The Widow's Peak

Part Three

                                                                                1896 Florham Park

Thyra couldn't stop thinking about the curse. Every time she felt a sudden cool breeze, her heart hammered in her ears. Every time someone said her name, she shuddered. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine her "paradise"-- far from the pain of these days. She lay in the bathtub, her body obscured by several plants she'd placed in the water. Cacti. Flowers. Ivy. All bright, all fragrant, all hers. White stones lie beneath these, forming a smooth, cool layer between them and her skin. Pure peace.

Ida told her that Jesus meditated. That the things He suggested soothed the nerves and massaged pain out of both body and mind. It was strange to think of Ida —who "spilled" wine on Phoebe DeForest for wearing the same toga at a costume ball— as God-fearing, but she was wise in some ways. Thyra smiled. She preferred her younger sister's philosophy over how men approached God.

That night, she tried to distract herself with a vigorous "lady's massage" as she thought of Reg. His muscles. His belly. His face. Her wrist ached as she gave a long sigh of satisfaction, completely spent— so tired she fell asleep.

She dreamt about a middle-aged woman lying in bed. Her chest rose and fell slowly, as if she were asleep. The figure beside her sat up, revealing himself as a nude, powerfully built man with his brown hair tied in a queue. He loomed over the woman's sleeping form, pinning her down. The woman wriggled and screamed as the bed bounced. Its springs crrrreaked rapidly. and the woman's high-pitched gasps became a mooooaaaan. Thyra would freeze, her stomach rolling with nausea. Never before had she imagined something so vulgar, so disgusting. My mind is all flowers and cacti— how could I think such a thing?!

That afternoon, as she and Reg took their tea, her hands wobbled. Her teeth chattered as a sudden chill took over her body and the cup slammed into the saucer. Hot tea splashed onto the table, prompting Mrs. McCullough (the Irish maid) to sop it up with a pink floral cloth. Thyra massaged her arms vigorously, as if to rub away the nightmare.

"Thyra, dear," Reg said, "You seem so worried! Is something the matter?"

Thyra's chin quivered. She wanted to tell her beloved husband the truth, but as he was a skeptic, she knew he'd just laugh it off.

"Oh, it's nothing. I must have had too much tea...you know how that gives me the jitters!"

Reg set his own teacup aside and leaned forward, engulfing her small plump hand in his own big, weathered one.

"It's not that, darling," His voice was so soft she wanted to sleep in it. "This has been going on for a week. Did you not like what Professor Carpenter told you?"

Thyra watched him blankly, as if he was speaking a dead language.

"What did he say again?"

"He accepted your drawings, but he won't be able to put them in this latest textbook, as he already agreed to use another artist's."

"I see." She blinked, her face still flat and stony. "Well, there's always a next time."

"Thyra, I thought this was your dream!"

"It is, but I simply enjoy the process of drawing more than I do publishing." This was somewhat true, Thyra thought. "Speaking of dreams, I feel like I am lacking inspiration."

"Oh, now! You draw something new every week! There's always a new plant somewhere!"

She sighed and shook her head.

"Reginald Morton, you are a smart man, but you simply don't understand how the creative mind works! I can't make myself draw something if there's nothing in my mind! It's...it's...it's like trying to drink tea from a snowflake!"