his voice brushed over me,
soft and teasing
filling the stifled, leaden room
with a lightness that couldn’t be touched.
When he listened, intent,
leaning forward,
his eyes charmed and coaxed
my words out of their constraints.
When he smiled,
it was a flash that spun
and drove its way
into my chest,
caught my breath,
whirled it up
then let it go.
There were quiet moments
when he forgot to smile
his eyes were the surface
of a dark sorrow
in which he flailed alone,
thinking no one saw.
But I did.
If I forgot and my words
tumbled out,
neither veiled nor polished,
bearing their meanings
like homespun cloth upon their backs,
he laughed, unshocked.
Before he came I
was small and stifled,
tightly hobbled,
but something in the way he laughed
made cords loosen
and fall away.
he didn’t steal a kiss
but gave one
just
a touch
a soft lingering
a mere turn of a key
in the lock
and I, who had been
cramped
as if in a cage
a sedate, careful, measured
cage
began to burst out in
secret, joyful ways
doesn’t
love
mean
trust
faith
giving of yourself?
doesn’t love mean
filling a gap
meeting a need
completing the whole?
Evan gets busy with other things, and doesn’t come back upstairs till almost bedtime.
When he enters his room, he finds the contents of the metal box neatly inside, the lid shut. He thought he’d left them out on his desk, but doesn’t really remember. He thinks about looking at the portrait of the girl again, but doesn’t. It’s a little creepy, the way he feels drawn to it—that old picture of someone long dead.
Late in the night he falls into a restless doze. He dreams of the girl again, but the flashes are more vivid: the feel of thin, delicate white cloth crumpling in his hands as he shoves her nightgown above her waist; the hot smell of lavender rising up from the sheets; her muffled, rhythmic gasps next to his ear.
They’re so intense that he rouses almost to wakefulness, but not quite. Enough to know it’s not real, and to be frustrated. Not enough to touch himself, to finish the job.
When a deeper sleep finally overtakes him, he dreams he’s lying there and she’s nestled next to him, tucked into the curve of his arm, one finger tracing designs on his bare chest. It’s quiet, familiar, even though the hair spilling over his arm isn’t brown like Carrie’s, it’s pale and fine and long, still partly in a braid, a mussed-up braid that’s come almost undone.
moonlight washes him in silver
arm flung wide in sleep
careless
his breath draws soft and deep
slow, untroubled sighs
And then, in the dream, in the quiet, he hears something; he’s alert with fear, listening: someone is coming and he’s about to be caught, caught with this girl and he’s perfectly, utterly still, straining to listen into the silence.
I like it when
his breath
becomes
uneven
like a sob
when he grows cold
pulls the covers
up to his neck
In the morning, Evan wakes to a slight uneasiness, a sense of dread that doesn’t fade when he opens his eyes. He can’t remember why he feels this way. All he remembers is the sex.
He rolls over to sit up on the edge of the bed. The box is exactly where he left it last night. The lid is still shut. He doesn’t know why he can’t shake the feeling that the girl in the box—the girl he’s never seen before—is the one in his dreams.
What a creepy idea, considering she probably got old and wrinkled and spotty and became somebody’s grandma. And there’s no reason to think that the girl in the letter is the one in the picture. And why does he think she’s hot anyway, in that dress with the collar up to her chin?
It’s sick, that’s what it is.
It’s a few days later when Carrie comes to see the house for the first time. Evan has not invited her before because, quite simply, it did not occur to him. He would not have thought to do it now, a month after moving in, if she had not asked.
When the doorbell rings after dinner, Libby, excited to have company, appears at Evan’s side.
He ignores her—Libby is one reason it never occurs to him to have Carrie over; Mom is another—and opens the door.
Sometimes, like today, it hits Evan all at once how lucky he is to have Carrie. She’s totally hot, with a great body; Evan is the only one who knows exactly how great it is. Her makeup is subtle and perfect. Her brown hair is freshly brushed and shining. Any guy would be lucky to have her.
But not just any guy does. He does.
“Hi,” he says to her. “Come on in.”
Carrie comes in and cranes her neck, looking all around at the airy hall, the ornate stairs leading to the landing. The stained glass makes it look like an altar.
“Wow,” she says, impressed.
“Your hair looks like Winnebago’s,” Libby tells her solemnly.
