Saving Tess

by J. Lynn Bailey

  “God,” I whisper through our kisses.

  Slowly, I move her to her back and slip inside her.

  Our mouths move like we’re hungry and hurting at the same time, wanting more of each other, as if this space we have isn’t close enough.

  Her hands are slow.

  I break away from our kiss and look into her eyes; they’re glassy and full of tears.

  “Tess …”

  “Don’t worry; they’re good tears.”

  I nod as I move my mouth to her breast. I take the full, hard nipple into my mouth and tug.

  Quietly, she whimpers as my finger moves against her knot. “Is this what you want?”

  “Yes.” She sucks in air as if her life depends on it.

  “Tell me.” I stop moving as I watch her on the bed, her chest moving with anticipation. “Do you want this?” Touching my mouth between her legs, her sweet smell around me, I open her folds and toy with her, my tongue moving and teasing.

  Her entire body shivers as she calls out, “Casey … more.” Her pelvis thrusts toward me.

  She hides her face in ecstasy.

  Again, I stroke her with my tongue, this time applying pressure as her thighs begin to quiver.

  Sliding my finger inside her, I watch her begin to unravel.

  The condom still on, and with one last tease of her knot, I move my body on top of hers.

  “Please, Casey,” she pants.

  And it’s when our eyes connect that I push myself inside her.

  I watch our childhood memories play through her face like reruns.

  I watch as she devours this feeling I give her with euphoria.

  I watch her eyes close as she takes her breasts in her hands and tugs at herself.

  She pulls me to her and kisses me deeply, bites at my lip, holds me closer, as if she could.

  Afraid I’ll end this party early, I stop. Stare down at her.

  “Are you all right?” she asks.

  “I am.” I delicately kiss her lips. “But this feels too good, and I need to slow down.”

  Gently, I push into her again and begin to move. She holds me in the spot she needs me, and I watch as her face begins to lose control.

  “I want to watch you fall, Tess. Just fall.” And when I say this, she screams.

  And I push into her one last time.

  We fall together, and for several minutes, we lie in the darkness.

  “Tess?”

  No answer.

  With our bodies intertwined, wrapped in each other, she’s fallen asleep.

  The nagging thought returns to my head. Tell her, you asshole. You have to tell her before it’s too late.

  Maybe I should wait to tell her. I’m afraid she’ll push me away and not allow me to help with the house financially. And then she’ll really be in a bind because she’s so damn stubborn.

  But she deserves to know.

  After the house is done, I tell myself.

  It’s the next morning. Tess and I made love once more in bed and then in the shower.

  Emmitt wipes his brow in the early morning sun peeking through the downstairs window, and I’m brought to the present moment.

  “The floor is rotten down here too. So, we will need to move all this stuff out and redo the walls and some of the Sheetrock.”

  Tess and I exchange glances.

  “Will this put us behind schedule?” she asks.

  “Just a day or so.”

  Tess says, “I just worry about you working in the cold, Emmitt.”

  Emmitt chuckles. “I appreciate your concern, Tess, but I’ll be fine. I might be old, but I ain’t dead.”

  But he looks at her differently. Not like a woman who’s hired him to repair her house, but like a child, I guess. Someone he takes care in knowing. Someone who’s both proud of her empathy and concern for his welfare.

  Emmitt says, “So, if you guys could move all this stuff to the outside garage for the time being, that would be wonderful.” He turns to walk away but stops quickly in his tracks. “Oh, Casey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Great rides this weekend. The guys were taking bets on how well you’d ride. Not too shabby.”

  “Thank you. Appreciate it.”

  He whistles through his teeth. “But when you got hung up, that whole damn bar about died.”

  I look at Tess to see her body tense. “I like to make things exciting, Emmitt.”

  Tess gently pushes me. “See, you jump-started everyone’s heart.”

  Giving her a quick kiss on the head, letting her know I’m not going anywhere, I say, “Who won bets?”

