Male Diction

by Eve Cran

Elinor shrieked in pain, the muscles in her pelvis pulsing in waves, pushing, straining—working, my God, shoving to expel the baby who seemed to claw and bite and cling to her organs, its tiny feet visible to Elinor as she squatted, head between her knees, the floor straw prickly and dirty, the baby’s toes curling and flexing, a feeble scrabble for purchase to return to the only cushy bed it had ever known or would, the midwife mumbling, “the body does what it knows,” adding her own putty fingers into a cavity, already over-full, to move, adjust, coax, and tug on slick legs, rotate the slimy body, until only the head remained, stubborn, and lodged, and Elinor tried, cried—

She arched. Sank. Flushed dead calm.

“Frederick?” she murmured.

Calloused, shaky fingers brushed aside a tangle-knot of hair that lay sodden at the nape of her neck.

The midwife stilled and nodded.

Elinor felt the spiky tip of something pointed and cold against her neck.

“Prithee, Lord, mercy on me. I’ll not ‘ave a demon in these woods,” Frederick wept. “Long life to you, my ‘Lin as the quiet dead!”

***

Elin Clarke cut her fingernails close to the quick over the marble bathroom sink. When finished, she brushed her long black hair, then twisted and pinned it into her signature, neat French twist. The edges of the crude nailhead—forged hundreds of years earlier—used to catch her fingers, and Frederick would sometimes fuss and fan her hair to cover it if they were in the company of others. But over the decades, the iron had recessed and been absorbed until there was only a dimple to mark the spot.

“Stunning,” said Matt, stealing behind her with wrapping arms, kissing her cheek. “Ageless.”

Elin considered him, a bit wary and allover weary. It was about that time, and her preparations were almost complete.

“By the way, the bank called yesterday. You paid a visit to the safe deposit box.” Matt had a way of making accusations sound conversational.

“I didn’t think it would—”

“You didn’t think. I know. May that someday be a gift bestowed to the benefit of us all,” he said as he slid his left hand over hers and pulled up her sleeve, revealing the 15-carat weight diamond tennis bracelet she’d retrieved from the vault. A gift for their first wedding anniversary, she knew it had been in his possession for at least a few years prior. She recognized the piece from pictures he kept of his previous girlfriend.

Elin said nothing, unable to form words in her defense.

“Yes, why shouldn’t you wear an expensive piece of jewelry on the streets of New York?” With some difficulty, he attempted to sound light. “What do you have planned for this afternoon? Tea with the girls?”

“Yes, at the Peninsula—”

“—with Candy and Jenna,” he said before finding a loose lock of hair, tugging at it so she could see, and raising his eyebrows at her in the mirror.

“Oh, thank you,” she said quickly, and tried to work the strand into the coil.

“You’ll need to re-do it,” he said, pulling her hair, roughly tugging bobby pins out and tossing them onto the counter. “Don’t show up with messy hair for dinner at Per Se.”

He turned to leave and then stopped short as if just noticing her camel-colored slacks, vintage Chanel tweed jacket, and Gucci loafers. With a smear of incredulity, he said, “Is that what you’re wearing?”

***

Snow drifted onto Elin as she hefted her oversized tote higher on her shoulder and ascended the stairs leading to the Met entrance, much later than she’d wanted. Only 30 minutes to spend with her friend, which wasn’t enough, but it would have to do. And last.

The museum pulsated with concert energy as an ersatz mosh pit of art lovers jostled to stand in front of each painting. If she could—just—inch in—there…Madame X. Madame Gautreau.

Virginie.

Both Americans were married to French men at the time, and they first met in social circles, which led to café coffees followed by countless afternoon strolls through the Jardin du Luxembourg, the two women talking, chortling, sniffling, sometimes quiet, but always arm-through-arm along the promenade.

When Sargent approached Virginie about a portrait, her friend exclaimed, “I’ll wear my hair as you do, my love—”

Elin now patted her own French twist.

“You look a little like her,” said a man standing nearby, his head swiveling between Elin and Virginie. “It’s uncanny.”

