We Could Get By

xxxii.

Morning broke, quiet and stark white like the pillowcases. Nellie was still wide awake to watch the sky churn slowly from black to dark blue to lighter blue to pale blue to practically-white. Sweeney had not slept well, either. She felt terrible for keeping him awake, but her mind refused to let her sleep. She lied right through her teeth each time he asked her, groggy and vaguely impatient, if she was alright. "Jus' the baby," she'd mumble despite the fact that she had not felt a kick in hours. Sweeney knew she was lying; it wasn't difficult to figure out. Nellie was certain he was probably sick to death of her worrying and pacing and wringing her hands. She rubbed her hands down her face and resisted the urge to sigh.

Toby had been gone for two days. Sweeney might have said that the shock of it should have worn off, but he did not dare speak a word of it unless he was offering some clipped, awkward sympathies. He tried to go about his business as usual, but Nellie's fretting was making it increasingly difficult. His head was twisted at an uncomfortable angle on the pillow beside hers, eyes open and mouth ajar. She wanted to kiss the near-translucent skin of his eyelids, travel the roads mapped out by the webbing of blue veins that crossed them. She lifted her hand to graze the stubbly skin of his hollow cheek. He leaned unconsciously into her touch. Mrs. Lovett shuddered, the little hairs on her arms standing up.

Nellie slid cautiously out of bed and lifted the lid of the big trunk they kept at the foot of it. She pulled an extra blanket from the yawning depths of it and spread it over the layers of blankets and quilts and afghans that had already become fixtures in the room. Sweeney stirred only to nuzzle his face further into the lump of his pillow. She never would have dreamed the winters would be so chilling. She wriggled beneath the thick accumulation of bed clothes, wiggling her toes and trying to get comfortable. Nellie knew she would not sleep, but comfort was something that, so far, had not been out of her grasp entirely.

She stared past Sweeney and the distinct points of his shoulders peeking from beneath the covers, fixing her gaze on the patterned wallpaper. It was peeling a little near the ceiling, and she made a mental note to add it to the list of things that needed to be done. In truth, the windows should have been fixed and the wallpapering done long before winter had arrived at their doorstep like a colicky infant in a basket, but Nellie found that Sweeney was fond of putting off things that didn't interest him. He was content to sit upstairs and tinker with that grisly chair of his for hours on end, but Heaven forbid he replace the windows or put a fresh coat of paint on their front door.

A noise at the front of the house startled Nellie to her feet. I'm gonna kill 'im when I get to 'im, she thought, although she knew she would do nothing but hold him close and probably cry a lot. She went hurrying down the hall and through the parlor without even shrugging on her dressing gown or her slippers. She flung the front door open wide against the heavy push of the wind, grinning in anticipation.

The boy that stood on the front porch, feet too far apart and hands that he had not yet grown into, was most decidedly not her son. His round eyes widened impossibly at the sight of her. He twisted his too-large hands in the fraying ends of his knitted scarf, noticeably failing to keep his gaze fixed on one single thing instead of roaming curiously over the fabric of her nightgown. Nellie just frowned at him, her heart plummeting at breakneck speed.

"OH, um, hi there, uh, ma'am! Would ya be interested in, uh-"

She slammed the door in his face and stalked back to the bedroom.

Sweeney was awake when she returned, rumpled and befuddled and squinting in the light. Nellie could imagine for a moment that he looked almost hopeful. He took one slant-eyed look at her and pulled back the covers, inviting her in. She practically threw herself at him and buried her face in his chest. He was warm and heavy and still sleepy. His body bent easily around her as if he had not yet pulled on his affected air of rigidity in preparation for the day ahead. Nellie thought she always seemed to be in some sort of crisis these last few months; she imagined her husband tiring of her extravagantly, wondering why in the world he had ever agreed to marry her, and shuffling off down the road and never coming back.