  Emmitt says, “Me.”

  “I wouldn’t have taken you for a betting man.”

  “I only bet when I know I’m going to win.” And with that, he walks upstairs to the outside to roust his men.

  The rainy afternoon is spent moving boxes from the lower level to the outside garage. Once we’re done moving boxes, we start to dig through them. What to keep, what not to keep, and what to give to Michael, Ike’s son.

  “Man, Ike really liked to write,” I say.

  “Look at this, Case. It’s an old typewriter.”

  “Might want to save that. Could be an antique one day.”

  “Save it? I’m going to use it.” She slips her phone out of her back pocket and takes a photo. “I just texted Michael to see if he wants it.”

  Her phone chirps almost immediately with, I assume, a response.

  “Said I could have it.” Tess inspects the typewriter. “Might just need a new ribbon, but other than that, it looks good.”

  A strand of hair falls in Tess’s face, and instinctively, I push it behind her ear.

  God, I’ve wanted this for so long. Her. Us.

  She drops her head to the side. “What?”

  But it’s not the right time to tell her. Not yet. For her own sake.

  “Just thinkin’ about how lucky I am.” I move my hands around her waist and pull her close to me, kissing her lips lightly.

  She stands on her tiptoes to kiss me. “That’s funny,” she says, “because I was just thinking that same thing.”

  Tess seems lighter. Like the weight of her mind from last night is somehow less heavy.

  “How do you feel?” I ask.

  She nods. “A little better.”

  But I still see the contrition she keeps. I’m not sure that will ever go away. I see the haze behind her bright smile, the one she gives everyone. I see Tess for Tess. Not for the woman she portrays to be. I suppose she sees me for me and not the man I portray either.

  “What’s that box? Last one?” She’s looking behind me, and I turn.

  It’s a small box, and she lets go and walks to it. Opens it.

  “Letters.” She laughs. “Go figure.”

  But when she looks more closely at them, her face changes.

  “What is it?” I walk closer to her.

  She holds up the letter to read it better. “These … these are letters from Dillon Creek. From … my mother.” Tess looks up at me.

  32

  The Ladybugs

  Admitting what Mabe did to Chief McBride has never been on the top of her to-do list. Not ever.

  But she once heard a motto that says, “How free do you want to be?”

  For one thing, Mabe didn’t want to drink again, and she surely doesn’t want Patty to drink again either.

  They’ve both harbored enough guilt to drop an American hero square in his tracks. It is time to let go.

  First, Patty tells her husband. It was before they were married and Patty was barely an adult, barely eighteen, sheltered, Patty explains but does not hide behind those excuses. She snuck out that night from her home, and it changed everything.

  Mabe, Patty, and her husband, Ron, talk frankly.

  Ron simply said, “Honey, I don’t want you to drink again, and if this is your way to freedom, we need to do it.”

  Nobody knows if Mabe or Patty will do prison time. But they have to
trust God.

  So, here they both are, outside the chief’s house on a Sunday after church, staring at the McBrides’ red front door.

  “Are you ready?” Mabe asks.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose,” Patty says.

  Mabe takes Patty’s hand. “Even if we go to prison, Patty, at least our souls will finally be free, and maybe we’ll get stuck in a prison that makes the best pudding west of the Mississippi.”

  Patty thinks about her children, and her heart begins to ache. But what’s the alternative? Patty asks herself. If we don’t confess and I can’t be free, this awful choice I made all those years ago will haunt me forever.

  Even if Patty and Mabe go to prison, at least she’ll get out someday. Maybe.

  Mabe knocks.

  Patty holds her breath.

  The chief answers. “Well, hello, Mabe! To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “I’m afraid it’s official business, Chief. May we come in?”

  The chief’s face falls in concern. “Absolutely.”

  They sit in the living room, and Mabe introduces Patty to the chief.

  Patty begins her story.

  The chief listens.

