by Julia French
Mark’s smile broadened into a malicious smirk, as though he had caught her at a crime scene with the gun in her hand. “This what happens when you try to do things by yourself, Rachel. You can’t make the simplest decision without my input. I have to watch over you and keep you out of trouble, and now I’m going to have to waste my lunch hour checking up on you. Why do you do these things to me? Why?”
Because he had never hit her before, she didn’t see it coming. His fist spun her around, and as she fell one of her arms flung out and knocked over the floor lamp. The three-way bulb shattered and dotted the carpet with milky splinters.
“Stupid bitch.”
The bump on her head screamed, and her nose dripped blood. He’s going to hit me again for knocking over the lamp, she thought, but she was wrong. She looked up into his contorted face and saw the energy go out of him. His shoulders slumped, the hostile, aggressive stare sagged. Cautiously she got up and put a hand to her nose to catch the bloody drops. Sometimes Mark didn’t remember what he said. Would he remember what he’d just done?
“If you expect to get away without cooking tonight, you’re mistaken. Go defrost something, but clean yourself up first, you look awful. I’ll be in the den.”
Rachel watched her husband’s retreating back and felt a stab of pity. She didn’t know why Mark was the way he was, but these rages seemed to take something out of him, for he was walking like an old man.
* * * *
The smell of broiling steak roused him. Mark sat up in his chair drowsily. The electronics journal he’d been reading slid off his lap and he caught it by one corner of the front cover, drawing it back. What page had he been on? He couldn’t remember, and now he’d lost his place. He’d been dreaming, too, something about Rachel and blood.
Rachel. He was the one holding this marriage together. Everything he did was for her. This evening he’d had to resort to extreme measures, but she had provoked him. How many times did he have to save her from herself? Ten? Twenty? A hundred?
That steak had better be a sirloin, he thought. Looking after her took a lot of energy, and he needed to eat right and keep healthy so he could to be there for her. All for her.
His hand convulsed, crumpling the cover of the journal into a hard little ball.
Chapter Seven
“You say this’ll do the trick.” The old man clutched the little cloth bag to his chest.
“Remember, a spoonful in hot water every morning. Skip a day and you’ll be in misery again. Come back if you’re not better in three days. If you’re better, come back when the bag’s empty.”
The old man fumbled in his pocket, and True shook his head.
“I’m not a charity case,” the old man protested.
“I’d rather have some of Mona’s oatmeal cookies. Your wife’s a great baker.”
“Ain’t she, though?” The old man shuffled to the door. “I’ll come by with your cookies tomorrow.”
True lingered at his patient’s side long enough to see him seated comfortably in the pony cart. It was a mystery to him how the old man was able to take care of the pony any more, let alone harness it and drive the cart, but the mind was a wonderful thing. When a person’s will was set on something strong enough, nothing on earth could stop it.
Now that he’d given away his last bit of slippery elm bark he had to gather more. The weather was cool and dry, good for a hike. True shrugged into a heavy jacket, slid a hunting knife into his belt, and headed out the door into the woods-the friendly woods in back of his place, not the hostile part out front that led to the highway. What he’d done to make those trees badly disposed toward him he didn’t know, but he avoided lingering there as much out of respect for the trees’ feelings as out of concern for his own safety.
True’s busiest healing time was from October to April, when people’s physical energy tended to be the lowest. Due to seasonal weather changes, fall and spring were the worst times for chest and throat ailments, and what started out as a simple cold could turn into a case of bronchitis or even pneumonia. Whenever he saw a case of pneumonia, True told his patient to get to a regular doctor quick, because he knew the limits of his own skill, and over the years people had come to trust his judgment. If he mentioned the words ‘doctor’ or ‘hospital’ they went immediately, and if he told them to eat this or drink that they did it uncomplaining. Sometimes it bothered him to see how blindly his friends and neighbors followed his advice, but it made his healing tasks easier. Easier, anyway, than some of the other things folks asked him to do.
So many people had faith in him, but like any man, True wasn’t infallible. For instance, he’d fooled himself into thinking Rachel Jeffries cared enough about his way of life to want to know and perhaps even to learn, but he’d been as mistaken as he could possibly be. She had been honest with him when she’d said she just wanted her interview, and if he had thought anything else about it, that was purely his own fault.
There was a furtive rustle ahead of him, likely a squirrel or a field mouse. He stood motionless, waiting. Soon the dead leaves at his feet parted and a field mouse’s shining eyes peered up at him myopically. True remained still and the mouse crept up and examined the toe of his boot, sniffing and patting with tiny hands.
Finding nothing edible there, the creature scampered back into the dried foliage out of sight. Five minutes’ walk into the back woods, he found a tall slippery elm tree and set to work with his knife. As he stripped the rough outer bark away, he sent thankful thoughts toward the tree for giving up its healing substance to him. He wasn’t sure whether he believed trees could really hear what he thought, like his great grandfather had told him, but it didn’t hurt him to be grateful.
