Dust

by Eva Marie Everson

  She pressed her hand low on her stomach. Squeezed eyes devoid of tears shut and tried to imagine a life raising a child on her own. She hadn’t been able to do it before. To do it with any measure of success. How could she possibly do it now? And how long before she told anyone? How long before she—

  Kyle. Kyle had been the one to tell her about the good and the bad in life. Her old roommate and oftentimes friend. The man Patterson despised for no good reason except that she loved him like a brother.

  And he loved her, too. Sometimes she thought more than as a sister, although he’d never played that card.

  She turned. Spied the phone on her bedside table as a slow smile crept from the corners of her mouth. She slid beneath the covers dressed only in her bra and panties. Shivering, she picked up the phone and dialed a number she knew by heart.

  “Hello,” a sleepy voice answered.

  “Did I wake you?” she asked.

  “Nah,” he answered. “Who’s this?”

  Cindie giggled. “Silly …”

  “Hey …” he said as recognition came. “What are you up to?”

  She took a breath. She could do this. She could. She had to. “I’ve had kind of a bad day... and I was … well, I was remembering what you said that time about bad stuff. You know? That even the bad stuff can be good if we learn from it.”

  “Truth.” The rustling of body against cotton met her as he shifted in bed. She tried to imagine him, thick hair tousled, muscles stretching, eyes blinking. “Did something bad teach you something good today?”

  Oh, yes … “I’d say so.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  He groaned. “All right. Want to talk about anything in particular?”

  Cindie paused. Waiting long enough to gather her courage and become coy at the same time. “Kyle, can I ask you a question?”

  “Anytime.”

  “Why haven’t you ever—you know—asked me out or, I mean, even tried anything with me? Do you not find me attractive?”

  His sigh was long. Poignant. “Gosh, no. I mean, yes. Yes, I find you attractive. You’re downright gorgeous, Cindie. Did someone tell you otherwise?”

  “In a way. I guess—I guess what you could say is that someone told me I’m not good enough.”

  “You listen to me, you hear? You’re beyond good enough. If I ever thought for a second that our friendship could be something more …” He chuckled lightly. “I would have been all over you like white on rice.”

  She smiled in spite of her circumstances. “Kyle,” she said, breathing out his name. “What if I told you that I wish—that I often wished—you’d want more than just friendship? What would you say?”

  He didn’t answer at first, making her wait while he gathered his wits, she figured. “What are you doing right now?” he asked.

  “Just lying under a mound of covers, shivering.”

  “Don’t move,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

  She smiled. “The door will be unlocked.”

  When the line went dead without a “good-bye,” she threw back the sheet and blanket and the thick comforter, ran to the closet for her robe, then across the room and opened the door. With a dash she entered the dining room, blew out the candles, cleared the table, and then tidied the kitchen as best she could in the little time she had. She found Patterson’s discarded key and threw it into a junk drawer. Finally, she poured two fresh glasses of wine and took them into her room, where she removed the robe and slid back into bed. She took a moment to calculate. To her best guesstimation, she was right at four weeks. All she had to do now was let nature take its course tonight with Kyle. And then tomorrow … tomorrow would come and, hopefully, he’d want more of her. And, with any amount of luck, she’d want more of him. Then, in a few weeks she’d tell him of a baby—their baby. Kyle being Kyle, he’d marry her right away. Never hesitating. Never imagining that Professor Thacker was the biological father. He’d marry her and together they’d raise their child. No one but no one would be the wiser. Except Patterson, and he no longer counted. Finally, with one simple plan, she had the upper hand.

  Cindie smiled. Stretched. Reached for her glass of wine and took a sip.

  And then she waited.

  April 1988

  Allison

  Cindie had decided that, instead of Michelle coming up to Atlanta for Easter, she would come down and that they would spend the holiday with her family—primarily Velma and Vernon. Which was fine. Better than fine because, at least, Michelle didn’t have to go all the way to Atlanta for a week during spring break. Instead, Cindie told Westley, he could bring Michelle to her sister’s on Saturday morning and she’d have their daughter home Monday before heading back to the city later that afternoon. Double hurray, because now I could make plans with Michelle for the school holiday.

