woman scored, woman burned iv

February 22, 1968

It is 3:17pm and much has changed. Lolia is Leslie once again, the exotic dark-skinned wife of Lord Stanley, and has birthed a child. A daughter. Her skin is the color of curds, her eyes the green of sea foam and as piercing as a lioness’s. She is beautiful. It has been three months since Leslie and Stanley welcomed their first guests, gossips posing as well-wishers; for weeks, their home has been overwhelmed by the stream of clothing and heirloom toys for the baby girl, insincere concern and post-dated promises of highballs at the club for the new parents.

It is not clear how they are adapting to their new life, this troubled couple. When Leslie’s face suddenly crumples and tears begin to pour down her face, it is blamed on postpartum depression. When Stanley disappears from their bedroom in the middle of the night, one is sure to find him sitting in a wicker chair on the balcony, wrapped in a tartan blanket, chain-smoking cigarette after unfiltered cigarette. He is yet to reveal what is on his mind.

Leslie feels as she always has in this world: lonely. The child is of little comfort, being unable to put her mother before herself. Though she tries not to, Leslie cannot help but yearn for her own mother and sisters who, she knows, would have been there from the first day of her difficult birth and remained glued to her side until they stilled the blood flowing out of her like a crimson stream, until she had learned once again to eat and nourish her body, until the bell-like sound of her unique laugh spilled out of her once more. She knows: they would have brushed her hair gently with almond oil and tucked it away in five strong plaits, rubbed her skin with their powerful yet soft palms to dispel the aches of brand-new motherhood, begged and cajoled her to fulfill what she naturally yearned for anyway and feed her child. Instead, she is by herself, shunned ever-so-discreetly by her husband, forgotten by her lover and the father of this child…and who ought to care? She did, after all, bring this upon herself.

It is 3:17pm and Leslie is afloat in a sea of thoughts like these, when a familiar sound rings through the flat. It is the telephone. They have come to loathe this sound, Leslie and Stanley, and neither hurries to answer. What for, the unpleasantly light conversations, the pretense that either is happy to be stuck at home with this innocent newborn? He is pretending to read the paper at the kitchen table, a half-smoked cigarette hanging limp from his forefingers. She is swirling the dregs of the glass of brandy she has supposedly been drinking to help her sleep. The child, Francesca Ibinabo, is asleep. At the last minute, Leslie decides to break the monotony of the day and springs up from the lounge seat to answer the phone.

She recognizes his voice immediately. “Don’t hang up. Is he there?”

Her breath catches, nearly imperceptibly. Back straight, she turns to a corner, as though to shield her voice as she responds. Yes. And Stanley instantly knows who it is.

“I want to see you. Please. I need to see you.” John’s voice sounds as disheveled as she imagines he must look. She is suddenly, painfully, struck by a piercing desire to finger his hair and suck his lip, as greedily as their child pulls at her bosom. She says nothing.

“I’m on the high street, in the box at the corner. Meet me here in five minutes. Please.”

She remains silent, afraid to speak lest she is betrayed by a quavering voice. Behind her, Stanley stares through the gray pages of the paper. His cigarette has disintegrated to a fragile column of ashes that threatens to fall on the kitchen table in a fine spray. He pretends not to, but he is listening: listening to the sound of her unsteady breathing, her heart racing. He cannot see her, but he knows that she is sweating the way she does when she gets excited, droplets gathering on the tip of her nose. He clenches his jaw in anger and jealousy.

“Please say you’ll come...Lolia…. Are you there?”

Yes. All right. With that, she drops the receiver. Licking her lips nervously, she turns to Stanley. From where she stands, she can only see the side of his face. She is spared the sternness of his eyes, and the hatred spewing from them. I’m just going out for a few minutes. I won't be long.

“And the baby?” His voice is even, cold. If she notices, she does not show it, nor does it make her concerned.

She shouldn’t wake up before I’m back. But if she does, there is a bottle in the fridge. You can…will you…I mean, if it’s not too much trouble—

“I’ll feed her. Go on.” Stanley extinguishes the remains of his cigarette and rises from the table, pulling another out of the pack. He walks toward the balcony.

Leslie is still standing in the parlor, fighting her guilt. It doesn't escape her that he hasn't asked where she is going. There is no reason not to tell him the truth, but she cannot. The truth would conjure memories of that night, the first night she said to him, “I’m going out with John.” So instead she tries to make a shaky peace, saying, It’s cold out. Do you want your bl—

Stanley slams the sliding glass door shut between them, cutting himself off from her concern. She swallows and bites her lip. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, spins on her heel and hurries into their bedroom to change. Her clothes are simple; she decides not to wear any makeup. She looks younger, almost fresh. On her way out, she stops in the nursery to look at Francesca, daughter of John. The child is still asleep. Lolia walks to her daughter, puts her nose to her cheek and smells her. She understands in that moment why the world agrees, unreservedly, that babies are angels come to earth. And with a kiss, she is gone.

Stanley hears the front door shut. It is 3:24pm. The glowing embers of his cigarette cast a dull, orange light on his chin as he drags from it. Below him, he sees Lolia trying not to run up the street. Her breath trails behind her in wispy clouds of vapor. He cannot see up the street – there are too many trees in the way – but he knows who she is going to meet. He can even bet he knows where they will meet. In the chilly darkness, he torments himself with his imagination, wondering: will they embrace? Surely he will kiss her – will she want it? Will she like it? When was the last time she has wanted to kiss me?

He pondered the possibility of her leaving him again. Again! To be with that impoverished toad, that lecherous bastard – what could he possibly have to offer her? After all is said and done, laughter and lust were no match for prestige – the speed with which she crawled back to him said as much. And yet…off she ran. Again.

He dragged on his cigarette a last time before flinging the stub onto the garden path directly below. He is back in the flat before it hits the ground. The silence within is eerie, but not foreign. The only thing that has broken it in the past weeks is the sound of the child crying. When she is quiet, he sometimes forgets she is here. This is the first time Leslie has left him alone with her. Left him alone with another man’s child while she runs off in pursuit of her heart’s desire. It should be me, he thinks.

He is pacing the corridor in front of the nursery, going from their bedroom to the living room and back, his injury growing with each step, feeding his rage. How dare she, he thinks, after all I’ve done for her. Taking her in, her and her bastard child. Pretending to all who know better than this object of shame is mine. Ungrateful bitch! His self-loathing is palpable; for reasons we may never know, he ignores his willing hand in creating this situation.

He stops. The girl is whimpering. Because he has promised, he looks into the nursery to check whether she is awake. He approaches the crib, scowling. Inside, Francesca squirms in her sleep, then is still. He is hypnotized by her face. It is the first time he has seen her this closely, watched her for this long, alone. He notices, with some degree of shock, that she looks almost exactly like Leslie. The contour of her lips, the slight upward slant of her eyes – those were the things he noticed about Leslie when he first met her, when she was Lolia, the young happy girl from Bonny, whose laughter drew him like the notes of a Siren song. What he would give for the simplicity of those days. What he would give to hear her laugh like that for him, and only him, again.

His throat tight, eyes wet, he rushes away from his wife’s baby before he is forced to notice the features of his best friend. Leaving the door open, he sits in his favorite leather armchair and lights a cigarette as the winter evening falls outside.

It is 3:31. And Lolia has shed her upper-class crust to be with John.

(cont.)