Chapter Sixteen

THE HOMECOMING

It was snowing as the freight train rumbled eastward across the empty, white Yammoe Steppe. Horace sat on the floor of one of the boxcars and watched the countryside slide by through an open side door. Although he had traveled in more primitive and less dignified modes of transportation during the war, he appreciated the irony of returning home in such an indecorous manner. It was, he knew, his own fault. When a friend in the transportation ministry offered him passage, Horace accepted because it seemed like the fastest way home. Unfortunately, riots in Mofov and Singletary, a sabotaged culvert outside of Quinsk, and an accident just short of Ropolowitz turned the eighteen-hour trek into a two-day ordeal. By the time the train approached the bridge over the Dynasty River, Horace was cold, tired, hungry, and dirty. He tried to sleep, but discomfort, noise, and anxiety prevented him from catching more than a few winks here and there. Missions always made him nervous, and as he saw it, he still had one last unhappy mission to complete before he could put the war behind him once and for all.

For all his dedication and accomplishments, Horace did not feel like a returning hero in a victorious war. To be sure, he had received an honorable discharge, but his superiors blamed him for the string of messes he had supposedly left behind in his last year in the agency. As they saw it, he had failed to prevent the Battle of Kirkwell, Princess Iona’s suicide, and Michael Kargas’s escape. Horace believed that in each instance he had done the right thing – or anyhow he had made the best of a bad situation – but he also understood that as a nonprofessional eager to return to civilian life, he was a convenient scapegoat for these embarrassments. Even so, it hurt his pride. To make things worse, someone stole his wallet when he evacuated his boxcar during the riot at Mofov, leaving him penniless. Small wonder he felt unappreciated and abandoned by an empire to which he had given the best years of his life.

Despite his gloom, Horace perked up immediately when the train crossed over the Dynasty River into Ippolacia. After eight years, he was finally home. Ippolacia was one of the most geographically and culturally self-contained parts of the Rowowan empire. Steep hills surrounded and walled off the towns that dotted the valleys snaking their way through the region. Indeed, it took the empire two years to subdue its proud and industrious people. As the train chugged along the track on the narrow strip of land between the Dynasty and the encroaching mountains, Horace sniffed the air for the pine trees that camouflaged the terrain. Finally, after several more hours, the train pulled into the Digby station at three in the morning in a swirl of snow flurries.

Horace grabbed his duffel bag, jumped off the boxcar, waved goodbye to the engineer, and walked across the platform into the cold, dark, and deserted stationhouse. A dim light emanated from a lamp on a desk on the far side of the room, behind which sat an old stationmaster undoubtedly rousted from his warm bed to deal with the late-arriving freight train. Horace wondered if he was the same stationmaster who saw him off when he left for the war all those years ago. He walked over to the desk and cleared his throat. The old man glanced up from his paperwork, noticed Horace’s faded uniform, and saluted ironically.

“Aren’t you a little late getting back from the war?” he inquired. “We haven’t seen a veteran in uniform come through here in, oh, six months.”

Horace shrugged. “Someone had to stay behind to close up shop.”

The stationmaster grinned. “You should have been here after the war ended. We had a big celebration when the boys returned home. There were so many people here you could scarcely move. It was so nice to see so many happy reunions.”

Horace forced a smile of his own. “When does the café open?”

“Not until seven thirty.”

Horace thanked him and started to turn away, but, feeling the chill in the room, asked, “Why is it so cold in here?”

“The furnace is busted. I hope to have it fixed by tomorrow afternoon.” Gesturing to his right, he continued, “I have this here heater to keep me somewhat warm, but it can’t heat the whole station.”

“Okay, thanks. Oh, is there a taxi to Perception?”

“Yeah. One swings by here around ten in the morning.”

Horace walked over to a wooden bench, sat down, and tried unsuccessfully to nap. He had certainly slept under worse conditions, but it seemed that the closer he got to home, the more antsy he became. After fifteen minutes or so he stood up and walked back to the stationmaster’s desk.

