of your children?”
    “Why, Annabel is four, Hart seven, and Grethe, the eldest, is nine.”
    “Yes, and the life insurance has been paid you, and how long can you make it last?”
    “I think, a year or more.”
    “His firm offered no other help?”
    “They paid the funeral expenses, which they stressed was a generosity. Heinrich was engaged in the commission of his work, but it was after hours, the accident.”
    “I see. Are these your account books?”
    “Yes, my husband’s account books. I’m sure you are far more familiar with the figures than I, as Heinrich did not share such details. We had a very traditional marriage . . .”
    Here she blushed, in remembrance of her own actions the afternoon Heinrich returned to her, and in the nights following. It occurred to her now, sitting opposite Mr. Malone, that perhaps Heinrich had pretended she was Dora, that he missed Dora and wanted Dora.
    “Yes.” Mr. Malone looked at her intently, as though to focus her attention. “The traditional arrangement of finances is quite common, Mrs. Eicher, though I’m not sure it’s wise. Heinrich was in excellent health and, like many men in their prime, had no reason to suspect a shortened life. He was an athlete in his youth, wasn’t he? A boxer?”
    “Yes. He won trophies, in Europe, at twenty, before we met.”
    “Yes, he spoke of it.” Malone took off his glasses, folded his hands. His eyes were brown, warmly golden, his thick dark hair silver at the temples. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Malone. I do appreciate your frank advisement.”Her voice caught slightly, and he rose to get her a glass of water. He was tall and broad in the shoulders; Heinrich had said Mr. Malone rode horses, that they sometimes saw him in the park, cantering a long-limbed roan, as they walked the pony. Lavinia said he was Catholic, and childless; his wife was not well.
    He set the glass of water, poured from a covered glass carafe, before her. “I do advise my clients to set aside far more than life insurance, but Heinrich looked forward to full-time engagement in your mutual design business, and he put monies toward it, understanding there would not be immediate return.”
    She pushed the account