After she got over her anger Rachel had been grateful to him for rescuing her, but there had been nothing more. The red streak coloring his reflection in his great grandfather’s mirror meant nothing—red had plenty of other meanings besides desire. Besides, Rachel had a husband. She hadn’t called her husband after she called the garage, but that didn’t mean anything either. Doubtless she hadn’t wanted to worry him. Anyhow, who would want a woman who asked so damn many questions and didn’t listen to the answers?
True’s knife bit into the elm, and he peeled off a foot-long strip of the whitish-green, faintly aromatic underbark. He rolled the material up, stuck it in his pocket, and looked around for another elm. He was careful not to take too much bark from one tree, for the first time he’d done his own collecting he had stripped the entire trunk as high as his arms could reach and the tree had died. In the next hour he located three other mature elm trees and had harvested three more rolls of slippery underbark. Putting the last roll in his pocket, he glanced at the shadows among the trees and calculated that it was close to noon. Telling time by the sun was another thing his great grandfather had taught him when he was a boy, one of the few pieces of knowledge of which his family had approved.
True’s father had died when he was four years old, and his mother’s days had been spent laboring to keep a roof over True’s head and food in his mouth. His brother and sister, both much older than he, were already out in the world and preoccupied with their own concerns. The only one who had time to give the lonely young boy was his great grandfather, and True had idolized the uncouth old man. His mother and siblings hadn’t minded his learning things like telling time by the sun and finding the best fishing holes, but when it came to the arcane things, the magick things only his great grandfather could teach him, they drew a frightened and angry line. Reward, punishment, hellfire preaching from the pastor–nothing could prevent the boy from sneaking away to his great grandfather’s cabin every chance he got.
Eventually the family disowned the old man and had forbidden True to mention his name. His great grandfather had died shortly afterward of a heart attack and everyone but True had breathed a sigh of relief that the elderly conjurer was gone. T
rue wasn’t sure to this day if it was the disowning that had killed his great grandfather, but he had never forgotten or forgiven it, and as soon as he was old enough to do a day’s work he had left his family and West Virginia forever. After some years of drifting, he had found himself in rural Massachusetts, and something inside his heart told him this was where he should stay.
True was satisfied in the work he had chosen. He used his great grandfather’s learning to help people in need. He made just enough money to get by, and his needs were simple. Occasionally he felt lonely, but more often he felt overcrowded by folks who came by wanting a cure, a charm, an herb, or a listening ear. Whenever he felt closed in and trapped, a hike in the woods gave him the feeling of freedom and helped him come to himself again.
Back at the house he unrolled the strips of slippery elm bark and laid them flat on a wooden board, covered them with a clean towel, and weighted them down with the largest iron pan he owned. When the strips of bark had dried thoroughly, he would chop the pieces into one-inch squares and store them in a mason jar. Three squares steeped in boiling water for three minutes would help all but the most stubborn cases of chest congestion. He looked around for an empty mason jar, and one of the glass witch balls hanging in the kitchen window caught his attention.
The ball was a lively, vibrant green. Rachel’s eyes were that color. Annoyed at himself, he went into the living room and fished out an amber-colored pill bottle from the clutter in the bookcase. The bottle held not pills, but apple seeds, and they would help him divine the source of the bad luck Atlie Newhall had been having with his cattle lately. Atlie was coming this afternoon, and it would be good to have an answer for him. It would also help take True’s mind off yesterday.
Rachel hadn’t been interested in his magick at all. She had summarily rejected his offer to teach her what he knew. She’d hated the rutted road, hated the trees around his house, and hated being beholden to him for rescuing her. He’d probably never see her again, but that was just as well. He hoped none of his neighbors would see her story in that newspaper. They might think that he was getting above himself. It was better to forget about the whole thing…and he wished that he could.
Chapter Eight
What she feared most had happened. Mark had lost control. Now that he’d hit her once it would be easier for him to hit her a second time, and a third. Desperately Rachel wracked her mind for what to do. She had no family to turn to, and no friends to help her because Mark had driven them away. Calling the police was unthinkable, for it would bring public embarrassment on them both and she couldn’t bring herself to do it. There was the women’s shelter downtown, but where would she go from there? It might be a while before Mark decided to hit her again. In that time she would have to trust that somehow she would be able to get free. One part-time job wasn’t enough to support her. She would have to find a second job, but it would have to be timed perfectly for her exit, because there was no way she could keep both jobs a secret from Mark. Staying was unthinkable, too, and there was no longer any doubt that she had to leave. Physical violence had become a part of their relationship and she was no longer safe in her own home.
A slight sound from the den set her heart pounding, and the muscles in her neck tightened as if bracing for another blow. Black sparks came and went in her vision. She put her head down between her knees to forestall the fainting fit and the freshly sealed capillaries inside her nose gave way, splattering blood onto the linoleum. She sat up and drew a deep, steady breath through her mouth, and the fainting feeling passed slowly. At the sink she wet a paper towel and pressed it to her leaking nose. Suddenly she remembered supper. There was a sirloin in the freezer, and she could bake that with onions. Mark liked asparagus, and she could make some cheese sauce to go with it. For dessert there was the batch of brownies she’d baked the other day. They were drying out, but a scoop of vanilla ice cream would revive them.
