Chapter Text
She drives.
Her heart accelerates faster than the pedal moves her teal car. The beats per minute fuse with the miles per hour. Her breath is shallow and her hands are clammy on the steering wheel.
The doctors have always described this as emotional neurosis. Helen has bouts of it, very often, more than she reports to her physician as she knows if they knew just exactly how debilitating these episodes were, they would do something drastic about it.
Her mind spirals, she replays each moment at least ten times and her thoughts are faster than what she can contain. She swerves to the side. She has to physically stop the car because she can’t stop herself.
She had read the first published Diagnostic and Statistical Manual by the American Psychiatric Association, hoping there would be some answers. Everything got narrowed down to hysteria and neurosis. The shame of her condition sometimes sinks her. She was born wrong, in all the ways. She had tried for so many years but she couldn’t contain any of it. It was useless.
She had thought she had finally hacked it. That was until she moved to Somerset Heights.
She is unraveling and her edges are fraying in the wind. All because of a blonde domestic housewife. She wishes she could laugh. Instead she grips the wheel tighter and lays her head on it. Resist the urge to smash it at least five times.
She drives for hours, in loops, before it is too much. Forgets the need for food. She is focused, she has to run away from the mess she created, from herself. She can’t believe she broke in such a humiliating way.
A metaphor of a moth drawn to a flame. Except, Madeline Menville is as powerful as the sun. And Helen burns. Unable to stop herself from being drawn by her radiance.
She has tried to create distance. Keep her at arm’s length, but that woman is insistent. She just keeps showing up at her doorstep with different questions and those ridiculous pompous pastel dresses. Her eyes, they’re almost holographic depending on her mood. They look violet when she’s happy and ice gray when she’s upset. She’s stunning.
She has to stop thinking of her. She’s usually so much more in control. Of course she has had feelings for women she couldn’t be with, it was easy to minimize the contact, the meetings. Compartmentalize her feelings and shove them in some corner of her brain, the usual procedure. Nothing is usual with Madeline, Mad, Maddie. She is stupid, to have agreed to nicknames and secrets and reading adventures.
She gently lifts her head, the sky is turning fuschia and lilac. She hadn’t planned to leave so early to the conference, but everything had collapsed that morning.
She doesn’t understand what she did wrong, maybe she had been too friendly. Madeline probably could tell Helen had grown fond of her and she had to make it clear that she was not interested.
It’s still surprising how easy Madeline found the soft spots to poke through, pressing on them like an open wound and not stopping as her fingers pushed through the flesh and her ribs until she was breathless. She had really sharpened the knife. Lonely freak, the adjectives that followed Helen throughout her life.
She can’t believe she slapped her. She is not a violent person, she has only ever harmed herself. Madeline’s eyes had glistened, daring her, taunting her to do something.
She shakes as the dread in her stomach rises and burns through her esophagus. She can’t swallow it down. She checks no cars are driving near the highway and she opens the door to let it out. Her insides spill on the dark asphalt and she’s grateful she hadn’t eaten anything. The after taste of bile is prevalent.
She takes her glasses off and rubs her eyes. She needs sleep. She hasn’t slept properly in weeks.
She looks for a handkerchief in the glove compartment, wipes the corners of her mouth and breathes. She can do this. She can figure out a plan.
As she steadies her breathing and heart rate, the solution is clear. She has to call him. She swallows, the thought already upsetting her.
She drives to a gas station and uses the pay phone.
“It’s Helen,” she states as the other line connects.
“What is it now?” A dry deep voice replies.
“Nothing.” She tries to stay calm. Take three deep breaths, working the courage to ask for the help she needs. She hears a grunt. “I need a place to spend the night. I have a conference and the drive is—“
“Helen.” An audible frustrated sigh. She imagines him rubbing the sides of his temple. “Fine. How far are you?”
“25 minutes.” She looks at her watch. She’s been driving in circles for hours. It’s much later than she expected.
“See you then.” He hangs up.
