by Diane Munier
"We married too quick. Have to admit, didn't see the drugs coming."
"I was pretty young…but I could see how torn up you were."
"I hate that I was so torn up. I don't know why I tried so long. That wasn't good for Juney."
"Wow. You really do feel sorry for Juney don't you?"
"Yeah. Shouldn't I?"
"I just wonder if Dad feels that way for me…sorry? No wonder I got by with so much. I mean…does he think I'm so great or is he just sorry for me? I mean…God, I hope not."
We're quiet for a while. "You're right," he says finally.
"Yeah. Stop doing that to him," I say like I know anything about raising a kid. But I know this. "You can't change the past. You know that, right?"
He laughs a little. "I do."
We're quiet some more, then, "Hey, if life hands you lemons, make lemonade."
I laugh a little too. "You think of that all by yourself?"
"Well…yeah."
"You're like…a guru," I say, and he takes off then. "No," I whisper-call into the night. This is a more deserted part of the road, and he's leaving me? And I can't run anymore. I made pie dough for six pies for crying out loud and that Twinkie is sitting like a brick.
But he's soon back. And I'm opposite side of the road walking toward home. He comes along. "I couldn't stand going that slow. Sorry."
"It must be fabulous to be you," I say. Well, it must be.
"Yeah, the grass is not greener," he says. "He ask you about Chicago?"
I crane my neck to take a look at him. "Smooth."
He shrugs. "Well?"
"We talked about it. No big deal."
"You tell him you're staying here?"
"Am I?" Should I?
He's on the cusp of saying something.
"You read those texts that kept coming since Litchfield? Those texts and phone calls?" I'm not as smooth as he is, but I get it done.
"Hey. You're Artie's whole deal. He worships you." He's not so smooth either. Ignored me again.
"Blind. Blind worship. It's a terrible responsibility sometimes…living up to it."
"He knows. You're not perfect. He loves you."
"Loves me? After what Mom did to him…he hasn't moved on. I…I can't make it up to him. I had to go away, you know? Then he gets Parkinson's."
He laughs a little. "First off…the Parkinson's…really Bedilia? Forget that. The rest…you're talking about me, right? Haven't moved on?"
"So you're trying…with Jessica? Is she it for you?"
I hear the air whoosh out of him. "Bedilia…what can I say that isn't…unfair to her?"
"You let her into your life. That's a first."
"You know why."
"No, I don't. Why her? You said she cuts your hair. Is that it? Cut your hair you…give her a ring?"
He looks sharply at me. "A ring? Where'd you hear that?"
I'm not throwing my source under the bus again.
"I guess…is it this serious?" me
"You asked that already."
"Okay…do you love her?"
"Bedilia."
"What?"
"I'm not saying that. C'mon, pick it up."
"No. I don't want to pick it up. You go on."
"I'm not leaving you here."
"Why not? I left you, didn't I? I went all the way to Chicago!"
"You didn't leave me. What are you talking about?"
"I don't want it to be weird between us…but…I feel like I did leave you…and Juney."
He looks at the sky and closes his eyes and says, "In college you already…."
"It wasn't the same," a mountain is moving in me, no, no, a volcano is rumbling. "You always knew I was coming back then. Chicago was different."
He's looking at me again. The so in control veneer is cracking. "Where in the world did you get the idea I didn't want you to go? That makes me some kind of…where did you get such an idea?"
"I didn't. I mean…well…you…did you…."
"Bedilia you can't be serious? I have been so careful…."
"Careful? Yes, you have. Yes, you have been so careful. Why? Why have you needed to be so careful?"
He doesn't have an answer that he'll share. Yet.
"Are you being careful now?"
"About what?"
"Careful…about us. Are you still being careful?"
"Us? You and me."
I look around at the creepy darkness and wave, "And Sasquatch."
"What are you saying?"
"Promise you'll still come for Thanksgiving? Promise me you'll let this go and not feel…awkward?"
"Go on."
"Is there…anything between us?"
"No…nothing," he says immediately…earnest and…mad. "Bedilia…what could be between us?"
