Mine to Tell Page 12

  I cooked for them that evening. My new husband and his sons sat quietly around the table while I fumbled in their kitchen, finding my way through another woman’s belongings. I found flour, lard, dried pork. I struggled to make this first meal in a foreign kitchen, missing the soft evening discussions of my own family, starving for the gay banter that rounded Henrietta’s and John’s table.

  “No!” I reprimanded myself aloud, breaking the horrible silence.

  Isaac cleared his throat. He looked my way from the head of the table, his boys’ eyes following his.

  “I beg your pardon,” I muttered. I busied myself with their meal. I couldn’t let my thoughts drift to John, not anymore.

  Isaac led me to his room, our room, when the boys had been tucked into their beds. Three rooms upstairs, a boy in each of the two largest. His room… our room… was downstairs. It was quite sizeable. He lit a lamp and stood near it.

  “I can’t,” I heard myself say. “I’m in a womanly way.” My voice was small, but it was the only sound in the room. It was a lie, and he was a preacher. Did he know? I swallowed, ashamed, and afraid to breathe until he responded.

  “So be it,” he said, and he blew out the lamp. I could hear him in the darkness. He slipped out of his clothing, moved around the room, and then rustled the blanket and slid into the bed.

  I hoped God forgave me for lying to my husband. I hoped John wasn’t wondering where I was this particular night. I went to the trunk my father had brought over earlier and reached for the gown which I knew lay in the top. Hiding myself in a corner, I changed more slowly than I’d ever changed before, and then I felt my way to the bed.

  “Good night,” I said before I climbed in. I didn’t want him to say it in return when I was beside him, for fear he’d touch me, give me a kiss to seal the sentiment.

  “Sleep well,” he said in the darkness, his voice low, almost a whisper.

  Gingerly I lifted the blanket and slipped in. The mattress was hard and cold, not like what I’d slept on when I’d stayed with Henrietta and—I stopped myself. I couldn’t think about them, not about him. Not anymore.

  Chapter 24

  “I remember concerning you the devotion of

  your youth, the love of your betrothals.”

  I balanced Julianne’s Bible on my lap as I leaned to the left to write down the letters she’d underlined. I needed Kyle’s help. I’d never asked him for it before, but neither had I ever had to. He’d always come here as if he knew, knew it was time to put the next chapter to Julianne’s story and knew I was ready for him. The work was tedious and I was getting a cramp in my side, so I sat up straight, stretched, and then leaned the opposite direction.

  As I stretched as far as I could, a knock came at the door. Thank God, I thought. I almost shouted for Kyle to come in so I could finish pulling my muscles, impressed with his timing, his uncanny way of knowing he should be here. But instead I sat up, set my work aside, and walked to the door.

  “Anybody home?” my mother’s voice came soft and uncertain from the porch. It startled me, and I couldn’t keep the surprise off my face as I pulled the door open. “It’s just me,” she said, her irritation that I was surprised to see her evident.

  “I wasn’t expecting anyone,” I stammered, “especially not you.”

  “If Kyle’s the anyone you weren’t expecting, then good. But me? I am your mother, after all.”

  She’d never come to Julianne’s house, not even when I’d lain in bed at night and wished she would. I was justified in being stunned, and she knew it. “Come in,” I said, keeping my thoughts to myself.

  She peered around me before she moved. I stepped back and swung the door wider, sweeping my free arm inward to usher her forward. She eased over the threshold like a nervous cat and looked around the room as if a virus was there, a tainted-woman virus, the thing I’d apparently caught.

  “It’s okay, Mama,” I said, keeping frustration from my tone.

  “I know,” she tried to lie. “I didn’t want to interrupt anything, just see what you were up to. Today,” she added, spotting my work strewn across the sofa.

  I followed her gaze to my books and papers, that familiar urge to protect Julianne rising up. Mama gazed at the relics I’d amassed of Julianne’s private life, her secrets and events that so far made her look as guilty as everyone thought she was.

  “Well,” I said, stepping between my mother and Julianne, “Today? Probably be here working most of the day. Why? Is something going on? Did you want to sit down and have some tea or something?”

