Dear Diary,
The bastard’s gone. He’s really gone. When he did not return home from the paper, even late that night, I knew something was wrong. I figured he had finally passed out drunk in the streets or been locked away for some damned bar fight or, as I feared most nights, he took to the wrong woman and had met some man’s fist quite suddenly in his gut or across his chin. The church bells toned the early morning hour when I finally gave in to sleep. When I woke, I was still alone.
Alone. That was nothing new. Even when he was around, I was alone. I owed him my life and my position; he was my savior, the only reason I was not tossed to the streets by my father. I could never fathom a divorce, even when he flaunted his adultery – the Church is very strict in those matters and I had not been physically abused, so I had no case to present to the priest. I kept to myself, ever the best wife I could be, for surely, one day, he would wake up and realize I was all he needed. Oh how it hurt! I know my pain reflected in my eyes, how can you hide anything through your eyes? The worst of it was the whore in the guest room. I did my wifely duties and served breakfast to our guest, but I felt more of a servant than a spouse that morning. Couldn’t he see me? Was I not good enough for him? Yes, he snarled and snapped and demanded the house be in order, his food prepped properly, and his clothes washed just so, but I did everything perfectly. I tried so hard!
I went by the barracks again today. With the war ongoing, I assumed he had been drafted with the rest of the men, which was the only hope I could cling to as to why he still had yet to return home. I refused to believe he had run off with a tramp, and he had not turned up in any hospital, and the coroner had not come to visit. Over a month missing, I began wearing black. Today’s visit to the barracks answered a lot of my questions. It also left me a widow.
They refused to answer questions about how it happened, or when. The officers very quietly handed me a twine wrapped parcel of his belongings. His coat was all that interested me. There were bullet holes, twelve of them, across the chest. Only one explanation: firing squad. Upon reflection, I remembered his position at the paper. His end made sense, but did he deserve it for his beliefs?
I wanted to cry, to mourn my loss, but I couldn’t. What did I lose? A husband? I had no husband. Not once did he acknowledge my existence as his wife. He did not treat me as a wife. So what did I lose? I gained my freedom at the expense of my safety. This thought, this new fear, should leave me quaking, crying for my future. What future? Well, my new future as the Garcin Widow.
I shall be the brunt of the town’s talk, I know, for they are sure to know of his fate. No doubt many have known for some time, which would explain their stares as I made my daily trek to and from the barracks. I think I will go to the church tomorrow and ask for the Father’s advice. He will know what I need to do now, won’t he? If it is not too late, maybe he can save my late husband’s soul, if indeed there was one within that chest....
As for me, I will beg forgiveness for speaking ill of the dead. I tried to be a good wife while my husband lived, I should try to remain the faithful wife in his death. I only pray that, if I am to follow his heels shortly after, as many older couples are said to, that mine appears to be just the same: heartbroken grief, and not, as it feels, from the pity of the people.
With this in mind, I would like to think that Garcin’s wife passed on quietly in her sleep, not out of grief as reported by Garcin, but to escape the pity of the townsfolk around her. She, too, enters the hotel of the afterlife, but on another floor. As the valet pointed out, there are many floors, and I postulate that the hotel is not Hell, precisely, but merely the place spirits go in the end to reflect on their lives. Garcin’s wife joins a room of fellow devoted spouses done wrong by their lovers. Her room is spacious with dim, comfortable lighting, and set to the perfect temperature. The guests become great friends and spend eternity speaking of the lives they wish they’d had and the futures they dreamt of living.
