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Rosie still remembers the first time she saw him. She had been out with her father when he needed to stop by the station to take care of some police business, and she couldn’t help noticing the young constable on duty with his roguish grin and laughing eyes. He’d flirted with her slyly, seeming to enjoy the way he could make her blush, but there was a gentleness about his teasing that tugged at her heart.
When he started courting her, she could tell that, for all his cheeky bravado, he was nervous about who her father was. He’d show up at their door to take her to the theatre or perhaps a picnic along the shoreline, dressed impeccably and formal almost to the point of deferential. He needn’t have worried. Father had told her in private that Constable Robinson had a good head on his shoulders and showed remarkable potential, and she could do far worse than accept his suit.
He would read her poetry and make her laugh, and when he looked in her eyes, he made her feel like she was the only person in the entire world to him. The day he’d swallowed heavily two or three times before following her father into his study to ask for her hand, she’d waited impatiently in the parlor, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart. When he’d emerged a quarter hour later, he seemed a bit dazed. And when he’d gone down on one knee, he became shy, stumbling a bit over his words and fumbling with the small box in the pocket of his jacket, and she was charmed by the vulnerability of this beautiful, brilliant man who was handing her his heart. She said Yes, trembling as he placed the ring on her finger. He stood, eyes alight with relief and joy, and swept her into his arms. She clung to him, dizzy with delight, feeling safe and loved and almost in awe of the beauty of it, knowing that her happily-ever-after had come true.
*****
Although she’d seen glimpses of his quiet side, here and there, when he thought she wasn’t looking, it wasn’t until after they wed that she started to become familiar with Serious Jack. Most of the time, when he spoke of his work, he’d endeavor to come up with funny stories about the characters who had come through the station, acting out different parts in exaggerated voices, sending her into helpless giggles at his descriptions of their antics. But sometimes, he’d come home pensive and withdrawn, pleading tiredness. She’d feed him dinner and rub his neck, and by the morning, he’d be back to his normal self.
One night, after a particularly long shift and perhaps one too many tumblers of scotch, he’d tried telling her what it was really like: the grinding poverty that drove so many to their desperate actions... the fear, anger, and resigned hopelessness of the pickpockets and drunkards, brawlers and thieves who populated his days. For her part, she tried to understand, wanting to be there for the man she loved, because she ached when he was unhappy.
“But Jack,” she finally blurted out, “these people are criminals!”
His face went blank. He looked at her, distantly, and she felt a chill, wondering who or what he was seeing in her. Then the moment passed. The corner of his mouth quirked up.
“My sweet, innocent rose,” he murmured, leaning forward to brush his lips against her forehead. They made love, and she was happy, relieved to have moved past all that.
He never spoke of it again.
*****
Et puis, la guerre….
She was so proud of him. He’d looked so handsome in his uniform, before he shipped out. He’d sheepishly allowed her to run her hands over his newly shorn head, the bristly hairs tickling her palms. They’d kissed, long and sweet, and then he’d turned away to join the mass of young men all headed to the war, looking back once or twice to catch her eye and smile before he disappeared.
She wrote him letters, long and homey, talking about the squash she’d planted in the garden and Mrs. Edgerton’s chickens and her father’s latest promotion. She’d made new curtains for the kitchen, and she couldn’t wait for him to come home so he could see the way they brightened up the room. She didn’t mention that her belly remained flat and her courses still arrived on time; he didn’t need to add her disappointment to his own worries. Besides, there would be plenty of time when he got back to take care of that. She missed him dreadfully: the warmth of his eyes, his skin... the way he calmed her fears and made everything okay. But she refused to allow herself to wallow in self-pity, choosing to busy herself however she could, building dreams of how life would be when this horrible war was over and their lives would go back to how they’d been.
*****
He had been back nearly 6 months now. Rosie’s smile had grown overly bright and rarely reached her eyes. What was wrong with him? So many young men had been killed, but he— her husband, her Jack— had come home. So why wasn’t he happy? He should be grateful that he survived. Instead, he seemed determined to wallow in self-pity and guilt and she didn’t even know what he was going through. It was just so frustrating that he wouldn’t even try.