  Mabe starts her story.

  The chief listens.

  “And I’d been drinking that night, Chief. That’s why I left. I didn’t want to get into trouble. I didn’t want rumors to spread around Dillon Creek, so I took the cowardly way out.”

  The chief sits back in his recliner, his fingers creating a steeple. He thinks.

  Patty tells him about her drinking and her alcoholism.

  “And how old are you now?” he asks.

  “Twenty-six, sir.”

  “Do you have a family?”

  Her eyes flood with tears. “Yes, sir. Two children and a husband. We live in Fortuna.”

  The chief knows that there is absolutely nothing that Mabe or Patty could have done for those boys that night. But the chief’s concern is the acceleration of speed toward the tree. Was it murder? No, probably not. But if the chief wants to sleep at night from this point forth, he’s got to investigate all the evidence again. They never tested the engine for any issues. The boys’ blood alcohol level was enough to prove they had been drinking and driving—until Patty stepped into the picture.

  The chief leans forward. “As an officer of the law, I need to make sure all leads are investigated. With that said, I am going to make some calls, and I will get back to you. What you both did today was brave. However, I wish that this had come to fruition sooner.”

  “Thank you, Chief. I look forward to receiving your call. Are we … are we free to go?”

  “Yes, you’re free to go. But don’t run off to Mexico or anything.”

  Patty and Mabe barely smile.

  “No, we wouldn’t do that, Chief.”

  “I know. It was a joke.”

  33

  Tess

  I examine the handwriting. In the middle of the envelopes, they’re both addressed to Ike at his address in Dillon Creek and in Ketchikan.

  My first thought is, They were having an affair, but my mother is quite a bit younger than Ike was.

  “What’s the letter say?” Casey asks.

  I look at him as if he’d asked me to tuck in the moon. This is odd, but there’s got to be a simple explanation, right?

  When I take out the letter, a picture falls out.

  It’s me.

  Tess, age four, it reads on the back.

  A prickle of chills waves through my body.

  I unfold the letter.

  December 1998

  Dear Ike,

  Sometimes, I look back and wonder how we got so lucky with our Tess. I suppose everything happens in God’s time.

  I know he’s got a plan, but with the wind, so to speak, sometimes, it’s hard to see.

  And we did as you’d requested. We changed her name to Tess, as I’m sure you’ve heard.

  Could you pass this picture on to Esther and Martin?

  Hope all is well with you in Ketchikan.

  Best,

  Mavis

  Slowly, I hand Casey the letter. “How … how does my mother know Esther and Martin? And what does she mean by changing my name?”

  I take out the other letter. This one is addressed to Ike’s address in Dillon Creek. Another picture falls out—Tess, age 5.

  December 1999

  Dear Ike,

  Here’s a picture of Tess in a dress. You cannot get this girl in a dress if her life depended on it.

  Give it to Esther and Martin when you see them.

  Best,

  Mavis

  I take out another letter along with another picture—Tess and Tripp.

  December 2000

  Dear Ike,

  Here’s a picture of Tess and Tripp on our way to get Christmas trees at Fisher’s Christmas Tree Farm in Hydesville.

  Can you believe we got snow this year?

  Tess learned to ride a bicycle and started dance and learned to tie her shoes.

  Truth be told, she has two left feet, but I think she enjoys it, and that’s all I can ask for.

  Best,

  Mavis

  P.S. Give Esther and Martin our best and the picture.

  I sit down on a bucket that’s close by and attempt to wrap my mind around this as I pull out another letter, handing the one I just read to Casey. Instead of opening the next one, I count the letters that are in the box.

  “There are nineteen.” I stare up at Casey. I’m sure his mind is spinning too. “Why nineteen?”

  My mom could only send me pictures dating back to age five. I tell Casey the story about the phone conversation with my mom and the response that I received from her.

  “She said she couldn’t find them, Case,” I say in disbelief.