I take off walking. "Nothing," I call.
He catches up again, grabs my arm. "Wait a minute. What's between us?"
"What you said. Nothing."
"Bedilia," he takes his hand away, "you're hurt. Tell me. What is this?"
"You're so…."
"What have I done? Tell me!"
"You've done nothing. Nothing. Forget I…."
"I'm not just forgetting any of this. Talk to me dammit!"
"I wondered if you felt an attraction…for me," I yell.
He stares, and no, it's nothing like…faith. This man's faith has been pulverized…by Angela. So he's looking at me, the drilling look, all the way…down…down. Down.
"What?" him
I walk again, say forget it again. He comes after again. Stops me again.
"You've got to be kidding me." him
How could I have been so wrong? I've imagined the whole thing. I've always imagined it. He's obviously appalled.
"You come here…from Chicago," he says this like he hates Chicago, "and ask me this…now?"
It's rhetorical, I think.
"You're home to regroup. You'll regroup, and you'll be out of here like someone shot a rocket up your ass," he says.
There's nothing between us? Bull!
Marcus Stover hates my guts.
"Okay, okay. Forget it." me
"Artie…I'm not going to do it to him for some…he doesn't see you that way," he says this through his teeth. "He doesn't have any idea how you torture…. I'm not falling for it. I never have. I've already been enough of a fool."
"Forget it," I say. "And I'm not your wife."
"Ex-wife," he says, this weird intensity. If he wants to kill me, this would be the time…no one…nothing.
He's ripped his hood down, and he's pulling on his hair. "Incredible. Attraction?"
"Calm down. I'm going in. Don't…touch me again." I jog toward my house, but it's a repeat. He comes after me again, doesn't touch me this time.
"Bedilia," he's a tiny bit calmer. "Wait. Wait."
I'm walking, faster than ever now. "Drop it. Just drop it."
"You asked if it's serious. It is. She's…she wants to get married."
I stop again. "She…wants to get married," I repeat like I'm translating. "What about you? You?"
"I'm…thinking about it."
I make a silent 'o,' then take off walking again.
"That's normal behavior, Bedilia. I'm being normal."
"Great. Be normal," I say over my shoulder as I run to my front door.
"I can count on her. She'll stay," he yells.
I stop.
Chapter 22
I turn slowly. "Good then. That's…great," I say. That's great she'll stay. Like a Golden Retriever.
I quickly let myself in the house. I want to let out a breath, but my chest is too tight.
"Bedilia?" Dad says from the living room.
Juney's little Marcus-like-child-like face appears around the arched doorway that leads from the hall to the living room.
"It's her," he says, a piece of red licorice hanging out of his mouth. He's gone.
It's her. Am I crazy? I hear so much in those little words. He's happy. Juney is ha
ppy to see me. He's proud…to see me.
Like I'm partly…his.
I hurry past the living room doorway and up to my room. Holy crud.
I had words with Marcus. Words that…grown-ups speak who…feel intensely…about the words they say.
I want to comb over each and everything, but I can't come down to the moment, I'm suspended on this surfboard, above the room, the house even, I'm riding a wave of…ohmygod. But it's a big mother, this wave. It's serious.
Myron White was right. I knew that. Didn't I? When I lied, when I told him I couldn't marry him because I loved someone back home, when I reached back there…home…for a lie…for a reason…why I couldn't love this perfectly wonderful man, when I reached back for the lie and wouldn't look at or acknowledge what, who I'd grabbed onto. Wouldn't look directly at those green, penetrating eyes.
Marcus.
Chapter 23
I awaken to the hollow sound the awl makes as it's smashed along the grain of the wood, ripping it into pieces that will fit in the fireplace and the wood stove that connects from outside and helps heat the house.
I know it's him. I look at the clock on the nightstand and holy crud it's five a.m.
