Sweet Everlasting

by Patricia Gaffney

“You think so?”

  “He wasn’t sure he was feeling up to it,” she said tactfully. Well, that might not be the whole truth, but it wasn’t a lie. Dr. Stoneman was furious with her because she’d said yes to Eugene. She hadn’t seen him since the night before last, when she’d returned from Philadelphia and he’d kept asking if Ty knew about the baby. She’d kept dancing and sidestepping and never answering the question head-on. She’d told Eugene what really happened in Philadelphia, but no one else. She felt she owed him the truth, but couldn’t it be her private business from the rest of the world? As much as she loved her friends, sometimes the fact that everybody knew everything about everybody else in Wayne’s Crossing got her down.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “Mr. Odell said he’d give me away if Dr. Stoneman wo—can’t.”

  Eugene made his disgusted face, which involved looking like he wanted to spit. She never spoke to him about Dr. Stoneman, but Eugene was too smart not to know that the old doctor disliked and disapproved of him. It was disheartening to see the years stretching out ahead of her, and to know that her husband and one of her favorite friends weren’t going to get along with each other.

  But Eugene had asked her what she was thinking, and it wasn’t really about Dr. Stoneman or the ceremony or her pre-wedding jitters. She put her hand out and touched the sleeve of his coat with one finger. “What I was thinking,” she began softly.

  He was immediately alert. “What?”

  “I wanted to ask you something.”

  “What?”

  She smiled—to let him know everything was fine, she hadn’t changed her mind. “Maybe it’s not the time.”

  “No, go ahead and ask.”

  “All right, then. What I’d like to know is why you want to marry me. You’ve never said, and I—I’d just like to know.”

  He smirked and lowered his voice in a tone that was part affectionate, part mocking. “What do you want, love words?”

  It wouldn’t hurt, she couldn’t help thinking. But she said, “No, just the truth.”

  His smart-aleck smile faded; he shifted in his chair. “Does there have to be a reason?”

  What a strange question! Carrie couldn’t think how to answer.

  “Oh, hell,” he said gruffly. He picked up his beer glass, but set it down when he saw it was empty. “I always liked you,” he said in a funny, embarrassed voice. “You know.”

  “No,” she admitted, equally shy. “Tell me.”

  “You’re good. You make me feel …” He paused for so long, she thought he’d given up. “Easier in my mind. About things. More like a man.” He laughed uneasily, as if he wished already he hadn’t said that.

  She sat still, thinking it over, feeling sorry for Eugene and realizing that words probably weren’t going to be the best way for him to communicate serious thoughts to her during their life together. But maybe they’d find other ways. So what he said next floored her.

  “There’s something nobody knows. Nobody outside my family.” She had to lean forward to hear his near-whisper over the clatter of cutlery and the drone of voices around them. “When I was a kid, my old man used to whale the bejesus out of me every chance he got. I’m not talking about a normal licking—any kid needs that once in a while. I’m talking about near to killing me.”

  “Oh, Eugene—”

  His hand cutting sharp through the air told her she’d better not offer any sympathy. “The best day of my life was the day the sonofabitch dropped dead. I was only ten, didn’t have my growth yet. I only had one regret then and I’ve still got it, got it right now this minute—that he died before I got a chance to beat the living shit out of him.”

  She recoiled, appalled by his violence, and even more by the raw hate burning bright as a bonfire in his eyes.

  Then he grinned at her, and the hate went back into hiding. He pushed his plate away and crossed his arms on the table. “I was a pretty mean cuss from then on. I could lick anybody, any age, from the time I was fourteen. I enjoyed it. Sometimes I still do.” The cocky smile loosened and he fell silent, twirling his empty beer glass around the wet rings on the table. “I can’t say it in words exactly. You know, what you asked me. It started a long time ago. Remember that day on the bridge, Carrie?” He said it without looking up, twirling the glass in slow circles.

  “I remember.” He had never mentioned that day to her, nor she to him, not in five years. She swallowed and held her breath, knowing something important was coming.