  “No,” she answered, her eyes making another circuit around the room. “Nothing’s going on, and I don’t have time for tea. Just wondered what you were up to.” She fidgeted with her apron while she shifted from one foot to the other.

  “Please, why don’t you sit down?”

  “No, no,” she answered me quickly. “I don’t have time.”

  We stared at each other. Normally we had things to talk about, but here, in Julianne’s home, there was more not to talk about, and by mutual understanding we left those things alone.

  “I’ll take a break,” I said. “I’ll walk you back home.”

  “Oh, my, no,” she fairly shouted. I frowned. “I’ll go, I’ll go now. You’ve done a nice job on this house.” And she turned and hurried out my door.

  The house resounded with abrupt emptiness as the door closed behind her, not just from the absence of my mother’s peculiar behavior but also because of those unsaid things she left behind. I stared at my work. I wanted to know what my mother was up to, but there was Julianne, too, a much saner and more predictable woman. I decided to work until lunch and then walk to my parents’ house. That wouldn’t look contrived. Maybe by then Mama’d be settled down and we could talk.

  ****

  The air was warm and slightly breezy as I shuffled over the gravel and through the dust to my parents’ home. It cleared my head of vowels and consonants as I listened to the birds and inhaled deep lungfuls of grass-tinged wind. It was beautiful. It was home. Would I eventually leave it again to make another?

  I heard voices as I approached my parents’ house. Young voices, not my parents’ or my grandpa’s. Paul Junior’s voice bellowed above the others, bossy as usual, and full of laughter. I couldn’t see them, whoever they were, but it sounded like a yard full of his friends, and I wondered what was going on. I bypassed the kitchen door where I usually entered and took myself around the side, Paul Junior’s shouts leading me to him and his gang.

  “Over here!” Paul Junior yelled to someone before I rounded the corner of the house. “I’m in the open!”

  Soprano squeals and giggles were framed by deeper, more manly tones as I stopped and bent my head around the corner. There I saw them, a yard full of Paul Junior’s companions playing some reckless ballgame, maybe touch football or something, where it didn’t matter who won. It was all about teasing and contact, boy-and-girl stuff, not man stuff. I watched the chaos, the girls half-grasping at the men, while the men ran up against the young women. I rolled my eyes and pulled back, not interested in Paul Junior’s idea of what made a good relationship.

  “Go back!” a male voice yelled. “Trevor, go back!”

  I froze. Trevor? My Trevor? Suddenly the fresh farm air felt thick and poisonous, the playful voices lecherous. My heart thudded within my chest and my throat wouldn’t swallow. I pressed myself flat against the yellow siding, its coolness ineffective against the warm perspiration beading across my skin. Another squeal filled the air, a din of laughter and male guffaws.

  “Way to go, Trevor,” Paul Junior called.

  Flattened near the corner of the house, I leaned carefully their way, one eye peering around, searching for Trevor. The crowd was bunched loosely at the far end of their mock playing field, breaking apart in clumps and pairs as people drifted away. No Trevor. It must be another Trevor. I let out a long sigh as my heart rate slowed. I relaxed and watched their waning excitement, listened to thei
r low laughter. As they dispersed toward the center, ready to begin another play, I saw him. Rising from the ground, a girl beneath him. A few of the young players stood around them laughing and teasing, the men pounding Trevor on the back. My stomach bunched into a knot. He stood upright, grinning down at the girl on the ground as he reached languorously toward her and grabbed a hand. A graceful hand at the end of a long, slender arm. Up she came, svelte, like a ribbon, his hand drawing her from the earth as if it were giving birth to a goddess.

  Melodic laughter came my way as her head tipped backwards, long blond hair, longer and blonder than mine, flowing as her voice trilled like a song. She said Trevor’s name, laughed his name, threw herself his way but cunningly stopped before she touched him, catching his attention, luring him her direction. Slut.

  He responded to her ploy. He wasn’t frightened by the enticing allure that drew him nearer. I knew Trevor. He wanted to be king, and she was letting him. He closed the gap between them, picked some leaves from her hair, and then turned, his face smiling. He swooped down to the ground and scooped up the ball, hard satisfaction in his eyes.

