Spirit of the Ruins

by Jenny Lykins

  “Damn you, Tylar McCall!” Her voice caught in her throat, but she would not cry. She pulled at the wedding ring she’d worn for five years, twisted it off her finger for the very first time. When the ring slid free, she stooped to pick up the letter, wadded it up with the ring inside, then stuffed the paper into a ceramic ginger jar on the rough wooden mantel in the parlor, just to get it out of her sight.

  She could almost believe her heart was that battered, crumpled piece of paper, locked away now in a cold, hard shell. When he left, he took her very heartbeat with him, and she had no use for what remained of the damaged, dead organ he’d left behind.

  “Callen?”

  She dashed the back of her hands across her eyes, took a deep breath, then turned to Evan standing on the porch just outside the door.

  He came to her then, wrapped her in his arms, nuzzled the top of her head with his lips.

  And she allowed him the liberty. She was so tired of being strong. Tired of fighting Stephen. Tired of living without her child. Tired of no one there to hold her and make things right.

  “Marry me, Callen,” Evan whispered into her hair, his breath warm against her skin. “Say you will marry me.”

  *******

  Ty stared at the blank pages of his appointment book. The outdoor wedding this evening would be his last job for a week; a last minute appointment for a doctor’s daughter whose photographer had taken ill.

  Today was Dan’s final day of school before summer break, and Ty had cleared his calendar so he could surprise his brother with a camping trip. A little masculine one on one. And then, true to his luck, yesterday Dan and his new friend Sam had raced home from school, excited with the news that Sam’s parents had invited Dan to go to the beach with them on the twenty-fifth.

  Tomorrow.

  For a week.

  Ty’s first reaction had been frustration – an emotion he’d grown all too familiar with in the past six weeks. But Dan had managed to squeak through his exams - though for all the times he’d had a book on his lap his grades should have been higher - and he’d left behind that pack of losers he’d been hanging with.

  Ty couldn’t tell him no. He couldn’t even tell him of his plans for their camping trip and make him choose between brother and best friend. No, he had simply said yes, stipulating that they give him the phone number and address of the condo where they’d be staying. Dan would bring the information home after school, then leave to spend the night with Sam so the family could get an early start in the morning.

  Hell.

  He slammed the appointment book closed and shoved away from the desk, then stomped to the bathroom to shave. Dan would be home any minute, not to mention that Ty had to get his gear together for the wedding. He would see his brother off on someone else’s damn vacation, he would shoot someone else’s damn wedding, and then he would spend a week of mindless boredom feeling sorry for himself.

  He might be turning into a bitter S.O.B., but he was also a realist. This week was not going to be a vacation.

  *******

  “That’s great. Tilt your head to the left just the tiniest…perfect! Hold it. Yes! Now, Mom, I want you to come in and look her in the eye while you adjust her veil. No smiles. I’m looking for poignancy. Thoughtfulness. Let’s see the two of you connect. Good. That’s the idea…”

  Ty squeezed off another half dozen shots, angling to get the best view of the ethereal bride, a glimpse of the lake in soft focus in the background, while camouflaging the mother, who’d dressed in purple lace a good two sizes too small. Apparently the fact escaped her that she looked like an over-dressed grape. But obviously, what she lacked in taste, she made up for in pride and love for her daughter.

  “Okay, Paul,” Ty said to the tuxedo-clad groom who’d been pacing a bare spot in the country club’s lawn behind Ty. “Let’s give the wedding party a break, and you and Gina pretend that this is a done deal.”

  A breeze kicked up just as Paul stepped into frame, billowing Gina’s embroidered, pearl-seeded gown and veil, setting up a perfect shot for movement. The dress tangled in Paul’s legs and the veil lifted around them like a wispy cloud. As Ty breathed, “Yeah,” and caught the shot, the scent of honeysuckle engulfed him. Veritable curtains of the vine bordered the golf course on the west side of the clubhouse, and the slightest stir of air sent the fragrance swirling.