  Finally he looked up at her. She’d never heard his voice so gentle. “You were perfect for torturing, Carrie. You couldn’t do anything back. You couldn’t fight, you couldn’t even talk. And I thought you were so pretty. Even then. I wanted to see you. You know—naked. But I also wanted to hurt you as bad as I could.”

  She whispered past the tightness in her throat, “Why, Eugene?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know, I just did.” He looked baffled.

  “Then why didn’t you? Why did you stop them? Why, Eugene?” she persisted when he just shook his head.

  He stared off past her shoulder for a long time, then went back to twisting his glass. She thought that if they were anyplace but in a crowded restaurant, neither one of them could’ve found the courage to have this conversation. He glanced up at her, then quickly away again. “I think—” He cleared his throat. “Maybe because when you looked at me, I could see myself. ‘Make him stop,’ you kept saying with your eyes.” He dropped his chin and stared down at his big hands, lying loose and open now. “Make him stop, Mama,” she thought he said.

  She leaned forward and slid both her hands into his. He squeezed her fingers so hard they hurt, then dropped them and shoved back in his chair. “Come on, let’s get out of here, it’s late. I told all the boys I’d be over at the Blue Duck by ten.”

  Carrie stood with him. “Your last night of freedom?” she teased him lightly.

  “Hell, yes. Gotta get in my licks before they clamp the ball and chain on me, don’t I?”

  They walked home without saying much. The sky was cold and clear; there was no moon, but a million stars. As usual, Eugene nibbled on a toothpick, rolling it from one side of his lips to the other with his tongue. At Truitt Avenue, he popped a clove in his mouth. He was always particular about his breath, but she knew he was chewing the clove now because he was planning to kiss her.

  On the Odells’ front porch, she invited him to come in for a few minutes.

  “Into that crazy house? No thanks, not on your life.”

  She had to smile, because even out here she could plainly hear the sounds of crying babies and screaming children. “Eppy told Charlotte she could stay up a little later because it’s Christmas Eve, and now Emily’s fit to be tied. Of course, Charlotte won’t last past nine-thirty.” She could tell Eugene wasn’t listening. “Well. I guess I better go in.”

  “Why don’t you invite me into the little house you’re staying in, Carrie?”

  “Frank’s office?” Rather than squeeze her into their small, overflowing house tonight, the Odells had offered her the quiet and privacy of the old stables behind the house that Mr. Odell had turned into a study for himself last summer. “Oh,” she said vaguely, “it’s so small, and with no fire in the stove it’ll be too cold.”

  “I’d warm you up.”

  “I don’t think it would be right,” she said primly.

  He smirked and gave a harsh laugh, but he didn’t argue. “Come over here, then.” He took her hand and pulled her toward the rusty divan in the corner, where the light wasn’t so bright. Even in her wool coat, his long arms went around her waist with ease. He squeezed her against him and kissed her on the mouth, long and hard. Since she’d come back from Philadelphia and they’d made their peace with each other, he’d been very bold with her body. He kissed her whenever he liked, but she still fought him when his hands tried to wander. Tonight there was something different in his kisses, though, something rough and not as easy to control. “Eugene,” she gasped
, trying to push him away without making him angry.

  He brought his huge hands up to hold her head still. “I don’t want you to ever say his name again, Carrie,” he said in a fierce whisper. “Hear me? Swear you’ll never say his name. Swear.”

  She considered that choice, and agreed to it. “I swear.”

  “You’re mine. Say that.”

  “I am.”

  “Say you’re my wife.”

  “I will be.”

  But even that didn’t satisfy him. “Swear you won’t even think of him again.”

  “Eugene—”

  “Swear!”

  She finally pried his hurtful fingers away. “I can’t. Not yet. But I’ll try. That’s what I promise.” She rushed on before he could get mad. “And I swear I’ll be a good and faithful wife to you for the rest of our lives. I’ll never give you cause to regret marrying me, Eugene. I’ll be your helper and your partner, and we’ll have a good life together.” His head came down, but she stopped him before he could kiss her again. “But you have to give me a promise, too.”

  “What?”