She drives to the Sharp residence. The giant house in Westchester County that she had spent every weekend of the school year in. It still stands in that awful peach her mother loved so much.
The driveway is on a hill, she remembers sledding in the winters. When she gets out of the car she shivers. It’s already getting colder upstate, the leaves are changing colors faster here too. She takes out her suitcase from the side and walks the pebbled way to the front door. She rings the doobell and immediately is greeted by the perfect manicured hands of Debbie.
“Helen!” Her jetblack hair shines with the porch light. She hugs her, warmer than she would expect. “You are just in time for dinner. Come in.”
She doesn’t take off her shoes. The housekeeper will clean any marks left the next morning. The house is impeccable as always and she notices the change of wallpaper, it used to be a peeling art-nouveau pattern in some olive brown, now some dignified white floral pattern.
She leaves her suitcase and jacket by the foyer door, a maid or butler will take them upstairs for her.
In the living room, Hector Sharp, sits at the head of the table reading the newspaper. His green eyes are darker, they remind her of their late father. His brown hair has a lot of greys, but at least he’s not balding. He only needs reading glasses, they rest on the bottom of his nose. His impeccable white shirt and blue tie indicate to her that he has just arrived from work. A Wall Street banker that has been so successful he doesn’t have to make the daily journey to Downtown Manhattan anymore.
“Helen, how was the drive?” he asks, not looking up.
“Aunt Helen!” Hermia, Hector’s youngest daughter wraps her arms around her. The physical touch startles her.
She hasn’t seen Hermia in months, maybe almost a year. She had turned fourteen that spring, Helen, of course, had sent a card and a dress a sales associate at B Altman and Company told her every young girl wanted. Her youthful features are morphing, it’s strange to see her niece grow before her. She’s a perfect mix of Hector and Debbie, the Sharps’ strong jaw, the delicate upturned nose of her mom, and Helen’s bright red hair.
“Sit, sit. We expected you earlier, but we’re so glad you still made it!” Debbie says, wiping her hands on the half apron that covers her sleek black dress. Helen assumes Hector and Debbie are pretending that this overnight had been planned for ages so Hermia doesn’t ask too many questions. The wife disappears into the kitchen as Hector continues reading.
Helen pulls a chair, she always sat on the third chair on the window facing side, the furthest to her mom and dad without seating at the other head of the table. The burgundy upholstery of her childhood still remained. Despite the years of use, there were no signs of tear. She wonders if the butler kept an almost infinite supply of that fabric so they could keep refurbishing the chairs.
Debbie sits on Hector’s left, her apron removed. It’s strange, this theater they put up. She’s not a real housewife, at least not like Madeline. She didn’t have to perfect aspic recipes or how to be the best at bridge. Deborah had the comfort of employees that helped her host the most memorable soirées without days of planning. Yet, she still had to play the subdued housewife for appearances.
Hector takes Debbie’s hands as she sits, Hermia reaches across the table to take hers. Once they all have joined hands, they close their eyes and tilt their heads down. Helen flinches, she had forgotten about this.
Her Protestant upbringing meant that before every meal, they said grace. She hasn’t prayed in years, or maybe it’s that she hasn’t shared a meal with anyone in that same amount of time.
“Dear Father, thank you for this meal—”
“And for my aunt’s visit!” Hermia adds. Helen opens one eye and sees Hector clench his hand harder to Debbie’s.
“May it nourish our bodies. Amen.” They all echo the Amen. Two maids enter then as if called, bringing in the first course of soup. Her niece lets go of her hand.
The lack of warmth reminds her of her actions that morning and she’s once again drowning in shame. Except something else comes up too, a shred of anger, it’s so strong in the pit of her stomach that the creamy mushroom soup which has been placed in front of her makes her gag. She drinks water hoping it will cool her down, it mixes with the remaining bile that hangs in the back of her palate.
Still she smiles as Debbie asks Hector about his work day. They make small talk as they eat, Helen takes small bites of the arugula salad, the bitter taste more palatable than the acid rising in her stomach.
