Page 12 of Letters From Victor

My fingers tightened around my fork, the metal biting into my palm. “Victor has been nothing but professional and respectful. He’s a successful businessman, not some shady criminal.”

“Oh, so it’sVictornow, is it?” Frank’s eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a mocking tone. “Getting awfully chummy with the boss on your first day.”

Heat rose in my cheeks, a mix of anger and something else I didn’t want to acknowledge. I held Frank’s gaze, refusing to look away. “Don’t be absurd,” I said, my voice tight. “Mr. Cardello is my employer, nothing more. I’m simply trying to do my job well.”

Frank scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, I bet he’d love for you to ‘do your job well.’” His words dripped with insinuation. My stomach churned.

I set my fork down, my appetite gone. “That’s enough, Frank. I won’t sit here and listen to you insult me.” I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping against the hardwood floor.

Frankie began to whimper, startled by the irritated voices and my sudden movement. I scooped him up and hugged him close to my chest as I turned to leave the room.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Frank demanded.

I paused in the doorway, my back to Frank. “I’m going to put our son to bed,” I said, trembling slightly. I didn’t wait for his response, striding down the hallway to Frankie’s nursery.

The pale blue walls and soft yellow curtains did little to calm me as I changed Frankie into his pajamas, my hands still shaky as I fumbled with the tiny buttons. He was quiet as he looked upat me with curious eyes, almost as if he could sense my disquiet. Maybe he could.

I sighed as I picked him up and settled into the wooden rocking chair. Holding Frankie close, the gentle creaking thrummed through my body as I rocked back and forth. He nestled his face against my chest and sighed deeply.

A lullaby—the same one my sister, Edith, used to sing to me when I was a little girl—danced gently on my lips. When I had nightmares, she—not Mother—had always been the one to soothe and comfort me back to sleep. The melody wrapped around us like a warm blanket, and Frankie’s breathing deepened and slowed as he drifted off to sleep. I envied his peaceful slumber, wishing I could escape into dreams as easily. But my thoughts were tangled tonight.

As I rocked Frankie, my mind drifted back to my lunch with Victor. The way he had looked at me—really looked at me—as if he could see straight into my soul. The way he spoke about my potential, about the things I could do if I just had the chance. It was intoxicating, that feeling of being seen and understood.

But then there was Frank’s reaction, the suspicion and jealousy simmering beneath his words. The way he had insinuated that Victor only wanted me for…for what? My looks? My body? The very idea made me feel dirty, tainted.

I glanced down at Frankie—his face relaxed in sleep, his tiny hand clutching my blouse—and a fierce love surged through me. This was my life now. This was what I had chosen when I married Frank. A husband, a child, a home to keep. It was what I should want, what any good wife and mother would want.

The sharp slam of the front door shattered the quiet of the nursery like a gunshot. I flinched, my arms instinctively tightening around Frankie’s sleeping form. He stirred, his rosebud lips puckering in a sleepy pout, but he didn’t wake.

I held my breath as the heavy tread of Frank’s footsteps stomped down the porch steps. The crunch of gravel signaled his path to the driveway, and then the all-too-familiar rumble of the Plymouth’s engine roared to life.

He was leaving. Again. Off to some watering hole to drown his sorrows and nurse his wounded ego in cheap whiskey and the sympathetic ear of whatever barfly would listen. Leaving me alone with a toddler, a sink full of dishes, and a swirling mind.

As the rumble of the car’s engine faded into the night, I let out a shaky breath. Silence settled around me like a shroud, broken only by the soft ticking of the nursery clock and Frankie’s gentle sighs.

I carefully stood up from the rocking chair, my legs stiff from sitting. I placed a soft kiss on Frankie’s mop of messy, straw-colored hair before lowering him into his crib. He barely stirred as I tucked his favorite blue blanket around him, his little fingers clutching the satin edge.

I paused, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, marveling at the perfect innocence of his sleeping face. What I wouldn’t give to have that kind of peace, that blissful oblivion.

With one last glance at Frankie’s slumbering form, I quietly closed the nursery door. The hallway stretched before me, the floral wallpaper muted in the dim light. My shoes scuffed softly against the hardwood until I reached the dining room.

The remains of our aborted dinner still littered the table—half-eaten plates of stroganoff congealing, Frankie’s highchair tray splattered with smears of gravy and stray peas. A wave of weariness washed over me at the sight, but I couldn’t just leave it. Mechanically, I cleared the table, scraped the wasted food into the garbage pail, and stacked the dishes to be washed.

As I filled the sink with hot, soapy water, my mind drifted yet again—back to lunch, back to Victor. The way his eyes had sparkled with mischief and promise as we talked. The way hisfingers brushed against mine. The way he held my hand. And I had let him.

The warmth of his touch still lingered on my skin—imagined, maybe, but no less vivid. I could still feel the slight roughness of his fingertips and the gentle pressure of his palm against mine. It was a simple gesture, but it had sent a jolt through me like an electric current.

I shook away the thought as I plunged my hands into bright yellow dish gloves. I scrubbed at the dishes as if I could scour away the confusing feelings swirling inside me, along with the crusted food remnants. The hot water scalded my hands through the rubber gloves, but I welcomed the discomfort. It grounded me, kept me tethered to the present moment instead of floating away on forbidden currents.

The sharp trill of the telephone pierced through the quiet house. I jumped, sloshing sudsy water down my apron. Cursing under my breath, I quickly removed my gloves and hurried to the phone table in the entry hall, my heart pounding in my chest.

I lifted the heavy black receiver to my ear, the bakelite cool against my skin. “Hello?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Babs? It’s Edie.” My older sister’s warm, rich voice flowed through the earpiece, instantly soothing some of the tension in my shoulders. She was the only one who could get away with calling me Babs. “I wanted to check on you. You seemed a bit…off when you picked up Frankie this afternoon.”

I sighed, leaning against the wall and twirling the phone cord around my finger. “I’m fine, Edie. Just tired.” Even as the words left my lips, I heard how flat they sounded.

There was a hollow pause on the other end of the line. I pictured Edith’s expression—her brow furrowed, her lips pursed in that way she had when she was trying to decide whether to push me or let me be.

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