“Winnebagos,” Carrie repeats. Evan can’t tell what she’s thinking. Sometimes Carrie is easily hurt; sometimes she takes things in stride.
“It’s supposed to be a compliment,” he informs her. “Just take my word for it.”
“Okay.” Today must be a taking-in-stride day, because Carrie turns to Libby and gives her a smile. “Thanks, I guess.”
Evan is relieved. “Are you ready for the tour?” he asks.
“Yes.”
Libby bounces along behind as Evan leads Carrie through the downstairs. “This used to be a parlor,” he says, showing her an empty room off the hall. “Mom says someday she’s going to get a piano and put it in there.”
They move from room to room: the TV room, the dining room, the kitchen. Outside his mother’s office, he whispers to Carrie, “Don’t ask her when she’s going to finish unpacking, because she already has.” Then he steps into the open doorway. “Hi, Mom,” he says. “Carrie’s here.”
Mom actually turns away from her computer. “Hi, Carrie. How have you been?”
“Fine, Ms. Calhoun.”
“Come on,” Evan tells Carrie, “I’ll show you the upstairs.” He’s already moving away.
“Remember the rule,” Mom warns him.
“I know.”
As they head for the stairs, Carrie asks, “Which rule is that?”
“The ‘doors are to remain open at all times’ one. Mom thinks that will keep us from”—he glances at Libby, who is running to catch up—“doing certain things.”
“Well, it’ll keep me from doing certain things, that’s for sure. I could just see your mom or sister walking in on us.”
“It could depend how fast we were, though, couldn’t it?”
“No, I’m serious. Don’t even think about it. I really do want to see the house, anyway.”
“Don’t even think about what?” Libby asks, tailing them up the stairs.
Evan sighs. He can’t ask Libby to leave them alone, because Mom relies on Libby, as well as the open-door rule, to be a deterrent to premarital sex.
She’s a good one, too. “Carrie! Carrie! See my room?” Libby darts ahead, leading the way. “Want to see my pictures? Look, I drew this one of a butterfly. He’s eating the flowers, see?”<
br />
“Oh, yes. It’s very colorful,” Carrie assures her.
“And here he’s pooping them out. That’s colorful too, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” says Carrie weakly. “Colorful.”
Evan groans. “God, Libby!”
“Oh.” It dawns on Libby. “I’m sorry. I’m not supposed to talk about poop to company,” she explains to Carrie.
“Hey, Lib,” Evan says quickly. “Why don’t you dress Lucinda up in that bride dress so you can show Carrie?”
“Oh! Okay!”
Mercifully, she starts digging in her doll bin. Evan knows it will take her a few minutes at least to get that dress on. He pulls Carrie across the landing. “This is my room,” he says, walking in. He’s actually made the bed for once, in honor of company. The bedspread is folded back over white sheets; the pillow is white, lying neatly on top. For a second he flashes on his dreams, the closest thing to sex he’s ever had in this room, and for one knee-trembling second he allows himself to think of ripping the covers back and flinging Carrie onto the bed, onto those white sheets.
Of course he can’t. Still, he keeps Carrie’s hand in his.
She turns her head, looking around the room. “Um. It’s very—what’s the word?”
“Homey?”
“Spartan.”
“Is that bad?”
Her gaze falls on the Budweiser Girl. “I really don’t care for your choice of artwork.”
Evan doesn’t want to get into a “discussion.” He gives her hand a little squeeze. “It’s okay. It reminds me of you.”
“Me with about twenty pounds of silicone, you mean.”
Evan glances over to the door. They’re alone. He steps closer to Carrie, close enough to feel her hair against his nose and lips. It’s dark and it’s not fine, it’s wavy and thick, but he says, very low, “No, just you.” If nothing else, he’s going to get at least a kiss before Libby comes back.
his whisper touches her
ear
his breath warm
his lips
all tender curves
his fingers are
entwined with hers
skin against skin
I remember
among the trees
along the bluffs
under the trees,
giggling
turned to
kisses
turned to
touching
turned to
caught breath
over
his shoulder
I watched
the leaves above us
grasping
pieces
of sun,
tossing them,
letting them go
on
his shoulder
my fingers
clutched
white cloth
straining, then
letting
it
go
after that,
whenever I looked
his eyes were on me
full of purpose
and a question
to which I was
the only answer
I remember
easing silent into his room
as if slipping a leash
muted straining passion and then
slick and salty
sweat cooling on his chest
along his neck
while we whispered
always careful
always quiet
tenderness unlocked
and shared.