And yet, at night, when she lay alone in their bed, listening to his restless movements in the kitchen (the scrape of the chair against the floor, the creak of the floorboard by the stove, then back to the table, followed by silence intermittently broken by the rustle of papers or the turning of a page), her traitor’s heart whispered her fears.
It’s you, it would accuse. If you were a better wife, he’d be happy. What type of woman are you that your husband would rather be alone than in your bed?
No. She shoved the voice away. It was not her fault. He needed to own up to his responsibilities. She just had to find a way to get him to see that. Then everything would be okay.
And if you can’t?
She steeled herself against the fear. She would make him understand.
She would.
She had to.
There was no other choice.
*****
Months became years. When the time came, it was in the kitchen that she faced him. He sat stonily at the table, refusing to look at her.
“I can’t live like this anymore, Jack,” she’d said, as calmly as she could. “I just can’t. I was thinking… maybe I should move in with my sister.”
She held her breath, willing him silently to argue, to beg her to stay, to declare that he loved her and they could work it out if she gave him one more chance. Even though she knew it was futile, part of her wanted to fall to her knees and beg him to wake up , come back to her, to their marriage, to himself, to be that laughing boy with the brilliant wit and sly smile who had won her heart.
His response was barely above a whisper. “Maybe that would be for the best.” His eyes, haunted with guilt, flicked up to meet hers briefly, then dropped again to the table. He picked at a flaw in the grain with his thumbnail, the wall between them thickening into a physical presence. She stiffened, careful to show none of the emotions tearing at her chest.
“Very well.” She paused a moment, and then, when he made no further move to stop her, headed up the stairs to pack, her happily-ever-after scattered like ashes upon the treads.
*****
A different table, a different time. They exchanged civilities, performing the appropriate rituals before silence fell between them. When he finally spoke again, she listened to his request to dissolve their marriage as if from a distance. She knew she responded, but it felt like watching two strangers negotiate their way through stilted roles neither of them knew how to play.
He framed it as wanting to set her free to find someone who could care for her the way she deserved, but she knew he just wanted to be rid of her. Since she had been the one to move out of their home, he was legally allowed to sue for divorce by reason of abandonment, but he offered to do the honorable thing and take the blame. There was a neighbor who was willing to back his testimony of having committed adultery with her so that Rosie would be shielded from the brunt of scandal.
Outwardly, she graciously accepted his offer, acknowledging the gift of his sacrifice. She did her best to ignore something that she had thought already shattered beyond caring crack open still further, the voice in the back of her head that screamed, But Jack, I don’t want Someone. I want you.
But her Jack didn’t exist any more, killed by the war as implacably as any enemy mortar. It was stupid to pretend otherwise, and for all her shortcomings, Rosie did not consider herself a stupid woman. Besides, Sidney had been visiting more often, ostensibly just to see that she was getting along well. He was far too much the gentleman to impose himself upon a woman who, despite her living arrangements, was still officially married to someone else, but she had gotten the distinct impression that, had the situation been otherwise, he would be more than interested in deepening their acquaintance. Dear Sidney. She felt lighter at the thought of him. He was so charming, and he treated her so very well.
She smiled at her soon-to-be-ex-husband, who seemed momentarily taken aback by the shift in her energy, then he relaxed. Hesitantly, he reached across the table and took her hand.
“I’m sorry, Rosie, for everything,” he said with the deepest sincerity. “I wish things could have been different for us. But….” He trailed off, seeming at a loss for words.
She squeezed his hand gently before releasing it. “I know, Jack. I know.”
*****
At first, it was just rumors: an arch look, whispers at luncheon that cut off too abruptly when she approached the table, false smiles of supposed friends turning up to greet her. She tried to dismiss it as petty gossip, but then Sidney happened to be driving her to the park one day. As they passed by the station, a woman was striding out with rakishly bobbed hair and glamorously immodest trousers, and Rosie knew. It was Her.
