Forbidden

by Abbie Williams

  “Thank you, we appreciate that,” Matthew responded automatically. “It’s been a tough week for everyone.”

  “Wilder told me he figured that Daniel would have wanted the business to stay up and running, this being such a busy season,” Bar commented. “Knowing Dan, I think that’s a pretty damn good assessment.”

  Matthew pulled his own sunglasses from his face, let them hang against his bare chest on the green cord around his neck. He leaned forward and braced his forearms against his thighs, letting his hands dangle, and squinted out at the shimmering water where people were living it up the way you’re supposed to in the summer. He heard himself admitting, “I miss him, Bar. It all happened so damn fast, and I was…on a route for Marsh. It doesn’t seem real yet.”

  Bar crossed his ankles, knocked the tips of his loafers together once. He said, “I know what you mean. When Dad died a few years ago, it was real fast, too. Rae almost didn’t make it back for the funeral. Ma had kittens over that,” he added with a hint of affectionate malice.

  Matthew, uncomfortable discussing his own father any longer, seized on the new topic. “I hear Rae is moving back this summer.”

  “Yeah, that’s the story. She’s been in Chicago for so long now, said she needed a change of pace.” Had Matthew been his usual observant self, he would have detected the over-casual tone of Bar’s next question, but he was still studying the rippling blue expanse of Rose Lake and missed it entirely. Bar leaned forward himself, stared out in the same direction as Matthew and asked, “Will Shelly be back for the funeral?”

  Matthew shook his head, and Bar refused to acknowledge the sharp disappointment in his gut. “No…she won’t be.”

  “Erica told me her little girl came up, though. I can’t imagine Michelle old enough to have a girl that age.

  Matthew’s heart pounded very hard for a moment. “She got here yesterday.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Bar said, and rose reluctantly to his feet. “Anyway, I just wanted to say hello while I was out here. Damn, it’s pretty by the water. I can see why so many local girls want to get married on Rose Lake beach.”

  Matthew stood too, shook Bar’s hand one more time, and said, “Hey, thanks again.”

  “You know it, Sternhagen. Listen, you take care and we’ll see you on Wednesday.”

  Matthew watched as Bar retreated back the way he’d come, thinking for a moment that his shoulders seemed a little slumped, but probably it was just his imagination. It was a hot day.

  Debbie came wandering over two hours later, fanning herself with a glossy magazine. “Hey there. You about ready to head up for lunch?”

  Matthew nodded, catching sight of the twins on the far edge of the beach. He cupped his mouth and yelled, “Emma, Cody! Lunchtime!”

  “Look at all those girls checking you out,” Debbie teased him as they made their way across the hot sand. “Angie Stickland better watch out.”

  Matthew threw his hands in the air in a gesture of defeat. “Ange and I haven’t been together since last Christmas!”

  “Whatever you say,” Debbie said, reaching to tousle Emma’s curls as the two of them came flying up, breathless and fighting about something. Cody landed a punch on Emma’s bare shoulder, and she howled, going at him with both fists. Debbie grabbed for her as Matthew caught Cody around the waist and hauled him up onto his left shoulder, where Cody flailed and knocked the hat from Matthew’s head.

  “Hey, simmer down, buddy,” he warned his little nephew, stooping to retrieve his favorite piece of clothing. “It isn’t nice to hit girls, you know.”

  “Bet God didn’t know about Emma when he made that stupid rule!” Cody blurted, and Matthew almost laughed, but bit it back, knowing it had been a hard week for the kids especially. They had loved their grandpa tremendously, and there would be a huge hole in their lives now. Matthew breathed in sharply as he understood that, the realization slowly sinking into his own soul. He hadn’t allowed himself much of a chance to think about it since he’d arrived home in a state of grieving exhaustion on Sunday. Now, walking the path he’d walked with his father a millon times in years past, his throat felt jagged. He wrapped one big hand more securely around Cody’s skinny legs; the little boy now perched more or less motionless, and Matthew found himself imagining all the times he had followed in his father’s wake, how many times he’d seen the light in Daniel’s sky-blue eyes as he told a story or taught a lesson, or helped his youngest son better perform some task. The loss seemed incredible, impossible. Hell, Daniel had barely even been 60 years old.

