The Righteous and The Wicked

by April Emerson

  Emma puts on her blinker, and her car rattles over the rough dirt surface. She sees him enter the bar. It’s a hole-in-the-wall, a dive. She glances down at her pajama-clad body and then up at the sky. There’s no answer there. She shuts off the engine, and closes her eyes. Once again, the emotional exhaustion permeates through her, it owns her.

  She falls into a dreamless sleep, and later awakens, disoriented in her car. She hears a giggle and sees Stormy Eyes standing in the shadows of the faint light from the bar. His Jeep is parked just a few feet away and he’s with a woman. Emma can’t quite see who it is this time. It’s beginning to become clear to her, like a shadow passing over the moon: he needs this.

  Something about his compulsion is compelling Emma. It’s pulling her away from her pain and into something else. She can see his hands touching, seeking. The girl’s feet leave the ground. Stormy is devouring her. His body thrusts into the dark-skinned girl, and flames of lust fan across Emma’s skin as she watches. Somewhere deep inside her, in a place she keeps covered and quiet, Emma wants him to get as far and as deep as he can inside this nameless, faceless girl. She wishes she could take her place, and let his body make hers forget.

  Emma’s hand slides over her own thigh as she peeks at them from the cover of her car. She surrenders to her lust and lets it take her as she sinks down into its depths. Her eyes stay locked on the couple and her hand moves faster.

  Eric’s mind is like a heat-seeking missile, it cannot be dissuaded from its course for any reason. He’s getting what he needs, and everything goes black. The girl squeals and her fingernails dig into his shoulder. He knows what she wants and he gives it to her that way. Hard, rough, and fast. His Jeep rocks back and forth against their weight. Her hot breath beats a steady cadence against him.

  Any second now.

  Almost there.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, Emma walks into the confessional and it feels like a coffin. She confesses her shameful sin and listens to the words of the priest.

  “Rather than trying to put this puzzle together, why not consider how you can resist this weakness?” Father O’Hara asks.

  She hangs her head with remorse, but she wants an answer. “Father, why would God bring this man into my life if He didn’t want me to feel this? Aren’t these feelings His will? If I feel desire, isn’t it God that has brought this to me? Wouldn’t it be a show of His mercy for me to feel something else besides pain?”

  “God will show you His mercy when you reach the gates of heaven, my child. He will show you mercy for following the path He has laid out for you. A path of righteousness. It is the devil that tempts you now. The devil makes you feel lust for a man who is not your husband.” Father O’Hara does his best to guide her, though Emma knows he can show her the path but he can’t force her to walk it. What she does with his counsel is between her and the Lord.

  Emma says her penance, and leaves the church just as lonely and confused as when she entered.

  It’s raining. Eric drives along the slick roads with no aim, looking for a distraction. He passes Sean’s house, but he can’t go in. He won’t be able to keep himself from flirting with Sean’s fiancée. He’s thought of a million ways to fuck her since he met her, and his almost nonexistent will won’t allow that scenario to end well. He needs a hobby. He considers everything from buying a bike to adopting a dog. He passes a liquor store and there’s his answer.

  Eric drives with his brand new copilot: a large bottle of red wine that rests on the seat beside him. He pulls onto his street. The sheets of heavy rain obscure his view of the old white house. He stops at the top of his driveway and stares at her lonely window. The light is yellow and warm. A beacon in the storm. A small salvation. Down his dark, muddy driveway, the trees hang low, almost forbidding entry. All that waits at the end is a cell, a cage. Isolation. No comfort, no way to escape his thoughts or to rein in his sick desire. He looks back at her house and convinces himself she must live alone. There’s no ring on her finger and one car in her driveway. He grabs the wine and runs out into the rain.

  The sound of the falling rain is a choir, steady and melodic. It slaps against the window and Emma imagines it’s a baptism. There’s enough rain to wash her sins away. She stares at it as she takes the roast out of the oven. The wind picks up and makes the old house creak. It tosses her wind chime around with brutal force. The chime bangs against itself, crying out a plea to be saved from the savage gusts.