In the dark he spilled
raw, half-formed thoughts
and words which, always
being held back,
had rusted for lack of use.
I remember
tiptoeing, soundless
before dawn,
past my parents’ closed door
my father’s even snores
my mother’s undisturbed silence.
Back in my own room
I was
still wrapped in closeness
and in kisses.
his lips
on
her lips
just a touch
a soft
lingering
the air
feels wild and thick
I am being slowly squeezed
I remember…
what?
a voice knotted in panic
a hand,
hard and harsh
unyielding
weight
Carrie pulls back suddenly, looking at the open door.
“What’s wrong?” Evan asks.
“Libby,” she whispers.
Evan walks quickly to the doorway. He steps outside.
No one is there.
He looks across the landing to see Libby in her room, still struggling with Lucinda’s dress. “I don’t think it was Libby,” he tells Carrie, coming back in.
“I thought—I thought I saw somebody. I saw—I don’t know.”
“Was it purple?”
“I don’t know. It was too quick. I just saw it out of the corner of my eye.”
“Libby’s wearing that crappy old purple T-shirt that was mine about a billion years ago. God, I hate that thing.”
“Maybe it was—maybe I imagined it.”
“Sometimes, when a car drives by, light gets reflected in weird ways through that stained glass.”
“Okay. Well. Do I get to see the rest of the house?”
“Sure.”
Evan takes her hand again. As they walk across the room, Carrie says, “Hey, what’s that?”
“Old letters and stuff. It was in the attic,” Evan tells her without looking around. Only then does he glance over his shoulder at the slightly rusted metal box on his desk. “You mean that box, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I think it belonged to the lady that used to live here,” he adds, as they walk out the door.
Carries follows him onto the landing. “The one that went into a nursing home?”
“No, the one before that.”
“Lots of old ladies.”
“No, there’s only been two owners. And then nobody lived here for a long time.”
Evan shows her the other bedrooms, and the unfinished third floor. Libby joins them, eliciting satisfying oohs and aahs from Carrie over Lucinda’s gown. They all end up downstairs, watching a movie, with Libby popping in and out just often enough to keep Evan from trying anything. Finally, when it’s almost Carrie’s curfew, Evan walks her to her car. He kisses her good-bye.
When he stops, she keeps her arms fastened around his neck. “I love you,” she says into his ear.
“Me too.” His hands are on her waist.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she says, still clinging.
“Me neither,” he agrees, looking into her eyes—but what he’s thinking is that he never finished going through that box with the pictures. Finally she lets go and gets into her car. He waves as she backs out; then he walks into the house.
Now that Carrie’s safely off, Evan goes up to his room. The metal box is still there, the lid still shut. He hasn’t looked at her in several days, and now the thought of her draws him.
He puts on a CD, and then sits at the desk and opens the box. A newspaper clipping now lies on top:
* * *
MISS CORA ROYCE DEAD
MISS CORA ROYCE, aged 16, died in her sleep on Friday past. The remains were embalmed by Embalmer Krentz of this city and will be interred at Roseland Cemetery.
Miss Cora was the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. G. J. Royce and was endowed with all the graceful and amiable traits of young womanhood; she was sweet and gentle in her demeanor and was universally admired and loved by her acquaintances.
* * *
* * *
he fumbled his hand
over my mouth
his body heavy
like stone
ha
nd crushing
frantic
harder
* * *
his face above me
broke into tiny
pieces of light
The obituary gives Evan a cold chill. He thinks, If that’s her, she died not long after that picture was taken.
Evan remembers the name Royce from some of the other papers; now he shuffles through the pages, picking up letters and skimming through them, skipping parts that look uninteresting, looking for anything about this girl who died so young.
He rereads the bits about the visitor from Pennsylvania. Then, under the blare of the music, he scans more letters, looking for pieces that will pull the story together. He finds two passages that seem to mention a sudden death:
…Words cannot express how sorry we are for your loss. We fear that Robert may be a burden to you at this time, and so ask that he return to us. We have been so grateful for your hospitality…
…Robert has matured since the events of the summer. He does not say much, but I know he grieves the loss of his new friend. I wish your darling could know how wondrous, how beneficial were the effects of her short life on others, and I hope that your knowing of it will be a comfort to you in these times…
Beating Heart Page 5