Rosie never dreamed that Jack would have the audacity to introduce them, and when he did, it was in her father’s own house, no less. She managed to retain her façade of polite civility, but inside she seethed.
It didn’t matter. She had Sidney now. She was starting over, and this time, she would get the happily ever after she deserved.
How the gods must have laughed at her naivete.
Brick by brick, the foundations of her world crumbled from beneath her.
*****
She could not believe what they — the two men she most trusted — had done. There were no words. Rosie wanted to scream until she was hoarse, to beat her fists against her father, against Sidney, against anything in her path until they bled. Constable Collins led her father away but she still felt the betrayal clawing at her chest. She realized that Jack was coming towards her, murmuring apologies, and she stiffened. Hot tears of humiliation burned and she wanted to push him away. She didn’t need his pity — especially not with That Woman standing there, watching as everything that Rosie had thought was her second chance, her new life, lay shattered like shards of funhouse mirrors.
But then Jack was there, holding her, soothing her, and she couldn’t maintain her rigid stance any more. She allowed herself to be pulled more closely into his arms, sobbing helplessly as he cradled her gently, melting into his embrace.
Finally, her grief and rage began to wear itself out. Her crying quieted, punctuated by sniffles. Jack freed a hand to dig through a pocket to find and offer her a handkerchief, which she used to try to clean herself up. She had no idea how much time had passed, but they were now alone in the station. She was exhausted and her eyes were swollen and raw and she had a vague sense that she might want to throw up. She took a few deep breaths, then very carefully stepped back. Jack rested his hands on her arms, encouraging her to look at him, but she couldn’t.
“Rosie,” he said, voice thick with concern, “you need sleep. Let me take you to your sister’s, and anything else can wait until the morning.”
She closed her eyes, tears welling up again. How could he be so kind, after everything that had happened? But she allowed him to put his arm around her and direct her out of the building, her head instinctively nestling into that place in his shoulder that had always seemed shaped for her.
At her sister’s, he waited in the parlor while she washed up and changed into night clothes and her dressing gown. She came out more calm, but still very pale. After a moment, she tentatively looked up, finally meeting his gaze, and smiled shyly before looking away again. She realized she was twisting her fingers nervously and forced them to still.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “You must think I’m… I’m a total….” A sob caught in her throat, and suddenly he was there, holding her, hand caressing her hair, shushing her as if she were a small child. More deep breaths helped her compose herself. They stood there, just holding each other. Then he kissed her on the forehead and pulled back.
“Let’s get you to bed,” he urged, gesturing for her to lead the way. He followed her up the stairs and down the hallway to her room. A single lamp was lit on the bedside stand, casting a warm glow. She hesitated, feeling awkward at the colliding memories of estrangement and intimacy, then got under the covers and lay down. Jack pulled up the blankets to tuck her in, then sat on the side of her bed, taking her hands in his.
“Rosie, I know this is an awful shock, and I can only imagine what you’re going through, but you’re a strong woman, Rosie. You will get through this.” He looked at her intently, then repeated, “You will get through this. Understand?” She nodded. He nodded decisively in return. “Good. Now get some sleep.”
This time, it was his turn to squeeze her hands before releasing them, but as he started to rise, she impulsively grabbed his wrist and pleaded, “Jack, don’t go. Please… stay with me.”
He became still, then sat back down on the bed. He took the hand that had reached out to him in both of his, and she felt it trembling like a frightened bird. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, then opened his eyes to meet her pleading look.
“I’m sorry, Rosie. I can’t.” Though his tone was gentle, she could sense a depth of truth beneath it that denied any possibility of argument. This time, when he arose, she made no attempt to stop him. He turned off the lamp, then stood silhouetted in the doorway for a moment. “Goodnight, Rosie.”
“Goodnight, Jack. Thank you.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment, then closed the door behind him, encasing the room in darkness.
She listened to his footsteps down the stairs, waiting until she heard the front door close as he let himself out. Then she curled into her pillow and wept for a dashing young constable with a roguish grin and laughing eyes who used to look at her as if she were the only person in the world.