  Emma hears it and thinks of her neighbor. She tries to steel herself against impure thoughts as she carves the roast. Instead, she thinks of all the dinners she cooked and ate with Aaron. She tries to think of the happy times. The times that he said, “Thank you” and “Tastes great, babe”. She tries not to think of the times they ate in silence, the times they had no appetite.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Emma jumps and wipes her hands on the dishrag as she walks to the door. She can feel who waits on the other side and her breath leaves her. The rain continues to punish the house and the wind whistles as she opens the door. Against the night and the weather, his eyes look different. Less tortured, less ravenous. They almost look pained, and her heart clenches at the sight of him. He’s soaked. The rain has caused his black shirt to cling to him and water drips from the darkened locks on his head. A gust of wind blows his scent toward her. She can smell his skin, woodsy and fresh.

  “What do you want?” Her words are harsh and they leave her mouth before her brain has a chance to filter them. She regrets them in an instant.

  He shifts his feet, the cockiness she has so often witnessed now absent. He extends his hand, offering the bottle of wine to her. “I thought I would apologize—”

  As he speaks, the wind chime clangs against itself, interrupting him, as if on cue. Their eyes lock, thunder booms in the distance, and then a strange thing happens—Emma laughs. Laughter bursts forth from her and she puts her hand to her stomach to try to contain it.

  She hears the sound of Eric’s laughter joining her own. “That thing has a personality of its own, I guess.” He side-eyes the wind chime.

  “Yes. I guess it does.” She wipes a tear from her eye as the last tremors of her laughing fit roll through her.

  She dares to look at him again and is surprised to discover the person behind the mask he shows to others. A person who is just as lonely as she is. With a timid motion, she reaches out her hand and takes the wine.

  “Thank you.” The smile still rests on her lips. “My name is Emma.”

  “I’m Eric.” The smile on his face also refuses to fade.

  They stand silent in each other’s company, and then Emma makes a decision she may either come to treasure or regret. She’s not sure which, and in this moment, she doesn’t care. “Would you like to come in?”

  Eric thought she would never ask. Light shines out from the hall onto the porch, illuminating Emma’s silhouette. She looks like an angel. Such innocence, such purity. Her kindness exudes in waves, and he soaks it up from her like she’s the sun. Something warm and inviting, in spite of all of this cold. A heavenly smell wafts through the doorway and makes his stomach convulse with hunger.

  “Yes. I’d like that.”

  She moves aside as he walks into her home as if he lives there, entering her kitchen.

  “Are you hungry? I was just making dinner, if you’d like some.”

  “I’m starving.” Eric sits down at the table, completely at ease in this unfamiliar place. The chair feels like it was made for him and he lets himself get wrapped up in the aromas of this warm, dry kitchen.

  Emma brings a corkscrew and one wine glass to the table.

  “Just one?” He gestures toward the glass. He uses the edge of the corkscrew to remove the foil from the neck of the bottle.

  “I don’t drink,” she says.

  There’s apprehension in her eyes, like she’s a child and he’s offering her ice cream before she’s eaten supper. She’s avoiding his gaze. Eric has not
iced this is a habit of hers. He stops what he’s doing, stands, and tilts his head until she looks up at him.

  “You can’t make me drink alone.” His voice is sensual and deep.

  Emma’s riveted to each word he says, each move he makes. “No, I guess that would be rude.” She backs away from him and reaches up into the cupboard to grab another wine glass.

  Eric admires the curves of her body. The crucifix that rests above the window catches his eye, and he casts his gaze away from her, not wanting to defile the sanctity of this haven with his dark debauchery. Eric pops the cork and fills each glass, and Emma raises hers. Her hand trembles and Eric smiles as she makes a toast.

  “To neighbors,” she says.

  “To neighbors.” Eric clinks his glass against hers.

