I didn’t respond.
Abigail stood on her tiptoes and tried to kiss me, but I turned away. A mantle of permanence was settling around my new front yard, like the evening dew, followed by a vague scent of fear.
Or was it me?
I had a house in the same, small town as my sister and her family, a decent job, and this beautiful woman in my arms; what was wrong with me? Why did cold chills run down my spine, and why did I feel that someone was turning the key on the ball and chain around my ankle?
“Hey! I asked you a question!” She rocked back down on her heels, sounding hurt.
“I know. Here’s my answer: I think so.”
“What’s that? You think so?” She pulled back and leaned against the porch rail, still smiling, but her eyes were a little hurt.
“This is going to sound all wrong, but this whole thing, this coming back home, taking the editor’s job, meeting you and finding this house. It’s all been too easy. I’m not used to that.”
“What? You want misery?”
“I don’t know. With my last job, my last relationship, everything was so hard, so twisted, and such a roller coaster. This all seems so well, normal.”
“What’s wrong with normal?”
“Nothing! Normal is great!”
“Then why don’t I believe you?” She walked into the living room and scooped up her purse from my tattered couch. I followed her inside. “You say you’re happy, but when I try to kiss you, you turn away. I do everything but beg you to stay overnight with me, and you say No. What is it? Is it me?”
“Listen Abigail, I don’t mean anything by it, I mean, you’re a wonderful person, and I love what you’ve done to the house.“
“But you obviously have trouble with someone who’s, as you say it, normal.” She hooked her fingers, making parentheses in the air. There was a sarcasm there I hadn’t heard before.
“No, it’s not that. It’s—I’m—“
“I get the idea, Marcus. We’ve only been seeing each other for about a month, so I’m not going to push you. But if all I am is a great cook and a good house painter, or if you’re just going out with me to please your sister, I like to know that up-front, just for my own protection.” She slung her pastel purse across her shoulder and headed toward the door.
I gestured hopelessly. “I wasn’t sure. I didn’t think you—“
“I just wanted…” Abigail blushed, but not out of embarrassment. “To take our relationship to the next level, or see if you were interested in that. If you’re not, that’s okay. I understand.”
Oh God, I really blew it now. This wonderful woman wanted to give herself to me, and I was still so terrified of what I experienced with someone else that I couldn’t see straight.
“No, it’s not that. It’s the fact I’m an idiot, the kind of guy who looks gift horses in the mouth and then asks for an orthodontist’s evaluation. You just have to accept that in me.” I stepped closer and held out my arms. “Please, stay. I want you. I really, really do.” When all else fails, beg, I told myself.
“Marcus, ssshhh.” She put her soft hand across my mouth. “You’re tired, and I’m tired, and before I say something I regret, I’m going to go out to the farm to muck out Mayhem’s stall and feed him, then I’m going home. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
I nodded and took her hand from my face, kissing it as I did so.
“Just one more thing, Marcus.”
“What?”
“There’s very little normal in the world. Open your heart up. Enjoy it.” Abigail smiled, a little sadly I thought, and closed the door behind her.
My arms fell limply at my side. God, when would I ever learn? There was something so good, so uncomplicated, and, damn it, so normal about the woman. And she wanted to make love to me! Why couldn’t I just accept her sweetness and her simplicity? I certainly didn’t have any qualms jumping into the sack and giving it to a married woman. Why did I want to have that same, sordid, obsessive love I had with Kay James?
The engine of Abigail’s pick-up truck turned over, and the lights came on. From my front window, I could see the taillights and her personalized license plate that read ABIS TRK, as she pulled away from the sidewalk. I watched until the taillights turned at the corner and disappeared, then I walked back to the kitchen and pulled out a Tupperware serving bowl of Calpurnia’s potato salad from my fridge. Grabbing a fork from the drawer, I flopped into a kitchen chair and began to eat directly from the bowl.
