by Laura Wiess
I sat there a moment, shuddering, then reached out and shut off the CD.
Wiped my eyes. Wiped Gran’s eyes.
Gave her a little Gatorade from her cup and wiped her nose.
Went into the kitchen and stood looking at the pile of apples in the fridge.
Took six out and, hands shaking, started slicing them for the deer.
Hunting season started in a little more than two weeks.
Seth wasn’t in school today.
I tried calling him five times, but he never answered his cell so I finally gave up.
It was hard, not knowing if he was sick or if he’d just cut out.
Harder still not to go to the office to see if Lacey McMullen was absent, too.
But I didn’t.
After school I all but ran to Gran’s and it was funny how even with her so sick, being with her could still make me feel safe.
Heart, are you great enough For a love that never tires?
O heart, are you great enough for love?
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
How It Ends
“We’ve crossed the state line, Louise,” Peter said quietly a while later, as I huddled silent and numb against the passenger door, staring at the dried blood on my shoes. “I’ll either have to leave you somewhere or marry you now, whatever you choose.”
“Marry me,” I said dully, because I didn’t want to be alone.
We stopped in a little town and had a justice-of-the-peace ceremony. The details are hazy but I remember the justice asking if we were in trouble, and I knew by the way he said it that he was asking if I was pregnant, so I said yes and started to cry, and he married us in a real ceremony; I have the official marriage license to prove it.
We got hot dogs at a drive-in joint and a room at a cheap motel. He took one bed, I the other. We slept like the dead.
I moved through those first weeks in a thick gray cloud, barely speaking, plagued by nightmare sights and smells, always curled into myself, trusting no one, missing my mother and, even more, the Ciro’s photo, barely able to think about what had happened at the Boehms’, if either of them were still alive, if Nurse was still there or the state home knew or even cared that I was gone.
Peter was very kind and cautious with me, speaking quietly, watching me closely, teasing me into reluctant smiles, making sure I ate and even bought me a ring, a plain sterling-silver band he found in a pawnshop.
Good deals were necessary, as all we had was what he’d left with.
I, of course, had nothing.
We found a medium-sized town where newcomers weren’t noticeable and rented a small apartment. He got a job working nights on the railroad loading freight and I waitressed days at the local diner. We saw each other briefly in the morning and again at dinner. I never realized it then, but now I believe Peter had done that deliberately to give me time to adjust, to get to know him without feeling threatened or obligated or scared.
Peter carried a story of his own, one I was too oblivious at that point to ask about.
I’d never worked for money before, never had even five dollars to my name, and the first night I realized I was allowed to keep the quarters I’d slid off the tables, I was ecstatic. I danced home, spread it all out on the counter in the kitchenette, and ignoring Peter’s good-natured amusement, counted it out and vowed that if tips were left for good service, then I would become the best waitress in the country.
That was the first time I had ever seen him laugh aloud and was surprised to see he had two denture plates, one for his four top front teeth and one for his bottom front two, both held in place with metal that hooked to his side teeth. The moment he saw I’d noticed, he flushed and stopped laughing.
“Wait,” I said, but he just shook his head and disappeared into the bedroom to get ready for work. I felt bad then because I knew I’d embarrassed him but didn’t know how to make it right because other than his name and the fact that he was Dutch, I didn’t know anything at all about him.
I know that sounds ridiculous now, in an age when nothing is sacred or private, when people go on talk shows and spill the ugliest parts of themselves, the darkest tragedies and the most degrading behavior, but it wasn’t like that back then. There was a process, and yes, Peter and I jumped the gun by marrying, but then we backed up straight to the beginning and began the slow, steady dance of getting to know and trust each other, and falling in love.
Because we did fall in love.
After all I’d seen of love dying, it was a miracle to feel the joy of its birth.
Peter loved to fish and on Sundays I would pack a picnic lunch and we would drive out to a lonely stretch of the river and I would read (and sneak peeks at him) while he cast from shore. Sometimes I would open the bags with our lunch and find a little surprise from the five-and-dime—a bangle bracelet, a pretty little hand mirror, or a bottle of lily of the valley cologne—and he would smile at my delight, and yes, it did take me far too long to realize that he was wooing me.
The idea electrified me like nothing else ever had, pushing all the darkness and sadness aside and making me look at him, our apartment, my ring, the small amount of time we were able to spend together…I looked at it all differently.
Now the idea that, when I rose from the bed, he would tumble into it, into the warm hollow I’d created with my body became a thing of blushing intimacy, and I began wearing just a dab of lily of the valley cologne to bed so my scent would be there when he slipped under the covers after I left in the morning.
I noticed how the sun glinted off his thick, black hair, smooth and shiny as a crow’s wing, and how he would sing when he was in a good mood or wanted to make me laugh, Sam Cooke’s “Chain Gang” before he left for work at night, and in the morning, a little more tiredly but twice as loud and silly, as I left for work, he would stand at the front door and belt out Maurice Williams’s “Stay,” making me laugh and blush and half run down the street, always turning back to wave, always seeing him waiting there, watching me with a smile. People looked at me with kind amusement, men saying, “He’s got it bad, sister,” and women asking if he had a single brother. It made me dance all the way to work and smile at everyone, even the crabbiest customers who sent their food back or made a mess of their table and left me a nickel tip, but I didn’t care.