  They sit down to eat and Emma studies the way his muscular body overwhelms her small table. She can’t remember the last time a man sat here. He looks out of place and perfect, at the same time. It makes her feel safe in a way she has missed.

  He tears into his food and sips his wine. His damp clothes still caress his body in ways that Emma finds too pleasing. She looks away and spoons some gravy onto her plate. Eric fills her glass again before she can say no. It’s clear she’s not the only one who has missed sharing a meal.

  “This wine is very good, thank you.”

  Eric holds the glass beneath his nose and breathes in the bouquet. “I couldn’t decide between this or the Burgundy.”

  Emma watches as he sips and savors the flavor. “You know a lot about wine?”

  “It’s a little obsession of mine.” He smiles.

  Emma sips in the same manner he did, searching for whatever it is that he finds so appealing.

  “Do you own this home?” Eric asks.

  “No, well, I grew up here. My parents spilt up when I was in junior high. I moved away with my mother, and my father stayed here.”

  “And where is he now?” Eric swallows another forkful of meat.

  “He’s traveling the country with his wife, Ann. They bought a motor home when he retired. They haven’t lived here in years; no one has . . . until I came back.”

  “Well, that explains the disrepair.”

  She flinches, and he knows he said the wrong thing. “I didn’t mean . . . I mean this is such a large house . . .”

  “It’s fine.” She has neglected the house. It’s true. But it hurts to hear someone call attention to it. She picks up her glass and sips, enjoying the way the wine warms her whole body. Her head swims.

  “So what brought you here?” Emma inquires.

  “I’m building a house, didn’t you know?”

  “Yes, I may have heard that.” Emma giggles at his playful answer. “You know, waking up to that racket every Saturday has almost killed me.”

  “Then I won’t work on Saturday anymore.”

  His blue eyes reveal sincerity, and Emma’s flattered he would change for her. She takes another sip of wine.

  “Why did you choose Pine Lake?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, seeming to think of what to say. “Things just stopped working out for me where I was.”

  He adjusts his sitting position and their legs touch underneath the table. Emma jolts from the unexpected contact and the spark inside her flares.

  “Why did you move back?” His misty blue eyes bore into hers.

  She leans toward him, allowing the wine to make her bold. “Things just stopped working out for me where I was.”

  Eric smiles, and Emma has to resist the urge to brush her hand against his face. To touch his hair, to let him touch hers. She envisions him clearing the table with a swipe of his hand and throwing her willing body across it. She imagines his mouth on hers, the way he would taste, and the way his skin would feel, naked against her own. The way she would look beneath him and him above her. She imagines him taking her, tearing her clothes, giving her pleasure, making her scream. But the room is silent, except for the sound of the leaky faucet dripping into the sink.

  “I can fix this for you, you know.” He taps the faucet after dinner, as he washes his now empty dish.

  “Oh, you don’t need to do that. And you don’t need to be washing my dishes.” Emma takes a plate from his hand, dries it, and puts it in the cupboard. She’s having a hard time reconciling Eric, this gentle man before her, with Stormy Eyes, the volatile man she has watched from afar. She dries another dish and tries not to focus on his musky scent, the heat she feels coming off his body, the ease with which he fits into her home. Her skin prickles as his warm forearm brushes against hers. Their image is reflected in the now darkened window as she stands beside him at the sink. He’s focused on his chore, but Emma is not.

  She watches his soapy hands and the movement of his fingers transfixes her. She tries to push her fantasies from her mind. She thinks of the Lord, she thinks of her husband, but neither of them are here. Eric is. It would be futile for her to try to ignore the attraction she feels for him; the way her body responds to him whenever he’s near.

  In Emma’s heart, there’s still love for Aaron, but when she thinks of him, that emotion is laced with sorrow. All the happy memories she has of her husband are overshadowed by the tragedy they suffered. Guilt creeps up in her veins and she pushes it down. The box under the bed screams for her, but she ignores it.

