Circling The Shadows

by Paige Randall

  He has a feeling he is going to make her shrimp and grits before too long. "You'd better let me taste it, so I can make it sing the same song,” he says dipping his fork into the passed plate.

  "What the hell did you just say?" she asks grinning.

  He becomes very interested in his risotto. "I'm saying nothing. Remember, no past tense," he says.

  She considers. "Childhoods should be fair game. I have a confession. I am not from Downton Abbey."

  He feigns a look of shock.

  "If I don't know what it means to 'sing the same song' I simply cannot go on. A story is imperative!" she pleads.

  "Are you getting a quid pro quo vibe here? Very Silence of the Lambs," he stalls. "I tell you things, you tell me things," he says quoting the movie.

  When he speaks his drawl deepens, not in exaggeration this time, but in memory. "I'm a southern boy and my Momma is a damn good cook. She was also a rare thing in Austin in the 70s. She was called a women's libber. That wasn't quite as bad as being a Yankee, but close. She didn't care and bore my daddy two sons, as they say. No daughters to her great dismay, she liked to remind us."

  He smiles at these memories. They are good memories.

  "She told my father she would not turn useless men who couldn't cook, do laundry, or appreciate finer things, loose into a world of waiting women. As long as we played football, he didn't mind. You have to play football in Texas. My momma was a rabid fan. We played good football, but we learned to be even better cooks."

  He stops abruptly feeling he has said enough, but remembers, "She thought of taste as music. Flavor sang to her. If you want me to duplicate the flavors in those grits, I have to make it sing the same song." And he is done.

  He sips his bourbon, looking satisfied. He finds Anna’s look of surprise very gratifying. In almost a week, these are the most words he has strung together at one time. He is a short answer guy. John feels truly content and peaceful. It’s a change from how he often feels—as if he is trying to remember how to feel content and peaceful, like he is just playing along.

  "If we weren't in the middle of this lovely establishment, I would absolutely ravage you right now," Anna says biting that lip again.

  "Sexual deflection won’t work. Quid pro quo Clarice."

  She nods in assent and begins. “‘I was born a poor black child' ... The Jerk? The movie with Steve Martin? No?"

  He stifles the laughter shaking his head.

  She tries again. "I was born in England. Manchester actually. My childhood was fine. I was adopted. My parents were good people. Not very demonstrative. Stiff upper lip and all that. Mum taught at upper school, and my father was a journalist. He wrote for a local paper. Their successes were not great, but they were happy enough. I was an only child. Being parents did not warm their souls as it does some people. Or maybe I just didn't. There were boarding schools and then I came to America for university. Or KAWLEGE as they say here," she adds with a dead on American accent, exaggerating her mouth moving around the words. "I haven't been back to England or seen them since I left. I was seventeen." She stops abruptly. "My story sucked." She laughs awkwardly like she is trying to recapture the mood. "I need to work on my story telling as much as my cooking."

  "I like you," he says simply as he watches the glow of the candlelight dance in her eyes.

  "I like you too," she says.

  Her hand rests along his arm and he thinks he could get used to this.

  After dinner they walk back toward the harbor to John’s car. John can’t remember the last time he felt this good. He is just going with it, enjoying the moment. He is drinking less, laughing more, and remembering his life. The good parts too, not just the last two years, and that is why he is here. Tonight he will send that email to his parents.

  “John? Is that you?” He recognizes her uncharacteristically tentative voice instantly, and his throat threatens to close.

  His mother’s sister, Susannah, stands facing them on the sidewalk, lit by the red glow of a stoplight. Sounds of live music and a loud crowd spill out of a bar nearby. Looking for a distraction, his brain works to identify the song while they study each other. The singer is a woman with a smoky, deep, soulful voice. Susannah wears white jeans and high-heeled sandals with a long, flowing floral shirt and big beaded jewelry. It’s by Lenny Kravitz. Except for chin length white hair, she looks twenty years younger than her seventy years. Let Love Rule. Her much younger partner, Meredith, doesn’t hide the drop of her jaw. John and Susannah stare, reflecting expressions and the same green eyes, until Anna steps forward offering her hand.

