by Webb, Peggy
“What’cha doing then?”
“I’m trying to make rocks, see? Mama says if you wish hard enough, you can make anything come true, and I thought I’d be like Moses, see? Only I’m not turning rocks to water, I’m turning water to rocks.” She sniffled again, then wadded her hand into a fist. “And when I do, I’m gonna throw them all at old Lola Jean Crumpet.”
“How come?”
“For calling my mama a stinking washerwoman. “
No, he didn’t have to ask why.
Silently, Martha poured out his cold coffee and refilled his cup.
“I love Kathleen,” he said. “I never stopped loving her.”
Martha Kimbrough stared at her coffee as if she were trying to make up her mind, then with a long sigh she reached over and patted his hand.
“And she never stopped loving you.”
“I want to see her, Martha.”
“I don’t know....”
Silk skirts rustled in the hallway, and the faint fragrance of gardenia wafted into the room. Hunter froze.
“Good morning, Martha.”
When Kathleen appeared in the doorway, Hunter’s breathing stopped. In the soft light of morning she was exquisitely beautiful, her long hair tumbled over her shoulders exactly as he remembered and the blush of roses still on her fair cheeks.
But there was something else on her cheeks—a bruise. And two on her arms. There was no telling how many were hidden on her legs underneath her skirts.
Battle scars from her fight to reclaim her dancing skills. Kathleen Shaw had never known how to accept defeat.
She came into the room, moving with the fluid grace that had always been her hallmark. Suddenly her hands flew to her locket and her eyes stared straight at Hunter.
“Martha?”
Hunter stood up slowly like a man in a dream. Kathleen traced the engraving on the face of the locket with her index finger.
“I have the strangest feeling that Hunter is in this room with me. I feel the rush of his blood through my body and the beat of his heart against mine.” Clutching her locket, she closed her eyes. “It’s almost as if I’m sixteen again and waiting for him to carry me off in that little boat we used to borrow when no one was looking.”
Hunter tried to control his breathing. They had made love on that little boat, coupled together sleek as seals with river water sloshing over the sides and the herons calling to them from the swamps.
Kathleen opened her eyes, and once more he had the eerie sensation that she was seeing him. Martha motioned frantically for him to leave, but he could no more leave Kathleen than he could stop breathing.
“Do you think it’s this place, Martha, or my own impossible longings?” Kathleen’s color deepened, and she pushed her hair back from her forehead in the impatient gesture Hunter had seen her use a thousand times. “Oh, don’t tell me I’m foolish. I know that.”
She came toward the table then, stopping only inches from where he stood.
“It’s this place. It’s full of ghosts.”
She reached to find her chair, and it took all Hunter’s willpower to keep from taking her groping hands and lifting them to his lips. When she was seated, Martha squeezed her hand, then wrote something in her palm.
“Bacon and eggs?” Her laugh was merry. “Goodness, no. If I listened to you, I’d be so fat, I’d roll around the dance floor like a baby hippo. I’m going to sit here in the sun.... Martha, why don’t I feel the sun coming through the window? Is the shade down?”
Martha’s hand flew to her mouth, and Hunter realized he was blocking the sun. He stepped out of its path, then watched the beam of light fall over Kathleen. She turned her face to its warmth, and once more she seemed to be looking straight at him.
“That’s better.” She drew a long sigh. “I wish I could go out in the sun without my hat and veil.”
Martha took her palm and wrote emphatically. Kathleen recoiled.
“And have someone see me like this? ‘Poor blind, deaf woman,’ they’d say. ‘Didn’t she used to be a ballerina?’” She stood up and stalked toward the kitchen cabinets. “No! I’d rather be dead.” She was moving so fast, she misjudged the distance, and the edge of the counter caught her in the abdomen. Without a word, she straightened herself up, then felt in the cabinets until she found a bowl and a box of cereal. She measured her cereal precisely, using her fingers, then reached into the refrigerator for the milk.
“I will not enter the world until I can do it on my own terms.” When she jerked out the milk carton, a jar rolled off the shelf and shattered at her feet.
“Stay right where you are, Martha.” Kathleen lifted her chin and turned a fierce proud stare in Martha’s general direction. “It’s my mess. I’ll clean it up. And don’t you dare tell me I’ll cut myself. I won’t.”
She felt along the wall until she found the towel rack, then squatting on the floor, she began carefully to mop up the spilled pickles. Surrounding her were the tools of the blind: a Braillewriter on the small desk beneath the window, a collapsible cane, the hat with the veil.
Hunter felt worse than a thief as he watched her; he felt like a betrayer. She had the same strong-willed, stiff-necked pride that he did. If he had been in her situation, he’d have been equally determined to make a comeback on his own terms.
They were one and the same. You are me and I am you, she’d said long ago. And it was still true.
He had no right to stand in her kitchen and watch her groping around the floor trying not to cut herself. By trying to impose himself on her, he was serving his own selfish needs. Not hers.
