Clare's Betrayal

This is a journal entry of John Bellew one year after Clare’s death.

I know now that my wife, Clare, was a nigger. I would have expected, after a year, to come to terms with this in some way, to be able to move on. I am still disgusted with myself. It seems so silly now that when that other nigger woman, Irene, asked me if I had known any Negroes, I responded so assuredly with my “Thank the Lord, no! And never expect to! (30)” How stupid it seems now that I had let them into my home, my life, my bed.

But then I also spend my time in such a deep confusion. I have a hard time saying that I loved her, but I don’t know how else to describe what we had for all those years. I shared so much with her, and had a marriage just like those of my friends. To know that that was all a lie is deeply painful. I screamed when she fell that night- I think something deep inside me hurt when I knew she was gone.

But, in the end, I’m very glad she’s dead. I realize now that there was no better ending for her, no better ending for us. With her death, at least I don’t have to live with this problem; I can hide it in the grief of a widower and bury my shame with her. And there would have been no life for her after this. I would have been compelled to destroy her, to make her pay for ruining me like she did, and she would have been terribly unhappy (as she deserved). I don’t think I could have been happy making her miserable, but I also couldn’t have been happy letting her get away with this. This is the best resolution for everyone.

I don’t think I can trust again, I don’t think I will ever love.

Jack