Revelations

by Laurel Dewey

  Jane raced across Main Street, down the sidewalk and across the gravel until she reached the front door of the tiny house. Like the rest of the town, she could see it was dark inside, save for the candles illumined in the kitchen windowsill. She pounded on the door until he opened it.

  “Help me…please help me…” Jane whispered. With that, she fell into Hank’s arms.

  He closed the door and held her soaked body close to his as she shook from both the cold and the fear.

  “It’s all right, Jane,” he said, moving his hand across the back of her head.

  “No, no” she stammered, “it’s not…I have to forget…” She held him as if he were a lifeline in the ocean.

  “Never forget. No matter how painful it is.”

  The world around her collapsed. All the walls she’d put up fell; the steel encasing her heart melted. Jane brushed her cheek against Hank’s face, searching for his lips. The storm pelted the roof as she softly kissed him. He held her face gently between his hands and tenderly kissed her. It had been so long since she’d been with a man who wasn’t rough that she’d forgotten the way it felt to be cherished. She traced his lips with her tongue until the passion could no longer be restrained. Still interlocked, Jane moved with Hank to his bedroom where they fell onto the mattress side by side. They explored each other’s bodies, never saying a word but understanding what the other needed. As they shed their clothes, their bodies melded in a fervent connection. Hank kissed Jane’s breast, moving slowly toward her neck. She arched her back, drawing Hank closer and entwined her leg around his, urging him inside her. He entered slowly as Jane relaxed and they moved into a gentle rhythm that built with quiet intensity. Kissing him passionately, she couldn’t distinguish his heartbeat from hers as the fire within each of them erupted into a powerful crescendo.

  Jane shook, pulling Hank tightly toward her. She held him inside, their breath rising and falling in unison. For the first time in too long, she felt as though she was finally home and safe. Then the stark realization came that this was the only time in her entire life that she’d made love sober. My God. Hank started to move, but Jane wouldn’t let go. “No,” she whispered. “Not yet.” He held her, stroking her forehead with a soothing motion. “My mother brushed my forehead like that,” Jane said softly. She’d forgotten until that moment. But the memory slipped forward and Jane recalled the reassuring hand of her mother brushing her hand across her forehead. Down and up, over and over. It was the same unexplained motion Jane found herself doing in the doctor’s office. Hank intuitively seemed to know that it calmed Jane as his hand continued the comforting motion. Tears welled in her eyes. “It was the only way she could calm me down when I lost control.”

  Hank looked lovingly into Jane’s eyes. “That’s because you and she had a strong connection.”

  “I never thought it existed.”

  “Just because you don’t believe in something doesn’t prevent it from still operating in your life.”

  Jane looked at Hank, stunned. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “I think I read it in one of my woo-woo books.” Jane turned away. “Are you all right?”

  “You sure you read it somewhere?”

  “Yeah. What is it?” Hank rolled to the side, cupping his palm on Jane’s breast.

  “Lately, I hear statements repeated back to me that all came from one person.”

  They lay together until sleep overcame them. Jane awoke hours later to find Hank gone. Checking the large battery clock, it was past seven. The afternoon had succumbed to the gloaming, allowing only a hint of light into the room. Her soaked clothes that she’d flung onto the floor were missing. Even her boots were AWOL. She jumped off the bed and suddenly noticed a man’s white terry cloth robe draped across the bed, seemingly waiting for her. She slipped it on and made her way toward the main room. Her acute senses picked up the scent of melted beeswax. As Jane entered the living room, she was met with a well-placed assortment of candles, spread throughout the kitchen and living room so that the area was clearly illumined. She figured the power should go off a lot more often.

  Hank stood in the kitchen over the gas stove, preparing dinner. He wore only a T-shirt and white chef’s apron around his waist. He seemed completely comfortable and smiled broadly when he saw Jane walk into the room. “Hey, Chopper!”

  “I thought you left me,” she said.

  “Left you?” Hank replied, his brow furrowed. “Why in the hell would I leave you?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Isn’t that the way it works?”

  “Come here,” he moved around the counter and pulled out a stool, patting it and urging her to come and sit down. When he turned, she could see his adorable naked backside peeking out from the apron. She crossed to the stool and sat down. Hank kissed her gently on the lips before returning to his specialty of the evening. “Your clothes are almost dry,” he said pointing to her jeans, T-shirt and underwear hanging in the living room. “The boots may take a bit longer.”

  “You didn’t need to do that. I could have figured it out…”

  “Of course you could figure it out. But I thought I’d give you a hand.”

  Jane sat bemused. “Okay…”

  “Chopper, let me ask you something. Didn’t you ever have someone take care of you?”

  “No. I was always the one in charge of my younger brother and myself…especially after my mother died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  He checked the label on a jar of seasoning with the light of a nearby candle and added a dash of it to the two chicken breasts in the pan. “You didn’t deserve that.”

  “It’s all I know.”

  “Taking care of yourself and being abandoned?”

  Jane considered the finality of his statement. “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds pretty depressing.”