  “That you’ll try hard to love the baby. And that you’ll never, ever treat it unkindly because it isn’t yours.” He didn’t answer, and she just waited. He’d implied all of that already or she wouldn’t be marrying him, but tonight she wanted to hear his promise in words. “Well?” she prompted. “Will you swear?”

  “Okay,” he said finally, “I swear. I’ll treat it like it’s mine. Try to.” His fingers in her hair tightened, and he covered her mouth in a bruising kiss that left her feeling drained and shaky. The porch light gleamed in his eyes, two white triangles against inky black. “Tomorrow night you’ll be with me in my bed, Carrie, in my house. Then you’ll forget all about him. That’s something else I swear.”

  He left her standing on the porch. She could hear him whistling in the street for another minute, but the jaunty sound couldn’t block out the echo of his last words. For all the world, they sounded to Carrie like a threat.

  She rubbed her arms with her mittened hands, shivering from the cold. She wasn’t ready to go inside, though, where she’d have to join in all the gay, noisy Christmas Eve fun with the family. But she couldn’t bring herself to retire to her own cold little room yet, either. So she stood still, watching the white clouds of her breath condense in the chilly air. It was a quiet night; no wind stirred the bare branches of the maple tree by the porch or the stalky privet hedges lining the sidewalk. She pretended the street lamp was the moon and made a wish. I wish I could keep my promise to Eugene. When she opened her eyes, she saw a man walking toward her in the middle of the street. Before he moved out of the light from the street lamp in front of the Conklings’ house, she thought he looked exactly like Ty.

  She bowed her head in despair. She hadn’t even been able to keep her promise for one minute.

  The sound of his footsteps changed, and when she looked up she saw the man had crossed the curb to the sidewalk. Sighing, Carrie resigned herself to it: he looked like Ty and he walked like Ty, he even swung his arms from his strong, handsome shoulders like Ty. And his hair, and his … he …

  Her hands on the porch rail tightened like talons, and her eyes got big as an owl’s. Her lips made the shape of his name, but all that came out of her mouth was a breathless puff of white air. She put her hand on top of her head, to keep it on, and watched Ty come up the flagstone path, stop at the bottom of the porch steps, and look up at her.

  Such a flood of emotion swamped her then, she had no words to greet him, no gesture of welcome, not even a smile. Jubilation danced over her skin and bubbled in her veins. Her heart sang a giddy song of thanks for the gift of Ty, the miracle of him.

  But under the song thrummed a warning in a somber voice, reminding her of her promise.

  24

  THE PORCH LIGHT BEHIND her shadowed her cheeks and made dark hollows of her eyes. Tyler couldn’t read her expression. She wouldn’t speak, and the tense clenching of her gloved hands could mean anything. “Hello,” he said, to break the queer stillness, abandoning the fantasy he’d entertained for hours on the train—that they would hurl themselves into each other’s arms, and all would be well without a word spoken.

  She might have smiled; her voice was the barest whisper. “Ty,” he thought she said.

  Out of patience, he took the steps two at a time. When he was level with her, she reached out—to touch his face, he thought—but she pulled back jerkily, thinking better of it, and started to step away. He took her wrist. Inside the thick mitten, her hand was as rigid as a bird’s claw. Before she could move, he whipped the glove off and brought her fingers to his lips. Dear, icy-cold fingers; they smelled like damp wool. He spread them across his cheek, murmuring her name. She stiffened in resistance, but only for a moment. He didn’t know who moved first but slowly, little by little, they came into each other’s arms, flowing into the embrace as effortlessly as currents merging in a stream.

  They held each other with infinite gentleness, without speaking, without kissing. He felt her soft breath on his throat, the cupping of her two hands at the back of his head. And he could feel himself healing, jagged halves of himself merging, realigning; the painful ends of a fractured bone finally mending. When he could speak, he murmured, “My darling,” and saying the words aloud called back the memory of the last night they’d spent together, when he’d been free to call her that. The night they’d made the child she carried. Unbearable tenderness gripped him in a gentle vise. He closed his eyes and held onto her.