Mark was calm during supper and ate with a hearty appetite, but Rachel could only play with her food. It wasn’t like her husband to let go of an issue so easily and she knew that a sequel to the scene in the living room was quite possible. However, nothing happened during the meal. The waiting was almost worse than the original thing. Mark acted and talked normally and she could have pretended that nothing had happened, except that her sense of safety had been blasted away. Every time Mark moved his arm she wanted to flinch. When supper was finished he retreated to the den once more. As he left the room he blew her a silent, comically exaggerated kiss, and she gave him a weak smile in return. She’d spent hours wondering whether those exaggerated kisses were meant to be affection, or a sort of nonverbal mockery. Tonight, however, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was alone once more.
She carried the plates into the kitchen and in her nervousness almost dropped one. She forced herself to move leisurely and calmly, loading the dishwasher with care as if each dish were the only one she owned. She trickled the soap powder into the container, closed the door, and cranked the dial. The rhythmic swish-swish of the machine soothed her, and the tangled threads of anxiety separated and withdrew from her brain. There was some hope in her situation, and if it turned out that she couldn’t write well, she would find something else to do-stuffing envelopes, dog walking, delivering newspapers, anything. What she needed to do was to stay safe, not give in to panic, and remain open to possibilities.
Possibilities.
Upon the darkened kitchen windowpane a glowing purple streak crept by. The streak hesitated, nodded left and right, then continued humping along the glass to the other side of the pane. She smiled faintly at the sight, because she was used to the luminous caterpillars. She didn’t know why they appeared during times when normal caterpillars were resting inside their cocoons, but there was a reasonable, logical scientific explanation somewhere.
Possibilities, and logical explanations.
Why had Mark chosen to hit her today? He‘d gotten angry at her many times before. What had made this time different from the others? Was it something she’d said, the expression on her face, the tone of her voice, a gesture of hers that set him off? She had thought his irrational behavior was the problem, but what if the problem wasn’t him? What if she’d irritated him once too many times with her stupidity? What if it was really her fault?
Possibilities. It was possible that she was wrong. If it was her fault that Mark had hit her, then he wasn’t in the wrong, he was simply reacting to her stupidity, and if she was wrong about Mark, what else was she wrong about? If she were stupid or perhaps even crazy, then how could she trust herself to judge what was right and what was wrong? Certainty dropped away from her, and dreams of jobs and freedom were forgotten. Rachel clung to the edge of the sink, and in her mind’s eye the kitchen floor fell away from her feet. She was looking into a black pit, a pit without bottom, an endless depth of night.
Crazy, crazy.
Those little piglets were laying eggs like crazy!
It sounded as though True was in the room. She swiveled around, expecting to see the tall, lanky mountain man standing over her laughing at his own joke—but she was alone in the kitchen, and the dishwasher had started the rinse cycle. The voice had sounded so real, exactly like True’s soft, slightly drawling accent. Like he’d been standing right next to her.
This afternoon she had been tired, scared, and hurt. She’d lost her temper and shouted at the man who saved her life, but even though he’d had cause, True hadn’t responded to her anger with his own the way Mark would have. Instead, he had paid back her rage and pain with kindness and understanding. When she disappointed him by refusing his lessons, he had remained polite and helpful although it had put a gulf between them. True wouldn’t have been so kind to her if he thought she was crazy…except that she wasn’t. Rachel’s mind, in its urgent search for answers, had supplied her with the illusion of True Gannett’s voice to show her that she wasn’t crazy at all, but wo
rthy of kindness and understanding. She didn’t deserve to be hit, and she hadn’t brought it on herself. She was okay. Mark was not. It was that simple, and it was real.
Rachel had been close to giving up and letting go of her sanity, her freedom, and her future. Leaning against the sink, gritty traces of powdered detergent on her fingertips, she vowed that no matter what she had to do, she would never get close to that edge again.
Chapter Nine
Later that night Rachel slid her legs from under the blanket and stood up, trying her best not to jiggle the mattress. Next to her Mark stirred, murmuring something, and she held her breath until he was still. Inside the dark closet, purely by touch, she located her laptop within its padding of silk flowers and wrapped her arms around the machine as if to protect it.
What if Mark woke up and found her rummaging in the closet? If he found the laptop, he would take it away from her, like he’d taken away her collection of porcelain dolls.
In her bare feet she padded into the kitchen and set the coffee machine burbling and gasping, then went into the living room to retrieve her camera bag from under the sofa. With his high cheekbones and distinctive eyes, True would have come off well in a photograph, and it was a shame he hadn’t allowed her to take one. Perhaps she could persuade him later when she dropped off a copy of her article—but that was ridiculous. Why would she want to take his picture after the article was already published? Besides, she could remember him quite well without one.
The coffee maker had gasped to a halt and the carafe was full. She poured some of the hot liquid into a mug and carried it to the kitchen table, then pulled the notebook out of her camera bag and scrutinized her work. She had taken more notes at the time than she had thought, five pages of closely-spaced handwriting.