  “That’s because it is.” He set a bowl of pico de gallo in front of Jane along with a bowl of chips. “That’s your appetizer, Chopper.”

  She slid a candle closer to the salsa. “Did you make this?”

  “Sure,” he said offhandedly as he snuck a taste from the steaming pan and added a pinch of salt.

  “Sure?”

  “It’s not that complicated. It’s tomatoes, jalapenos, onions, cilantro…”

  “What are you? Betty Crocker’s little brother?” Jane scooped up a large helping of the pico de gallo with a chip and gobbled it up. Within seconds, she realized she had a new flavorful addiction. “Maybe I’ll call you Crocker.”

  He chuckled. “Crocker and Chopper? I don’t think so. It sounds too much like a bad 70s TV cop drama.” He motioned to the food. “There’s nothing to this. I like to cook and I like opera.” He quickly turned to her. “And I’m not gay.”

  “And you’re a recovering alcoholic, ex-cop who owns a bar. Did you just hear that? That’s God laughing at me.”

  Hank brought out two plates from the cupboard. “No, I don’t hear Him laughing. I hear Him saying, ‘Thank myself! She finally said what the hell and dove into that pool!’” He served the chicken breasts and buttery slivers of zucchini onto the plates. “And I say, thank God she did.”

  He sat next to her at the counter, the flickering candles casting mesmerizing shadows against the walls. They ate in near silence as Hank softly stroked Jane’s thigh under her terry robe. After about five minutes, she looked at him. “This is nice.”

  Hank broke into a wide grin. “Coming from you, that’s one helluva compliment!”

  She contemplated what he’d asked her not long before. “You asked me if I ever had someone take care of me? It’s going to sound crazy, but I just remembered how I had this strange fantasy when I was less than six…I pretended that I had an older sister to watch over me.” Jane dropped her fork against the plate.

  “Why not a big brother? Wouldn’t that make more sense?”

  She stared into the flickering flame from the candle on the counter. “
Yeah. You’re absolutely right. It would have, wouldn’t it?” She found herself briefly lost in the recollection. “But I remember it was a sister… an older sister.”

  They finished the meal and stacked the dishes in the sink before blowing out all but four of the candles and carrying them back into the bedroom. Nestled under the covers, Jane pressed her naked body against Hank. “When do you think we’re going to get the power back up?”

  “It came back on two hours ago, Chopper,” he said, turning over and drifting off to sleep. “I just wanted to make it last a little longer.”

  Jane shook her head in disbelief as she spooned her body next to his. She quickly slid into slumber as the world and her worries fell far into the distance. Her dreams were placid and brief and she slept soundly. But then, in the darkness, the sound of a woman crying could be heard. Jane tried to reconcile the weeping in her altered state but awoke to the sound coming from within the bedroom. Opening her eyes, she noted the four candles, nearly extinguished in their saucers. Jane tilted the bedside clock to see the time—3:11 am.

  Her heart began to race as the pungent scent of gardenias swept through the room. She turned to find Hank asleep beside her, the covers pulled close to his face. This had to be a dream. She pinched her flesh in an attempt to wake up but the woman’s cries continued unabated. Jane carefully tossed back the covers and picked up one of the candles on the bedside table in its wax-pooled saucer. She stood up, naked and exposed, and peered into the corner of the room where the sobbing seemed to originate. Jane slowly walked around the bed, allowing the dying candlelight to direct her path. She stopped after several steps, horrified by what she saw.

  There in the corner, curled up in a naked and bloody ball from the waist down, was her mother. Her black mascara left ghoulish streaks down her weathered, young face while her once-pristine fire engine red lacquered manicure had been bitten down to the fleshy nubs. Jane knelt down, holding the candle in front of her to cast more light toward her mother, but Anne waved the candle away.

  “No!” Anne cried. “You can’t see this!”

  “My God,” Jane whispered. “What happened?

  Anne shook her head and grabbed her lower gut. “I didn’t want to lose her…but I had no choice…”

  “Her?” Jane asked, her eyes wide with shock.

  “What was I supposed to do?” Anne sobbed. “He killed himself! That son-of-a-bitch! He left me! What was I supposed to do?!”

  The candlewick sputtered in the melted wax. “You…had an abortion?”

  Anne gazed up at Jane. “I lost her!” she screamed. With that, Anne reached out and grabbed Jane’s arm.

  The wraithlike connection sent an electric shockwave through Jane’s body, driving an ungodly shock of pelvic pain into Jane, followed by the awareness of profound grief that Jane realized did not belong to her. The candlewick continued to spit its dying light between them. Jane tried in vain to pry Anne’s fingers from her arm. “It doesn’t belong to me!” Jane screamed. “It’s your grief!”

  Anne released Jane’s arm and all the sorrow melted from her face. A calmness and wisdom that belied her youthful countenance replaced it. It was as if the soul within shone through her eyes. “Have the courage to see what follows, Jane.”

  “What follows?”

  “I love you.”

  With that, the candlelight extinguished.