  Casey shakes his head. “Your mom is the most organized person in all of Dillon Creek.”

  “I know.”

  I read the next letter.

  December 2001

  Dear Ike,

  I hope this note finds you well.

  It’s official. Tess hates dance, so you won’t see her in The Nutcracker performance this year at the Dillon Creek Repertory Theater. But she’s made some wonderful friends. Anna Cain and Casey Atwood. Mark my words, Ike, she’s destined to marry the Atwood boy. He’s such a well-mannered young man. There’s no doubt, Daryl and Laurel did a fine job with those boys.

  Anyhow, here’s a picture of the three of them. They’re all tanned from the heat wave we had this summer. I think it’s odd to have a heat wave in Dillon Creek. Maybe Gore is right about global warming.

  Anyhow, I digress.

  All my best,

  Mavis

  I don’t know if it’s my mother’s words or the picture that makes my eyes prickle with tears.

  The before.

  Before the storm.

  Before the hurt.

  Before the death of two young boys.

  The tragedy that sits between us is like new grief.

  Casey watches me as I hand him the next letter, the next photo. I breathe in the cool, crisp air from the open garage. He sets down the letter, pulls me to him, and holds me.

  My mind spins.

  With my ear against the thumping of his heart, I wonder why it beats so hard. Perhaps it’s for me. Maybe he’s feeling my unresolve, my nerves, but instead of asking, I allow his heartbeat to give me rest. I find mood in the beat. We sit here, in the middle of the garage, and give ourselves this moment of uncertainty.

  “I need to go talk to Esther,” I whisper.

  “You might get the answers you’re looking for. Do you want me to go with you?”

  I pull away and look up at Casey. Marvel at his ruggedly handsome looks but mostly his heart. That is a side that many don’t see—except in the viral video with Mr. Austin. I think that’s the day that America fell in love with my Casey.

  “No, this is something I need to do alone.”

  He nods and ki
sses my mouth for a few seconds too long. Because we both feel the heat between us, I’m barely able to pull away.

  I drive down to the Visitor Center with the box of letters.

  What’s the worst that can happen? I ask myself as I stare up at the Visitor Center.

  But when I look closer, it looks darker than I remember. Are they even open? I grab the box of letters, my heart pounding, and I approach the two-story building, but it’s dark inside. It’s locked when I give the door a pull. I peer through the tinted windows, and it’s still.

  I don’t have Esther’s number.

  I walk back to the truck, get in, and pull the door shut. I stare at Tongass Narrows as a bald eagle lands on the hood of the truck and stares right back at me.

  Taken aback, I stare at its sharp features and regal look. Its stunning, sleek feathers put me in a trance.

  And then the eagle unfolds its wings out to where its wingspan is longer than the front end of the truck.

  I’ve never witnessed anything more beautiful than what I’m seeing right now.

  It lets out a high-pitched whistling while staring right at me.

  Of all the places this eagle could land, why on a borrowed truck while I’m sitting at the Visitor Center?

  It calls again, as if willing me to understand what it’s trying to say.

  “What?” I whisper. “What do you want?” Chills shoot through my body.

  With a loud whoosh, the eagle moves its wings and takes flight, and I stare up through the top of the windshield.

  In disbelief, I fall back to the seat when the eagle flies out of sight.

  Look up, the quiet voice inside me says, and when I do, there’s a woman on a bench overlooking the same view I am, except closer.

  She’s petite, little, with dark hair. I follow the inner voice inside me that tells me to get out of the truck and walk toward the woman.

  So as not to startle the woman, I walk to the other side of the bench.

  It’s Esther.

  I breathe in a sigh of relief.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she says. She smiles and reaches for my hand.

  It dawns on me that I forgot the box of letters in the truck.

  “You’re here about the letters,” she says, still staring out to the body of water in front of us. “Sometimes, if we just sit and wait for the Great Spirit, we see the most striking things life has to offer.”