  “Hi, I’m John’s neighbor, Anna.” Meredith introduces herself too, taking Anna’s hand. This breaks the spell and John reacts, stepping to Susannah with wide outstretched arms. Susannah is one of John’s favorite people in the world. She accepts his embrace, holding him tight for a long time.

  “Look at you.” She wipes at tears with the side of her index finger, leaving light eye make-up intact. “You are all hairy and gorgeous.” She extends a hand to Anna. “I’m John’s Aunt Susannah.”

  “Hello,” Anna says.

  Susannah turns back to John. She looks like she has more to say. John knows she does and she holds his arm tight, like she is trying to keep him from running off.

  “Are you Anna Hinton?” Meredith asks. Her heavily lined blue eyes are opened wide.

  What the fuck? John thinks.

  “I am.” Anna smiles a nervous smile John hasn’t seen on her before. She looks as if she’d like to disappear, but he can’t seem to help. He is temporarily mute.

  “I saw you on 60 Minutes a few years back. You were amazing. I bought a few of your books after that show. I have followed your career.” Meredith is a little star struck, tucking a strand of jet black hair behind her ear, heavy with hanging metals.

  “Thank you. That is very kind,” Anna says as her eyes search up and down the street. John knows she is looking for an escape route.

  “You both look great,” he finally manages.

  “It’s been a long time John,” Susannah says with a hand on his shoulder, still holding him in place. He acknowledges her words with a slight tilt of his head and an arched eyebrow. He knows exactly how long it has been, down to the number of days, hours and minutes.

  “We are in town through the weekend. We are at the Renaissance on Wentworth Street. Okay?” The invitation is implied. He nods, wordlessly.

  She hugs him again and she visibly bites back on her words. Her face is torn and she presses her lips together tightly, holding the words in. Finally a few escape and she says, “John, call your parents,” before walking off arm in arm with Meredith. Meredith turns to blow a quick kiss, and they are gone.

  “Fuck,” John says with a hole through his gut, again.

  “Motherfucker,” Anna says.

  The drive back to Osprey Island is quiet. No music plays.

  “John?” Anna asks.

  “Hmm?” he says, barely listening. His smile and easy laugh are gone now.

  “Your aunt is just lovely. And Meredith is lovely, too. Shall we just forget all that? Can we leave it in Charleston or do we have to take it back to Osprey Island with us. Is a conversation necessary?”

  He watches the road and doesn’t answer her. The memories are flowing. Susannah tried to stop him before he left Chicago. After he signed guardianship papers, she came to the house as he was clearing it out. She beat the door with her fists, screaming his name, pleading. He stayed inside with both hands flat on the door, feeling the weight of her hands pounding the wood. He was done with conversation. He watched Susannah pull the wedding album and photo albums from a pile of curbside rubble, before she got back into her car and drove away.

  “What do you think John?” Anna asks.

  He blinks hard, trying to bring himself back to her and process her question. “I think everyone is lovely and we should forget it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nods. When they pull into the drive
way at 516, they sit without leaving the car.

  “Great day,” she says, ignoring the obvious.

  “It was.” He clutches the steering wheel hard.

  “John,” she starts and measures her words carefully. Everyone seems to be measuring their words carefully tonight, like he is an I.E.D that might explode if mishandled. “Will you tell me how you are feeling? Honestly?”

  “Why?” he asks, confused. Why does he need to tell her anything? That isn’t what they do.

  “Because you need to. And I need to let you.” She turns in her seat to face him, but he notices she leaves her hands on the car door, both hands.

  He shakes his hair back from his face, unsure of talking to her, sharing with her. A piece catches on his eyelash. She finally releases the door handle and smooths his hair back, letting her hand graze his beard.