  The main lodge came into view through the trees. Matthew pulled himself together and lowered Cody to the ground. Debbie was carrying Emma braced on one ample hip as though Emma were a baby and not almost as tall as Debbie herself. Emma clung to her auntie’s neck, her forehead bent on Debbie’s plump shoulder, and Matthew felt a renewed surge of anguish. He wished for a moment that they’d taken the funeral director’s advice and closed the campground for the week. What the hell were they thinking, anyway, with all this false bravado? It was fucking stupid to carry on as usual, when things couldn’t be farther from.

  Matthew entered the main lodge, with its stacks of brochures, maps, lot rental forms, vending machines and Minnesota souvenirs, his gaze immediately finding Bryce among the others. His entire body flushed at the sight of her and she looked up from far across the space suddenly, her dark eyes landing on him with a warmth that made his lips curve in a small smile. He wanted nothing more in the wide world than to shove aside the racks of sweatshirts between them and sweep her into his arms, and then run. Just run, anywhere. Dangerous game…that was exactly what he was playing.

  “Hi, honey,” Erica said to Cody, and then to Matthew, “Would you mind swinging into town and getting the kids some lunch? I just haven’t had a chance to make anything here. Take Riley with you…he’s been making a fool of himself, fawning all over poor Bryce all morning.” Erica rolled her eyes heavenward. “Ev! Emma! Uncle Matty and Uncle Riley are going to take you guys for burgers, and Deb, would you mind sticking around here while I drive over to the cemetary with Bryce?”

  “No, of course not,” said Deb, and then brightly to Bryce, “Hi, you must be the niece.”

  Matthew tried to breathe normally as Bryce came within a few feet of them. He had been right about her hair: it had come down her neck over the past few hours, and she looked lovely, soft…for a moment he couldn’t tear his gaze from the spot where he’d pressed his lips so many times that night, where he’d licked the salt from their lovemaking…

  “Yes, hello,” she was saying. “So Riley is your twin? I’m sorry,” she told Debbie in a teasing way, and Riley, across the room with Wilder, called, “I heard that!”

  Riley rounded up the girls on his way over, and Emma looked mollified as she rode piggyback on her redheaded uncle. “Giddy-up!” she commanded him, and Riley waved farewell as he galloped out the front door, yelling, “Hurry up, Sterno, I’m starving!”

  “Bye, Mom,” Evelyn added, pausing to peck Erica’s cheek, and Matthew collected Cody again, while Bryce tried not to stare at his insanely gorgeous shirtless torso. She felt the heat from her lower body rising up and into her arms and cheeks and nipples, and as he turned to head out the door, he said casually, “See you later.” She thought, Please oh please let that be a promise.

  It was beyond reason, she knew, a game she was playing, letting herself feel these crazy things because there was no chance they could actually act on them…could we? For a moment she imagined what people might say if anyone were to ever know what had happened between them…Jesus Christ in heaven. This was something she would never even so much as breathe a word of to Trish, who knew every last thing that had happened to Bryce since the dawning of their friendship. Trish would skin her alive for even continuing to admit to her desire for him. Put a goddamn cork in it, Bryce! she heard her best friend snap at her. This went way beyond messing around on Wade, which was a forgivable offense, as both girls wer
e quite certain Wade hadn’t always been faithful. Trish’s voice again came into Bryce’s memory, asking for the hundreth time, What are you doing with Wade, anyway? But even dear, forgiving Trish would have trouble accepting Bryce’s feelings at present. Because despite everything, Matthew was her uncle, her relative, no matter how very much she desired him. Trish would kill her. Matthew’s family would kill him.

  “Bryce, honey, you don’t mind riding out to the cemetery with me, do you?” Erica was asking her, and Bryce snapped back to attention, praying her aunt hadn’t noticed the way she had been staring out the window at Matthew as he loaded the kids into the truck.

