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The Story of an Hour
After Kate Chopin
by Eric Sentell
As he hoped the young lady’s husband would send a telegram upon his safe arrival in New Orleans, Mr. Mallard realized he should inform his wife that he had missed the train. While the lady he’d encountered on the platform might worry about her just-departed husband also debating between tavern and brothel – “You really should mind who’s about before thinking out loud,” he chastised himself, aloud – Mrs. Mallard would certainly fret when the train arrived without him. The newspaper office was near the waiting carriage he hoped to hire for his brothel trip. A brief stop, a simple telegram, and all troubles would be avoided.
But he resented bending his will. To feign coughing at the slightest wisp of cigar smoke, to blanch at the smell of alcohol on his breath, to complain about his tavern visits, to steal his time with petty requests – all an unrelenting attack on his freedom, a kind of feminine tyranny. No, he would not delay. He would send a message to Louise in the morning.
Yet he couldn't help but desire the young lady’s husband to send a comforting telegram. Aware of his hypocrisy, he reasoned, “But they’re young, I’m sure they’re in love.” And with that thought, Mallard’s shoulders slumped. Eyes downward, face slack, he suddenly felt exhausted. He imagined the women at the brothel, but even that couldn't stir him.
The coach driver called, “Good evening, sir!” drawing his eyes from the ground and his mind from its thoughts. He offered a ride to New Orleans. Mallard mumbled a thank you and gave the driver his address before clambering into the carriage. He dropped his gripsack and umbrella, fluffed a pillow, , and laid down while still wearing his shoes and coat. No sooner had he settled himself than the driver snapped the horses into motion, jerking the carriage.
Wheels, axles, and chains clattered, but the hooves’ steady clip-clop soothed him. Once outside the city, buildings’ silhouettes were replaced with blue-black trees waving in the breeze, their spring life invisible in the night. He stared into them without expression, without intelligent thought.
After some time, he sensed an epiphany coming to him independently of his will or reason. It crept toward him through the cool night, the scent of the trees, the sound of the coach. He waited.
Mallard lurched upright. He saw the approaching sadness, yet he welcomed it fiercely; he couldn't remember another moment of such startling clarity in all his life.
He could feel each pulse in his left shoulder, like someone prodding his joint from the inside, and his face and neck flushed with sudden heat.
His glare relaxed into misery, and then the epiphany, the single word “love,” moaned from his lips. He repeated it over and over, drawing it out in longer yet quieter whispers.
He was certain she had loved him sometimes – but only sometimes. Yet he’d never stopped loving her. Not when her gaze showed no affection. Not when she used her heart condition as a pretense for avoiding sex. Not even when he embraced another woman. Why else would he have been so careful to always look upon her with love rather than shame, pain, or anger? How often had he yearned for the relief of his conscience and then swallowed it for her sake, for her heart, figuratively and literally? Only now did he realize all their lives had lacked, only now did he rue the blind persistence in which he’d groped for happiness.
Mallard slouched in the seat. Scorching warmth gathered behind his eyes. Small sobs choked him. He sat that way for some time until finally drifting to sleep.
After he woke, Mallard rubbed his eyes and looked out the window. Patches of blue sky showed between white clouds. The trees’ new leaves shone in the sunlight, and birds sang and darted among branches. The scene was hopeful, but the night’s epiphany invaded his thoughts. He might have tolerated his misery but for the realization that he shared it – and had for years.
He considered his options and hated them all. Yet he quickly decided which he hated least.
As the carriage arrived, Mallard checked his pocket watch and noticed it was almost an hour later than the train the driver had promised to match. As a matter of principle, he negotiated a 10% discount. He paused at his door to smooth out his coat and dust off his trousers. He retrieved his key and steeled his resolve with a deep breath.
When he entered, Louise was near the top of the stairs, holding onto the banister with one hand and her sister Josephine with the other. She released Louise’s wrist but couldn't cover her mouth before shrieking. Louise swayed away from the banister, paused for a long second, and began to fall. His friend Richards darted in front of him, but he only partially hid her rough tumble down the stairs.
After Louise stopped, Richards ran to her, knelt, and patted her cheek. Josephine gripped the banister, crying. Seeing no response from Louise, Richards turned to Mallard and rasped, “They said you were killed.”
“Killed?”
“In the train accident. I confirmed it by telegram.”
He dropped his gripsack and grasped the door handle, supporting himself against it, thinking of the telegram he should have sent.
When the doctors said she died of heart disease – of joy that kills – Mallard scoffed in their faces and went to Louise’s room. Standing behind her armchair, peering out the window at the beautiful day, he imagined what she must have thought, what she must have felt, while contemplating the news of his death. He squeezed the chair’s backrest and let out a shuddering sigh. How much would she loathe him now, he wondered, if she knew of his resolve to seek a divorce on her terms?
Eric Sentell teaches college composition, professional writing, and visual rhetoric at Southeast Missouri State University. His fiction has appeared in Six Minute Magazine, Unlikely Stories 2.0, Moon City Review, and Long Story Short, including “Stolen Thunder,” LSS’s Story of the Month for September 2010. He lives in Piedmont, Missouri, with his wife, Jessica. Contact Eric.