Yeah, he does this, cuts the wood. I've watched him…countless times, covertly, overtly, I've watched him wear a flannel shirt in weather that freezes the sweat in his hair, watched him raise the sledgehammer over his head and beat that awl, beat it down the upended sections of trunks and limbs he carts home in his truck. I have watched him stretch long like a big cat and kablam that splitting sound of broken wood, the tumble of the sections off the big stump he cuts on. I've watched him so many times.
Like now. It's still dark, but he's got a lantern. Probably hasn't slept. Doesn't sleep much I've heard him say. He likes this, the chopping. Artie always lets him work it out here. Whatever. This morning I think he's working me out of his system. I strongly suspect he means to.
I've crossed the hall into my room. It overlooks the backyard. I've been sleeping in the front…it's closer to his house…to him. But now I'm here, and so is Juney, sound asleep in my bed. I'm looking down on Marcus and somehow…I think I own some of him…like Juney does with me…somehow we're all entwined.
I have my hand on the glass, the blanket around my shoulders. I never touch the glass cause it'll leave prints and I hate washing windows. But my hand is there now, over his image. I want to touch him.
Smash and split. He resituates the log and smash and split again. Shoulders heaving like a bull-man's might he brings down that hammer like he's pulverizing world hunger.
I can will him to look, and I think that and he does look, well, he's wiping his mouth on his sleeve, sledgehammer posed on the stump like a cane, both hands resting on it, and when he wipes his mouth, he looks up, right at my window. There I am like a ghost, like a waif, and I wonder how many times he's looked here before, and there was nothing.
But he's still, and I know it's hard to see, but Juney has the nightlight on, so it's enough to let him know…I'm watching.
He grabs that tool and sets another chunk of wood on the stump, and he places the awl, and he drives it and drives it through with two well-placed swings like he's ringing the bell at a carnival show.
Here I go again, running around like a fool trying to find my warmest clothes and get dressed enough to run out there and try to stack, to be by him again before it's too late…for something.
When I have enough on over my skin, my boots are the last, still in the mudroom where I left them thinking I'd never wear those things for a hundred years, and here I am. I get them on, and I'm pulling on my gloves when I get outside. He sees me, hard not to with my big red cap, but he doesn't stop, he whacks and whacks and whacks.
I go to where that wood litters the ground all around him. I bend and start to fill my arms and I take it to the stack already running along the back and set that green wood on the orderly pile.
He's stopped now, and he's breathing good. I look at him, I don't smile either, but I gather some more and take it to the pile, and he's just all out watching now.
So we work like that, like a hundred times before, and it feels familiar but not as right as it usually does. The sun is just sending the first smudge of gray into the inky darkness.
A deer bolts out of the nearby trees and tracks its way across a thin crust of snow that fell during the night. It disappears by the side of the house. I look at Marcus. "Wish I had my rifle," he says, then he swings that hammer overhead and brings it down again.
He wants to be ornery, but I can tell by his voice he's let go of most of it, that terrible anger he showed last night.
"You better get inside and warm up. Juney can do this later."
I nod. I just wanted to see…how it is between us. If he's going to talk to me still, I can live with it, I guess.
I start for the house, and he calls me. I turn. "I'm sorry for saying every…stupid thing…last night."
I nod again. "I'll make some breakfast," I tell him, and I go in.
I'm in the mudroom toeing off my boots when he bursts in the door. I say bursts, but he really just comes in. It's just…he fills a place. That's how it seems.
So my boots are off, and my socks are wet, and I unzip my jacket, and he's taking off his boots, and it's just…everything feels like something else. I have on yoga pants and a misbuttoned flannel shirt, and my hair is in a fuzzy braid. I move past him to go in the kitchen, and he takes hold of my arm. I look at him and those eyes, God help me. He slowly pulls me closer to him, and his arms are around me. The set of his mouth, oh, and he hugs me like that and my arms are around him too. Finally. I'm shocked, but I'm so happy to bury my face against his cold shirt and feel his heat coming from the white t-shirt beneath. A big lump comes up my throat, and I feel him kiss the top of my head and hear him whisper my name, "Bedilia," and no one has said it like that like he names my soul.
