by Sharon Sala
On his way to the bedroom to change, he patted his pocket again. The bulge of the ring box calmed a spurt of anxiety. She would be here soon. He needed to decide where to hide it until he found the right time.
The shade on his window was pulled. The room was surprisingly dark. He flipped on the light switch as he stepped inside. For some reason the room felt vacant, although everything was still in its place: his bed, the dresser, his good boots by the door. He frowned as he walked to the closet to get out his old clothes. With some luck he would have the chores finished before she returned.
The shirt was in his hand when it hit him. He reeled backward as if he’d been struck. Most of her clothes were gone. Suddenly the feeling that had awakened him last night was upon him again. He couldn’t think of a reason why, but maybe she had moved her things to his parents’ room, across the hall. He dropped the shirt and stalked out.
But when he opened the door, the musty air warned him he was wrong. She hadn’t been here. No one had been in here for days. Even as he was walking to the closet to see for himself, he knew he was right. He opened the door and then groaned. A handful of his own winter clothes were right where he’d hung them this spring. Nothing of Rachel or her clothes was anywhere in sight.
“God, no,” he muttered, and bolted.
He moved through the house, calling her name as he ran. There was no answer. Not even an echo of the woman had been left behind.
Staggered by what he was seeing, he stumbled into the kitchen. The flowers he’d put on the table only minutes before seemed to mock him. He doubled his fists and spun around, and it was then he saw the music box, sitting by the cookie jar, and wondered how he’d missed it before.
Had it been only yesterday that he’d put it in her hands? His vision blurred as he stared at the envelope beside it. For the longest time he couldn’t move—wouldn’t make that last effort that would confirm what he already knew to be true.
The phone began to ring in the hall. He spun toward it like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. Desperation was thick in his voice as he answered.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Bookout?”
Houston’s legs went weak. It wasn’t her. Oh God, it wasn’t her. He stared at the phone, trying to remember what it was he was supposed to say.
“Mr. Bookout, are you there?”
He shuddered, then swallowed. “Um... yes.”
“You don’t know it, but this is your lucky day. You’ve been chosen to receive, at no charge to—”
He hung up the phone. Lucky day? My God, then what would a bad day be like? His feet were dragging as he walked back to the kitchen. The letter was still there. He lifted his chin. Running from the truth wasn’t a part of his life. His mouth was nothing but a hard, thin line as he sat down at the kitchen table and lifted the flap.
Houston,
It’s not that I don’t want you or my mother’s music box, because I do. But something has died in me that not even you can give back. I love you. I love you. I love you. But sometimes love is not enough.
Forgive me, Rachel
He read it until the words blurred and his hands were shaking so hard he could no longer hold the paper. Then he laid his head down on the table and cried for the woman he’d lost—and for the woman who’d lost herself.
Rachel drove to Odessa to catch a bus. She sold her car to a used-car dealer for $855, bringing the sum total of the money between her and starvation to a little less than $2,000. Her mind was numb to the heat and the noontime traffic as she walked toward the bus station. Every step that she took was taking her farther and farther away from Houston. But she couldn’t make herself stop. Something was driving her that she couldn’t explain, and it had started with the foreclosure notice. The need to prove something, both to herself and to the world, was stronger than she could control.
As she stopped at a street corner to wait for a light, a blast of hot Texas air lifted her hair from her neck and plastered her clothes to the shape of her body. The driver of a passing car suddenly laid on the horn and shouted something to her about being in love. On another day she might have smiled. She knew that in the eyes of the world she was pretty, maybe even beautiful. In a way, it was the only thing her parents had given her that couldn’t be taken away. And yet, growing up, her looks had still not been enough to grant her acceptance in Mirage. She’d been one of the poor kids. Not one of the pretty ones. In her teenage years the boys had noticed her plenty, but never in a serious way. With an itinerant cowboy for a father and her mother’s Native American ancestry, she was no mother’s idea of a suitable bride for a son. No matter how many times she saw her own reflection, she could never see the beauty for the stigma of being poor or ethnically unacceptable. All her life she had felt like an outsider.
Until Houston Bookout.
After that, what the world thought of her faded in importance. Rarely did she think of her years growing up, or of the snide comments from other kids about her clothes or parents. Even when her mother contracted cancer and Rachel slowly came to the realization that her only parent was dying, she knew she had Houston.
The light changed and she started across the street, her suitcase bumping against her leg as she went. A short while later she found herself at the bus station with an hour to go before her bus would board. With time to kill, she headed for the bathroom to freshen up. As she was leaning over the sink and sluicing the heat and dust from her face, she looked up, trying to see herself as a stranger would have. But she couldn’t see past the fear in her eyes. She reached for a paper towel and turned away. It didn’t matter. Her decision had been made. If the only thing she had going for her was her looks, she was going to find a way to make them pay.
“Now boarding outside the terminal for Atlanta, Philadelphia, and New York City.”
