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“He can’t do that,” said Iris for the third or fourth time. “He just can’t.”
“He can.” Charles took another swig of brandy and massaged his temples, while Iris stood still, hands fixed to her hips, vibrating with anger.
“I should go down there,” she continued. “Give that schmuck a piece of my mind.”
“All you’ll give him is an excuse to inform on us to the Un-American Activities Committee,” Charles snapped.
“Well, we have to do something!”
“No, we don’t,” said Charles. “We lost, Iris.”
A knock sounded. Charles and Iris shared a wordless look—Are you expecting company? No, are you? No.—before Charles rose and walked to the door.
Eleanor stood in the hallway wrapped in a man’s coat, her fashionably short hair disheveled, an enormous pair of sunglasses obscuring her eyes. Once Charles had opened the door, she removed them, and he heard Iris gasp behind him as they both took in her black eye.
“Come inside,” he said immediately, leading her in by the hand. He felt a rush of protectiveness over her, standing in their drafty hallway, looking so small and frail in that oversized coat. He realized, for the first time, that she couldn’t be much older than twenty-five.
“What happened?” Iris asked, enveloping Eleanor in her arms. “Oh, darling, what happened?”
“He gets like this sometimes,” Eleanor said, her voice stuffy with snot and tears. “I thought it was getting better. I thought I could manage it.” Iris led her to the couch and eased her down onto the seat. “It was bad this time,” she continued, her gaze unfocused. “The worst he has ever been. He only stopped because I told him…”
Her hands moved instinctively to her stomach, and Charles swore under his breath.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Iris whispered.
“I don’t know what to do,” Eleanor said, her breathing bubbling up into tiny sobs once more. “I can’t leave him. He works for my father.”
“Yes, you can,” said Charles. “You will.”
Iris looked over to him gratefully.
“I can’t,” Eleanor said, eyes streaming again. “The baby.”
“I shall kill him,” said Iris. “Truly. That man. That damn man, I am going to kill him.”
Charles could tell she meant it. The fury in her eyes, it was not hot, the kind that burns itself out like a candle. It was cold. Icy. Dangerous.
“Iris, stop,” he said as she made her way to the door. She ignored him. “Iris,” he repeated, “stop right there.” She froze, and he could tell it was sheer surprise more than anything else. He rarely ever spoke to her that way, like he was the man and she his wife. He didn’t much like the sound of it in his own mouth even now, but he couldn’t have Iris marching across town all gung ho, causing even more trouble when their situation was already so precarious.
“We have to be careful,” he said, more measured now. “We have to think.”
Iris lingered in the doorway, as if considering ignoring his counsel and carrying on with whatever half-baked revenge she wanted. Then her eyes drifted back to the couch, where Eleanor’s weeping had subsided into the occasional pained sniffle, and she begrudgingly relented. She returned to the couch, where Eleanor immediately clung to her.
What are we going to do? he thought. What the hell are we going to do?
“Iris,” he said, halting at her baleful glare. “What…”
“Yes?” she asked, obstinacy softening.
He felt ridiculous asking out loud, but forged ahead: “What would Captain Kismet do?”
Iris did not laugh, as he had thought she might. She gave the question thought, and when she answered, it felt immediately correct. The captain was her own invention, after all. She was the closest thing anyone in this room had to a real hero.
“Don’t attack or avenge when you can protect,” she said. “Don’t destroy what you can’t rebuild.”
He looked over at Eleanor, who had curled up on the sofa with her head in Iris’s lap, then to his wife, who was tenderly stroking Eleanor’s hair, and said: “All right, I have an idea.”