A moment passed. “Thank you,” was all she could manage.

She stood with Virginie like she used to do at the Louvre, spending another twenty minutes with her friend before heading toward the lockers.

From the depths of her worn but thick pea coat—her lips twitched; it had been Matt’s idea, after all—she fished for her phone, disabled Airplane mode and opened the Find My app, to share her location.

‍ ‍Buzz-buzz-buzz-buzz. Alerts screamed in: four missed calls and ten—buzz—eleven texts.

“Where are you”

“Why can’t Find My find my wife”

“Candy’s in Japan and Jenna is sick with the flu.”

“We’ll discuss this tonight. Dinner’s off”

“Call me. Now”

‍ ‍Buzz.

“I. See. You. Wait there”

From her tote, she extracted a charging cable and power bank. Once they were connected to her phone, she shoved them into a locker and spun the dial.

Two hours later, at the ticket counter, Elin presented an ID with her picture and the name, “Nora Walker,” to the agent. With absentminded repetition, she rubbed her bare wrist, anxious to deposit the check from Miller Pawn along with the stash of hundred-dollar bills she’d squirreled away over several years.

On the plane, Nora reached back and rubbed the back of her neck, feeling for the hollow but not surprised at finding a tender bump instead.

***

“Bedroom and another bath are up the stairs, if you’re ready to take a look,” said Caleb Turner, one foot on the first step of a spiral staircase, arm swept up to indicate the way. He looked a little older than Nora’s physical appearance, but still under forty, with sandy blonde hair and what looked like ink stains on the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s fully furnished and move-in ready. May not be the kind of décor you’re used to, but.”

“No, it’s fine; I’ll take it. $600 for first and last month’s rent, correct?” said Nora, offering six bills.

“Uh, yeah. That’s great! OK. Well, uh, let’s go next door for the paperwork,” he said and turned to leave. “I live on the other side.”

“Oh, right. Um, listen, my neck is killing me—old injury—could I—”

“Ten minutes and I’m already a pain in the neck,” he said, his voice low with pops of gravel, like a car driving slowly over rocks.

The laugh that came from her rose from a place of disuse and she idly wondered if she’d be sore in the morning.

“Yep, we can do that tomorrow.” His eyes crinkled. “Get settled,” he strolled toward the door, lithe. “Oh—are you having your things delivered? It’s tricky to get stuff onto the second level and I can help. Anytime. I work from home.” He cocked a thumb over toward his side of the duplex.

Hoisting the bag off her shoulder and gesturing with it, “Nope. Brought everything I need.”

The next moment might have held curiosity, but it passed. “Welcome to Kincaid, Kansas. May you be happy here.”

***

‍ ‍Tap-tap-tap.

Nora blinked.

‍ ‍Tap-tap-tap.

‍ ‍Ding-dong.

‍ ‍What…? Where am I? Nora sat up in bed and rubbed her forehead. A cold breeze tickled the curtains at the bedroom window, open a few inches.

A singsong voice also traipsed in between sash and sill.

  “Hello?! Nora? You awake?”

‍ ‍Ding-dong-knock-knock-ding-dong-ding-dong-knock.

It was a female voice, and Nora didn’t know anyone in Kincaid but Caleb. So how could this woman know her name…she gasped and covered her mouth. Could Matt have sent her? Nora’s heart raced ahead of her mind, groggy and cloudy, over-filled with what she pictured as cotton bolls.

“No, no, she called me ‘Nora,’” she whispered, starting to calm a little even though the pain returned.

‍ ‍Ding-dong!

Whoever pestered the door and leaned on the bell probably couldn’t be avoided or ignored no matter how much Nora wanted to rest her aching neck. Reluctantly, she threw off the covers, pulled on a sweatshirt and leggings from her tote, and padded to the stairs.

On the way down, Nora tried to neaten the ponytail she wore when sleeping. The back of her neck felt hot and blistery, and she hastily pulled her hair free of the tie, combing fingers through it to ensure it hung straight down. When she reached the door, she pulled aside the lacy curtains that hung over the sidelight and beheld a rainbow.