“I’m going to walk home,” he said. “Do you mind if I leave my duffel bag here?”

“No, that’s fine,” responded the stationmaster. “There’s a deposit, and we keep it if you don’t pick it up after thirty days.”

As the stationmaster reached into his desk for a ticket, Horace said, “I don’t have any money. Someone stole my wallet on the train.”

“Well,” said the stationmaster, “you can just leave it here anyway. It’s the least I can do for a veteran.” He wrote out the ticket, ripped the stub off, and gave it to Horace. Looking over the gaunt and tired man in front of him, he stated, “That’s a six-mile hike. Do you think you’re up to it?”

“Sure,” replied Horace. “I’ve had a lot of practice over the years.” He rapped the desk with his knuckles twice and headed outside.

By now the snow flurries had turned into a heavy sleet. Despite his bravado to the stationmaster, Horace was not sure that hiking home was the right decision. He was weary, anxious, hungry, and, now that he thought about it, not feeling terribly well. Moreover, the road to Perception was uphill and barely discernable in the darkness. Although he hoped he might see a light on in the house of an old friend, he knew that was unlikely at this time of night. The worst thing about making the trek, though, was that walking left him alone with his thoughts, and he was tired of thinking about the task awaiting him. But, having committed himself, Horace started towards Perception, placing one foot in front of another. He trudged up the winding road, past Race Denby’s farmhouse, over the Sawmill Run bridge, and through the crossroads at Spark’s Point. The exertion quickly drove away the cold. Better yet, the sleet slackened and the clouds dissipated, revealing a full moon that illuminated his route.

It was still dark when Horace finally reached town. Walking into the empty village square, Horace saw landmarks everywhere that triggered long-forgotten memories of happier days before the war. Of course, he reminded himself, they only seemed joyful in retrospect and in comparison to subsequent horrors. His hunger soon interrupted his desire to sort and savor those recollections. He was therefore relieved to notice a diner open on the south side of the square. When he entered and looked around, he saw a waitress organizing place settings for the anticipated breakfast rush. She glanced at him, did a double-take, and called him by name. It was his stepsister, Clara, who he had not seen in seven years. She said his name a second time, louder and more certain, before rushing over and throwing her arms around him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “It’s been forever since anyone has seen or heard from you.” Suddenly she noticed his eyepatch. “My God, honey, what happened to your eye? Oh, Horace.”

Horace responded with his usual refrain. “Someone had to close up shop.”

“But your eye…” Clara said.

“It was a war, Clara. Everyone lost something.”

Clara nodded. She reached out with both hands to hold his face. “Why haven’t you written anyone?”

Horace ignored the question. “How’s Marvin?”

Clara sighed. “Oh, he’s still getting used to his artificial hand. He prefers to wear a hook because, he says, it makes him feel like a pirate. I’m working here to make a little money while he figures out what to do with his life.”

“I’ll come see him,” said Horace. Then, remembering his hunger, he asked, “Can I get something to eat?”

“Of course. Anything you like.”

“I don’t have any money,” said Horace. “Someone stole my wallet on the train.”

Clara rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Don’t worry about the money. You know better than that.”

Horace ordered a traditional Ippolacian breakfast of cornbread with butter, fried eggs, sausage, and tea. After calling the order back to the kitchen, Clara led Horace to a table. She opened her mouth, hesitated, and then tried again. “Does Abbelina know you’re here?” she asked.

“No. She’s first on my list though.”

Clara raised her eyebrows. “You know she’s been worried sick about you. You haven’t written her in more than three years. She thinks you’re dead.”

“I know.”

Clara eyed him carefully. “Go easy on her, Horace.”

Horace stared back at her, saying nothing.

Clara tried again. “You know, during the war couples were often separated for seven, eight, nine years. People got lonely. And scared. Most folks found comfort elsewhere. I’m not saying it was right, but keep the circumstances in mind.” She paused. “Guilt and anger don’t benefit anyone.”

