Goldenrod

by Ann McMan

  “We all do,” she explained. “But we keep practicing until we get it right.”

  Dorothy hunched her narrow shoulders. “I don’t want to make mistakes.”

  “None of us does. But making mistakes isn’t fatal. It’s the thing that makes us human.”

  Dorothy removed her hand from the keyboard.

  “What’s the matter?” Celine asked.

  Dorothy shrugged. “I guess I don’t want to be human if it means making mistakes.”

  “Oh, honey.” Celine moved to place an arm around her shoulders, but was stunned when Dorothy lurched away from her. It took Celine a moment to collect herself.

  “I’m . . . I’m so sorry, Dorothy,” she said.

  Dorothy had swiveled away from her on the bench and sat slightly bent forward with a hand pressed against her right upper arm. “It’s okay,” she muttered. “I’m not upset or anything.”

  Celine understood in an instant that whatever this was about, it wasn’t about music—and it certainly wasn’t okay. She also intuited that Dorothy probably had legitimate reasons to avoid being touched. And she noticed for the first time that the girl was wearing a long-sleeved sweater on a day when the temperature had already hit eighty degrees, and was still climbing.

  “Dorothy?” She knew she needed to proceed carefully. “Will you turn around, please?”

  Dorothy took her time complying, and when she did, it was very slowly. She would not make eye contact with Celine.

  “I’m okay. I just . . . I hurt my arm and it’s sore. That’s all.” She continued to hold on to it.

  Celine also noticed the girl’s upper body was making a faint rocking motion. It was so subtle it would’ve been easy to miss if they’d been sitting further apart.

  But they weren’t sitting further apart.

  They were only inches away from each other. Right now, however, that distance seemed like a thousand miles.

  “How did you hurt your arm?” Celine asked the question as gently as she could.

  Dorothy still wouldn’t look at her. “I fell and hit it.”

  “You fell? When did you fall?”

  “Last week at church.”

  “Does your father know?”

  “No.” Now Dorothy did look at her—with eyes full of fear. “Please don’t tell him. It’s just a little sore. I don’t want him to know about it.”

  “All right. All right.” Celine did her best to keep her voice soft and calm, despite all the alarm bells going off inside her head. “Will you let me look at your arm, Dorothy? Just to be sure it’s really okay? You don’t have to worry—I won’t say a word about it to anyone. It’ll be just between us.” She made what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I promise.”

  Dorothy hesitated.

  “I am a doctor you know—just like my daughter. Only I prefer to torture my patients with a piano instead of a stethoscope.”

  That got a small smile out of her.

  “Okay,” she said.

  Celine had to stop herself from reaching out to help when she saw Dorothy wince as she shrugged her way out of the lightweight sweater she was wearing.

  Her right bicep and upper arm were covered with dark, ugly bruises. There was some slight swelling along the outer edge of her arm. Celine thought the bruising there had a distinctive pattern—like finger marks.

  Someone had grabbed her. Hard enough to leave bruises.

  She noted some of the same discoloration on Dorothy’s left upper arm—but not as pronounced.

  “Could you rotate your arm for me, Dorothy? Just out in front, back behind you, straight up and to the side? And tell me if it hurts to move it in any one way more than the others?”

  Dorothy carefully moved her arm in slow arcs in each direction.

  Celine watched her face. “How does all of that feel?” she asked.

  “It’s just sore,” she replied. “I hit it hard when I fell.”

  “Did you fall inside or outside?” Celine asked. “I don’t see any cuts or scrapes.”

  “Inside. I slipped on the floor at Sunday school.”

  “Does that happen to you a lot?” Celine noticed some slight bruising along the base of her collarbone. “I only ask because I know how slick some floors can be after they’ve been polished.”

  “It happens sometimes.”

  “Dorothy? May I look at your back? Just to be sure there isn’t anything seriously wrong with your shoulder blade?”

  Dorothy hesitated.

  “I promise it will only take a few seconds,” Celine assured her.

  Dorothy nodded and slowly turned around.

