Chapter 4 - The Mercy Cage

Emily - New York City, October, 1945

Emily - October, 1945

Prologue // Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3

The further we drive from the city, the more the sky overtakes the skyline. I have never seen this much of it. It almost touches the earth in front of me, and if we drove forever, we might drive straight into it. Even though we are still on Manhattan, it is hard to believe with the difference of only a few miles that the two ends of the island feel like opposite worlds. I hope that is going to be a good thing. George insists that I will love the mansion, that we will have the space for a library and, perhaps in the future, a family. Of that I am hopeful- perhaps even wistful?- but most importantly, I pray that this escape helps George with his episodes. 

The Standard jaunts along the dirt road, and my head, which had laid peacefully against the glass of the window, bumps abruptly. “Whoops! Sorry ma’am! As I was saying, Mr. Williams-” Our driver calls back to me from the front seat, then continues on chatting with my husband in the passenger seat. I believe they are talking about the war. I carefully lean my head back against the window and go back to my musings. The war is an important topic of discussion, one which the men love to discuss- especially if they have recently left it. I have had my fill at the moment. I volunteered while Mr. Williams was away, and ran the drives while still contributing to the paper. Talk of the war was more rampant before it ‘ended’ weeks ago, and made waiting to hear from your partner overseas unbearable. Mr. Williams made it home a few months before it officially ‘ended’. The rest of his platoon was not so lucky. It may have ended overseas, but not in our minds. Not in our hearts. I glance to the front seat, at the back of my husband’s head as he chuckles and cordially chats, very like himself. I exhale and look back out the window at the green and trees.  The sky will be good for him.  

And the quiet will be good for me. I have been desperate for inspiration for months, and quite incapable it seems. My articles were all well and good, but I don’t desire to be a reporter. I want to be an author. I feel a gnawing in me, as though there is something living there and dying to get out, to have a life of its own. Writing is the only thing that sates it. It brings me calm. Perhaps our new home will give us the space and air we both need. Our estate, I chuckle to myself. Moving from an apartment in the lower half of Manhattan to a full house on an acreage of land will be quite the adjustment. George and I have been teasing, calling one another “Lord” and “Lady” to help ease the transition. I find myself smiling against the window, I do love that man so. He has never belittled my aspiration to be a novelist, in fact he has supported me more than at times I have supported myself. It was in one of his love-letters to me from France that he “-couldn’t possibly be the only one to ever read the beautiful words you have to write, you must send them in to the Times!” And so I did. Fortified by his words, and perhaps the fear that if I were to lose him to the war, my words would also then be lost, and two deaths in one was unbearable. I sent my first contribution- a small piece talking about the drives we had been organizing, and some interviews with family members of the soldiers. They ran it that week, not only that, but I received a call from the editor asking me to make it a weekly write-up; and they paid me. I never would have thought to submit if it hadn’t been for George. 

As I gaze out the glass, an enormous mansion comes into view- this can’t be ours! It is unreal, a long, winding drive and vast property. I perk up and my mouth falls agape, I don’t even realize that the car has come to a stop until I hear the front doors slam and the men chatting outside. I hear the back open and then my door opens- George’s hand outstretched for mine. He helps me out and pulls me in tight,both of us facing the house with his hand on my waist. “We’re home, Emily.” It is so oddly beautiful; entrancing, almost. Like the longer I stare it beckons me closer- demands it. My eye catches something shift. A window on the second floor with an unlatched shutter, it waves as if to welcome us home. It knocks loudly and rhythmically against the siding and with each slam I jump a bit more- it can’t be getting louder,  I must be imagining. I didn’t notice the breeze in the city, but I feel it here. I linger on that second floor window when I feel a sudden surge of emotion and my eyes well, my stomach twisting in an odd way. I take a deep breath and shake off the apparent nerves. How silly, Emily, to miss an old apartment when we are blessed with this gorgeous new home. This will be better for us as a family. George pulls me in tighter. He kisses my head and I can feel him smiling. I join him. “Let’s go in.”

PS - We are releasing the first chapter of our novel to paid subscribers (but all free subscribers will receive the prologue and a few chapters for free) beginning October 1st. If you are willing to share my writing with someone who you think would resonate, that would mean so much to Cat & I as we build our path to making the series! (Our next chapters will be for subscribers so don’t miss out on your chance to come in as a founding member and receive a hardcopy, signed edition of the book!)

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