So what do you want from this relationship? I asked myself. She’s beautiful, she is a good cook, and there’s just something about that open, trusting face that I found irresistible. Or did I? And why not? Was it fear? If we stopped seeing each other, would I regret it? I wasn’t sure.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I needed to sit down with her and lay everything out, where I stood and where I wanted the relationship to go, just for her own protection. I wasn’t ready for any kind of commitment; I saw that now. I had to be honest about that to her. Tomorrow, I promised myself I’d call her and tell her up front what was going on. It was the right thing to do, right after my cold shower.
On the countertop, the police scanner crackled to life. When I first came to Docetville, I convinced Hamlin to buy a police scanner for the office. The previous editor had been content to catch his police news on Tuesday mornings, or on television, but I wanted to give readers a little more timely stories whenever possible.
I also bought a hand-held scanner for myself, in case something happened at night. Most of it was the occasional heart attack or fender-bender accident, but sometimes I got lucky. Once, I had been able to compete with the local daily, when three boys from Chillicothe High School had stolen a car and gone joyriding through the countryside then plowed into a tree late one Wednesday night. They came away with their lives, but just barely, and I came away with a lead story for that week’s paper that already wasn’t a day or so old.
“Four-one-seven, respond to Collins Schoolhouse Road at the railroad crossing. Report of a vehicle struck by a train there,” the dispatcher intoned. “Caller is the train engineer. He reports one injury, possibly a fatality. Another vehicle has rolled into the ditch. Unknown injuries. Fire and EMS please respond.”
I tossed the potato salad back into the fridge and listened to the dispatcher repeat the call. While my instincts about women were sadly lacking, I knew when to jump on a story. I found a reporter’s notebook in my briefcase, grabbed the scanner, and headed for the car.
Across the street at the government center, the fire and EMS vehicles were beginning to come alive. I waited until the last ambulance pulled from the bay and followed it up the street and into the darkened countryside.
* * *
Collins Schoolhouse Road was at the western end of Ross County. Like most country roads, it meandered across fields and small creeks until it climbed a sharp rise, made an abrupt left turn, and descended sharply into the next county. Just before the county line was a railroad crossing, so seldom used that even I had succumbed to the habit of not looking before speeding across.
Quickly, I surveyed the scene. The remains of a Buick lay mangled on the track, illuminated by the train’s headlight and the spotlight of a sheriff’s cruiser. A white sheet had already been placed over the driver’s compartment; the poor SOB who either had not seen the train or tried to beat it, would never make that mistake again. An older man, I assumed the train’s engineer, stood talking to a deputy. To the right in a ditch, a blue, Ford pickup truck lay on the passenger side. Firefighters circled the vehicle, working to pull the driver out and get the truck back on all four wheels again.
An EMT jumped from the ambulance and ran toward the truck in the ditch. A group of firefighters stood around it, working to get the driver out. I swung my Nikon up to my eye, looking for a money shot. Things would change vastly from the time the Chillicothe Gazette would print their first story and the time I could print mine, but a good front-page photo could stand the test of
time. As I twisted my telephoto lens, the truck’s license plate came into focus: ABIS TRK.
I dropped the camera and ran towards the scene.
“Abby!” I screamed. “Abby!”
Firefighters had Abigail fastened to a backboard, as they pulled her from the wreckage.
“Abby, are you all right? Are you all right?” A volunteer firefighter blocked me from coming any closer, as Abby, her face bruised and swollen and holding her left arm close to her chest, was strapped onto a gurney.
“Sir, you’re going to have to stay back. Are you a family member?”
“She’s my—I—we’re dating,” I managed to choke out. I tried to jump around him to get closer to see how she was doing, but the firefighter’s big, meaty hands stopped me.
“I’m going to have to ask you to step back, sir,” he repeated. “She’s received some broken bones and some bruises, so we’re going to transport her to the hospital. You can talk to her there.”
I nodded dumbly. EMT’s wheeled her close to me, to load her onto the ambulance. They stopped briefly beside me.
“Abigail, are you okay? What happened?” I managed to ask, laying a hand on her shoulder.
She smiled weakly. “I’m okay. I think my arm is broken. I went for a drive after we talked, and that car in front of me I guess didn’t see the train. I slammed on the brakes, so I wouldn’t hit him, and rolled the truck. Is he okay?”