He was singing to me.
I started setting aside tips each day because I wanted to buy him a surprise in return and decided on a transistor radio I saw in Woolworth’s. That way our apartment would have music, and maybe he would sing to me even more, maybe love songs like “Put Your Head on My Shoulder” or “I Only Have Eyes for You.” And maybe he would ask me to dance, only I didn’t know how and the thought panicked me so much that I asked one of the other waitresses, Coral, how to dance, and she grabbed the cook out of the kitchen, a short, round little man with a five o’clock shadow and a cigar stub stuck between his lips, and fed the jukebox two whole dollars, playing slow songs just to teach me.
I bought the transistor radio, then went to the library and found a Dutch cookbook, got a library card, and brought the book home, poring over it in secret and trying to find something not too hard and not too expensive that I could make for him as a surprise. I decided on a rice pie, a wonderful-sounding yeast-crust pie with a vanilla-and-milk rice-pudding-type filling, and made it on Saturday so we could take it to the river with us on Sunday.
It was a beautiful Sunday and I took care with my outfit, wanting to look beautiful and desirable and feeling frustrated at my scant wardrobe. Still, my hair was curled and my lipstick perfect and I smelled of lily of the valley, and the pie and the radio had been secretly and carefully tucked into the picnic basket.
The riverbank was deserted as usual with only the occasional car of churchgoers passing by, and as we spread the blanket beneath the tree, he said he’d been thinking of taking on some extra work, not double shifts at the railroad but at a nearby construction site where they were looking for good, strong temporary labor
ers.
“We could bank that extra money, Louise, and when we have enough, maybe we could buy a little house somewhere,” he said almost shyly. “I know you want a home of your own, and things would be pretty tight, we’d have to sacrifice, but I think we could do it.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, just an idea.”
“It’s a great idea,” I said, overcome. “Oh, Peter, it’s a wonderful idea!” And without even thinking I threw my arms around him, and the moment my body touched his, a bolt of electricity shocked us into stillness, but only for a heartbeat, because his arms came around me in a way that promised never to let me go, never to let me down, never to hurt me or betray me or live without me, and he breathed my name on an exhale as sweet as the sunny day, and I lifted my face and he lowered his and kissed me.
And kissed me.
And kissed me.
And probably would have kept on kissing me had a car not slowed on the road and a woman said, “Right out in broad daylight! Shameless! You young people have no morals at all anymore!”
And Peter, eyes bright, mouth curved in a wide smile, pulled back slightly and, winking at me, called, “I hate to break it to you, lady, but this young person is my wife.”
“Baloney,” an old man next to the woman snapped. “Nobody kisses his wife like that, especially out in public!” Scowling, he stepped on the gas, and the enormous old Plymouth chugged off in a cloud of dust.
We looked at each other and laughed and he kept his arm around me, and oh, the glory of nestling my head into the curve of his neck and shoulder, the absolute rightness of knowing all I had to do was lift my face and he would kiss it, of discovering that if I reached out, he would reach back, clasp my hand, hold tight, lift it to his lips, and kiss it, watching me, dark eyes glowing.
I gave him the radio and he got so quiet that I thought he didn’t like it, but that wasn’t it at all. He said that no one had bought him anything since his parents had been killed in the war and he was so touched that I started to cry because I hadn’t known that, hadn’t known that he was an orphan, too, and because of how miraculous it was that we’d ended up together.
Then, because our stomachs were rumbling, he switched on the radio while I laid out the food, and of course, the first song they played wasn’t a beautiful, romantic love song but Brenda Lee’s sassy “Sweet Nothin’s,” which of course he had to sing along to me, grabbing my hand and pulling me up to twist with him on the grass, and I was laughing and twisting and singing right back as if I’d lived my whole life for this one joyous moment and, oh, the freedom of being silly, of teasing and flirting and seeing the gleam of appreciation in his eyes.
Out of everything that has ever happened to us our whole lives, that one magnificent day with the sun and birds and the river and the discovery of the homemade Dutch rice pie, which almost made him cry, and the transistor playing in the background of so many kisses was, without a doubt, the most beautiful.
We didn’t talk of darker things that day, and we didn’t run straight home and fall into bed, either.
No, we ran straight home and spent a hot, sweaty, panting hour kissing on the couch, an hour that left me dazzled and topless, left him frustrated at having to stop and get ready to go to work.
“You can’t lay there like that,” he said hoarsely, looking at me. “I’ll never leave, Louise. I swear you have to put your shirt on or I’ll stay and then I’ll get fired and we’ll lose our apartment and end up out in the street and—”
“Oh, all right,” I said, giggling and pulling my crumpled shirt over me. “There, is that better?”
“No,” he said with a weak grin. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“Ever?” I said, suddenly solemn.
“Ever,” he said and gave me a tender kiss. “I knew that the minute I saw you.”