  Eric hums to himself as he washes another dish, and her sadness shifts into joy, a joy that comes from just being beside him. He shuts off the water and Emma gives him a towel. He wipes his hands and leans back against the sink, staring at her. He says nothing, but a soft smile graces his lips. Now a small flame, her spark blooms beneath his gaze. She knows she should look away. She should walk away. But Emma does none of those things.

  “Thank you for dinner,” he says.

  Eric looks around and notices all the things he could fix, all the ways he could help this girl—Emma. He wants to return the courtesy she has extended to him.

  “I could come by tomorrow maybe, and fix the sink . . . if you’d like? What time do you get home from work?”

  In truth, he just wants to see her again. Even in this brief encounter, her presence has brought him peace. A priceless gift she has no way of knowing she’s giving to him.

  “I get home at four.”

  “What do you do, Emma?” He enjoys the way her name feels on his lips.

  “I’m a teacher. I teach first grade at St. Simon’s School for Girls.”

  There it is. The reason he simultaneously wants to stay and flee. The reason Eric will not treat this innocent woman the way he treats all the others. The reason that maybe she could be more than that. Maybe this woman could be his friend.

  “Emma, I was thinking . . . I’m alone and you’re alone, maybe we could, be alone, together.” He’s trying to move beyond his need—to fight his addiction. This girl is just the kind of person, just the kind of friend that could drag him out from the darkness his life has become. All of his hope to turn over a new leaf rests in Emma’s answer.

  “The thing is, I’m not alone. I’m married. I don’t think it would be right for me to—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. You’re not wearing a ring.” Puzzled and disappointed, he stares down at her bare hand.

  “I’m not wearing it, because he left me.”

  She says it in a faint voice. It’s hard to hear her, but he doesn’t need to hear her to sense the devastation this woman feels. The agony is there in her down-turned eyes. Without thinking, he takes her hand in his and is startled by how soft she is, how tiny, how delicate. Her skin feels heavenly, a remedy for what’s ailing him.

  “Well, if he left you, then you are alone. Aren’t you, Emma?”

  Her head snaps up at his touch and his words, and her eyes change. He sees something pushing its way out from under that sadness. Some kind of epiphany is rising up, but he doesn’t know what it could be. She gives his hand an almost imperceptible squeeze, but her face remains unchanged.

  “Yes.
I guess I am.”

  Eric pulls his hand free, and walks out into the night. “Well, if you decide that you don’t want to be, you know where I live.”

  Chapter Eight

  Alone. She’s alone. Emma shuts the door. Tears flood her eyes and she sits down on the stairs. Her isolation has suffocated her, but she’s been holding on to the hope that Aaron would return. She hangs her head between her knees and her body shakes with sobs. Then the sobs turn into a scream. She’s furious, she’s frustrated, and she’s grateful.

  It took this man, this stranger, this sex-crazed, thieving hero, to show her the truth: she is alone, and Aaron’s never coming back. No matter how much she wishes he would, no matter how many times she thinks she feels him in bed beside her. No matter how much she longs to feel his touch and hear his voice. No matter how many tears she sheds, no matter how much she misses him. She is alone.

  Another Monday. Abby and Emma sit together on folding chairs in the stark faculty room at St. Simon’s.

  “I want to get my marriage annulled.”

  Abby chokes on her soda. “What?”

  “Aaron’s not coming back. He doesn’t want me anymore. He’s gone, and I need to accept it.”

  Abby is stunned but thrilled. “Well, can we speak to Father O’Hara about it?”

  “That’s the problem. I can’t get an annulment unless I can prove the marriage was fraud. I don’t even know if I can do it without Aaron here, to give consent. And, since he basically vanished off the face of the earth, there’s no way for me to find him.”

  “Does Sylvia know where he is?”

  Emma cringes at the mention of her mother’s name and Abby wishes she hadn’t brought it up.

  “I can’t call my mom. It just hurts too much.” Emma gets choked up, and Abby takes her hand.