Chapter 11
After Ted Kingswood had gone, which was shortly after he had rejected Shelly's charms, Shelly sat alone for the better part of an hour. Even the bartender, who couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Shelly and Ted, did not offer to talk to her.
Shelly's bewilderment and hurt was so strong in her that she felt numb, completely worn out. Finally, when her thinking got her nowhere, she picked up her purse, then hesitated, not knowing whether to leave and be lonesome at home or stay and be just as lonesome in a public place.
Presently, however, she went out, hoping the change out in the fresh air would help her desperate condition. She remembered that walking had always improved her frame of mind and she was off briskly down the sidewalk, ignoring the inviting bars along the way. Her mind was reacting to Ted's comments and the more she thought of them, the faster she walked.
After an hour, weary and still in a bad mental state, she retraced her steps, and returned home. She felt hungry and remembered some of the leftovers in the refrigerator.
But in the end, she simply couldn't face the thought of food and wearily took the chair at the dining room table to sit staring blankly at the flowered design of the wallpaper. Ted Kingswood's comments kept coming back to her. The smugness on his face had shown so plainly and she couldn't forget it. And now, for the first time since Tom's death, she began to face herself for what she really was and what she might have been responsible for.
Thinking back on what Ted had told her she began to see a logic in his remarks that had escaped her prior to this time. She had always been on the defensive before, not allowing herself to think she was to blame for everything that had happened.
She had put those ideas aside in the past, but Ted's quick judgment, the remarks of others in the past, now came back to haunt her. Against all this she had been able to place her instinctive liking for the things that made her happy-the company of men-in a bind, self-analytical appraisal that told her she was doing the right thing.
Gradually, her viewpoint began to change as she thought in this vein. At the very least, she was beginning to accept some of the blame, if only a minute part. And with this small self-indictment building inside her, she realized with a sudden, deep-striking regret how unfair her treatment of Tom had been. She could make out nothing through the fog of confusion beyond that faintest possibility that she had done him a real wrong.
Once she realized how wrong she had been in condemning everyone but herself, she became alarmed. She was once remembering Tom, his quiet ways, his content with life as he wanted to live it. She thought, too, of the girls in the bar who had labeled her as a prostitute. She did not let herself believe she was qualified for this title, even though twinges of conscience were nipping at her mind.
The encounter with her innermost feelings and the acceptance of some bare facts spread a warm glow through her, and the sting of the accusation began to lessen. A quick drink might even remove the hurt completely, she reasoned, and went to the cupboard for her bottle.
But the feeling of guilt did not disappear under her alcoholic balm. Instead, it had the reverse effect. Her thoughts stayed with and about Tom. Up until this evening, she had felt very little remorse over what he had done. But now, with the aid of numerous drinks, she was brought back to reality with a particularly vicious jolt o: her conscience. She was startled over what had crept into her mind. A voice, faint and indistinct, whispered, "You killed your husband ... you killed your husband ... you killed...."
"No, no, no!" she screamed. "I didn't kill him! I didn't kill him. I didn't ... I didn't...."
But the voice, louder now, repeated the ghastly accusation over and over, and she answered with screams and poundings on the table until her hands and arms ached.
Then, suddenly, her mind brought something into sharp focus. The day-long confusion of her thoughts melted before a swift and terrible certainty; and she was afraid-so afraid, she shook with the fear.
At once, in its entirety, she saw this act of Tom's for what it was-murder. Murder at her hands. The next instant she was gasping, "I did kill him! It was my fault!"
She was not hysterical now, but calm and somewhat bewildered. She stared wide-eyed at herself in the mirror across the room. The calmness of her admission caused a strange look to come over her face, twisting her features into varying contortions that even she did not recognize as having been there ever before. Her calmness seemed to drain away the fear that had risen in her and now a sensation of mild anger began to appear. Nor could she seem to summon more than a surface anger-an anger against herself.
The fury, the raging fire inside her, lay strangely quiet, blanketed by her feeling of utter helplessness and how completely she had deceived herself over the years.
If only she had faced herself at the beginning, admitted she was wrong, she might not have found herself living in such utter loneliness.
She moved closer to the window so she could watch the street below, the cars moving slowly and the people seeming to be going faster than the cars. She watched until the darkness had swallowed every moving shape and after that she sat unmoving, listening until even the sounds were gone.
Only when the stillness was complete, when not a sound came to her, did a real anger begin to stir in Shelly. It mounted to a pitch that finally made her leap from her chair and start running around the room, calling Tom's name. It was the sound of her voice that sobered her finally to the realization of how futile her action was. She stopped and stood staring into the blackness, breathing heavily, thinking now of the things she should have done and how contemptible and loathsome her life had been.
She turned finally and walked back to the table, the dim light from the street below guiding her. She now knew how deeply engrossed in herself she had been all her life and that she had, somehow, lost all sense of direction. She hadn't the beginning of an idea which way she should turn to get herself back on the right track. She was completely and utterly lost.
She turned to her bed to find the inner peace she most desperately needed. But she slept little, tossing most of the night. When she awakened completely in the morning, she sat up and slowly shook her head. She hated to face a new day.
But she knew she would have to face the day and face it with a new outlook. Her head throbbed and her body ached. She turned toward the mirror and looked at herself. Her face seemed swollen, and her eyes were reddish and puffed; her hair hung in ragged strands, the gray seeming to have increased overnight. The thought of getting out of bed revolted her, and yet she knew it had to be done.
She went to the bathroom and put herself back in shape. Now she was at least halfway ready to meet the new day, refreshed from her shower and cosmetic maintenance. She told herself something favorable would turn up.
Yes, she decided, today would be a step in a different and, she hoped, better direction.
When it was quarter to nine, she got ready to leave. Today she would make an extra effort to find a job. She smiled at her own image in the mirror as she fluffed her hair before stepping out into the hall.
Outside, she breathed deeply of the fresh morning air, such as it was in Chicago, and set off on her quest to find some type of employment.