  Much too soon, she slipped out of his arms.

  “Where can we go?” he asked hurriedly, streaking a hand through his hair. The world rushed back with rude energy; it was very cold, and the glaring yellow porch light stung his eyes.

  She hesitated, then gestured behind her at the front door. “The parlor? It’s empty, no one would come in.”

  “No, Carrie, not in that madhouse.” Her fleeting smile mellowed his irritation at the very thought of the Odells’ parlor, which was empty because it was all set up for her damn wedding tomorrow morning. “Frank’s office,” he said firmly. “We can be alone there.”

  Her ungloved hand fluttered nervously to her hair, which she was wearing in a rather elegant bun on top of her head. “But … that’s where I’m staying.”

  How could he have forgotten how husky her voice was? He said, “Yes, I know. Eppy told me.”

  “You’ve been here? You’ve already seen them?”

  “I came straight here from the train station. They told me you were out, so I went for a walk. They said you were having dinner with your betrothed.” He tried, he really tried not to sneer the word; but she looked pained, and he guessed he hadn’t succeeded. “Come on,” he urged her softly. “I have a lot to tell you.”

  “Eppy won’t like it,” she stalled. “It’s not proper, Ty. I don’t know if we should.”

  “Carrie.” He sent her a look that brought some much-needed color to her cheeks.

  “All right,” she agreed after a few awkward seconds, and went down the steps at his side.

  Frank’s refurbished old barn was so obviously a hideout, not an office, that Ty had to chuckle when he saw it, by the glow of the oil lamp Carrie lit and set on a small table by the door. The only concession to work was a scarred oak desk; but it was littered with books and magazines, not articles in progress, and there was no typewriter in sight. The painted walls were bare except for a photograph of Eppy with all five children and, somewhat unexpectedly, a calendar whose sepia engraving for December featured a coy miss wearing drawers and a corset. An ancient swivel chair looked comfortable—he pictured Frank slumped in it with his feet on the desk, reading—and so did a worn leather sofa that took up most of the opposite wall. The sheets, blankets, and pillow piled on one arm told him it was to be Carrie’s bed tonight.

  He watched her as she went to the cold black stove in the corner, knelt, and struck a match to the wood and kindling already stacked ins
ide. She was skittish, but under the nerves he sensed a patient, simmering excitement. She took off her coat for something to do, although the fire hadn’t had time to warm anything yet. He’d never seen the maroon dress she wore with a jaunty jacket, a citified dress whose simple lines suited her perfectly. But he didn’t want Carrie looking suitable. He wanted her in the faded blue gown she’d worn all summer. He wanted her to look like his Carrie.

  “You look beautiful,” he said from across the room.

  She colored again and made a face at the compliment, clearly not believing it. He looked forward to a long, long life together during which, among other things, he would convince her of it. She looked healthy, thank God; “blooming” was the standard cliché, and despite her present agitation, it fit her. She wasn’t showing yet, but her face had lost a little of its angularity, and her long, lithe body had a new womanliness that fascinated him.

  The queer silence was back. She stopped fiddling with her coat, which she’d folded over the top of a small suitcase resting on the floor, and faced him. “Did you know … ”she tried. “Did Frank tell you …”

  “Tell me what?”

  “That the wedding is tomorrow?”

  “Yes, he did mention that detail.” She looked down, embarrassed by his not-very-subtle mockery. He thought of telling her it was himself he was mocking. He moved toward her, tired of the artificial distance between them; but the closer he came, the harder she pressed back against the shuttered window. He stopped two feet shy of her, dismayed, making an effort to keep his hands to himself. Her reticence cut deep, but he couldn’t blame her for it.

  “Catherine Hamilton,” he said slowly, relishing the syllables. “I love your beautiful new name, Carrie.”

  “Thank you.” Her sweet, wary smile went straight to his heart. “You look wonderful,” she said next, returning the compliment. “Tan and healthy and—strong. I was worried about you.”

  “You should’ve seen me when I had my beard.” He grinned determinedly, rubbing his clean-shaven chin.

  “Was it handsome?”