“I stayed loyal because that’s what I promised,” Horace observed.

“I know,” replied Clara. “No one expected anything else. Your goodness will be the death of you.”

Clara terminated their conversation when she noticed that Horace’s order was up. After placing a veritable feast before him, she said, “I’ll let you eat in peace while I finish setting up for breakfast.”

Although Horace tried to eat with some dignity, his hunger quickly overwhelmed his sense of decorum. As he shoveled the food into his mouth, he noticed a boy and his father across the street sorting out copies of the local newspaper for morning delivery. For whatever reason – emotional exhaustion, mostly – the sight triggered Horace’s most painful and embarrassing memory. Four years earlier, in an eastern Allerian town called Sohann, Horace had threatened a man with summary execution unless he divulged information that seemed important at the time. To Horace’s frustration, the man stubbornly and stoically refused to talk. A crowd gathered in his defense, followed by Rowowan troops commanded by an officer who insisted that Horace resolve the problem so they could get on with the war. If Horace had had some quiet time to gather his thoughts, nothing would have happened. But he was angry and frustrated with both his personal life and the war. When the crowd surged forward, Horace shot the man in the head. The shock and disgust he felt overwhelmed him, and he threw up right there. Everyone stopped and looked at him in horror. Then a wailing young boy ran past Horace to cradle his dead father’s head as the blood bubbled out of his skull. As the memory flooded his mind, Horace started to shake, then heave, and finally sob uncontrollably. His fork fell out of his hand to the floor and he knocked over his cup of tea.

Clara rushed over as soon as she saw him shaking. She had witnessed more than one veteran break down, including her husband, so she knew not to talk or ask questions. Instead, she held his head to her chest and let him cry. It was always sad to watch the war claim yet another victim, but it was especially heart rendering in Horace’s case because he so prided himself on his self-control. After several minutes, Horace regained his composure, but his repeated apologies indicated that his recovery was more apparent than real.

Clara finally interrupted him: “Horace. Horace! It’s okay.” She grabbed a clean fork, wiped up the spilled tea, and poured him another cup. “One thing at a time. Finish your breakfast.”

When Horace was done, Clara returned from her duties, kissed him on the top of his head, and said, “Go see your wife. Get some sleep. Marvin and I will check up on you later.”

Daylight was breaking by the time Horace left the diner. It was also snowing again in big, heavy flakes. Still embarrassed by his emotional outburst, Horace bundled up and headed across the village square. As he passed the cemetery, he wondered how many of his old friends now resided there courtesy of the war. He walked down Rosser Street until he spotted his house, a one-story brick dwelling not much different from all the others on the block. He also noticed a light on in the kitchen, and then recognized his wife standing at the window over the sink. She was thinner and paler than he remembered, wearing an ill-fitting dress. She was staring at the playground across the road.

Horace walked to the front door, but then hesitated, unsure whether to knock. On the one hand, it was his house, but on the other hand he had not lived there for years, so in that respect it was far more her house than his. After mulling it over for a few moments, he compromised by simultaneously knocking and opening the door into the living room.

Abbelina saw him as he strode in. She called out his name, ran over to him, and hugged him tight. When he failed to respond, she pulled back, embarrassed. She stood awkwardly in front of him for a moment, shocked by his missing eye and wondering whether to comment on it. Finally, she asked, “When did you get here? How did you get here?”

Horace glanced around the living room. “The train brought me in late last night to Digby. Actually, it was early this morning. I walked from there.”

“You walked here from Digby!” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t you call me? I would have come get you.”

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

Horace looked at her. “I didn’t want to wake you up. I left my duffel bag there though.”

“Well,” she said, “you must be hungry. Let me fix you breakfast.”

“No need,” he stated. “I stopped at that diner on the square. Clara fed me.”

Abbelina seemed disappointed. “Oh, alright. I was getting ready to go to mom’s house so we can run errands in Digby and Lerrando. She bought a car last year. Let me run over and cancel.”