“Are you seeing anyone, Aunt?” Helen sips the red wine she had ignored so far. Hector exchanges a look with his wife.
“Hermia, let’s not—“ Debbie intervenes.
“I am. My neighbors introduced me to a lovely doctor.” She smiles. It’s a small lie, something that will allow her niece to not ponder on her loneliness.
“A doctor? That sounds dreamy.” Hermia puts her head between her hands.
“Someone is lovesick,” she points out. It’s the age where all girls begin to dream of romance. She never had that phase, but she’s endeared that her niece seems to be in love with the idea of love.
“Hermia is not allowed to date yet.” Hector cuts a piece of his filet mignon a bit forcefully.
“Which is unfair! Lysander is getting married and I can’t even talk to boys?”
“Lysander is engaged?” Helen looks at Hector. This is a surprise. Lysander is Hector’s eldest boy, a senior in college.
“Yes. We were going to send the invite, but then you moved and well, it’s better to hand it to you in person now.” Debbie stands up apologetically to go to get the invite.
She comes back with a blue envelope, her name traced in perfect calligraphy on the front by Debbie. She takes the invitation out, thick soft paper with a neat printed simple flower on top.
The Sharp family cordially requests your presence at the wedding of their son Lysander Sharp and Amelia Carlington.
“Isn’t he in school?” It’s in a couple of weeks, she wonders if she would’ve been invited at all if she hadn’t showed up unprompted.
“He graduates this year. He took his time. His graduating class is almost all married already.”
“I won’t miss it.” She tucks the invite back on the envelope and sets it down on the table. “It’ll be lovely to meet Amelia.”
“Maybe we’ll meet your doctor,” Hermia teases.
Dinner drags on for another half hour. She helps Debbie to put things away, although the house keeper has mostly picked up everything already. She insists Helen goes to rest. Helen heads to the guest room, which was also the guest room when she was a kid. She believes her old bedroom has been taken by Demeter, the middle kid.
Helen showers, trying to rinse the guilt, anger and dread she feels. The water is hotter than usual, she watches as her skin reddens, she allows it to almost burn. She scrubs way too harshly. Replaying and replaying the last two days. The impulse she had, where had it originated from?
Once her skin actually begins to burn, she steps out. She has been crying. She’s abhorrent, it’s true, a violent being.
She changes into her pajamas and unwraps the towel from her hair, plopping the drops that still fall.
“Goodnight, Aunt.” Hermia knocks. Helen opens her door and sees her niece awaiting in her long floral nightgown.
“Goodnight, Mia.” She allows for her to hug her goodnight.
“I could see it, you know?” Hermia enters her room, not asking for permission and sits in the corner of her bed, crosses her legs.
“What?”
“You can’t stop thinking of him.” Her hazel eyes sparkle with excitement. “Is he handsome?”
“Very.” A lie to make her niece giggle. She buzzes with energy. She must feel special to be the one to hear all about her aunt’s romantic life. “He has dark blond hair and the most beautiful blue eyes.” Helen sits down next to her. “Soft jaw, slopped nose.”
She’s half describing Madeline and Frederik. She’s breathtaking, the first time she finally took her in when she presented that gnarly aspic she had to make sure her jaw hadn’t dropped. She could’ve been happy with just admiring her beauty from afar, but everything was complicated now.
Something travels through her face, concern or anger because Hermia puts her hand on hers.
“I hope he’s gentle too. You’re a very good aunt. I’ve missed you.” She scoots closer to her and her niece rests her head on her shoulder.
“I’ve missed you too.”
“What’s his name?”
“Frederik.” Hermia makes a swooning noise. She wishes it could be like this, her whole life. That people could openly express delight about her personal life. She always had to disguise it. She invented crushes in grade school to be able to participate in the girly conversations. The sleepovers were they spent all night talking about boys while she read a book.
“What about your boy?” She can tell her niece is dying to tell someone about her own love story.
“You promise you won’t tell dad?”