  “I’m going to raise your shirt, now,” Celine said. “Don’t be afraid, okay? I’ll be very careful.”

  Dorothy didn’t reply, but she didn’t flinch or pull away when Celine took hold of the hem of her T-shirt and carefully lifted it up.

  What she saw didn’t cause her more alarm, but it didn’t exactly lessen her concern, either. Dorothy’s smooth, young skin was clear, but crisscrossed with a couple of faint, red lines. Old scars, perhaps? Shadow reminders of—what? Pattern injuries? Deep scratches?

  It was hard to tell.

  And harder to be sure about what it all meant. One thing was for certain, though—the bruising on her arm and collarbone did not come from a fall. Dorothy was lying about that. Why? Who was she protecting? And what was she afraid of?

  Right now, Celine simply had more questions than answers. She knew she needed to do something. But what? Approach Dorothy’s father about it? But she couldn’t do that without divulging that Dorothy was coming to her house for piano lessons—something Henry said Dorothy wanted to keep secret from him.

  Maybe she should share her concerns with Byron first? After all, Dorothy’s father was hardly approachable.

  Celine lowered her shirt. “All done. Your shoulder seems fine. But I want you to try to be more careful.”

  Dorothy turned back around and allowed Celine to help her put her sweater back on. She seemed a bit more relaxed.

  “Are we going to finish my lesson now?” she asked.

  “No. I think we’ve practiced enough for today, don’t you? And I want you to take it easy on that arm—no more acrobatics of any kind until it’s healed. And that includes the keyboard.” She stood up. “Why don’t we go outside and see what kind of progress Buddy and Henry are making with my garden?”

  “Okay.”

  Dorothy followed her into the kitchen, where the big double doors that led to the patio were standing open. A warm breeze was blowing in from the south. It smelled sweet and clean—like it had rained someplace miles away.

  “You know, Dorothy,” she said. “I’d be interested in your opinion about the pattern Buddy’s creating with the plants. It’s very . . . unusual.”

  “Is it because of the numbers?”

  Celine was surprised by her question. Her face must have shown it, because Dorothy followed up before she could respond.

  “Buddy always does numbers. It’s like he sees them in everything.”

  Numbers.

  Dorothy was right. It was about the numbers. She couldn’t believe that hadn’t occurred to her when she stole a peek at the flowerbed earlier. The strange spiral configuration he was creating with the repeated color sequence of the plants made sense now.

  At least, it made sense in a Buddy kind of way.

  He was planting her flowers in a Fibonacci sequence.

  Celine led the way outside, into a small slice of world defined by warmth and perfect order.

  “Let’s talk about numbers,” she said. “Let’s talk about the language of numbers, and the spaces that exist between them.”

  “Like the music notes?” Dorothy asked.

  Celine smiled at her.

  “Exactly like that.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Charlie was halfway home when she got the call. Sundays were generally slow nights, but the weather had gotten so much warmer that people were spending a lot more time outdoors
, engaged in recreational activities.

  “Recreational” in the law-and-order context meant drinking, cheating, fighting and wrecking cars—usually in exactly that order.

  Daylight Savings Time was to blame, too. That crazy extra hour that got tacked on to the end of every day caused more problems than it solved. Byron was fond of saying it turned “the gloaming” into “the groaning.” Charlie agreed with him. She didn’t understand why they kept mucking around with the clock like that. Why not just let day be day, and night be night? It was no accident that most of the bad or stupid things people got up to in the summer happened during that extra hour of so-called “daylight.”

  It didn’t really “save” anything. And it wasn’t really like daylight, either. It was more like some kind of weird half-light that wasn’t exactly day and wasn’t exactly night. It was in between—an eerie sixty minutes of hollow light that made everything look flat—like it was part of a movie set. Probably that was part of what led people to think they could act out in any ways they wanted—no matter how wrong or “uncharacteristic” the behavior was. And when it was over, night would drop down like a curtain at the end of a bad play—fast and hard. No easing into it, and no time to get ready for it. People would pretty much be stuck in the middle of whatever mess they’d started—and most of the real damage would happen while they fumbled around in the dark, trying to find a way to get out of it.

