By Patricia Harrington
The level rose slowly but incessantly. There was no way to stop the water, and I
had to face the inevitability of what that meant. I could feel the cold creeping
up, ankles to calves; the chill rising like a cold hand to reach and stop the
beating of my heart.
How could this be happening to me? I touched the clammy sides of the well,
seeking a handhold, a crevice, where I could climb to freedom. I found none.
John had been so clever; I should have known. How many chances had I given our
marriage? How many times had I forgiven his infidelities, the lipstick smudges
on his collars, the indignity of finding black lace panties in the glove
compartment of his car?
My friends had said he'd married me only for my money, but I didn't believe
them. No, I chose to think I could overcome our age differences, provide him
with everything that he wanted. But it was only my money he wanted, and now he
would have it. The thought of the humiliating sessions at the spa, as young
hands tried to shape and mold my aging body, burned in my memory but couldn't
warm me. Such a sad accident, John would say, mourning, crying with those tears
he turned on so well. Those brown eyes would become pools of sorrow.
The water had risen to my hips now, fed by the underground springs that had
surged with the heavy fall rains. No light came in to help me. Even the sky was
denying me solace, hiding its moon behind dark clouds. I couldn't swim. Was
there any way I could let the world know what John had done? To show how he had
pushed me over the rim and then left laughing, knowing that no one would visit
our secluded cabin? My cries echoed, only to be answered by my own sobbing.
I searched my pockets for a piece of paper to leave a message, to tell what John
had done, but found none. I turned in my prison. The water had risen to my
waist. My teeth chattered and I shook from the cold numbing my body and
thinking. Desperately, I left the only clue I could think of-one that would say
this was no ordinary accident. I tore off my blouse with fingers too numb to
manage buttons. Then I struggled out of my bra, slacks and underpants. My
teeth chattered so uncontrollably that I thought they would break.
Time fell away as leaden as my feet. Warmth began creeping over me,
consoling yet deceiving. Hypothermia. When my body was found, John would
suggest that I committed suicide. But old friends who knew me well would
say, "Virginia would never drown herself, and certainly not naked.
There must have been foul play!"
And surely, they would look first to the toy-boy husband for my murderer.
Copyright ©2003, Patricia Harrington All Rights Reserved