  But Cindie had also said something in her call to Westley that left me unnerved in the interim between his taking Michelle to Velma’s and his return to the house. “She said she needs to talk to me about something once we get there.”

  I felt blood rush from my head. “What do you think she means by that?”

  “I don’t know, Ali. I guess we’ll have to wait and find out.”

  And so I waited. I waited and I paced until I nearly wore a groove in the polished bricks of the kitchen floor. Waited for my husband to come home and give me whatever news Cindie had to give. Waited and wondered what she wanted and, even more so, what had gone wrong in our marriage since January. December, really, which was the last time I could remember us consummating our marriage. His lack of attention toward me was only the start of it. Medication or no medication. We seemed farther apart than any two people had a right to be and call themselves husband and wife.

  If only I could find that copy of Marabel Morgan’s book. Maybe, then … But I’d long ago misplaced it. Long ago stopped adhering to the principles, except for making sure I looked every bit the part of Westley’s wife. I kept my wardrobe updated to the latest fashion trends acceptable for married women—straight skirts worn just above the knee or flattering slacks, all of which I wore with silk blouses or turtlenecks made from soft cotton. I’d had my stylist cut my hair in layers, which gave it a bouncy look, and I wore my makeup in the smoky, sultry way that graced the face of every fashion magazine cover girl tempting shoppers at checkout counters. I also continued to make a list first thing every day. That I stuck to, although I didn’t always know why. Seemed to me that, lately, every day only mirrored the day before. Every week the week before. Yesterday and today and tomorrow had blurred into a haze I couldn’t see my way out of.

  Furthermore, Mrs. Morgan, I couldn’t begin to remember the last time I’d been playful in the bedroom. Westley kept me at arm’s length, unable to physically love me but clearly able to purchase and ride a new motorcycle and certainly capable of skiing—both on snow and water, despite the frigid temperature. Why, he’d just wear a wetsuit and stay toasty and dry, he said.

  But it was more than the trip to Boone or the days on the lake or his driving the Harley much too fast for my liking. And it was more than the lack of passion or even conversation in our bedroom. It was every room. Sure, he was kind. Polite. And he doted on Michelle as he’d always done. But there was a difference in the air around us. Something I couldn’t put my finger on—I felt sure it wasn’t another woman—but something I felt all the same. Something separating us. Worse still, it was something I couldn’t identify enough to discuss with Miss Justine or Julie or even my mother. I’d almost said something to Marilyn once, but before I could find the words, she began telling me of a trip she and Trev were taking. By the time the itinerary had been covered I was too emotionally drained to say, “Oh, by the way, I think Westley and I are heading for a divorce.”

  Okay. Maybe not a divorce. But there were certainly moments when I feared the only thing holding us together was Michelle … and now … now I wondered if Cindie wasn’t about to tell him she wa
nted Michelle back. Full time. She had graduated from college. She had a good job according to what she told Westley. And, according to Michelle, a “cool apartment in a really cool complex where some other really cool kids lived.”

  No. Cindie wasn’t the same girl she’d been when I first married Westley, that much was for sure. She had made a difference in her life and now, through her job, she made a difference in the lives of others while I recorded numbers for Miss Justine and made the perfect home for Westley and a life for Michelle.

  The door to the garage opened and I turned, startled to see Westley enter, a strange mix of amusement and bewilderment drawn across his face. Somehow, in my angst, I’d not heard the car as it rolled up the driveway.

  “What?” I asked, stopping long enough to wring my hands.

  He tossed his keys on the countertop. “Do I smell coffee?” he asked.

  I glanced at the Mr. Coffee that stood empty and gleaming in the corner near the sinks. “No,” I answered, stupefied. “Do you want coffee?”

  “Please,” he said, then plopped into the nearest chair at the kitchen table with a deep sigh.