  But this time, she was actually happy to have the extra hour between day and night. She used it to race back to the Freemantles’ house so she could keep her promise to get Roma Jean home before dark. They barely made it, too. When they pulled into the driveway, Roma Jean’s father was outside puttering around in the carport, pretending to work on their riding lawn mower. At least, Roma Jean said he was pretending.

  “He can’t even change a lightbulb,” she told Charlie before they got out of the car. “And that mower hasn’t run since 1997, when I was born.”

  “Why does he keep it, then?” Charlie asked her.

  “Who knows?” She unclipped her seatbelt. “A better question is, why does he keep it in the carport? The good mower just sits out back underneath a tarp. He leaves it out there in all kinds of weather. Mama says the Freemantle men don’t respect machines. Except for Chevys. They always treat those with respect.”

  “Like their women?”

  “Hush.” Roma Jean swatted her on the arm. “Don’t you start that here. Daddy has ears like a barn owl.”

  “Sorry,” Charlie apologized. She ducked her head and spoke more softly. “I had a great time today.”

  Roma Jean blushed. But that wasn’t unusual. Especially lately.

  “I did, too,” she whispered, before they got out of the car to greet her father.

  When Charlie had set out to pick Roma Jean up that morning, she had no idea their relationship would take such a turn. It wasn’t something she’d planned on. To be honest, she didn’t plan on it because she thought it would never happen—even though she hoped with all her heart it might. But she vowed she would never push Roma Jean into anything she wasn’t ready for.

  As it turned out, Roma Jean ended up being a lot more ready than Charlie could have imagined.

  It all happened so naturally, too. Without any hoopla or big buildup—just like the best things in life always did.

  They ate their picnic lunch atop one of the many balds—large outcroppings of rock and low grasses. The Appalachian Trail crossed that part of the park, and right now it was ablaze with rhododendron—brilliant white and fuchsia blossoms that huddled in great clusters and shimmied in the warm breezes blowing across the high meadows. They didn’t talk much. They didn’t have to. It was clear to each of them that something had changed. They drank a bottle of iced tea and ate pasta salad and bites of ham from the same containers—sharing a fork, just like an old married couple. Some wild ponies grazed nearby. They didn’t seem bothered at all by the two humans invading their space. It was so warm, fragrant and relaxing that Charlie wanted nothing more than to stretch out on the soft grass and nap in the sun. But Roma Jean suggested they hike, instead, and try to walk off the meal.

  So, they did—choosing to venture along the Cabin Creek Trail because it ended at a spectacular waterfall. The hike down was long, and they were tired and sweaty by the time they reached the falls. It was getting later in the day and the area was deserted, probably because of the two-mile trek back to the parking area near the cutoff for Massie Gap. Charlie really wasn’t looking forward to that part. But the breathtaking view of the falls was worth the torture it would be getting back to the car.

  So was the way Roma Jean looked.

  Her short-sleeved cotton blouse was sticking to her skin in all the right places. And she’d tied her mane of red hair up in a loose and rakish knot, exposing a long slope of neck that was usually hidden from sight. Charlie’s view of that smooth-looking swath of pale skin felt strangely illicit. The innocence and intimacy of the experience surprised her. It was hard not to stare at it as they sat together on the edge of a moss-covered rock and cooled their bare feet in the clear dark pool of water collecting at the base of the waterfall. It was even harder to keep from touching it—so hard that she finally sat on her hands to still them.

  The roar of the water cascading down from more than thirty feet above them was deafening. It was so loud that communicating with words was impossible without shouting. And neither of them wanted to shout. So, they sat without speaking and moved their feet around in lazy circles, watching how the sunlight shining though the red spruce and big-toothed aspen trees made the falling spray glitter like diamonds. Roma Jean was leaning back on her elbows with her head tipped up toward the narrow opening at the top of their private world. A dozen shifting rays of light made brilliant patterns across her long body. Charlie thought she looked just like the women in those old religious paintings—the ones who were having visions or being blessed by God. She could not remember another moment like this one—a split-second when every good thing, real and imagined, came together in a quiet storm of feeling. The immediacy of it overwhelmed her. It stole her breath and swept her heart up into an avalanche of emotion that dwarfed the power of the crashing water. Her emotions were so palpable, she was afraid Roma Jean would notice—and reject her for behaving like a love-crazed lunatic.