“No,” replied Horace. “Don’t bother. I haven’t slept much in two days. I’m very tired. Go run your errands with your mom. We can talk when you get back and I wake up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” she said, “You can sleep in the bedroom. It’s at the end of the hall.”

Horace gave her a puzzled look. “I used to live here, Abbelina. I know where the bedroom is.”

Abbelina became flustered. “Of course.”

“Anyway,” Horace continued, “I think I’ll just sleep on the couch. The bedroom seems…tainted.”

Abbelina froze, then looked away from him. “Okay. Of course.” She grabbed her purse, moved to the doorway, and stood there for a moment. “It’s so good to see you, Horace. I’m so glad you’re home.”

As soon as Abbelina left for her mom’s, Horace sat down on the couch, took off his boots, and contemplated the house he had spent more time away from than living in. After several minutes, he got up and walked down the hall to the bathroom. When he finished, he peaked into the bedroom. As far as he was concerned, it as the scene of the crime that destroyed his marriage, but he still had a morbid curiosity about it. He noticed immediately that something was not right. Abbelina was hardly the neatest person in the world, but the bedroom was immaculate. Everything was in perfect order. Then Horace realized that a thin layer of dust covered all the room’s contents. She obviously had not been in here for some time. Horace shook his head and retreated back down the hallway. On his way he stared into a second room. He and Abbelina had used it as a study when they first married, with plans to convert it into a bedroom when kids arrived. Unlike the master bedroom, this one had clearly been lived in. It contained a cot covered by a thin sheet, a wooden chair, and had books and sewing materials scattered everywhere. Puzzled, Horace headed back to the couch, lay down, and was soon fast asleep.

When Abbelina returned hours later, she accidently dropped Horace’s duffel bag on the floor. Horace woke with a start and sat up. Abbelina apologized, but her forced smile turned to concern after she got a good look at him.

“Horace,” she asked, “Are you alright?”

Before he could respond, he succumbed to a fit of bloody coughing. Abbelina ran to the kitchen and returned with a damp towel. By then Horace’s face and hands were dripping with blood, and blood was splattered over the walls and floor. She covered his mouth with the towel and led him down the hall to the master bedroom. She pulled back the dusty blankets, lay him down, stripped him to his underwear, and then rushed for the phone to summon Dr. Ninninger. By the time he arrived fifteen minutes later, Horace was barely conscious.

After examining him, Dr. Ninninger diagnosed him with Liosian fever, named after the Ethosian town where Rowowan doctors first identified it. “Well,” he said, “I’ve given him something for the fever and cough, but there’s not much else we can do for now. It’s serious, but hopefully the fever will burn itself out. Until then, he may become delirious. Best thing you can do is keep him cool, calm, and quiet. I’ll check on him tomorrow, but if there’s any change, call me immediately.” As he gathered up his things, Dr. Ninninger asked Abbelina, “When did he get back? I assumed he had died in the war.”

Abbelina shrugged. “He showed up this morning out of the blue, like Lazarus walking out of the tomb.”

Horace began hallucinating soon after Dr. Ninninger left. After she cleaned up the mess in the living room, Abbelina sat with him and held his hand. At first she was hard-pressed to make heads or tails out of his ranting, but eventually she recognized a disturbing pattern to it. He focused on three distinct events, repeating them over and over, as if caught in a psychological loop. The first revolved around some town called Sohann. Abbelina was not sure what happened there, but it was obviously something terrible that included a child, something about which Horace was deeply ashamed. The second event sounded more fantastical, involving a remote island, a hidden princess, spies, and a battle for which Horace felt responsible. Because he seemed like an integral part to this amazing story, Abbelina was inclined to relegate it to the fictional ravings of a feverish man. On the other hand, she was thoroughly familiar with the last event he repeatedly referenced: her infidelity. In his delirium he labeled her a “whore,” “harlot,” and “jezebel.” She was shocked by an anger in him that she never knew existed. She wanted to blame it on the war’s brutality, but she knew in her heart that she was the cause of this hatred. The knowledge of what she had done to him and how he now felt about her made her cry and leave the room several times, but she always returned out of a sense of obligation to nurse him through this illness. It seemed like the least she could do.