“Really?” I said, gazing into his eyes and running a fingertip down his cheek.
“Would I lie to you?” he said.
“No,” I said, and a smile that held all the happiness in the world blossomed.
We made love for the first time that next Sunday on my sixteenth birthday, not out in the open at the river between eating, reading, and fishing, but there together in our bed with the rich, buttery summer sun melting in through the blinds, the transistor playing “Forever” by the Little Dippers, with his mouth sweet, hungry, soft, and everywhere, with his work-roughened hands slowly lifting my slip up over my head, unsnapping each garter and peeling down my stockings, easing off my bra and panties, cupping my face, and stilling my trembling, laying me down, hands sliding up beneath me, lifting me to meet him and whispering, It’s all right, I won’t hurt you, and then he did but only a little, and I understood the pain and knew it wouldn’t last and it didn’t, and we went on, and I discovered there is nothing in the world like being taken by a good man who loves you.
“Oh my God, the nice parts are almost worse than the horrible parts,” I blubbered, laughing and grabbing two tissues, one for me and one for Gran because she was crying, too.
Seth had to work late again, so me, Sammi, and her boyfriend decided to go over to the bowling alley and surprise him, first time ever.
Too bad he wasn’t there.
The girl at the shoe rental counter gave me a funny look when I said, Hi, I’m Seth’s girlfriend, is he working tonight? And she said, No, not till Monday, I think, and this bad feeling washed through me, and I said, “Oh, okay, you don’t by any chance know where he is, do you?” And you could see she knew something but she wasn’t going to tell, so I pulled out my phone to call him, and then Sammi said, “Wait, isn’t there a party at Connor’s tonight?”
So we drove over there, and yeah, there was definitely something going on, and Seth’s car—his new old MG—was there. We stopped and they waited in the car while I went to the door, and it was unlocked, so I just walked right in and it was a party all right. I saw Seth hanging out talking to Connor and Phil and this weird undercurrent ran through the room and Seth looked up and saw me, blanched, and then looked to the other side of the room to the keg where a whole mess of people were, including Lacey McMullen, the blue-eye-shadowed sophomore.
He got up fast, came right over, said, “Hey, what’re you doing here?” and put his arms around me. I wished I’d asked Sammi to come in with me because I would have given a thousand dollars to see who he was looking at over the top of my head, but I didn’t, so I never knew if it was Lacey.
“C’mon, let’s go out to the car,” he said, so we did.
I told Sammi it was okay, she could leave now, and I did it on purpose because that MG is a two seater and that shotgun seat is mine, and yeah, he might have come alone but how weird was it that Lacey was here, too, and I wasn’t?
Sammi and her boyfriend left, and me and Seth got in his car. Thank God the top was up because I was so upset I was shaking, and said, We went to the bowling alley to surprise you, only guess what? And he said he was sorry, but yeah, he lied because he just wanted a night out on his own with the guys because he didn’t have a lot of time to himself anymore, and he knew that if he’d just come out and said that, he would have hurt my feelings, so he thought it would be better to make up an excuse.
He held me and apologized and said he was glad I’d shown up because it wasn’t that much fun without me. I didn’t bring up Lacey and he didn’t bring up Lacey, and when he kissed me, it started out so sweet and tender, then got so raw we were clinging to each other, bridging back to each other, and it ended the questions. Being there with him, in his arms, quieted my crying and dulled the hurt that he’d lied. We talked for a little, and he promised he wouldn’t lie again and I shouldn’t, either—although when exactly have I lied?—and then he said, Ready to go back to the party? And he waited patiently while I put on my makeup, nodding at people going by, and in a beautiful gesture, got out to go around and open my door.
Right as he got out, I dropped my lip gloss and it fell down alongside the seat into the back. He’d stopped to talk to somebody—I do
n’t know who, I could only see his bottom half—so I wedged my hand down to get it, but the gap was too tight, and there was a spiral notebook shoved back there, down in the gap, so I pulled it out thinking it was Seth’s, only it wasn’t.
It was someone else’s.
And in that second I had a choice: Do not open it, do not look. Put it back and go on believing everything is fine. Or open it, see Lacey’s name written in her stupid curlicue writing in the front cover, close the notebook, and get out of the car. Interrupt Seth talking to Connor and Teresa, hand him the notebook, watch as realization dawns in his eyes and then turn, rigid with sick, scalding fury, and walk away.
“Hanna,” he said in a tone that wasn’t pleading because there were too many people around and had a tinge of Oh, shit, I’m in trouble laughter in it. “Come on.”
“You should go after her,” I heard Teresa say worriedly.
“Hanna,” Seth called again. “What’re you gonna do, walk all the way home? Come on. Don’t be stupid.”
I almost stopped then, I did. I almost stopped and turned and let him coax me back, almost chose once again to believe him, but something wouldn’t let me, not this time. I just kept walking and waiting for him to chase me for a change, listening for the sound of that little MG’s engine to rev, for him to pull up at the curb and stop me from walking away, and the farther I got, the harder it was to call Sammi, to ask her to come back and pick me up, but I did it.