  Minutes later Erica was driving south of town, Bryce in the passenger seat, a cold soda balanced between her legs. Erica promised they would grab something to eat on the way back. Bryce didn’t mind. The air felt good rushing into the cab of the small red Ford that Erica drove, and she wasn’t exactly hungry anyway: the grand tour of the campground, courtesy of Riley, had included no shortage of stories about past escapades the family had faced owning the place, including a tipped outhouse that Riley had gone into great detail about.

  “Bryce,” Erica suddenly said, in a tone that made the younger woman sit up straight on the seat. “May I ask you something?”

  Oh Jesus, oh shit. But Erica went on, “Tell me about Michelle. Is she okay these days?”

  Bryce almost blew out a sigh of relief, and slumped her spine slightly against the tan vinyl. How to respond to that? “She’s the same as she’s ever been,” she finally said, staring out the window into the sun-drenched landscape, but seeing the Wagon Box Court before her eyes, the interior of the trailer she’d called home for as long as she could recall. She decided not to sugar-coat things, certain Erica was not fan of bullshit, and could probably smell it a mile away.

  “How has she been as a mother to you?” Erica went on, staring down the road. She’d reserved this conversation for a moment like this, when Bryce was trapped beside her but not forced to make eye contact, a trick Erica had learned over the years.

  Bryce plucked at the neck of her t-shirt, which felt suddenly damp and clingy. She swallowed the excuses, then found that she couldn’t bring any words forth. Erica said softly, “That bad, huh?”

  Bryce shook her head mutely; how could she possibly explain to this woman how it felt to see your mother’s blood gushing onto the floor of the kitchen, or filling the bathtub? How it felt to be disregarded, untouched and certainly never praised, ignored or screamed at through a blue-gray haze of cigarette smoke? For the first time all day, Bryce craved a smoke so badly her fingers twitched. Erica couldn’t possibly understand: she loved her children deeply, that was obvious.

  Erica let it rest and they drove for another 10 minutes in silence, until she made a right-hand turn through a wrought-iron gate someone had painted white. Rose Lake Cemetery was written in scrollwork across the top, and the older woman slowed to a crawl as they entered the tree-filled space, which seemed populated only by dust motes this lazy afternoon. Bryce hung her right arm out the window, studying the acres of gravestones, some of which appeared to be older than this century. Moments later Erica stopped the car and climbed out, headed without words towards a plot of graves under an enormous weeping willow, a tree so massive Bryce doubted she and Erica together would be able to reach around its trunk. The delicate green branches swept the air like curious fingers, and Bryce hurried after her aunt, parting the swaying tree limbs with her hands.

  Ahead of her, Erica paused and then bent carefully beside an old, rose-tinted headstone. Bryce crept to her side, reading the words with a small start of surprise: it was a name she recognized. Margaret Evelyn (Bryce) Sternhagen, beloved wife and mother. And beneath these words, her dates: 1937-1960.

  “This is your grandma’s grave,” Erica said unnecessarily, her voice low, as though they were in a library. Bryce bent to her knees too, and wanted to touch the headstone, but held her hands in her lap instead. Erica spoke again in a hushed voice. “Can I tell you something? Wilder wants Daniel, your grandpa, to be buried here, by his mother. But he won’t go through with it, because of how Matty might feel. He loves Matthew enough to think of that kind of thing.” Erica brought her folded hands against her lips for a moment. “I wanted to bring you here today, before the funeral tomorrow, Bryce. I wanted you to know that you are loved here, and that—” For a moment she paused and gulped a little, and Bryce moved her left hand and touched her aunt’s back timidly, gently. Erica pressed her lips together hard, but then continued. “I wish Daniel had been able to see you again, honey. He loved you very much, even if you didn’t know it. He was a damn good man, and my husband and Matty looked up to him very much. This is going to be hard for Matty especially…it hasn’t sunk in for him yet, that his daddy’s gone for good.” Erica reached and touched Bryce’s knee lightly; in the tree above them, some kind of bird was chirping and chirping at them, as though begging them to listen. Bryce thought of Matthew being hurt in any way and her insides curled over on themselves.

  “Erica, I’m sorry,” she whispered in response, unable to express how she felt in any better way. “I’m so sorry. I feel like I don’t know anything.”