  Jane turned and felt the bed beneath her skin. She opened her eyes and sat up with a shot. Hank was gone. Checking the clock, it was 8:09 in the morning. Streaks of sunshine angled into the bedroom. Jane looked over into the corner and saw nothing. She ran her shaking fingers through her tangled hair and grabbed the terry cloth robe to wrap around her.

  Walking into the living room, she called out to Hank but got no response. Her clothes from the night before were carefully laid across the couch while her boots warmed up in front of an electric space heater. She called out to him again, walking closer to the kitchen counter in search of a note. But there was nothing. That familiar feeling rose up in her again. Whether it was because she was coming off one of the most disturbing encounters she’d ever imagined, or whether it was because she expected to be let down, the feeling was palpable and the familiar anger simmered on a slow burn. She heard the sound of a woman’s laughter outside the kitchen window. Jane walked into the kitchen and peered outside. There she found Annie Mack touching Hank’s arm in a comfortable way and smiling at him with those innocent young eyes. To Jane, his body language was receptive, although she could only see his back.

  Pulling back from the sink with umbrage, she accidentally knocked over a glass, shattering it in the sink. The sound got Hank’s attention and he quickly excused himself and walked inside. Jane was already halfway across the room, clothes in one hand, and still wet boots dangling from the other.

  “Chopper!” Hank called out.

  “I’m leaving!” Jane yelled back, turning the corner into the bedroom. She threw her clothes on the bed, tore off the robe and started dressing in a fitful manner.

  Hank quickly appeared in the doorway. “What in the hell’s going on?”

  “Sorry about breaking that glass. Send me a bill.” She never looked at him once.

  “Jane, what are you doing? I have breakfast in the oven.”

  “Great. When the next shift moves in, you’ll have something to feed her.”

  “This is about Annie? Jane, I’ve already told you…”

  She turned to Hank, staring him straight on. “Please. Don’t bullshit me anymore. There is something between you two… something deep.” She could see Hank clearly connect with what she said. But still he hesitated. “Exactly…you know what? Chalk this up to just another fucking mistake of mine. Live and learn, right?” She finished dressing and he stood there speechless. He didn’t say a word until she started out of the room.

  “Jane…please don’t leave like this. I’ve got something to show you…”

  She dug his truck keys out of her jean pocket and threw them at him. “Fuck you,” she muttered under her breath as she stormed out.

  Back in front of the B&B, her Mustang had returned to its former self, minus the bloody message on the trunk. Released as part of a crime scene, she could now regain her freedom. Yes, this is what felt normal to Jane Perry. She was alone again, but she was back in charge of her predictable life. She headed up the stairs and met Mollie midway, who was headed down with a basket of dirty clothes.

  “You didn’t come home last night,” Mollie said, with a pensive look.

  “Yeah?”

  The kid looked at her shirt on Jane and smiled. She leaned closer and whispered. “Did my shirt get lucky last night?”

  The sound of a door opening and closing was heard upstairs. Mollie quickly skipped down the steps as Jane stepped aside for Edward Butterworth to make his way downstairs.

  “Morning,” he curtly offered, brushing past her with his meticulous three-piece suit and monogrammed attaché case in hand.

  “Mr. Butterworth,” Jane quickly said. Butterworth turned around, looking irritated that someone had the gall to stop his forward progress. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s about Jordan Copeland.”

  “Well, it’ll have to wait. I’m heading over there now and then I’m leaving for Denver to catch my plane.”

  “I just need a second of your time.”

  “Funny about that. When someone asks for a ‘second,’ it’s invariably longer and usually an imposition.” With that, the old guy continued down the stairs and out the door.

  Shaking her head in disgust, Jane bolted up the stairs and into her room. The first thing she saw was the photo of her mother and Harry she’d slid under her laptop. She brought it out and looked at it. The possibilities were too stark and she quickly lifted her laptop and hid the photo underneath it.

  She took a quick shower and washed her hair, all the time working hard to keep Hank out of her head. She told herself that she’d lost
precious time by hanging out with him and silently berated herself for allowing herself to become weak and vulnerable. As she’d always suspected, vulnerability was a sharp sword onto which one impales oneself and suffers needless wounds to the heart. By the time she got out of the shower, she’d resolved to never let it happen again and began the proverbial process of locking up her heart against any further gatecrashers.

  To that end, she didn’t hesitate when she reached for her standard navy blue poplin shirt. She told herself how ridiculous she’d looked in Mollie’s youthful garb and that she was, back on familiar ground and back in charge of her reality again. Yet, Jane wasn’t really paying attention as she buttoned the shirt because one-by-one, the white buttons popped off the fabric. It wasn’t until the third one hit the floor that she realized that the shirt was useless. She stripped it off and grabbed the remaining poplin shirt off the hanger. This one buttoned up just fine. But as she straightened the collar, she was met with an unforgiving sharp prick in her neck and across her back. It felt as if tiny needles were impaling her flesh. Quickly removing the shirt, she examined the collar and back material. Her eyes could see nothing but when she ran her fingers across the fabric, she was met with what felt like knife-like daggers that drew several drops of blood from her fingertips. This was truly insane. “Fuck!” she screamed, flailing the shirt against the wall.