“Why would I trust that old grump?” Hermia laughs.
“His name is Nathaniel. He goes to the same boarding school as Demmie, but he’s just a freshman.” The tradition of sending boys to boarding school in Boston still surprises her. Demeter left when he was thirteen and he must be seventeen now. “He sends me postcards every week.”
Helen listens as the girl fawns more over this boy, she begins to braid her niece’s hair. Until Debbie passes the open door and reminds Hermia that she has to go to sleep as she has school tomorrow.
“Thank you, Debbie.” She nods as the black haired woman closes the door.
“Of course. Goodnight.” She can tell Debbie still has her reservations about her impromptu visit. She must guess that Helen only calls her brother when she’s in trouble, and she isn’t fully wrong.
Helen goes to take out the book she’s been reading from her bag. The day finally sets on her shoulders.
Hector comes in, no knock or announcement, wearing his navy pajamas with two glasses of Scotch, neat. Hands one to Helen. He sits in the chair next to the dresser. His five o’clock shadow is very prevalent, he looks almost as tired as she feels. Helen takes the drink and sits with her legs dangling off the bed.
“You look like hell.” He stares, a stern look. Helen is not threatened, the comfort of having an older brother is that there’s a level of familiarity that never goes away, no matter how astray life’s paths have taken them.
“Name puns? Are we back to being nine?”
“You always replied ‘I am Hel!’” Hector smirks, reminiscing.
“Dad taught me that joke.” Helen drinks from her glass. The whiskey feels like the much needed warmth she needed to appease some of her thoughts.
“It’s a good one.”
“Does the reply ‘I feel like hell’ work?” She’s testing the waters of what he’s come here to talk about. They have never had direct and open communication about their issues, they always talk in code, but some times it works.
“It’s more truthful.” He takes out a cigarette case from his pajama pockets and lighter. Offers one to Helen. She shakes her head. She’s had enough of a buzz today. “So are you really seeing a doctor?” His way of skirting around the subject.
“No.” He looks at her in disbelief. They have the same facial expression sometimes. She dislikes knowing how easy it is to read them. “I’m not seeing anybody.”
“Then why are you here?” A different way of phrasing ‘what do you need my help with?’. Helen doesn’t fully know what she is looking for.
“I do have a conference to go to in Boston.”
“Right.”
“And my neighbors did set me up with a doctor.” It had been awful, degrading, having to play the part of the poor single woman who never had success in love so now she needed to settle for a divorcee.
“Typical. I told you the suburbs wouldn’t be as…” He doesn’t finish his sentence he just vaguely gestures with his cigarette.
“I know. I thought people would just mind their business.”
“They never do.” Her brother for the most part did mind his business. His perspective on Helen’s sexuality was one of live and let live. He never asked too many questions or got too involved. Though that mostly is a positive, it has also led to Hector not standing up for Helen with their family. Especially when it came to their parents. “How’s Mom?”
“When was the last time you visited her?”
“A while ago,” he admits, no shame in his expression.
“She’s… alive.” Their mother had suffered a series of neural apoplexies following their father’s death. Similarly to President Eisenhower’s case, she had lost the ability to speak, when they went to the hospital they performed a very extensive and risky surgery. Virginia Sharp never came out of that operating room. It was a shell of her. Her therapies only did so much, she can eat and breathe. Most of her mind is gone somewhere else.
“You don’t have to visit every other day.” Helen raises her eyebrows. How would he know if he’s barely there? “Brenda updates me.”
Virginia’s nurse, she was a very hard worker. Italian, no nonsense. In the visits Helen has gotten to know her, hears about her five children, her husband, her church. She leaves her alone most times after Helen can no longer feign that tight-lipped smile.
“It’s okay, I like the quiet of it.” It’s still. Virginia is barely there. Alive but not present.
“What I’m saying is you don’t have to take care of her.” She doesn’t really. The doctor’s had said that it was good for Virginia’s mind to stay engaged. Helen reads to her, plays radio, talks to her about news. “It’s actually nice, because she doesn’t remember anything after the war. So she remembers her beloved Helen, not this one now.”