  As he came up with the ball, I fell into his line of vision. I hadn’t meant to, but I was stupefied, frozen in pain like an abandoned ice queen. Recognition melted his smile, turned his face to stone. Anger that could only be born from terrible hurt glared back at me.

  I couldn’t smile. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t even move. The blonde called his name and he split in two, the hurt and angry man that was focused on me and the one that wanted to live again, love again, or at least enjoy lust again.

  “Come on, Trevor,” Paul Junior’s voice thundered across the yard. “Throw me the ball.”

  I didn’t see Paul Junior. I had no idea where he was, but by the change in his tone, he’d spotted me. Even as my eyes were locked on Trevor’s, I was aware of heads rotating my way, the change in the atmosphere extinguishing their antics.

  Before Paul Junior could say anything more, before he could destroy me, his fun, or embarrass Trevor, I left. I disappeared around the corner as invisibly as I’d come, hoping they’d think they’d just imagined me. I ran. Ran along the wall, ran across the front yard, and tore down the road, never looking back.

  My heart pounded along with my feet, burning into the dirt, ignoring the sharp edges of the gravel that bruised my soles through my cheap white tennis shoes. Dust swarmed around my ankles, kicked up by humiliation, driving me home.

  When I reached my house, I flew through the door, slammed it behind me, and leaned against it. I doubled over, dragging in as much air as I could, trying to catch my breath, determined not to cry. I rested my hands on my knees, my head hanging forward, deep gulps of air nearly drowning me as they filled with unwanted tears. I slobbered. I blubbered until my breathing caught up with my humiliation and my heart rate became less than life-threatening. I raised myself up and leaned the back of my head against the door.

  I looked at my sofa, my work, my books, the things that had created the monster I’d just seen. Was it worth it? Was this something I really had to do? Or should I keep Trevor, hang on to something safe and secure and not worry about this thing that I could maybe pretend never mattered? My head was spinning. I wasn’t sure.

  The door at my back vibrated with the rap of knuckles. Sharp hits, someone wanting to come in. I held my breath. Trevor? My mother? Kyle? My heart rate changed with each name, fast for one, furious for another, starving for the other. The door vibrated again, rap after rap, the sensation against my back tingling all the way through me. Someone’s insistence, their hand calling and calling me. I didn’t move. I waited it out, let it knock until it gave up.

  Silence finally came, but I didn’t hear anyone leave. I stood there, giving them time to go away. After a long period of silence, I left the door and crept to the nearest window, moving in front of it just enough to see through the sheer curtains with only one eye. I saw no one, not on the porch, not on the road, not in Julianne’s yard. I slid to the door and drew it open. They were gone. I closed and locked the door, wondering who it had been. I walked to my sofa, pushed Julianne aside, and lay down and cried.

  Chapter 25

  “Speak the truth to one another; judge

  with truth and judgment for peace in your gates.”

  I parked my car in front of Kyle’s house and sat there. I felt obvious, the gaping wound where Trevor had been excised from my heart a thing too large to hide or ignore. I had been destroyed, and the pieces of my shattered heart beat too hard as I wondered what to do. I didn’t like this much pain. I looked at Kyle’s home to distract me from it and tried to remember if I’d ever been to his house before, not this one, but the one he’d grown up in. I didn’t think I ever had. This one was a house he had bought and was remodeling, but his parents’ house, when we were growing up, looked nothing like it. I gazed at the old wood siding and wooden trim around the windows and under the eaves as I listened to blood pounding in my ears. This is okay. This is just Kyle, I told myself. This won’t hurt. Trevor hurt, but he won’t hurt me forever. Had I ever even set foot on Kyle’s parents’ lawn when we were kids? I didn’t think so.

  I fumbled with the door handle and eased out of my car. I saw everything and nothing as I stood there, taking in the whole of his place, wondering if it was anything like the young man I was getting to know. The house was simple, unobtrusive, a typical two-story white farmhouse with trim Kyle had been painting blue. It looked serene, so I walked across the lawn for a closer look. The new paint was a perfect match for the original, just richer, purer, not ruined by years of abuse under the sun.