  Ty shook off the memories of another time and place, ignored them, focused his thoughts as sharply as he focused the camera.

  He taxed his mind to come up with fresh angles for the soon-to-be newlyweds, took a few silly shots just to break the tension. He caught a candid shot of them kissing, then found himself swallowing hard and trying desperately to keep his mind blank. After the guests arrived and the ceremony began, he worked his way quietly around the crowd, catching whiffs of the ever-present honeysuckle, hearing the familiar words of the minister. At times he felt as if he, himself, had once stood and repeated those vows.

  He literally shook his head to clear his mind, tried to rub the knots out of the back of his neck.

  The ceremony ended and he welcomed the hustle of catching the final shots…the first real kiss as man and wife, their walk down the aisle.

  The two hour reception felt more like two weeks. The band played every love song known to man, and with every word of every song, Ty’s heart grew emptier. By the time he took the final shots of the limo pulling away, he felt as beaten and battered as the most used golf ball out there on the driving range. Managing a smile for the teary-eyed parents, he promised to get the film developed and the pictures to them as soon as possible.

  He climbed into the Explorer, rolled the windows up air-tight, then blasted the air conditioner in an attempt to clear his head and blow the scent of flowering vines from his nostrils.

  It didn’t work.

  Once home, he unloaded his equipment, got a bite to eat, flopped onto the couch, stared blindly at the flickering screen of the TV. If he went to bed, he might dream of Callen, and he didn’t think he could handle that right now.

  The green glow from the VCR clock read 2:37 before he finally stopped channel-surfing, flicked off the TV, and got up.

  He didn’t know which was worse, staying awake and thinking about her, or going to sleep and dreaming of her.

  He stretched, fought the drowsiness, but he’d been awake since before dawn and his body hit a major sinking spell. He gave up, peeled off his shirt on his way to the bedroom, trying to convince himself that he was tired enough to bypass the dream stage and go straight for the coma.

  No such luck.

  He woke when the sun pierced the crack in the curtains and fell straight across his eyes, the dream of holding Callen still vivid in his mind. But his arms were as empty as his heart. He’d been holding her, yes, but comforting her over something…something that threatened to devastate her. Connor? No. Something else.

  Something his fault.

  He’d first dreamed of Shiloh again, walking along the Sunken Road. He shook his head. The details flitted just out of memory’s reach. Disturbing details. Was it Tylar’s death he consoled her over?

  He kicked away the blue and red plaid sheet, sat on the side of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands dangling. With a deep breath and a shake of his head, he raised both hands and scraped them through his hair.

  Another endless day to face. And another dream to haunt him throughout.

  He brushed his teeth, showered and shaved, pulled on jeans and a tee shirt, threw the plaid comforter over the bed, then went in search of a caffeine fix.

  The film from the wedding waited for him in the darkroom. He carried his cup of coffee in there and started to work. No sense putting it off. He had nothing else to do, and at least this would keep his mind busy, keep him from dwelling on illusive, disquieting dreams.

  He worked through lunch, through dinner, and into evening, finishing in one day what normally took him several. He didn’t stop until he’d hung the last print to dry. The pictures dan
gled from the lines around the room, the images surrounding him, and he had to admit he’d done a darned good job at capturing the wedding.

  Then why didn’t he feel the usual swell of gratification? Why was it he could feel nothing but pain?

  Stupid question.

  With a growl, he slammed the darkroom door behind him and went looking for a dose of the ultimate Novacaine. He wasn’t big on drinking, but right now he would drink himself into oblivion if it meant having a few hours of peace. And as empty as his stomach was, it wouldn’t take much. He stomped to the wet bar and threw open the doors.

  “Hell!”

  He’d forgotten that, months ago, he’d thrown out what little liquor he’d had after Celia told him she thought Dan had been doing a few taste tests on the stuff.

  “Double hell!” he bellowed.