Or she thinks she’s a nurse, a co-worker of Brenda’s. She stopped correcting her about her identity three months after the incident. Hector sighs and gets up to leave. He drags his cigarette, places a hand on her shoulder, and gently squeezes.
“Get some rest.”
“It’s not your fault,” Helen reassures him. She places hand on top of his.
“It’s not yours either.” That breaks her. She sobs a big whimper.
I’m just so lonely. But she can’t say that. How her anger today drove her to physical violence. She could’ve been accused of assault, even charged. She’s still not sure Madeline won’t report her to the police. Hence, why she had to leave immediately.
She also can’t tell him how she has been pinning over this married woman. Just more shame,
“Are you still friends with Viola?” Hector suggests. He has met her once, shortly after the war, when Helen and Viola were back to just being friends.
“Yes. She’s doing well.”
“You could give her a call.”
“It’s not like that. She’s a friend,” Helen clarifies. “She has someone.”
Hector gives her one last squeeze, unable to even offer a sympathetic ‘you’ll find someone too’. He can’t make that promise.
“Sleep tight.” He takes her whiskey glass.
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Helen replies without looking at him. She hugs her legs against her chest as he exits.
She tries to sleep. She can’t. She keeps reliving the argument, the insults she threw, the cruelty she found in herself. She had wanted to hurt Madeline. She had deserved some of it, but she is better than the blonde. She could’ve just disengaged instead of stooping to her level. She tosses more in the pitch black night, until she resigns herself that sleep is not happening.
She turns on the bedside table lamp, the yellow amber making her eyes burn. She finds her bag and pulls out her writing journal. She keeps it handy to mainly jot down ideas. She reads her latest entries, all blabber about domesticity, friendship, and blonde women. A blonde woman, singular.
If my affliction brings upon me deathly sin,
at least I’ve known the faith of her immaculacy
She crosses the words out, a lovesick teenager could write better verses. She brings the pen to her lips and writes about her illness, the festering monster that threatens to always overtake her. She allows herself to feel the pain and the anger, only when reinterpreted as fiction.
The next morning they all have breakfast together. Hector leaves to the office and Hermia takes the school bus to her private high school. She thanks Debbie for her hospitality and lets her know she’ll be on her way after making a phone call.
“Doctor Van Horn speaking.”
“Viola?”
“Helen, what is it now?”
“I’m at Hector’s.” That would be enough of a clue to her state of mind.
“Willingly?” The sultriness of her friend’s voice disappears and she lets out an exasperated sigh. “So what did she do now?”
“Not everything is about—“
“Helen, you have called me about Madeline at least twice per week since you moved.”
“I called because we’re friends.” For the most part. Even though Viola can be cold and impersonal, their shared history has kept her on good terms with her. They have seen each other at their most instinctive and survival selves. A vulnerability one seldom reaches even with childhood friends.
She knows this is why Lisle barely tolerates her. Even though they met her in their travels, she hadn’t seen Viola at her worst and she hated that Helen knew that deeper layer buried under all the wisdom and strength.
“We are. However, I do have a limit. This new friend of yours is testing it.”
She looks around and makes a cup with her hand around the receiver. “I hit her,” she whispers.
“Helen.” Viola doesn’t raise her voice or gasps or does anything particular, but the way she pronounces her name is chilling.
“Just a slap. We fought and thankfully I have the conference, so I left, but...”
“So am I cleaning up after your mess?”
“No. I just, I don’t know if I can show my face safely. And I left Darcy. He’ll be fine if I return on Sunday, but would you check on him if I don’t?”
“Why wouldn’t you return?” Her voice has a shred of concern. She recognizes it all too well.
“I might need to take some time. Away. It’s making me feel like back then.” They don’t talk about it, when Helen was getting her doctorate degree her neurosis aggravated. She barely made it out alive of that episode.
“Don’t make me drive to Boston and find you. I will haunt you for eternity.”