Before I could answer, an EMT spoke up. “Let’s worry about getting you to the hospital right now, Miss.” Turning to me he said, “You can follow us in your car. We’re not going lights and sirens.”
I leaned over to kiss her. She was loaded into the back of the ambulance. “See you at the hospital,” I said.
Several hours later, Abigail’s left wrist was in a cast. Thankfully, it wasn’t her arm as she earlier suspected, and her head was fogged with painkillers as I helped her up the stairs to her apartment above the store.
With her good right hand, she grabbed my shirtfront and pulled me into her living room, her lips locking drunkenly on mine. I stepped back and brushed her tousled hair from her glazed, brown eyes. “Abigail, not tonight. You’re hurt. You’re wired on Darvocet.“
“I’ve been wounded worse than this, riding dressage with Mayhem,” she slurred, throwing her head back and parting her lips seductively. “And, besides, I want you Marcus. I want you now.”
“Let me put you to bed, and we can talk about this in the morning.”
“Yes, Marcus. Put me to bed.” With her one good hand, she deftly undid the buttons on my shirt. Abigail pushed the facings of my shirt aside, and her hands slid greedily, drunkenly, over my chest.
“Abigail, this isn’t—I can’t—“
She slipped fluidly to her knees. For a moment, I thought she passed out; instinctively, I grabbed her under her armpit, and then gasped, as I felt her teeth bite the flap on my fly. “Oh my God.”
The next thing I knew, our clothes left a trail from the living room to her bed. Cupping her breasts in my hands, I traced the bruise on her left cheekbone with my lips, moving to the soft hollow of her collarbone, then those perfect, small breasts.
Softly, seamlessly, she rolled me onto my back and straddled me. I grasped her hips and guided her toward what we both wanted. We came together, in that small dark room, our breathing synchronizing as our movements built toward a crescendo. Guttural moans filled the room, as Abigail’s back arched, and we exploded together. She collapsed on top of me, and I wrapped my arms around her.
“Oh, baby, I love you,” she slurred. In a few moments, the Darvocet completed their task. We slipped apart, and Abigail drifted into a deep, drugged sleep.
I lay listening to her regular, deep breathing and knew in that instant that I couldn’t stay. I slipped from the bed and gathered my clothes. Fishing through a kitchen drawer, I found a pencil and a notepad. “Abigail, I’m sorry. You deserve better than me,” I wrote and scrawled my initials across the page.
I tiptoed down the stairs and slipped into my car parked underneath a streetlight. The realization was as clear as the full moon shining on Docetville’s empty Main Street. I could have stayed here. I could have led an easy life with a beautiful, uncomplicated woman. But it wouldn’t have been love, not the love I knew would have been possible, the love I had before.
Turning the ignition, I made a U-turn in the middle of the street. I was heading toward the highway and back to Jubilant Falls.
Chapter 11 Kay
“This court finds that the defendant is not able to stand trial at this time. She shall be remanded to the custody of a mental health facility, until such time as she can be declared competent.”
With a swing of his gavel, Judge David McMullen, a man who had been a dear friend of my father’s and who had, with his wife and daughters, once spent a Christmas holiday in the Virgin Islands with us, brought the first nightmare to an end.
For mother, it was over. I made sure she had a private room. Even in her insanity, she would want only the best. Even if she recovered, Mother would never be tried for the stabbing death of her father.
I made some discreet inquiries and found that Marvin Gillespie’s death so many years ago had been ruled accidental. Conrad Gillespie was the last surviving brother and easier to find than I imagined. Jarred had succumbed to lung cancer in his fifties; a heart attack had claimed Otis a few years later. Conrad had moved just a few miles up the road from the little coal town Mother had grown up in, opened a construction business after the war, and raised a family of six children with his British war bride, Cora.
One Saturday, I left the children with Novella, who agreed to stay on, and met Conrad in the day room at the mental hospital where Mother would spend the remainder of her days.
