The Rebel Wife by Taylor M Polites Page B

manage was the garden, even if I did become distracted. Sometimes the honeysuckle grew wild up the back porch posts. And in the fall, those dead gray tendrils stubbornly clung to the peeling paint. There were summers when the garden looked as untended as our neighbors’.
    Then Simon stepped in. He asked permission of me to maintain the hedges, then subtly suggested planting climbing roses by the front door. He remembered, he said, delivering messages by the Chapman house before Eli bought it and always admiring the tender pink roses there. By summer’s end, he had taken over. I assume it was with my consent. Perhaps I agreed to it all at a time when I was—not myself.
    But the lawns are clean and clipped. The trees are pruned and heavy with budding fruit. Irises line the walks, rioting with flowers. All the climbing vines by the front door bear soft pink roses that give a sweet smell that comes to me in my upstairs sitting room. The faintest scent of roses when the perfume is carried on the breeze, like a tiny, unexpected gift. I love to look out upon the flower beds, to smell the roses, and to watch them change from season to season. To see the work and care that Simon takes with them, as if it is all done especially for me.
    The servants are quiet when I enter the room. Their conversations stop midsentence. They will resume as soon as I leave. I hear them talking as they do chores, gathering the laundry off the line from the end of the garden or in the kitchen. They’ve started whispering because they think I’m listening. I surprise them too often. I walk in on Simon standing in the rear parlor or in Eli’s office, staring at the walls. Then he nods and leaves without a word. It would be different if I had something to do. But Judge keeps me waiting. He tells me Eli’s money is gone and then forgets about me. And there is something going on with the servants. I know it. They look at me sidelong when I walk by. They watch me from the windows when I am in the garden.
    Rachel is with John in the carriage house. Henry’s feet scrape on the gravel, and his prattle keeps me from hearing. If we were closer, I might hear more. Rachel says she is unhappy.
    “Henry, shush,” I whisper.
    She tells John he should be worried.
    Just one step closer, holding Henry’s hand as we step onto the quiet grass.
    She tells him that he should be a man for their family. That he should lead. If she were in charge, they’d already be gone. John tells her he is the head of the family and he will make the decisions. Not likely, with Rachel as a wife. John should have thought of that before they married. He says that he has been watching her and Simon. He wants her to tell him what is going on. She is laughing at him.
    The air is so hot and still, and the only sound is the heavy drone of the cicadas. On and on the cicadas chirp. The background to a domestic squabble. I never had a domestic squabble with Eli. There was no need. There was nothing for us to squabble about. When Eli was angry with me, I couldn’t respond. He would chide me for coldness to our guests and then say I was too warm with the Yankee officers. When he hired Rachel, I told him she had a bad reputation and I would not welcome her into the house. His face turned bright red, and he blustered on about the Negroes and second chances and Christian charity. He flapped his arms up and down like a pelican. I couldn’t answer. I could only laugh hysterically into my hand until I was almost in tears. Absolute tears. I was almost out of my senses. He left the room, confounded, I guess. The next day he brought Rachel to me so that I could welcome her to the house. My protests were always for nothing.
    After Henry was born, all Eli really expected from me was that I listen. He would talk at dinner and in the evening if we did not have guests. I knew by then to nod and smile or make some encouraging noise. He would talk on and on about the Republicans and Negroes and trying to keep