The Sloan Men: Short Story by David Nickle Page B

sentence she was so angry. No wonder Herman hadn’t wanted her to meet his family.
    “I took that photograph almost a year after I cut off my fingers,” said Mrs. Sloan. “Photography became a small rebellion for me, not nearly so visible as the mutilation. Herman’s father still doesn’t know about it, even though I keep the book out here in full view. Sloan men don’t open books much.
    “But we do, don’t we, Judith?”
    Mrs. Sloan opened the album again, and pointed at the Polaroid on the first page. Judith wanted to look away, but found that she couldn’t.
    “Herman’s father brought the three of them home early, before I’d woken up — I don’t know where he found them. Maybe he just called, and they were the ones who answered.”
    “They” were three women. The oldest couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Mrs. Sloan had caught them naked and asleep, along with what looked like Herman’s father. One woman had her head cradled near Mr. Sloan’s groin; another was cuddled in the white folds of his armpit, her wet hair fanning like seaweed across his shoulder; the third lay curled in a foetal position off his wide flank. Something dark was smeared across her face.
    “And no, they weren’t prostitutes,” said Mrs. Sloan. “I had occasion to talk to one of them on her way out; she was a newlywed, she and her husband had come up for a weekend at the family cottage. She was, she supposed, going back to him.”
    “That’s sick,” gasped Judith, and meant it. She truly felt ill. “Why would you take something like that?”
    “Because,” replied Mrs. Sloan, her voice growing sharp again, “I found that I could. Mr. Sloan was distracted, as you can see, and at that instant I found some of the will that he had kept from me since we met.”
    “Sick,” Judith whispered. “Herman was right. We shouldn’t have come.”
    When Mrs. Sloan closed the album this time, she put it back underneath the coffee table. She patted Judith’s arm with her mutilated hand and smiled. “No, no, dear. I’m happy you’re here — happier than you can know.”
    Judith wanted nothing more at that moment than to get up, grab her suitcase, throw it in the car and leave. But of course she couldn’t. Herman wasn’t back yet, and she couldn’t think of leaving without him.
    “If Herman’s father was doing all these things, why didn’t you just divorce him?”
    “If that photograph offends you, why don’t you just get up and leave, right now?”
    “Herman — ”
    “Herman wouldn’t like it,” Mrs. Sloan finished for her. “That’s it, isn’t it?” Judith nodded.
    “He’s got you too,” continued Mrs. Sloan, “just like his father got me. But maybe it’s not too late for you.”
    “I love Herman. He never did anything like . . . like that.”
    “Of course you love him. And I love Mr. Sloan — desperately, passionately, over all reason.” The corner of Mrs. Sloan’s mouth perked up in a small, bitter grin.
    “Would you like to hear how we met?”
    Judith wasn’t sure she would, but she nodded anyway. “Sure.”
    “I was living in Toronto with a friend at the time, had been for several years. As I recall, she was more than a friend — we were lovers.” Mrs. Sloan paused, obviously waiting for a reaction. Judith sat mute, her expression purposefully blank.
    Mrs. Sloan went on: “In our circle of friends, such relationships were quite fragile. Usually they would last no longer than a few weeks. It was, so far as we knew anyway, a minor miracle that we’d managed to stay together for as long as we had.” Mrs. Sloan gave a bitter laugh. “We were very proud.”
    “How did you meet Herman’s father?”
    “On a train,” she said quickly. “A subway train. He didn’t even speak to me. I just felt his touch. I began packing my things that night. I can’t even remember what I told her. My friend.”
    “It can’t have been like that.”
    Judith started to get up, but Mrs. Sloan grabbed