She was sitting in a wicker chair by the window, staring vacantly out the ivy-bordered windows. Her fingernails, no longer perfectly painted, picked nervously at the hem of her blouse. She still looked marvelous; the white blouse was ironed crisply, her hair was combed and styled, and a small gold dove held a pink-flowered, silk scarf around her shoulders. The staff saw to it that her appearance would always be impeccable.
“Mother?” I touched her shoulder. The nervous fingerpicking stopped, and she looked at me. It was a few seconds, before she recognized me.
“Oh, hello, Kay,” her words were slow and soft, the results of the antipsychotics she was taking.
“Mother, I have someone here to see you.” I turned, and Conrad stepped forward, clutching his Gillespie Construction ball cap in his hand.
“Hello, Marian.”
Mother looked back and forth between Conrad, the brother she hadn’t seen in fifty years, and me, the daughter who now knew all her closely held confidences.
“Everybody knows now, don’t they?” she whispered, reaching for our hands. “It’s not a secret, anymore.”
Tears brimmed in Conrad’s eyes, as he knelt beside her chair. “No, sis. It ain’t a secret, anymore.”
“They came for me, Conrad, just like the voices said they would.”
Conrad laid his head on her arm, to regain his composure. Tentatively, she touched his thinning, gray hair with a wrinkled hand and looked at me.
“This is my brother, Kay. Have you met Conrad?” she asked, her eyes vacant from medication.
“Yes Mother. I have. I’ll let you two visit for a while.” I touched her shoulder. "I love you, mother."
She smiled back at me with vacant eyes, patting my hand.
I left them to catch up on the years and went to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. After about an hour, Conrad found me.
“She’s bad off, ain’t she?” he asked, twirling his coffee cup in his large, calloused hands.
I nodded. “She’ll never see the outside world again. The scars of the abuse and then the effort to keep her father’s death a secret has just festered too long.”
“We all knew that she killed him and run off. She had to. She couldn’t have stayed ther
e in that house, with Ma dead.”
“But what about the police?”
“There was a chicken casserole broken all over the floor, when we came home. We put that around Pa’s body, before we went for the police. My huntin’ knife was missin’, but it didn’t take any rocket scientist to figger out where they’d find it, if anybody could find Marian. There weren’t no fancy police investigators back then, and I’m sure that they were just as glad as everyone else to see Marvin Gillespie gone.”
“That’s harsh.”
“It was a harsh world we lived in then. The company that owned the mines owned everythin’ back then. They owned the company, owned the shack we lived in; they even ran the school and the store where we bought our food and clothes. They printed money we spent there. The scrip they made, that was our money. It was a hard world, Kay, a hard world. You know what a governor is?”
“If it’s anything other than the political one, no.”
“A governor is somethin’ you put on an engine to keep it from goin’ faster’n it needs to, a control. It reins in the power of an engine, like you rein in a horse.”
“Okay.”
“Our pa had no governor on his life. He’d go after the first thing that caught his interest and, like anythin’ that runs wild without some kind of restraint, his interest wasn’t very often pure, or very honest. He was like a lot of men back then in the coal camps. He’d spend his check, what the paymaster didn’t dock for the grocery bill at the company store, on hooch at Flagler’s Tavern, and when he couldn’t spend it on hooch, he go back in the hills and get him some ‘shine. And when he’d be damn near blind drunk like that, he was an animal. He’d get in fights with anybody who looked at him wrong. He’d come home, and on nights when Ma was workin’...” Conrad stopped and hung his head.
I reached across the table and laid my hand on his arm. “You couldn’t have stopped it, Conrad.”
“Pa only kept his job because Ma would go beg the boss to let him stay. He couldn’t work more than two or three days a week, when he was on a bender. Don’t think them miners were all like that. They were so beat down… their lives wasn’t nothin’ but workin’ hard for a few pennies. They were all lookin’ to make their lives, everybody’s lives in that camp, a little better. When somethin’ happened to make that world a little less hard, people looked on it as a blessin’.”
The Major's Wife (Jubilant Falls series Book 2) Page 21