After several hours of this on-and-off verbal abuse, Abbelina was physically and emotionally exhausted and at a loss of what to do. Finally, in desperation, she stripped naked, slipped under the sheets with him, and held him tight. To her surprise, he calmed down almost immediately. He ceased ranting and raving, tossing and turning. His breathing steadied and his coughing stopped. Within a half hour they were both asleep.

Abbelina woke first next morning with her head on Horace’s chest. He was not coughing and his fever had broken. Curious, she examined his body. Leaving his eyepatch undisturbed, she traced with her fingers the trail of shrapnel scars down from his face to his stomach.

Horace opened his eye. “Where am I?”

“What do you remember?” Abbelina asked.

Horace looked around the room. “I remember you returned home with my duffel bag. I remember coughing. That’s it.”

“That was yesterday, Horace.” She sighed and returned to the crook of his arm for several increasingly awkward minutes. Finally, she announced, “I will make us breakfast while you shower.”

As she exited the bed, she was suddenly conscious of her nakedness, so she slipped rapidly into her nightgown. At the same time, though, she was somewhat offended that he averted his gaze – as if they were not husband and wife.

The food shortages caused by the war were only now easing, so Abbelina’s pantry was bare. Moreover, she was ashamed that she did not remember Horace’s favorite dishes. She did her best, though: scrambled eggs, sausage, and toast. She was putting breakfast on the table when Horace emerged, tugging at his ill-fitting civilian clothes. They ate in tension-filled silence until Abbelina finally spoke, “You said the craziest things last night.”

Horace continued eating. “I’m sure I was delirious. I don’t remember any of it.”

“Well, you said some very hateful things about me…about what I did.” She paused for a minute. “Why can’t you forgive me?”

“Abbelina, you can’t hold me responsible for what I said under those conditions. And I forgave you a long time ago.”

Abbelina persisted. “But it came from somewhere inside you. And you hadn’t contacted me in three years. Three years, Horace. You say you’ve forgiven me, but you clearly haven’t.”

Horace put down his fork and looked at her. “Abbelina, you never wanted forgiveness. You wanted validation. You didn’t show remorse, just regret.”

“What are you talking about?”

Horace was unsure how much to say, so he started cautiously and felt his way forward. “Four years ago you came to camp to see me. You were three months pregnant. You said that you had been with someone else, but wouldn’t tell me his name – as if I wouldn’t know. Nor would you tell me the details of your transgressions, or what you planned to do. Sure, you wanted forgiveness, but on your terms and your timetable. You wanted a forgiveness that didn’t require any sacrifice or suffering on your part.”

Abbelina’s face reddened and she slammed her hand down on the table. “You have no idea how much I’ve suffered, or how much humiliation I’ve endured!” She felt a sudden urge to hurt him for his ignorance. “I felt shame when I agreed to go to the dance with him. I felt shame when he kissed me afterwards and I kissed him back. I felt shame when we walked home and I asked him inside. I felt shame when I begged for his touch. I felt shame the next morning when I pleaded with him to stay. I felt shame when I realized that the entire town knew what I had done. I felt shame when I saw his girlfriend at church and did not give a damn about her feelings. And I felt shame when I discovered I was pregnant.”

Abbelina stopped to catch her breath. “I got on that train and traveled for hundreds of miles to see you at that godforsaken camp to beg your forgiveness. You said you forgave me, but the next morning you were gone. When I left for home, all your army friends were there to see me off. Do you know what they did to me? Did they tell you? They threw mud and horseshit at me as I boarded the train! I had to return to Rowowa in a car covered in horseshit with a bunch of wives and girlfriends who knew exactly what I had done. When I got home no one would talk to me. Worse yet, everyone held me responsible for Keith’s death, not the Allerian army.” Her voice broke into a sob. “Then I lost the baby, and the doctor told me I could never have children. So don’t tell me I haven’t suffered enough!”