  I set about to make a pot, my heart hammering. “Oh, gosh, Westley. Just tell me. Is she going to fight us for custody of Michelle? Because a fight is what she’ll get if she thinks she can just—”

  “She got married.”

  I spun around, the carafe in my hand, poised beneath a spray of water from the tap. “What?”

  “She married Kyle.”

  I shut off the water. “The old roommate?”

  “Yep.”

  I placed the pot on the counter. Opened the cabinet that housed the coffee and filters. Brought them out. Set them next to the carafe. “Wow.”

  “She is Mrs. Kyle Lewis now. You know, for the next time you send her a copy of Michelle’s report card.”

  I turned to look at Westley, resting my hips against the counter’s edge. “Was he there? Did you meet him?”

  “I did. And—I gotta say it, Ali—he’s a nice guy. I mean, a really nice guy. And he looks at Cindie like she’s the best thing since sliced bread.”

  I finished preparing the coffee. Pressed “ON” and then went to sit in the chair nearest my husband. “Well, she is beautiful, Westley. I mean, even I can say that with absolute honesty.”

  “I guess so.” He stood as if I’d gotten too close, walked to the cabinet of coffee mugs, and pulled one out.

  “I wouldn’t mind a cup, too, please.”

  He looked at me. Blinked. “Oh. Sorry,” he said, then pulled another mug from the cabinet. The news of his ex-lover’s nuptials had clearly rattled him. I frowned at my own thought. Ex-lover was too descriptive for a one-night stand.

  I ran my tongue over dry lips. “Wes? Is she wanting—I mean, with the marriage—is she wanting Michelle back? You haven’t said.”

  He shrugged as he stared at the coffeemaker, as though willing it to hurry up and fill the glass pot so he could drink his coffee and move on. But then he said, “I doubt it.”

  Relief flooded me. Sent me on a cloud of happy I never wanted to return from until I reckoned that Cindie not wanting Michelle made little to no sense. Especially now. Didn’t she have it all? The education, the job, the husband? Wasn’t the only thing missing her daughter? “Why do you doubt it?”

  The coffeemaker gurgled to announce the coffee ready, and Westley jerked it by the handle, pouring first one mug, then the other. I stood, went to the refrigerator for milk, and joined him. “Why?” I asked again.

  “Because, Ali, for one thing, Michelle is eleven years old. She’s not going anywhere this late in the game. For another … Cindie is pregnant.”

  “Oh.” I set the carton of milk on the counter next to him. We were close enough now that our arms brushed against each other—cotton on cotton. A chill ran through me, but I ignored it. “When is she due?”

  “Ah—she didn’t say, actually. I’m assuming six, maybe seven, months from now by the looks of her.”

  “So, she got pregnant before she was married.” Again. Probably unplanned, too. How was it that some women were able to just think about sex and find themselves pregnant, easily carrying that child to term, while others, like me, could think and do from now to kingdom come and no child would ever be pushed from her womb?

  We didn’t speak again as we finished preparing our coffee. Westley returned to the table and I followed, this time sitting as far from him as possible. “Was she just letting you know then? About the pregnancy and the marriage? No strings? No demands?”

  He took a sip. Swallowed. “I guess so. Just wanted me to know.”

  My hands quivered; I wrapped them around the heat of the mug. “And you really like this guy? You think he’ll be good to Michelle?”

  Westley’s brow shot up. “What little bit of time he’ll see her. Yeah, I do. Seems like a straight-up kind of guy.”

  I drank from my mug. Set it down, willing my hands to stop shaking. Why were they shaking? What premonition haunted me in the cool of this spring morning? The same one that wove its way through my days? My weeks and months and years? The one that compromised my happiness at every turn? Or was this something new? Something that had nothing to do with Cindie ripping Michelle from my life? “Well, all right then,” I said, forcing aside the rush of emotion threatening to overtake me.

  Westley stood. My eyes traveled the length of him. As much distance as there seemed to be between us, I still loved him. Wanted him. But more than anything, I needed to know for certain that Westley was right. All was well. Changes were sometimes good, but not always. Sometimes they brought devastation. “Wes?”

