Page 128 of A Wicked Kind of Husband

Out in the streets,he headed for the factory on foot, surprised by how fast everyone walked. Of course they walked fast—this was Birmingham; it was he who had turned slow. He quickened his pace and soaked it all up, the noise, the bustle, the surge of effort and victory and loss. The smoke from the factories, the stench of the canals, the yells of canal men, and some factory workers singing. Yes, Birmingham, where money was king and hard work was his queen.

By the time he reached his headquarters, he was walking at a decent speed again, his head was used to the clanging, and he had mostly stopped coughing. Yes, Birmingham. Everywhere everyone was working, producing, making useless stuff useful.

Das looked only mildly surprised to see him, rising from the desk, where dossiers were neatly stacked and everything appeared to be in order. And, of course, when he quizzed Das, he learned that everything was in order. He let Das talk, while he paced around the office, and tried to find it interesting, but most of what the man said was gibberish, which was odd, as Das was usually focused and clear.

I want a husband. A whole one. Not one who is always leaving me.

Everything felt odd, not only Das’s gibberish. Everything was meant to come together once he got back here. But Das had everything under control, and the secretaries had taken to making decisions themselves, and it seemed that they made good decisions. They weren’t secretaries, now, though, were they? They were managers, and those were the new titles that Das proposed. Joshua had made himself redundant. They didn’t need him either.

I want you here. This is your home too.

No. No. His home was here, in Birmingham. This was who he was. He had just…forgotten.

“Well, I’m back now,” he said, cutting Das off mid-sentence, ignoring his raised eyebrows. “All looks good. But you know, we need to make changes.”

“One more thing, then.” Das straightened an already-straight dossier. “You know that I have immense respect for you, Mr. DeWitt, and I am grateful for the opportunities you have given me.”

Oh no. Bloody hell. No.

“I have learned a lot these past years and enjoyed myself immensely. These past weeks at the helm have been the best weeks of my career.”

No. Hell, no. Not Das too.

“The experience has firmed my resolve to run an enterprise of my own. I do not intend to be your secretary forever.”

“Now? You’re leaving right now?”

Das looked puzzled. “No,” he said slowly. “But if you are making changes, you should be aware.”

“Right. Changes. I’m aware.”

* * *

Joshua left soon afterward.They would all carry on fine without him. Just as they would at Sunne Park.

What he sought was not there either.

He headed into the streets, not sure where his legs were taking him. He had a vision of himself, wandering around the streets of Birmingham for years and years, stopping passersby to say, “I need to get to Birmingham” and not understanding when they told him he was already there. They’d call him the Lost Man of Birmingham. “He used to be someone,” they’d say when they saw him stumbling past, along the canals, amid the warehouses and factories, down High St. and Moor St. and Mercer St., asking for directions to the city where he was. “He used to be someone, but then his wife kicked him out and his friend left and his business fell to pieces and he lost everything he had.”

Bloody hell. He was starting by losing his mind.

He shook off the odd vision and made his way home, to find a house full of clutter, with his bed prepared, meal laid out, and the staff gone.

I know your life is in Birmingham, and I’ll go there with you happily if you want. But this is your home too.

He picked up one of Rachel’s clocks. The day he came home, when she was heavily pregnant and thoroughly bored, and he found her in the dining room up to her elbows in cogs and screws and blazes knew what, having pulled apart three clocks and not yet put them back together.

And Samuel’s tiger-skin rug, with its great heavy head and yellowing claws. The little boy cuddling the tiger’s head and telling it his stories, and looking up at him with a solemn frown to ask, “Papa, do tigers dance?”

Then Joshua looked in the tiger’s big glass eyes and he laughed.

He laughed until he wanted to weep, but he could not weep so he laughed some more.

He had been right: Hehadneeded to come back to Birmingham. He needed to come back so he could see that his life was not here anymore. To understand how completely everything had changed, that he was no longer the man he’d been. To understand how thoroughly Cassandra had disrupted his life and colonized his heart.

Ah, Samuel, my boy. And Rachel, my friend. Birmingham, my past.

Cassandra, my love.

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