She didn’t appear in
public much, and when she did, she hid her face in a scarf. Can you blame her? People can be so unforgiving, especially the
morally smug people of this Midwestern town.
Some of them call her a harlot, not a few of them think she’s the Whore
of Babylon. She’s neither saint nor
sinner, neither monstrous nor meretricious, though her angelic eyes exude
sensuality. The townsfolk scoff, ridicule,
castigate. If it were up to me, I’d
have each one of them shot for having judged her so harshly, for having cast
stones upon her without hesitation. But
she would have none of this violence. The
woman spends the days tending her flower garden and playing Chopin listlessly on
her Steinway. A steady diet of tonics
and laudanum do not ease her loneliness.