  “Bryce, it’s not your fault,” Erica said, sounding a little more in control. She swiped at her sunburned cheeks with her knuckles, then sat back on both heels. “Wilder loved his mother so much. I wish I’d’ve known her. I was only two years old when she died.”

  “Where will he be buried?” Bryce asked then, still keeping her own voice low. The air here seemed almost unstable, as though to speak louder would disturb some terribly fragile balance. Bryce breathed through her nose and smelled the greenery, and lilacs, blooming some distance away in a splash of showy dark-purple, but close enough to spice the air with their wonderful perfume.

  “Oh, here in the cemetery. But by Lydia, his second wife. Matty’s mother,” Erica added. “She’s about 20 yards that way.” Erica gestured, and Bryce suddenly twitched as a chill darted up her back.

  “I forgot, I’ve been here before,” she whispered. “But it was raining that day.”

  “Yes, it was. I’d forgotten that. It was an awful day. It was the last time I saw Shelly…or you.”

  Bryce recalled the icy rain on her arms and scoured her memory for any other glimpses of Matthew. It had been his mother’s funeral, and now tomorrow he would have to bury his father…and he was not even 30 years old. She saw him in her mind then, small and slim, no traces yet of the man he would become. Crying hard and not trying to hide it, as most boys of his age would have done. She twisted the hem of her faded t-shirt and closed her eyes, not wanting to remember him grieving.

  “Here, I meant to leave her something,” Erica said then, and stood abruptly. She jogged back to the silent car. She leaned in and produced a cluster of wildflowers, while Bryce studied her grandmother’s name chisled into the smooth stone surface and thought about the picture of this very woman in a drawer in Oklahoma. A picture that meant something to Michelle; how would her life have been different if not for this headstone? What had happened?

  Erica placed the bouquet as gently as someone laying down a sleeping baby. She kissed the fingertips of her right hand and touched the stone for an instant, whispering, “Thank you for my Wilder,” and then turned and walked quietly back to the car. Bryce knelt in her wake for a long moment.

  Tuesday, June 29, 1971 - Rose Lake

  From the middle row of the station wagon Michelle glared at Lydia’s profile, curling her spine away from the molten vinyl, her toes pressed against the floor in a vain effort to keep the skin on her thighs from sticking to the seat beneath her. On her left Wilder sat with his sweating face tipped to the open window, listless, staring out at Main Street as it baked silently under the noontime summer sun. Between them, strapped into his carseat, tiny Matthew dozed, his head lolling along at every bump in the road. Michelle glanced at him for a moment, her gaze softening a little. He was sweet, even if his mother was a troll.<
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  Lydia braked abruptly, cranked the wheel into an open parking space, then looked back at the three of them in the rearview mirror. She was wearing more make-up than normal, town make-up, Michelle thought, and her hair was piled up on her head with bobby pins.

  “I’ll be right back,” she told them, glancing away from Michelle and into her own eyes, fussily running a finger under one. “Shelly, you keep an eye on the boys.”

  “No shit,” Michelle muttered, and Lydia’s sharp gaze darted back to her stepdaughter’s. Her irises looked dark enough to swallow light.

  “Watch your mouth,” Lydia hissed, and Wilder turned his gaze to his sister, hoping she’d let the troll have it, but it was hot, and Michelle slouched back against the seat in momentary defeat, regreting it the moment her shoulder blades met the scorching fabric. Lydia didn’t spare another word for them, nor glance, and slammed the car door in her wake, startling Matthew enough to wake him. The baby blinked in the bright sunlight, disoriented, and let out a howl of protest, rubbing his brown eyes furiously with both fists.

  “Now lookit,” Wilder grumbled, jerking a thumb at the baby.

  Michelle bounced the edge of his carseat.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” she murmured, but he wasn’t satisfied with that, and although Lydia must have heard him wailing through the open car windows, she disappeared into Ryan Law Offices without a peep back in their direction. Michelle bit the insides of her cheeks and kept bouncing Matthew’s carseat, while Wilder clapped his hands over his ears and tilted low on the seat, his bottom lip protruding slightly.

  The baby didn’t let up for the next 10 minutes.

  “I’m gonna run away!” Wilder declared for the third time, and Michelle caved.