  “I think I’ll go for a ride on my bike,” he said. “No sense in wasting this day sitting inside the house.”

  The words sounded promising. They also held truth. “Can I go with you?”

  He seemed surprised by the request, eyes never meeting mine. “Ah—not this time. I’m not steady enough yet.”

  He reached for his keys and headed out the same door he’d walked through not fifteen minutes before.

  “Well, maybe we can do something together later. Go to a movie, maybe? That Matthew Broderick movie looks good.” As long as our choices didn’t include She’s Having a Baby, no matter how adorable Kevin Bacon appeared to be in it and how absolutely wonderful DiAnn had reported it to be. “Biloxi Blues?”

  “All right,” he said. “Dinner first? Henry’s?”

  Henry’s? A dress-up place. Candles flickering on tables covered by linen, their light reflecting on crystal stemware under dimly lit chandeliers. The very notion of Westley wanting to take me there held a promise from a happier time and I smiled. “Who needs a movie if we’re going to Henry’s?” I asked, hoping he caught the teasing in my voice. I decided I’d wear my black-beaded dress and diamond stud earrings. A gift from Westley in happier days.

  He smiled back, but—even from across the room—I could see the force behind it. “Whatever you say.” He was halfway out the door.

  “I love you,” I called out.

  “You too,” he said as the door closed behind him.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Biff came home for Easter. Unexpectedly. He never arrived announced—a fact that thoroughly aggravated Miss Justine, infuriated Ro-Bay, and tightened a knot inside my soul I could not explain. This man held an attraction I could never be sure of. I only knew that he did and that with things the way they had been of late between Westley and me, Biff’s visit could not have come at a worse time.

  Ro-Bay met me at the door on Monday with a determined frown and a huff. “He’s back,” she muttered.

  “Who’s back?” I asked, knowing the answer. My thoughts went to my appearance. That morning, although the last thing I felt like doing was dressing according to Miss Justine’s specifications, I had donned a form-hugging denim skirt with a long-sleeved white with dark-blue pinstripes button-up blouse. Before leaving the house, I grabbed a sweater, which I now shrugged out of and handed over,
all the while grateful for the extra care I’d taken.

  “That boy of Miss Justine’s, that’s who. Got her in a dither. Dander riled up.” She looked up the staircase. “Still in bed, too. Just like always. Acts like all we’ve got to do around here is wait on his lazy bones to get up and get moving. Well, if he thinks I’m gonna make another breakfast just for him, he’s got another think coming.”

  “I take it you mean Biff,” I remarked as matter-of-factly as I could steady my voice.

  Her fist went to her hip. “Who else?”

  I glanced up then toward the back of the house. “Where’s Miss Justine?”

  “Gone already. Had some church ladies circle meeting she couldn’t miss.”

  I started for the library that continued to serve as my office. “Oh, that’s right. I remember now. Her Garden Club is meeting with them to talk about their summer show now that the Easter show is over and how they can work together.”

  Ro-Bay harrumphed. “Every one of them ladies that’s in one is in the other. Coffee?”

  “I’ll come get it shortly,” I said.

  “Oh no you won’t,” Ro-Bay said, the thick soles of her shoes sighing against the marble floor. “It’s Monday morning. You been here long enough to know that on Monday mornings I mop and wax and nobody, but nobody, is gonna walk across my linoleum till I say so.” I smiled as she raised her chin in hopes that her voice would carry up the stairs, something I’d long been watching her do. “I’ll bring it like I’ve done every Monday since you started here.”

  I found the usual Monday stacks dotting my desk. My shoulders fell as I dropped my purse into an empty drawer. The usual … everything in my life … the usual. Ordinary. Scheduled and expected. On Mondays Ro-Bay mopped and waxed and brought me my coffee. On Mondays I looked at the same reports from the previous week and then entered their numbers into a ledger. Every Monday, every Tuesday, every Wednesday through Sunday … the same. My life had become a Ferris Wheel I could not get off.