  But if Roma Jean did notice Charlie’s distress, she didn’t seem bothered by it. Not at all.

  She lowered her head and looked over at Charlie. Her expression was calm and beautiful. She smiled and leaned forward to kiss Charlie gently on the mouth. Charlie didn’t move. She was afraid to. But Roma Jean kept right on kissing her—with more intent and greater urgency. Charlie closed her eyes and listened as the beating of her heart drowned out the noise of the water raining down around them. When Roma Jean’s mouth opened beneath hers, Charlie thought she might pass out.

  Just as abruptly, the sweet contact ended and Roma Jean backed away.

  Charlie opened her eyes, afraid they’d gone too far. Afraid to see the doubt and uncertainty that she knew would be staring back at her from Roma Jean’s luminous eyes.

  But Roma Jean wasn’t looking at her. She was sitting erect, and calmly unbuttoning her blouse.

  Charlie watched with disbelief and elated panic as Roma Jean removed the rest of her clothing and revealed herself—naked and unashamed. She gave Charlie a small, special smile that contained her signature mix of coyness and shyness before sliding off their rock into the cold water. Charlie watched the expression on her face change from confidence to shock as her body reacted to the abrupt change in temperature. She hovered above the surface for only a moment before submerging herself in the flood. Charlie could see her beautiful form moving and flashing like bits of gold beneath the clear water. When she rose back up like a wave and stood with water streaming across her shoulders and breasts, Charlie was too stunned to move.

  Roma Jean said something, but the noise of the waterfall combining with the noise raging inside Charli
e’s head made it impossible for her to hear.

  “Are you coming in?” Roma Jean shouted her question this time.

  Charlie remained frozen in place—still sitting on her hands to keep them from shaking.

  Roma Jean waded over to where she sat. Charlie had to fight not to gape at her beautiful body and the things the cold water had done to it.

  Roma Jean placed her wet hands on Charlie’s thighs. The sensation was thrilling—like being frozen and burned at the same time.

  “I want you to come in with me,” she whispered. “Now.”

  Charlie could barely make out her words, but she didn’t need to. She knew in her viscera what Roma Jean was asking—what she was offering. Freely.

  Charlie slid off the rock into Roma Jean’s arms. She was still wearing her clothes, but she didn’t care. The cold water surrounded them, but she didn’t care about that, either. Roma Jean wrapped her arms around Charlie’s neck and pulled her head down.

  “I love you,” she murmured against Charlie’s mouth. “I know it and I’m not afraid.”

  Charlie let go of her own fear. She knew with certainty that once they embraced this prospect, their lives would never be the same. Like the wise men of old, they would go back another way.

  Wound together like vines on the towering trees that had stood watch over this sacred spot for generations, they drifted as one toward the cascade of falling water.

  The rest of that experience would be something Charlie would relive again and again. Probably forever. The thought of it all made returning to everyday life impossible. That meant she didn’t want to be the first responder to somebody else’s Sunday night misfortune. If she couldn’t be with Roma Jean right now, then she wanted to be left alone with the warm memory of their day together.

  The radio in her cruiser erupted again.

  “Car four, this is dispatch. Do you copy?”

  There was no ignoring it now. If the dispatcher was trying this hard to reach her, it had to be important. She picked up the handset.

  “Dispatch, this is Davis.” She let out a deep breath. “Whattaya got?”

  “Hey, Charlie.” It was Selma Dees, the chain-smoking central dispatch operator who’d ridden shotgun on the seamier side of life in this county for nearly thirty years. “Sorry to roll you out on Sunday night, but things is heatin’ up and we’re short-staffed. We got a report of a 10-37 out on Highway 58, just west of Baywood.”