Someone in a clown costume?

She squinted. A patchwork quilt—

When Nora unlocked the door, a woman about Nora’s age flew in like a host of birds, flouncy, colorful fabrics flying around her like a flock.

“Thank you, Kali! Someone new!” she said, curly brown hair a-frizz and barely restrained by a headband straight from the psychedelic 70s. “I’m Louisa and I live across the street in the other duplex just next to Toady Thomas, the old geezer, have you met him?—

Nora began to shake her head, but the conversation had already moved on.

—well, he’ll stay out of your hair, mostly, MOSTLY, as none of the people here in killjoy Kincaid can keep their noses—say where are you from? Caleb wouldn’t tell me but he said you were posh, although he’ll kill me for saying that, and—fair warning—he’ll put you in one of his novels, you know, I see you as the second Mrs. DeWinter type or Jane Eyre, oh but you’re not plain, you know, I’m sorry, I—” Louisa paused to breathe and emit a high-pitched bark, “—I get so nervous.”

A slow smile spread across Nora’s lips as Caleb emerged from around the corner with bed head and an air of resignation. “Nora, it’s best to just give in. I’ve put the coffee on. Come over before this vampire saps all your life-force.”

The grin drained from Nora’s face, but Caleb had already turned toward Louisa, pointing.

“Though none for you. Just how many cups have you had to—?” he paused mid-word and gaped, taking in the jewel-toned peasant dress of burgundy, green, ruby red, and burnt orange, golden brown shawl, and tricolor Uggs. He slowly rested both hands on his hips as he leaned away, presumably to see the full outfit. Nora could see delight transform him and he pulled Louisa into a hug. “You bring me joy. Don’t ever change.”

‍ ‍Lucky Louisa, she thought.

***

Nora’s first few days in Kincaid were misery as the nail head broke skin. Days were spent in bed, suffering the banshee voice that came to her after Frederick. After Jonathan. After Pierre. After all of them and before the next. A torment for periods in between supervision, as she thought of it.

Interstitial suffering.

Her hair remained jet black, her skin without the grooves and cares of others “her age.”

Pierre wrote in his diary, “Si elle a fait un pacte, alors je vis avec le diable sans le savoir.”

If she’s made a pact, then I live with the devil without knowing it. She was gone the next day. The threat of a stake through the heart greater than the certain knowledge of the coming pain.

Stupid sobs wracked her body—

‍ ‍Quieter. Quiet.

‍ ‍Quiet now. They’ll come to you. Just wait, breathed the Pontianak inside her. Folklore localized the spirit to east Asia but wasn’t the stigma and fear attached to women and childbirth universal? It punished. Made monsters of women. Unless…

—stupid, because she was compelled to obedience. The sound of her cries shifted, collapsed inward, dwindling into a thin, trembling note, a breathy coo that rose and fell like wind moving through reeds, easily mistaken for a baby calling, the helpless warble that tugged at the marrow and begged to be saved.

—stupid, because she had already endured a lifetime of mourning. Because her son had been buried longer than most lives lasted, because grief that old had no purpose anymore, no audience, no remedy. Stupid, because she had lived for centuries hearing her child’s last whimper. And so the foolish crying came for something long dead and yet not done with her.

Through it all, Louisa brought soup and company every evening. And gradually, like a shy teenager, Caleb started to leave scones and sandwiches at her front door, the food and attention a salve to the wound. Soon he joined them around Nora’s kitchen table.

And slowly, with each day’s proximity and propinquity to Caleb, the nail managed to be achy but not agony.

***

Caleb owned “Spine and Dine,” a small bookstore on Main Street that also served hot drinks and cold eats, and once she felt well enough, Nora started to work there. Her days were spent in the stacks, her nights aroar with three-way, cutthroat Mexican Train, conversations, and quiet, easy company. Snow slowly ceded ground to spring flowers, which found themselves among summer picnic baskets and blankets laid out in the sun.