She tossed the paper towel in the trash and picked up her suitcase. By the time she was on board and snug in her seat, the fear in her eyes had spread to her face. Her hands were trembling and there was a knot in her belly that wouldn’t go away. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing herself to relax, but all she could remember was the look on Houston’s face as he’d pinned her against the wall and slid inside her body. She moaned and covered her face with her hands.
“Miss, are you all right?”
Rachel started, then looked up. The driver was leaning over her with a look of concern upon his face.
“No.” Then she added shakily, “But I will be.”
His smile was sympathetic. “If there’s anything you need, feel free to ask. We’ll be stopping periodically along the way, so if you feel ill, let me know.”
She nodded. While she wasn’t sick in the true sense of the word, she felt she might die from this grief.
Half an hour later the pain was no better. But she bit her lip and hardened her heart. Her mother’s people had been driven from their homes over a century ago down what became known as the infamous Trail of Tears. She took courage from the knowledge that their blood ran in her veins. They had endured more and suffered greater losses than she, and yet most of them had survived. She owed it to herself and to their memory to do no less. And she owed it to Houston. She’d traded his love for something she didn’t understand. The least she could do was keep looking for answers.
It was morning of the next day when the old woman boarded in Memphis. Juggling the coffee and roll she’d just bought, Rachel watched the old woman take a seat. As she waited her turn to move down the aisle, she took a quick sip from her cup. The coffee was too strong, but it was hot and fresh, and she welcomed the kick of caffeine in her system. Sleep had been impossible for her. Every time she’d closed her eyes she’d envisioned the pain on Houston’s face when he discovered her note.
Finally it was her turn to move. As she started down the aisle toward her seat, she noticed the old woman was crying. Huge, silent tears streamed down her cheeks, and her lower lip was trembling.
It was beyond her to ignore this much pai
n. She paused in the aisle and then leaned toward her, whispering softly, “Ma’am, are you all right?”
The old woman shrugged. “As right as a woman can be who’s lost the only man she ever loved.”
Rachel’s concern deepened. She knew all too well what loss felt like.
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly, and abandoned the seat she’d been sitting in for the empty one beside the old woman. “Is there anything I can do?”
The old woman smiled through her tears as she dug through her purse for a handkerchief. “No, dear, but it’s sweet of you to ask.”
Rachel considered returning to her seat and then offered her the sweet roll instead.
“Hungry?”
The old woman’s eyes widened. “Maybe a little.”
Rachel smiled. “I’ll share.”
“Sharing is good,” the old woman said, and broke off a piece of the roll, then popped it in her mouth.
A few moments later the bus driver took his seat and closed the door. As they began to move through the city, the old woman patted Rachel’s arm.
“My name is Esther Goodman,” she said.
“I’m Rachel Austin.”
Esther nodded.
“Where are you from, Rachel girl?”
“Texas.”
“Ah, Texas. I have never been that far west. I live in Philadelphia now, but I was born and raised in Brooklyn.”
Rachel’s interest was piqued. “Isn’t that part of New York City?”
“We like to think that the city is a part of us.” Esther laughed. “So, Rachel from Texas, where are you going?”
Rachel smiled. “Your hometown, New York City.”
“A family visit?”
The smile died on Rachel’s face. “No.”
The old woman paused. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. Curiosity, you know. It’s a failing of getting old.”
Rachel sighed. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that everything is so fresh.” The food she’d eaten suddenly rolled in her belly. “My family is... my mother just . . .” She took a deep breath. “They’re all dead.”
Esther’s dark brown eyes suddenly squinted in sympathy. “I’m sorry, my dear. Life does that to all of us, you know. My Frederick has been dead nearly twenty years now, but it seems like only yesterday.” She spread her hands across her lap, adjusting her posture and her dress at the same time. “I make a pilgrimage each year to his grave. That’s why I was in Memphis. And I always take the bus home to Philadelphia in memory of Frederick. Frederick always traveled by bus. He said it was the only way to see the country.”
A little stunned that the woman’s grief was so strong after all these years, Rachel managed a nod of agreement.
It should have seemed awkward, talking to a total stranger about things so close to her heart. But somehow, because the old woman was a stranger, that made it easier instead.
Esther took Rachel’s fingers and began rubbing them between the palms of her hands.
“Grief will pass, little girl. It will pass. So. You don’t go to New York for a visit. Why do you go to such a big place?”
Rachel turned in her seat until she and Esther Goodman were face-to-face.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Esther smiled. “So ask.”
“Am I pretty?”
The question took Esther aback, but the expression on the young woman’s face was so serious, she had to answer in kind. She looked at Rachel for quite a long time, studying everything about her, from the dark wings of her eyebrows to the fullness of her lips. Finally she leaned back in her seat.
“No.”
Rachel didn’t know what she’d expected, but that wasn’t it. Her heart dropped.
But Esther’s initial answer proved deceiving as she continued. “Pretty is too common a word for you, girl. You have beauty—great beauty. Excuse me for asking, but are you Latin, or maybe Italian?”