She paused before sticking the knife in further. “Besides, from what I heard you say last night, your sins were worse than mine.”

Horace interrupted her. “First of all, don’t compare your transgressions to mine. For eight years I lived in a world of…moral ambiguity. For eight years I tried to pick the least bad option. For eight years I attempted to do the right thing when there was no right thing. You, on the other hand, were motivated by lust, pure and simple. Secondly, you aren’t being completely truthful. You did not learn about Keith’s death until after you boarded that train to see me. You didn’t get on that train to seek my forgiveness. You got on that train to end our marriage, but had to change tactics when you discovered that your lover was dead.”

Abbelina started to respond, but then threw up her hands in frustration. Horace continued. “Tonight I’m going to stay with Clara and Marvin. Then I’ll go to Forest City to find work. Once I’ve settled in there, I’ll get a lawyer to draw up the divorce papers for you to sign. You can keep the house. I’ll collect my stuff today. There’s not much here I want or need – or even remember. I’ll visit the bank before I leave town. We can split our savings equally, and I’ll send you an allowance until you remarry. I think it’s the best solution. We can each get fresh starts and maybe put the war behind us.”

Horace got up and left the kitchen, found a box in a closet, and secluded himself in their storage room to rummage through his belongings. While he did so, Abbelina remained seated at the kitchen table for a long time. She had hoped that if he forgave her – truly, publicly, forgave her – she could have a chance at a normal life, a life without the scorn and shame she sensed everywhere she went. That chance, though, was slipping away before her eyes. She did not know what to do or say to retrieve it, so she just sat and listened to Horace move back and forth from the storage room to the living room. Finally, she got up, made tea, put the pot and two cups on a tray, walked into the living room, sat on the floor beside Horace, and offered him some.

“Is it poisoned?” he asked.

“No, no poison.”

As she poured the tea, she noticed that he was holding an old photograph of her, taken at a park while they were dating. In it she was young and smiling.

“I always liked this photo,” he said. “I took it the day I decided that I loved you.”

“You should keep it,” she said.

“No,” he sighed, mostly to himself. “I wish I could erase the last dozen years of my life.”

She noticed that he included both the war and their marriage among his regrets, but let it pass. “Don’t leave, Horace. Please stay. I’ll do whatever you want, whatever it takes, but please stay with me.”

Horace leaned back against the sofa. “I don’t understand why you want me to stay. You never loved me as much as I loved you. You carried a torch for him before and after we married, only I was too smitten to see it. You married me because he had a girlfriend and you wanted to prove something to someone. Why do you want this?”

Abbelina thought carefully, recognizing this as her last opportunity to salvage her marriage. “You’re right, Horace. You were my second choice. I preferred him. I don’t know why, now. He seemed so exciting and devil-may-care. He had what I wanted, but I guess I convinced myself that you had what I needed. You were loyal, predictable, stable, reliable….”

“But boring,” Horace said.

“Abbelina smiled. “Well, maybe a little. They’re traits I once denigrated, but now that I’m older I appreciate them. When people learned that I had not been faithful you, the women who treated me the worst were the ones who had also cheated on their husbands. I hated them for their hypocrisy. But then I realized that they were so mean to me because they respected you so much. They knew you would never do such a thing. They knew what I was throwing away.”

Horace said, “No woman ever loved a man for his virtue. You can’t unring that bell. You did what you did. It’s done.”

Abbelina tried another tack. “What about your promise to love and honor me?”

“You broke that contract years ago. I don’t see how I’m bound by it now. Maybe things would have been different without the war…”

Abbelina said, “I wish you had never gone to war. I wish that you had found some way to stay home.”

“Well, I had to do my duty.” He sipped his tea. “I couldn’t walk away from that. It wouldn’t have been right for everyone else to go while I stayed behind.”

