Guilt Theme Analysis

I suppose at one time in my life I might have had any number of stories, but now there is no other. This is the only story I will ever be able to tell.

Out on the lawn, Bunny had just knocked Henry’s ball about seventy feet outside the court. There was a ragged burst of laughter; faint, but clear, it floated back across the evening air. That laughter haunts me still.

His gaze—helpless, wild—hit me like a blackjack. Suddenly, and for the first time, really, I was struck by the bitter, irrevocable truth of it; the evil of what we had done. It was like running full speed into a brick wall. I let go of his collar, feeling completely helpless. I wanted to die. “Oh, God,” I mumbled, “God help me, I’m sorry—”

Slowly, slowly, with a drugged, fathomless calm, Henry bent and picked up a handful of dirt. He held it over the grave and let it trickle from his fingers. Then, with terrible composure, he stepped back and absently dragged the hand across his chest, smearing mud upon his lapel, his tie, the starched immaculate white of his shirt.

“I can’t marry you [. . .] because I love Henry.”

“Henry’s dead.”

“I can’t help it. I still love him.”

I loved him, too,” I said.

For a moment, I thought I felt her waver. But then she looked away.

“I know you did,” she said. “But it’s not enough.”

“Are you happy here?” I said at last.

He considered this for a moment. “Not particularly,” he said. “But you’re not very happy where you are, either.”