  “I actually took some of that trim off another old house.”

  I jumped and looked where the voice had come from. Kyle stood at the edge of his porch. He eyed the blue-painted pieces I’d been studying. I could see he was proud of them.

  “There weren’t enough to replace all of the decayed trim, so I’m making more just like them. I have a woodshop around back.”

  I nodded awkwardly, envious his life was so simple. “It looks really good,” I said lamely.

  “The Feldmans were tearing down the old farmhouse no one used on their place anymore, and they gave me lots of the old woodwork, and I’ve been using it here. Inside, too.” He shrugged one shoulder the direction of his front door.

  “Can I see?” I asked.

  “Sure.” He led me through a heavy wooden door. I expected to find half-finished chaos. Everyone who redid an old house while they stayed in it never finished it. They always lived in the midst of their dream, cluttered fragments of their original vision scattered throughout, the illusion never coming together. Like an aborted engagement, a near marriage, a relationship that never grew to its full potential. But what I saw when I stepped into Kyle’s house made me stop and gasp. My broken heart and the hollow chamber it was beating in faded. The interior of Kyle’s house was a work of art, an eclectic collection of woods, textures, colors, and aromas that soothed my soul like a fragrant herbal poultice. This was a canvas of who Kyle was. It was beautiful. It was what I needed, and it made me want to stay in this picture forever.

  “It’s…it’s…” I couldn’t tell him everything it was. “You did this yourself?”

  I was standing in a living room where one wall was covered in a burgundy floral wallpaper, the other walls a light dusty mauve with a shocking but perfect accent of country blue on the moldings. An ornate stair railing curved upwards along one wall, shiny wood steps disappearing into the ceiling. I smelled wood oil, I smelled the fresh fabrics of curtains and upholstered furniture, I smelled cinnamon, an unexpected highlight. I noted the artwork, the lamps, the way the light filtered through the tall windows, the curtains pulled back to let the sun in. I turned to Kyle, unable to keep a mouth-gaping look off my face, the kind Paul Junior got when he was trying to understand a word with more than five letters.

  Kyle gave me one of the half grins he was so selfish with. “Well, it’s not done yet,” he beg
an.

  “Don’t say that.” I stopped him. “Don’t put a renovator’s curse on this place. It’s elegant, it’s a true work of art, and it should never be seen as anything less.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

  He could have modestly asked, “Tell you what?” but Kyle wasn’t that ordinary. He wouldn’t milk a conversation or play dumb or drag this out so I could flatter him more. Instead, he looked perfectly composed and said, “You weren’t ready. We weren’t ready. We weren’t that kind of friends. Yet.”

  I felt my face redden. I turned away and gazed at the dark woods that lined the curved stairs, the floral wallpaper, the drapes that looked old and new at the same time. I drew in a long, deep breath. This home was personal, this was him, and we hadn’t been that kind of friends…yet. But now? We could be… “Thank you for letting me see,” I said.

  “Can I get you something?” he asked. I wondered if he’d ever asked anyone that question in his life. He was private, and he wouldn’t have many peers on his level in this area. Certainly Paul Junior wasn’t the sort Kyle would ask that to and then invite him to sit on the delicate four-legged burgundy sofa behind us while he brought him a beer. No, Kyle wasn’t a beer sort of man. He was something more refined, something that went well with a scone.

  “No, but thank you. I really came because…” I hedged. I’d come because I was lost and confused. I was hurt by a man, yet here I was finding solace with another. “It’s silly, actually.” I looked back to the door. Suddenly I wanted to leave.

  “I doubt it’s silly. What is it?”

  I reached in my bag and pulled out Julianne’s letters. “I needed to read with someone. With you.”

  He stared at the stack then looked at me, his eyes full of the understanding I needed. I didn’t have to feel stupid, embarrassed, needy, or vulnerable. He understood, and this companionship I wanted truly was okay.

  He took the letters from my hand and gestured toward the beautiful burgundy sofa. “Kick off your shoes and curl up like you do at your house,” he offered.