"What's this?" Artie asks, standing in the doorway to the kitchen in his pj's and robe. "Marcus?"
"Just…," Marcus clears his throat, but we are still holding one another. He slowly pulls his arms away, "Bedilia told me…something."
Artie is nodding, looking from him to me. "Bedilia…I told you I'm in tip-top shape."
"I know," I say softly, my body still tingling…my blood as crisp running through me as my steps in the snow.
"You talking about…you know…Chicago and that boss of yours?"
"Dad," I say…I rebuke him. "That was…" I nod my head, my eyes wide like he should get a clue.
"Well, now Marcus is family. You should get his take on it."
"I don't think so," I say quickly. I go straight in the kitchen and search through the bowls. My own dad.
But he's still talking to Marcus as that one comes in the kitchen too.
"I say it's sexual harassment plain and simple, I don't care if he covered it with marriage you don't fire a woman from her job for turning down a proposal. Not in 2016 you don't. What do you think, Marcus?"
"What happened?" Marcus says, cop face, hands gripping the pressed back on the oak kitchen chair.
"Nothing," I say through my teeth.
"I knew it. I told you something happened," Marcus presses, mad again.
"Nothing did."
"Were you…did someone touch…."
"Stop copping me! Nothing happened. Dad you big mouth. I said that to you…no one else."
"Said what?" Marcus says coming around the table to stand right in front of me. "Bedilia…," he takes a deep breath, "sweetheart…you need to tell me."
Sweetheart? "Calm down. I told you I was fired."
"For turning him down. Her boss!" Artie says like an old wash-woman at the fence.
"Dad!" I rebuke.
"If he's in any kind of supervisory position he has absolutely no business…what did he do? Exactly," Marcus says.
"It wasn't like that. Myron White is a good…man." Me
"Called it a conflict of interest. Said that's what it w
as," Dad says.
"You bet it was a conflict of interest," Marcus says.
"Oh my gosh you are both crazy," I say looking one to the other. "Are you enjoying this Dad?"
He's not exactly smiling, but there's an energy that's just not explainable at this hour of the morning, even for him.
"Bedilia, you have to tell me everything," Marcus says.
"No, I don't. There's nothing to tell. He proposed. And I said no. He said I should go home and think about it. He said I was officially fired until I made up my mind."
"Bastard," Marcus says. "Is there a no-fraternization policy? Did you file anything with the grievance committee? You said no, right? Did you say no?" Marcus says shooting an outraged look at Artie.
"I said no," I repeat.
"Thank God," he says closing his eyes.
"Oh and he says it was a favor. He did her a favor," Dad continues.
"Did he say that?" Marcus asks me, his eyes open and full of righteous indignation.
"Maybe," I say heatedly toward my father.
"He better hope I never meet him outside of a courtroom," Marcus says, fist on the table, salt and pepper jumping.
Chapter 24
Marcus hovers. Dad is getting ready to go to the station for a shift. "Somebody has to work," he jokes, standing in the kitchen buckling his belt and adding his revolver to the mix.
"Now Bedilia I meant Marcus," he corrects so I don't think he was digging at me.
"I know Dad," I say rolling my eyes. He means Marcus, the one who is making a production of eating his pancakes.
Juney isn't even up yet, and Dad bids us a farewell. I kiss his cheek like I'm Donna Reed or something, but I haven't done this enough lately…well, I've been gone. And he shouldn't have let my business drop to Marcus, but what am I going to do, shoot him?
I already tried to leave. We leave the people we love the most to go off and have adventures. What do we gain?
Adventures. But what's better than being with the people we love? Don't we always try to go home in the end? I have. I can have my adventures right here. In Lowland. I can make them, not look for them, make them. Right now my greatest adventure is mopping his last piece of bacon in his syrup. I really, really like the way his hair goes every which way and catches the bad kitchen light. I like the fact he hasn't shaved in a couple of days, and the shine on his lips he's working over with his tongue. I like his licker too. One thing, no matter how mad he makes me still he hasn't taken anything that happened to me in stride.