Rachel was still reeling from “great beauty” and had to focus to respond.
“Uh, no. I’m half Cherokee.”
Esther clapped her hands again, as if delighted by the answer. “Eighty-two years old and I meet my first American Indian on a bus.”
Rachel grinned. “Maybe you should have left Brooklyn sooner.”
As Esther laughed, the wrinkles on her face seemed to disappear. Just for a moment Rachel imagined Esther as she’d been in her youth: a small, feisty girl with a slim face and a wide, laughing mouth.
“So funny,” Esther said, still chuckling. “So now that I’ve answered your question, you must answer one for me.”
Rachel stiffened. But fair was fair. She nodded.
“Why does it matter, your looks ?”
Rachel braced herself for rejection.
“They’re all that I have,” she said. “I thought if I was pretty enough, I could become a model.”
Esther frowned. “You’re certainly tall enough. And while there are plenty of beautiful women in the world, you have a look that is unique. I’m told that is a good thing, so it’s possible, I suppose.”
Rachel almost relaxed.
“Do you have a portfolio?” Esther asked.
The look on Rachel’s face said it all. Esther sighed.
“My dear, you must have pictures of yourself. Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for?”
Rachel shook her head.
“Do you have a place to stay?”
“I thought I would try the YWCA first.”
A horrified expression crossed Esther’s face, and she threw up her hands. “A lamb to slaughter. That’s what you’ll be—a lamb to slaughter.”
Rachel frowned. “I can take care of myself.”
“Maybe in your world, but not in mine,” Esther said, then added, “You will need a job.”
Rachel sighed.
Esther grabbed both of Rachel’s hands and impulsively hugged them to her. Her face was alight with joy.
“Let me help you.”
“But I—”
Esther interrupted. “No, I insist. You were kind to a stranger. Let me return the favor.”
Rachel didn’t have it in her to argue.
“Good,” Esther said. “It is settled, then. My cousin Maury manages a restaurant in downtown Manhattan. Can you wait tables?”
Rachel nodded.
“Good! Good! I will call him as soon as I get home,” Esther said. “By the time you get into New York, he will be waiting for you.”
Rachel’s eyes widened. Such impulsive generosity— and from a stranger—was beyond her experience.
“How can I thank you?” Rachel said.
“By staying true to yourself,” Esther said. Then she pursed her lips, staring intently at Rachel’s face. “Something tells me you’re going to be all right, you know.”
Rachel sighed. “I wish I could believe you.”
The old woman chuckled. “So believe me, already. By the time you get to be my age, there are things you just know.”
The Port Authority bus station in New York City was like nothing Rachel had ever seen before. It was the noise that got to her first. She knew she was gawking, but she just couldn’t help it. Never in her life had she seen such a mélange of faces and colors. And there were people everywhere—here in the main terminal and spilling out into the streets and beyond. In shock, she stared until she could no longer distinguish one face from another. It was almost as if they had become a singular mass of humanity in a constant state of motion.
Suddenly a longing for the vast, open plains of west Texas and the meager populace of Mirage made her want to turn and run. And then she remembered what she’d given up just to get here, and silently cursed herself for being a coward. No matter what else she might or might not become, she wasn’t a quitter.
Tightening her grip on her suitcase, she headed for a bank of pay phones on a nearby wall. Esther had given her strict instructions about what to do upon arrival, and after witnessing the chaos of mass confusion, she didn’t have
the guts to do otherwise. She had to call Esther’s cousin Maury. Esther had assured her he would help.
Her fingers were shaking as she dialed. It was ten o’clock in the morning, and she hoped the restaurant would be open. When the call began to ring through, she took a deep breath and made herself relax. A few moments later a woman’s voice came on the line.
“Crystal Room.”
Rachel tightened her grip on the phone. “I’d like to speak to Maury Feldman, please.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Feldman is busy. May I take a message?”
Rachel frowned. This wasn’t part of her plan. How could she leave a message when she had no place of residence for the man to call back? Her belly knotted. She had to make this thing work.
“Please, I know this sounds strange, but Mr. Feldman’s cousin Esther told me to call and—”
The tone in the woman’s voice suddenly changed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were family. One moment, please—I’ll put you through.”
Rachel bit her lip and waited, unwilling to correct the woman’s misapprehension. If it got her through to cousin Maury, then so much the better. And then a voice came on the line and Rachel’s attention refocused.
“Feldman here.”
Rachel jerked. “Mr. Feldman, my name is Rachel Austin. Your cousin Esther told me to—”
“Ah, the girl from the bus. So you’re here after all.” He sighed. “Damn. Now I owe her a fiver.”
“Excuse me?” Rachel said.
He chuckled. “Oh, nothing. Just a little bet between Estie and me as to whether you would call.”
Rachel started to relax. Maybe it was going to be all right after all.
“So, where are you now?” he asked.
“The Port Authority. I just got off the bus.”
“What do you think of our city so far?”