  Without a second thought, he snatched up his wallet and car keys, then slammed his way out of the house, into the dusky twilight. One final, golden ray of sunshine shot between the houses before it faded and died. Yet another reminder of what he was trying to forget.

  Moments later, he roared down the street, headed toward the nearest bar.

  *******

  Callen sat at the bedroom window of the overseer’s cottage, staring at the brilliant swaths of pink and gold, purple and orange, streaked against the darkening sky. She spent more time in the cottage than in the big house, living with her memories, her ghosts, her pain. She spent every moment she could there now, and Stephen no longer complained, because soon she would leave Windsor and become mistress of Cedar Point – or what was left of it – when she married Evan.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep, numbing breath, forcing down the panic and nausea the very thought stirred within her.

  But she no longer had the will to fight them. It was as if Tylar took her will with him when he left. Her will, her breath, her very heartbeat.

  And she knew that Stephen would never leave her in peace. He grew more insistent that she marry Evan with each passing day. He had consulted with an attorney, obtained copies of the military records of Tylar’s death at the Battle of Pittsburgh Landing. In the eyes of the law, she was a widow, free to marry again. The army said so, the attorney said so, Stephen and Evan insisted so.

  She had stood up to Stephen, demanded to know what had happened during the war to change him so. To turn him from a loving brother into an unfeeling cad. He had stared at her, a look of pain, a flash of remorse in his eyes, but he had refused to answer.

  For the thousandth time, she damned the war to hell. It had taken everyone, everyone, she held dear. Her father had died of dysentery within months after he left to fight, and from the moment her mother had received the news, she’d died a little every day, until her heart gave out while scratching with a hoe through the dirt of the kitchen garden for overlooked potatoes and turnips.

  Callen had lost her parents, and not only one brother, but two. If Garrett was alive, he would surely have sent a message or found his way home after two years. And though Stephen had not died, he, too, was undoubtedly a casualty, for the Stephen she had grown up with most assuredly did not return home from that damnable war.

  Tears stung her eyes. She’d lost her child, as well, to some strangers’ keeping, and she’d lost her husband, not once, but twice now, and the second time hurt even more than the first.

  She could endure no more. She would put an end to Stephen’s incessant pressuring, marry Evan, have her beloved Connor returned to her after their brief – she shuddered – wedding trip to Natchez. This she made both Stephen and Evan swear to. Once she had her son back in her arms, she would lay Tylar’s memory to rest and live her life as best she could. And perhaps, someday her raw, bleeding heart would heal, then the ever-present ache in her chest, the lump in her throat, would go away forever.

  How wonderful, she thought, if life were truly the fairytale world in which Tylar insisted he lived. Women viewed as equals, allowed to make their own decisions, taken seriously by the courts, having legal recourse.

  She shook her head and stood, determined to leave those thoughts behind.

  Fairytales. Nothing more than fairytales that belonged in the same world as flying machines, houses that cooled themselves, and pictures that moved and talked.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ty stood at the bar amidst swirling clouds of cigarette smoke, loud chatter, the screaming blare of music with bass thudding so loud it vibrated through him like claps of thunder.

  “Scotch,” he yelled above the din. If he was going to get drunk, he’d do a thorough job of it.

  “What?” the bartender yelled back, cocking his ear.

  “Scotch,” Ty bellowed again. “A double.” He waved away a fresh curl of smoke from the neighbor on the barstool next to him.

  The bartender nodded, then turned to take another order.

  Ty scanned the crowd while he waited for his drink.

  What a meat market. Singles on parade. Or wannabe singles. He leaned his back against the bar, elbows propped atop the rail.

  The majority of the crowd looked to be in their twenties and thirties. The men watched the women, and the women knew they were being watched. He could almost hear the men around him suck in their guts when a particularly attractive blond walked by, built like a bathing suit model and about as under-dressed. The men silently – and not so silently – judged every woman who walked through the door. They were so blatant, Ty half expected them to start holding up score cards, for cryin’ out loud…7.3, 8.2, 6.5.

