The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (ereader for comics txt) 📗

lifeless and gray under the fog, the statues black with mist, the ivy clinging to the walls with their dark tentacles.

Entering the tunnel, Emma saw the back of the ambulance parked on rue Monge. A soldier in a greatcoat rushed past the truck. He turned his head for a moment and Emma thought she saw Private Darser grinning at her. As quickly as the man appeared he was gone. She realized the soldier couldn’t be Darser—his mask had no smile. The lips had to be neutral, pleasantly full, and slightly open; otherwise, the mouth would appear fixed in a disquieting expression. She recalled the sad smile she thought she had seen on his mask at their final meeting.

She said nothing to Richard about the soldier, and climbed into the truck. They said little as Richard drove east through the Paris streets. When the city finally dropped behind them and the ambulance had traveled far along a country road, Emma relaxed enough to strike up a conversation.

“Ça va, Richard?” she asked as they putted through a village. It was the only small talk she could think of—his health. She remembered his arm injury—the one mentioned by Claude, Tom’s doctor in Toul. Emma looked at the shop windows, which appeared dismal and forlorn in the enveloping gray mist. It swirled around the ambulance and Richard switched on the headlights.

“Très bien,” Richard said.

“How’s your English? My French could be better.”

Richard cleared his throat and pronounced each word slowly, “Your . . . husband . . . is teaching . . . me.” He turned to her and smiled. “I thank him . . . each day.”

“Well, you’re making remarkable progress. Where did you stay last night? You know you are always welcome at the studio. We can put a cot in the casting room.”

“No, thank you,” he said firmly. “The masks are too frightening.”

Emma laughed. “They can be a bit scary in the dark.”

“I stay with my sister. She lives in Saint-Denis.” He paused for a moment and then asked, “How did you meet?”

Emma turned to him, confused by the abrupt change in subject.

“My husband?” she asked, knowing Tom was the object of his question.

“Yes.”

“In Boston. Tom was studying medicine. I was getting ready to attend art school. We met through a mutual friend—Louisa Markham.” Emma stopped, realizing Richard may not have understood her. “I’m sorry. Was I going too fast? Can you understand me?”

Richard nodded. “Most, yes.” He peered through the windscreen as intermittent drops of rain splattered against the glass. “Was he always so sad?”

His question seemed casual, as if sadness was normal for Tom, but his inquiry unsettled her and a queasy sensation fluttered through her stomach. “So, you think Tom’s depressed . . . sad?”

Richard stared blankly at the road.

“I can’t speak for Tom, but the war has been difficult for both of us,” Emma continued. “I would expect he might be depressed after his injury at the Front, and his continual work with injured and dying men. I’ve never been able to understand how doctors keep their sanity.”

“When we met . . .” Richard considered carefully his next words. “He was happy . . . happy to be a doctor.”

Emma slumped in her seat, guilt momentarily overpowering her. Was Richard attacking her, and not the war, as the cause of their problems? Certainly, she had done nothing inherently wrong, other than form a relationship with a Boston painter who had demonstrated affection for her and sparked her own reciprocal feelings. She embraced the thought. After all, how could innocent fondness be so misconstrued compared to the world’s ongoing horrors? But was her relationship so innocent? What of her fantasies about Linton?

“When Tom and I met we were both overly optimistic, I think. The war hadn’t begun and we were filled with joy and life. When fighting broke out, Tom grew anxious. He was eager to do something—anything he could to help. That’s why he volunteered to work with the Red Cross in France. He saw the need, and, in the beginning, I know he was happy to be here. I could tell from his letters.” She stopped, unsure of how much of her conversation Richard had understood.

“The village is small,” Richard said. “People talk. Americans are watched.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I have no proof. People say he walks.”

“Walks?” A prickle of fear rose in her chest.

“Yes, at night.”

Emma chuckled, more from anxiety than humor. “Well, I’m certain Tom isn’t a vampire. He loves to take walks—we both do. If that’s what you’re talking about?”

“You will ask him. That’s all I know. Le bruit court que . . .”

“Pardon?”

“How do you say . . . stories about people?”

“Rumors?”

Richard nodded. “Oui, rumors.”

“I’ll be sure to ask him.” Emma settled in her seat and looked out at the dull sky. As the truck rolled on, she was certain she heard shells exploding in the distance. It was too cold for a thunderstorm.

By the time they reached Tom’s cottage, night had fallen and the camouflaged city lamps fought weakly against the overarching power of darkness. The night spread a dreary cloak over Emma, which lifted only briefly when Tom limped past the damp garden and brushed his lips against her cheek. Her husband thanked Richard, and the ambulance disappeared down the lane in a spray of mist.

“Have you had anything to eat?” he asked after they had entered the cottage. “Please, sit down.” He pointed to a chair at the kitchen table. “Let me take your bag.” He reached for it, but she held on to the straps. Rebuffed, he sighed, and walked to the fireplace, knelt, and threw a birch log into the fire. The flames roared and several red embers popped and sputtered to the floor. He swiped at them with his hand.

The clutter Emma had so carefully put in its place earlier in the year had reappeared: papers were strewn about the table, the bookcase was crammed with volumes, clothes were scattered across the bed, the messy behavior so