Nora abandoned her French twist as too fussy for Kansas, much less Kincaid. She wore jeans instead of slacks, tees instead of blouses. Nora’s nails grew. Ate peanut butter straight from the jar over the kitchen sink. Bought a secondhand coat that smelled faintly of woodsmoke and never fielded a question about if she was going to wear it. Read as many hours of the day as she could until one day she realized, keep him calm, be neat, and don’t provoke had become, joy may be an increase in power, but does Spinoza realize it comes at a cost?

Her new life unlocked doors within an old house that had been shuttered for centuries.

***

The shopkeeper’s bell jingled, and Caleb walked in.

“Thought you could use a break,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I-um, I can watch the store.”

‍ ‍This is new, thought Nora, looking around to see if Louisa was just behind.

‍ ‍Alone.

Nora made hot tea in the back but returned onto the sales floor to sit at a window table with a good view of the counter.

A minute later, Caleb brought over the honey jar and set it beside her, already open. His fingers were long and strong and she watched him walk away, only looking at the sidewalk when he reached the register.

***

Caleb slid the book across the patio table toward her, thumb marking a page and passage. “What do you think?”

Nora read from A Doll’s House, something about duty and the surgical control one spouse can have over another. “He lessens her through reduction. Keeps her small. Some men need to do that,” she said slowly, watching his reaction, but mostly savoring the succulent taste of her opinion in her mouth. “I know.”

“Tell me more.”

Caleb listened.

***

When the bell chimed at the door a few minutes later, she was still smiling.

Matt arrived the way storms do—announced by pressure, by a sudden wrongness in the air. His corvette idled on the street and he wore shoes too polished for the neighborhood, much less anywhere else in Kincaid.

“Let’s go, Elin,” he said, angry, as if speaking to a recalcitrant dog. He crooked his finger and pointed to the space just in front of him.

“Wha—I—How did you find me?”

“Friends with access to airport and rental car counter video feeds. You should have worn a wig and glasses. Pretty stupid, but it’s what I expect.”

Caleb stepped between them. Across the street, the sound of a door slamming foretold an appearance by Louisa, who whirled in, a dervish in printed poppies.

“She stays,” Caleb said, his voice steady and brave, like a man walking on a tightrope.

Louisa gripped Nora’s arm.

Matt laughed. “This is between husband and wife.”

Nora felt the familiar folding begin, the shrinking, the calm, the endorphins coursing through her neck as the nail started to recede. Nora felt a tide rise, the need to obey, and she lifted her foot to move forward.

With a shriek, she gripped Louisa with one hand and with the other, reached back, and closed her fingers around the nail’s iron head. She yanked with all the strength she could summon, but it was rooted like a demon Banyan tree, and Nora threw back her head and loosed a poltergeist howl.

The pain was biblical. It tore through her like lightning splitting an oak, and the sound that ripped from her chest was not a cry but a declaration, a determination, an exclamation of will.

“I will not be quiet anymore!”

The iron came free in her hand, wet and heavy and real. She stood there shaking, blood running down her spine, and Matt stepped back as if she were something feral, something unowned.

No one spoke.

Nora dropped the nail where it clanged and clattered into silence. She expected to be transformed, to die on the spot, for something to happen but nothing did until she bit out, “I. Am. Not. Leaving.”

Matt stared at her. “You’re not the woman I thought you were.”

“Not anymore.”

“Plenty where you came from.” Matt turned on his heel and left.

***

Nora closed the tote, descended the stairs, and locked the front door.

At the curb, Caleb waited, hands in his pockets. She handed him the key, leaning in to brush a kiss against his lips that left her body wanting more even as her mind objected. There would come a time when she would wake by his side every morning. But not today. And not tomorrow.

In the car, she started the engine, then sat for a moment.

Thoughts flooded her mind, not in order, not politely, but jumbled and crisscrossing, like crossword fill. I could go north. I could go west. I could go to the airport. Could, could, could.

Closing her eyes, she thought of the young woman she’d been before iron muzzled her. She thought of the woman she was now, who she wanted to be, thought after thought unspooling after centuries of disuse.

As she released the parking brake, she rolled down the window. “In your book,” she said, “call me ‘Elinor.’”