  He shook his head. So he hadn’t been missing out on a whole lot while raising Dan, after all.

  He people-watched, and had to admit that he, too, judged every woman who walked past him. He judged her in comparison to Callen.

  And not one even came close.

  He felt not even the slightest spark of chemistry when his gaze met any one of theirs. None of them made him sit up and take notice. None inspired him to shove away from the bar and introduce himself. None made him want to pick up a charcoal pencil and put her image on paper.

  None made him want to pull her into his arms and go in search of heaven with her.

  He drew in a deep breath of the smoke-hazed air and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  How was she doing? Did she hate him? He’d wondered more than once if he’d done the right thing by leaving with nothing more than that letter. At the time he’d thought it would be easier for her, rather than force her to watch him walk away.

  He had only complicated her life, from the moment he’d stepped into that kitchen, and things had gone downhill from there.

  The vestiges of his dream had clung to him all day, the innate feelings of her despondency, her bitter apathy. He scrubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand.

  “Hi there.” A woman with dark hair and eyes leaned against the bar beside him as the bartender shoved a glass of scotch next to Ty’s elbow. Ty glanced at the woman, forced half a grin, nodded. She had Callen’s coloring, her size, build, but…she wasn’t Callen. “Can I buy you a drink?” she asked, nodding toward the scotch.

  Stale liquor and smoke mingled with her perfume when she leaned into Ty’s arm as though she’d known him for years. He all but recoiled.

  Lord, what had Callen done to him?

  “Sorry.” He shoved away from the bar and slid the untouched scotch in front of her. “Have mine. I was just leaving.” He pulled a bill from his pocket and tossed it on the bar.

  The fresh air of the late May night refreshed him like a Spring rain. He breathed deeply, cleared the smell of smoke, liquor, and perfume from his lungs.

  He had to get away. Even if it was just overnight, he had to run from his demons and get a little peace. Getting drunk wouldn’t give him peace. He knew that now. When he sobered up, he’d still have the torment, and a hangover as well. No, drinking away problems had been his old man’s style.

  Instead of running from his demons, though, he found himself driving toward them. Within minutes he wa
s on Interstate 55, heading south toward Natchez. As though possessed, he could no more have turned that car around than he could have swum the length of the Mississippi. But maybe this was what he needed. After six weeks of anguish and self-doubt, maybe he needed to see the ruins one more time to put her ghost to rest.

  One more time, and then he vowed he would never go back.

  Not ever.

  Halfway there, the oncoming headlights started to blur, the road wavered in front of him, and even the blaring radio and all the windows down didn’t help to keep his sleep-deprived brain awake. He pulled into a rest area and slept for a couple of hours, then woke and staggered to the restrooms to splash his face with water. He bought a toothbrush from a vending machine to freshen up, then climbed back in the car and watched the sun rise as he completed this farewell journey.

  The columns rose before him once again as he wove the car around the potholes in the drive. A far cry from the crushed shell drive of the past, he thought. Even the neglected, post-war drive.

  He backed the car into a shady copse of trees, then climbed out and walked among the pillars. Her energy still lingered there. He could almost feel her; almost hear her voice. Was this what had drawn him to the ruins to begin with?

  It would be hours before nightfall, before he could hope to see the house. He wandered from one column to another, his hands dragging along the rough surface of the bases. Every memory, from the very first moment this misadventure began, from the smell of Callen’s skin, to the taste of her kisses, even the way the aging stucco now felt beneath his fingers, imprinted itself on his brain like the image on a photograph. The picture played through his mind in torturous slow motion…the sound of her voice calling out to him, the look on her face when he said he had to leave.

  He came to the one column he’d been avoiding; the column with the impossible entry. Without thought or premeditation, he pushed until the doorway scraped open, then he slipped in, pulled to her as a river is pulled to the sea. Somehow she called out to him, and he had to try and see for himself – reassure himself that he’d done the right thing.