Chapter 3 - The Order of the Blue Ink
By eleven o'clock, the third floor of the Milton house was quieter than a library after hours.
Evelyn lay in a broad mahogany bed with white linen sheets that smelled of lavender and ironed starch. An IV line was taped to the back of her left hand, running up to a plastic bag of clear saline hanging from a brass stand near the headboard.
Dr. Callan sat on a leather stool by the window, his spectacles resting on his nose as he wrote notes in a thick, leather-bound register with a fountain pen that used dark blue ink.
"The contractions have slowed," he said without looking up from his paper. "The placenta didn't detach, thank God. But your pressure is still high—one-forty over ninety-eight. You’re going to stay in this bed until Tuesday."
Evelyn looked at the ceiling. It was covered in intricate plaster roses, painted off-white, with a heavy crystal chandelier hanging from the center that cast long, amber shadows across the dark wood paneling.
"Where is my father?" she asked.
The door opened before Dr. Callan could answer.
Thomas Vale walked in, carrying a small silver tray with a glass of water and two dry toast triangles. He had changed into a dark red dressing gown that smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and peppermint.
"Your father’s on a boat off Martha’s Vineyard," Thomas said, setting the tray on the nightstand. "The coast guard has a gale warning out, so he can’t put in at Woods Hole until daylight. He’s spent the last two hours screaming into a satellite phone at Graham."
He sat down in the high-backed armchair beside the bed, his old knees cracking like dry twigs as he settled his weight.
"You look like your mother," Thomas said, his blue eyes searching her face. "She had those same narrow nostrils. Always looked like she was smelling something she didn't quite like."
"I don't remember her," Evelyn said.
"No," Thomas said softly. "She died when you were two. In the old house in Nahant. Your father took you away the next morning because he blamed me for the doctor coming late."
He reached out and picked up the silver pendant that was resting on the nightstand next to the IV bag. He turned it over in his rough palm, his thumb tracing the small carved 'V' on the reverse side that Evelyn had never noticed before.
"He gave you the star," Thomas said.
"He told me it was for direction."
"It’s the house seal," Thomas said. "My grandfather had six of them made in eighteen-ninety when the mills in Lawrence went on strike. Every girl in the family got one when she turned sixteen so the guards at the gate would know who to let through the line without asking for a pass."
He set the silver star back down on the wood with a small clink.
"Now," Thomas said, leaning his forearms on his knees. "Tell me about the boy."
"His name is Travis," Evelyn said, staring at the white sheets. "He works for—"
"I know where he works," Thomas interrupted. "I know how much he owes on his car. I know his mother takes four hundred dollars a month out of his checking account to pay for her country club dues in Weymouth. I don't care about his job. I want to know if he hit you before tonight."
Evelyn was silent for three seconds. The rain was still beating against the tall narrow windows, rattling the leaded glass frames in their oak casings.
"No," she said. "He just... stopped talking to me. He let his mother do it."
"That’s worse," Thomas said flatly. "A man who hits you is an animal; you can put an animal down with a stick. A man who lets his mother starve you out is a coward. You can’t fix a coward, Evelyn. You can only buy him out or bury him."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long white envelope sealed with blue wax.
"Graham’s downstairs with the city papers," Thomas said. "The Mercer apartment on Commonwealth Avenue is being condemned at seven tomorrow morning. Faulty wiring in the basement. The city building inspector is an old friend of mine from the Dartmouth board. He signed the order twenty minutes ago."
Evelyn turned her head on the pillow. "They have all my clothes, Thomas. The baby’s crib..."
"The crib was cheap pine from a box store," Thomas said, his lip curling slightly. "It’s already in the dump behind the yard. You have six nursery rooms on the second floor of this house that have been full of mahogany furniture since nineteen-forty. Your aunt's crib is down there. It was built by a shipwright in Maine out of white oak."
He stood up, his tall frame blocking the light from the chandelier.
"You’re going to sleep now," he said. "At eight o'clock, the lawyers are coming from Ropes & Gray. You’re going to sign three papers. One for the divorce. One for the sole custody of the child. And one to change the name on your medical records back to Vale."
"And Travis?" she asked.
May you like
Thomas looked down at his own hands, flexed his stiff fingers once, and smiled—a cold, dry movement of his mouth that didn't reach his eyes at all.
"Travis is going to spend his Friday morning looking for a place to put his mother’s couch," Thomas said. "And by Monday, he’s going to find out that nobody in the state of Massachusetts will lease him a truck for less than double the market rate."