Helen sighs.
“Hels, don’t let this woman get under your skin. She’s just a bored housewife.”
But she’s not. And Viola can’t see that yet. Madeline has proven to be intelligent, curious, and extremely fascinating.
“Are you taking the medicine?”
“Yes.”
“As frustrating as you are, don’t do anything extreme.” A calm reminder.
“I know.”
“I mean it.” Now, a warning.
“I know, Vi. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She hangs up and heads to her room to pick up her suitcase and make the drive to Boston
She drives, absentmindedly. The whole drive she is focused on the decaying leaves. It had all looked so bright at the beginning of the summer.
She had gotten a call, she was still living in the city. Her substitute teaching contract had ended with Fordham University. Her father had thankfully always been well connected and that put an advantage when it came to interviewing for other colleges.
She was interviewing with Vassar, Barnard, and Rutgers. Her priority being the first two. She wanted to stay in the city primarily. She was willing to relocate to any place in the tri-state area, even if it meant having to live in a suburb or ask for help from her brother.
Yes, she had lived in Westchester, but that was on the weekends, during the week her family had a pent house between 82nd Street and Lexington Avenue, a prime location of the Upper East Side. She considers that her childhood home. The peace of the isolated houses in the suburbs terrify her. She needs to have access to escape routes.
She pretends to not be a snob, but she looks down on people that don’t live in metropolitan areas. They have values that conflict with her very existence.
The Vassar interviewer seemed to have had a problem with her being single and not having any children. She knew how it would look for a woman of her condition to teach susceptible young women. She had to convince herself for a month that she would’ve never had an inappropriate relationship with a student. She was not predatory. She was not a creep.
In the end, Barnard fell through as well, after she had corrected the interviewer on the original publication year of Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. At Rutgers one of the men flirted with her. She used the attention, she need to secure a job or she would have to use her doctorate degree to teach at some fancy private elementary school.
So it was set. She was to move to somewhere in New Jersey. She needed a quaint little house and a mortgage. She had to crawl to Hector’s office and ask for help.
They had not been on speaking terms since her father’s death, almost two years prior, when every piece of his estate was left to Hector, not even their mother. It was a huge shock. Hector was obviously not at fault.
He had asked her if she wanted any property, she could just occupy it. A loan. Something never of her own. She was too proud for such pity. Besides, it would’ve been against a dead man’s wishes.
She spent some weeks driving to the different suburbs around Rutgers, researching the best offers in the market. She settled for Somerset Heights, an upper middle class neighborhood that had very few instances of crime and a surprisingly progressive neighborhood board. It would prove to be just as conservative as the others, but on paper it would be the safest place for her.
She asked Hector to look at the different properties with her. The realtors would be more welcoming if they thought she was married, even if later they found out she wasn’t. The first drive through Somerset Heights unsettled her.
The light yellow house stood empty, the exteriors looked solid. Inside, there was crayon all over the walls. A starter family home, the realtor called it, winking in Hector’s direction. Disgust took over both their faces once the man turned around.
They made an offer before exiting. The house was simple enough and it would be a great rate for her professor salary. Hector had offered to help buy it for her, but she refused. If Roger Sharp wanted for her to prove herself even after his death, she would. She was more than capable.
The house next door was stunning, it stood perfect and the yard was well taken care of. She pitied the woman that had to clean all those, it was twice of the size as her soon-to-be home.
And she caught it, a glimpse of perfectly curled blonde hair and a flawlessly ironed crisp white cotton dress through the living room window. The freckles in the back of the arms and the soft hum of her voice as she danced in the room. A glass of white wine in her hand and a cigarette in the other. A lonely woman entertaining herself by day drinking. She would feel pity if her energy wasn’t so radiant. Her brother opened the door of the car and she looked away.
She had only caught a blink of the woman, yet she swayed in her dreams almost prophetically, as she would continue to dream of this blonde for the months to come. She had known the suburbs would be beginning of her end, she just hadn’t known until now on whose hands she would come undone