  He closes his eyes and leans again the seat rest, searching silently for calm. “Half of me wants to drive straight to Austin and see my family. The other half wants to hop the next flight back to Argentina and be done with all of this.”

  “By this, I don’t think you mean us,” she says.

  “I don’t,” he opens his eyes and gives her hand a squeeze.

  She smooths his hand gently. He wonders about her grip on the door handle. Is she afraid of me?

  “Do you want to be alone?” he asks.

  She leans in close and whispers to his ear. “No, I want to be with you.”

  They walk into 516, and John starts to climb the steps. Before they can near a bedroom, she stops him on the stairs, dropping her dress and calling to him. He wonders why he can’t get her into a bed, he moves back down the stairs into her arms. He kisses her and stops wondering, carrying her to the couch. He touches every part of her, learning and memorizing her with his hands, then his mouth. She pulls the shirt from his body, he does the rest. She guides him and he leans above her, back arching. She does not wrap her legs around him, but braces herself on the table and on the wall. He takes his time, losing himself more and more to her. She comes louder than other times, opening herself up more than before. He comes then, with a force that frightens him a little. The force is not only physical.

  John wants to take her upstairs and wrap himself around her for the night. But he doesn't. After a while she dresses and walks back to her house. She won't hear of him walking her home. "It's not Fallujah for god's sake," she teases.

  He rocks on the porch swing, watching her unlock the door to 517, and thinks Fallujah is an unusual metaphor. 60 Minutes, what the fuck was that? He decides not to Google her. It isn’t fair. He wonders if he was always so fuck driven or if he is just playing catch up. He thinks for a while about traded addictions.

  Anna is not tired but didn't want to stay with John any longer. She feels a pull to climb into his bed and lie in his arms and stay there. She thinks how easy it could be to just fold herself into him, not just into his body. To tell him everything in her heart. To find out what he left behind in Argentina. To try to fix him and need him and rely on him.

  She thinks of Susannah and Meredith. Together they hold all of the secrets of this mysterious summer. That 60 Minutes segment followed Anna in Africa four years ago. She traveled with a small group of celebrities, actors and musicians, who used their fame to bring attention to the atrocities in Darfur. She hopes he doesn’t Google her. It will change things. She thinks he won’t.

  She remembers taking his hand earlier and seeing the shadow fall over his face. It was gone in an instant and then he cradled her hand into his with such sweetness that it broke her heart, at the same moment it warmed her heart. He has been alone for a long time she thinks. He lost someone special, a wife, a child, maybe both. They probably have a lot in common. Except she is responsible for the deaths in her life and she doubts he is.

  He scares her a little. A violent marriage makes trust almost impossible. In the driveway coming back from Charleston, he seemed to simmer, boiling just below the surface. She wonders how he shows his anger. Does he hit? Scream? Punch and push?

  The chance that two people would meet and both be so determined not to share their histories is unlikely. She knows she is the cause for the silence and secrecy and wonders if it is going to do him more harm than good. She knows she is stopping a deeper, more connected relationship. He would open up to her in an instant if she let him. Whatever his secrets are, she isn't ready to hear them, or tell her own. As soon as the words are uttered, a magic will be broken here. And this will become something else. And this is wonderful. She has romance under the moonlight, incredible sex, and a strong, gentle, intelligent man who wants to be with her.

  Who cares if it is completely superficial? She isn’t husband shopping for god’s sake. Why sacrifice all they have together for the displeasure of sharing her miseries and hearing his? For three months she is going to live in the id, satisfying nothing more than her most basic wants and needs. There is plenty of time to get back to real life later.

  Still, deeper feelings are disturbing her. She has known John for less than a week. It certainly can’t be love. It must be passion. Unbelievable passion, but still just passion. And need. She is getting used to him. Before she met John, she didn't know how desperately she needed this, this being with someone. No, not someone. This being with a man. This flutter in her gut when he is near. The longing when he is away from her. In a way, she likes the longing almost as much, because she knows he will be back with her in the morning, running at her side, smiling over breakfast or casting his rod. She knows she might fall for him. Love, need, what’s the difference? But in the end, she will go her own way.