Abbelina looked up him. “What about your duty to your marriage? Not to me, but to the marriage. The empire treated you terribly and you still remained loyal to it. I treated you badly as well, but I want to make amends. Can’t you be loyal to the marriage?”

For the first time in the conversation Horace hesitated. He had not thought of it that way and was unsure how to respond. Abbelina saw the opening immediately and pressed forward to exploit it. “How can you reconcile ending our marriage with your principles?”

“It’s not that easy,” said Horace. “Maybe I could forgive you and stay, but the resentment I still feel would poison the relationship. Maybe not today, or even next week, but eventually.”

Abbelina replied, “I’m not asking you to stay for life. Just stay for one day. Promise me one day. If you can’t live with it, then leave. But just give me one day for now. One day, Horace.”

Horace remained silent for a long time. “Okay.”

Horace’s dramatic decision led to a surprisingly muted coda. Dr. Ninninger came by and was pleased with Horace’s recovery. Horace and Abbelina ate an early supper in silence, after which he helped her wash the dishes, just as he had before the war. She suggested a walk around town, but another snowstorm and Horace’s recurring cough precluded it. Instead, they sat in the living room and read as darkness fell. Abbelina found the quiet disconcerting and wondered if he was serious about staying. Finally, she asked if he wanted to play chess. Their mutual love of the game had helped bring them together before they married. However, Abbelina could never understand how someone so logical and methodical could play so poorly. Once they started, Abbelina realized that eight years of war had had little impact on his abilities. She defeated him in a little under an hour. He accepted his loss with his usual stoicism.

Shortly afterwards a clearly tired Horace announced that he was retiring for the night.

Abbelina stood up, hesitated, and asked, “Where will we sleep?”

Horace scratched his chin. “Well, I’m not ready to share a bed with you, so I’m going to sleep on the sofa.”

Abbelina was disappointed, but declined to reopen a discussion about their marriage. She kissed him on the top of his head and started down the hallway. As she turned into her room, Horace called after her, “You should sleep in our old bedroom, not on that cot. I may not be ready to act like a husband, but you can start acting like a wife.”

Despite their eight-year separation, next morning Horace and Abbelina resumed their old routines and habits. Without discussion they ate breakfast and dressed for church. However, when Abbelina emerged from her room wearing an ill-fitting and bland dress, Horace asked, “Are you going to church as my wife or as a penitent whore?”

“What?” Abbelina asked, shocked. “I want to go as your wife.”

“Then go back and dress like one.”

Abbelina did as he asked and put on a more fashionable, albeit somewhat dated, dress that she found in the back of her closet. Together they walked through the snow-covered sidewalks to the church, two blocks away. By now word had spread that Horace had returned, so a small crowd greeted him in the foyer. As they walked into the sanctuary, Abbelina tried to sit in the back row. She had done so for years so she could slip out after the service without a fuss. Horace, though, steered her toward their old spot on the center right side, by the aisle. Abbelina’s discomfort increased when at the beginning of the service the preacher announced from the pulpit the news of Horace’s homecoming and urged everyone to say hello to him up front afterwards.

As soon as the service ended, Horace took Abbelina by the arm and maneuvered her to the front of the sanctuary to meet the people queuing up to see him. As the first congregants approached, Abbelina tried to squirm away to escape the approaching spotlight and the accompanying embarrassment. Horace, though, held on to her arm tight and whispered to her to smile and look everyone directly in the eye. When people in ones and twos drew near, Horace greeted them warmly and introduced Abbelina to each one as his wife. Everyone got the implied message and responded in kind. Abbelina’s eyes welled up as she exchanged pleasantries with people with whom she had not spoken in years.

By the time Horace and Abbelina started for home, it was snowing again. As they walked through the flurries, Abbelina broke down and cried from the relief of several years of accumulated stress. Horace said nothing until they reached their house. After putting on hot water for tea, he removed her boots and stockings and rubbed her cold feet.