Mary (née Godsford) and William Carpenter were married May 9th, 1866. Their wedding was a small and simple affair, but nonetheless charming. “You will look beautiful in white,” Mary’s mother had promised, and she did.
William’s family did not say much on the matter, watching with dark eyes from the stiff church pews. William’s mother had gripped Mary’s arm a little too hard as she fitted her dress, but politeness dictated silence. Still, Mary managed her vows with as much sincerity as she could muster.
“My pretty Polly.” William had murmured on their wedding night, rough fingers tugging through her hair. In the dark, Polly mapped the cracks on the ceiling.
That spring, when the air was made sweet and mild by fresh flowers, they began their new lives together. Their home, an old cottage tucked in between tall magnolia trees, provided much needed comfort after the horrors of war. William was not the boy Polly knew anymore, but a man- immovable and alien. When they had been young and knock-kneed, Willie was happy. Every summer, they would collect smooth, flat stones to skip and carve the sap off old gumtrees to chew. Even when the heat grew thick and dizzying, they would go stumbling together into the rushing water of a nearby stream. Willie smiled unabashedly then, stick arms flailing as he struggled through the brisk water.
Now, he sat stone-faced, his gaze following Polly’s back heavily, as if waiting for her to strike at him. Willie’s rifle, issued by the army when he enlisted, was clipped to the side of their bed. Some nights, Willie would snatch the rifle up in his sleep, the bayonet flashing in the moonlight as his wide, sightless eyes seeking an enemy that was not there.
By summer, Polly was still unpacking the things claimed from their parent’s houses. Beads of sweat dripped in her eyes as she stacked the china in the cupboard. The bone china had been presented indifferently to her by William’s father the weekend before, still immaculate and snowy white.
Next, Polly had refolded William’s uniform, creasing the navy blue material methodically. Outside, mockingbirds called softly from the woods. Polly worried for William, kept awake by nightmares of thunderous guns and blood, but prone to rages that struck from nowhere and smoldered for days. Polly worried that she did not love him anymore- a dangerous thought scant weeks after their wedding day. Sighing, she dusted the window panes. The choice had been made.
Still, the days passed slowly and quietly that summer. William would not let Polly see her friends anymore. Even sweet-faced Dorothea had been kept at bay, confusion and worry bleeding through her weekly letters. Soon, William began to keep the letters from Polly, too. He would stack them in the fireplace and light them, watching the thick paper curl in the flames as Polly stood silently in the doorway. By autumn, she began to worry for herself, as well.
It was on a night in early October as the trees had started to turn to orange and red when it ended. As a child, Polly had been determined to collect leaves of every shape and hue. She had kept the leaves in a journal her father had made for her, tucked between the pages. The leaves crackled like splintered wood as William burned them, her journal gradually crumbling into ashes. William flew in a rage then, throwing books at the exposed newspaper insulating the walls.
Polly fled, slipping out into the rapidly chilling air. The sun had set an hour before, she knew because she had watched its unhurried descent as it lit up the sky with brilliant color. Polly walked quickly down their large lawn, wrapping her arms around herself as owls called lowly from the dark corners of the ancient trees. She walked for an hour in the bitter cold, blood thrumming harshly in her ears.
At the edge of the woods, Polly’s feet slipped on the wet leaves, sending her plummeting down a ravine. She gasped, clawing at the dirt as she tumbled. At the bottom, Polly pulled herself to her feet, breathing raggedly. She managed to stumble a few steps before stopping. In front of her, a long rectangle had been cut deep in the earth. For a moment, Polly could not fathom what such a thing was doing just inside the woods, then fear seized her tightly. Death sat on her lungs, waiting patiently for but a few second more.
The first blow was almost a surprise. A knife, part of the polished steel set her brother-in-law had sent her as a housewarming present, slid in without protest. Barely as gasping breath later, pain bloomed fast and unbearable.
“Willie,” Polly choked, shock giving rise to a horrified denial.
God, she was so afraid. Someone had to save her, had to pull her from this nightmare with kind hands. Polly would wake, warm and safe in her childhood bed. Maybe her mother had forgotten to shake her from sleep, leaving her to sleep through her wedding day. Then, after she pulled on her favorite dress- a light, airy thing sans metal crinolette -she could go out in her parent’s lawn and burn her gown.
The second blow hurt the worst. Polly’s mind was white with pain by then, burning like a live wire. Blood filled her throat, mouth red with the taste of old pennies. Of all things, she wished for her mother.
The third blow made Polly to tumble down, dirt filling her nose. She could feel William above her, still broad-shouldered and handsome as he had been many years ago. The pain made her dizzy, lungs fluttering and heart grinding to halt like the gears of an old, unoiled machine. Her fingernails, kept pragmatically short for housework, dug into the hard dirt.
Though pain made the world too sharp, death claimed her, soft as satin. Then, Polly knew, there would be no more pain, no more loneliness, no more worry to fill the pit of her stomach. She could sleep with the angels on a puffy, white cloud as the sun warmed her face and music lilted sweetly through the heavens.
In the morning, as the sun rose sleepily and the doves weeped in the frosted trees, Willie would join her.