  She lies down and can’t help remembering Dylan, even though she desperately tries not to. She thinks about the beginning with him, the good days when they were at school together. Then she remembers the rest. Eventually she gets up to walk the house, making sure she is alone. She returns to bed after closing and locking the bedroom door and checking it once and then a second time. She gets up again and pushes a chair under the door knob. She feels for the baseball bat tucked between the mattress and box spring. Sleep comes after a very long time.

  John knocks early, sweaty and breathless from his run. Anna answers with hands wrapped around a large blue mug.

  “Lucky mug,” he says, not sure if he should kiss her.

  She smiles and reaches to kiss him, “Mmm, sweaty.”

  “I was going in to make some eggs. Hungry?”

  “I’d love it. I baked some scones. Vanilla bean and raspberry.”

  “Nice,” he stalls, considering. “Two quick things. I’m going into the city to see my aunt this afternoon.”

  When Susannah texted yesterday, he agreed. First contact with the family is at least thousands of miles from the rest.

  “Is that good?” she asks.

  “We’ll see,” he answers plainly.

  “And second?” she asks, leaning against the door.

  “A favor? I bought a basket and I want to take something to Lynn, muffins or something, but I bake for shit.”

  She waits silently, asking him nothing. He waits a full ten seconds to see if she will ask anything. “For Lynn the realtor?” she does finally ask.

  He nods, offering nothing more. If she wants to know more about him, she has to ask. He isn’t going to start the telling, here and now. Last night in Charleston was enough. He is curious, actually he is more than curious. He’d like to know her better. But she isn’t interested and she is probably smarter about this than he is.

  “Are you sleeping with her too?” Anna jokes.

  “Nope.” He shares a superficial smile.

  “Trying to sleep with her? Angling for a threesome?” Anna is stubborn.

  “No sex with Lynn,” he says with a shake of his head.

  “You are fucking breaking me here, John. You’ve found my limit,” she grabs his arm, begging without words.

  “Really? Last night I found out you were on 60 Minutes, you are a published author and appar
ently quite accomplished at something. Five seconds on Google and I could know your whole life. I haven’t by the way,” he says.

  “Damn it and you’ve cracked me with a basket of muffins. I can’t stand it. Tell me.” The frustration pitches her voice high.

  He is a little satisfied that he found her limit. “I ran into Lynn and figured out we knew each other as kids, from here. She has had a tough time and she has been really helpful to me, so I want to do something for her.” Telling her something feels nice, but he isn’t sharing any more until she reciprocates. “Good enough? Will you make the muffins for me? Those chocolate chip ones?”

  “I will John. That is very sweet. Is this afternoon okay?” She seems satisfied with the overview and does not ask for details.

  “Perfect.” He kisses her before bounding down the stairs and cutting through the flowerbed back to 516. He should put some slates down for a footpath.

  They decided to meet in the bar of Susannah’s hotel. John arrives a few minutes early and orders a coffee, trying but failing, to relax against the red cushioned seat. His pulse is too fast. Coffee was a bad idea. He wants to order a drink, but is fighting the urge to drink when he needs it. It is a bad habit, and if he doesn’t get his bad habits under control, he’ll end up in AA.

  Across the lobby John sees Susannah and Meredith saying goodbye and Meredith walks out the doors toward King Street. Apparently, this is a dialogue for two, not three. Their eyes connect before she enters the bar. He rises for her, as he was taught. She kisses his check and rubs his beard with both hands.

  “I love this. You look completely different. Not so mister serious attorney.” She orders a sangria from the bartender. “Coffee?”

  “For now,” he says, regretting and reconsidering.

  “I’m glad you came.” She lays her hand over his, delicately but definitively, holding him in place.

  “Me too,” he says, even though he isn’t sure he means it.

  They focus on their drinks, both contemplating how to proceed.