Quietly he let himself out, then stood beyond her kitchen door with his heart bursting and his throat aching. Inside was the woman he’d lost... twice. And he was in danger of losing her again.
Should he leave and give her the time she wanted, or should he stay? If she found out he’d seen her and then left, she’d surely think it was because of her handicaps; but if he stayed, she’d think it was out of pity.
As he often did when he was faced with a problem that seemed to have no answer, Hunter began to run. The rude cottages on a run-down street gave way to antebellum houses set on guarded lawns. Bells on the trolleys clanged and musicians on street corners called to him to stop and enjoy the music as he raced by. In the distance he could hear chimes from the cathedral intermingled with the blues from a lonesome sax.
Sweat poured down his face and wet the back of his shirt. Hunter sucked oxygen into his lungs and kept on running. He didn’t stop until he reached the cathedral.
It was cool and gloomy inside, lit by candles flickering on the altar and faint rays of sun that filtered through stained-glass windows. Winded, heartsick, desperate, he clung to the massive carved archway... just as he had the day he’d come home to claim Kathleen Shaw.
“Didn’t you get my letters?” his mother had asked him the day he’d docked in Jefferson Parish.
“I’ve been in a damned Congo prison for the last two years.”
“Kathleen’s marrying Dr. Earl Lennox.”
“Kathleen... marrying another man? When? Where?”
“Today. St. Louis Cathedral.’”
He’d raced through the streets of New Orleans, trying to make it to the church on time; but he was too late. Just as he burst through the door, the minister pronounced them man and wife.
His howl of anguish rose up from his very soul. “KATHLEEN!”
She turned around, and her face became as white as her wedding gown. The look in her eyes pierced his heart, and it lay torn and bleeding somewhere in a body he could no longer feel. Wedding guests turned to stare at him. He was bearded, scruffy, his eyes red-rimmed from the long trip across the ocean.
With his feet planted wide and his hands balled into fists, he stood underneath the archway as he and Kathleen stared at each other. He saw her lips move as she silently spoke his name.
I love you. His lips formed the words. She bent toward him like a willow in a strong wind.
“You came too late,” she said when she was even with Hunter, and then she passed through the doors and out of his life.
The wedding guests hurried out behind them, and he was left clinging to the archway, chanting her name like a drunken sailor.
Agony rose up in him afresh, and he cried out as he had so many years before. “KATHLEEN!”
Her name ricocheted off the vaulted ceilings and mocked him.
Kathleen... Kathleen... Kathleen.
Alarmed, an old priest hurried toward him, his robes rustling in the stillness.
“My son, is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, thank you, Father. It’s far too late.”
“It’s never too late. Would you like to talk about it?”
“Confess my sins?” Hunter’s laugh was hollow. “There’s not enough grace in the world to cleanse my black soul. Besides, I’m used to hell.”
With one last look at the altar rail where Kathleen had pledged herself to another man, Hunter turned and walked from the cathedral.
“Come again,” the old priest called after him.
But he knew he wouldn’t. The only one who could save him was Kathleen, and she could no longer hear him confess his sins.
It was raining hard when he stepped outside the cathedral. Hunter walked home in the downpour, and the first thing he did when he got there was pick up the phone. There were all kinds of hell, and one of the worst was ignorance.
He dialed the number that was emblazoned in his memory, hoping that Kathleen had done the same as he, kept everything about her childhood home exactly as it had been when they were growing up. Martha answered on the sixth ring.
“This is Hunter La Farge—no, please don’t hang up. I need to know the name of the clinic in Saldanha and the name of the doctor who treated Kathleen... yes, you heard right. Now that I’ve found her, I’m never going to let her go again.”
o0o
It took two hours to locate Dr. Heinrich Garth.
“Damage from the explosion was extensive to the retina,” he finally said. “Kathleen Shaw will never see again.”
Hunter fought against the dreadful truth. For Kathleen, there had to be a miracle.
“Do other experts concur with your diagnosis?”
“Yes. I had them flown in. One in England, one in France, and one in the United States.”
“Surely there is something that can be done.”
“There is nothing, Mr. La Farge. I urge you not to build false hopes in this woman. Her vision will never return.”
Gripping the phone so hard that his knuckles turned white, Hunter contained his agony.
“And her hearing?”
There was no sound, and for a moment Hunter thought the line had gone dead.
“There is a possibility she will regain her hearing.”
“She’ll hear again?”
“There are no guarantees.”
“What can I do to make it happen?”
Again, the long silence. And then a sigh.
“Pray,” Dr. Garth said.
Hunter held the phone long after it was dead. And then the man who had always relied only on himself dropped to his knees and prayed to a god he wasn’t even sure existed.
o0o
“Martha, is it dark yet?”
According to her Braille watch it should be, but Kathleen wanted to make certain.
Martha tapped her once on the hand. Yes.
“I’m going to the special tree.”
She sensed Martha’s agitation. Did she disapprove? Perhaps. Martha was not the kind of woman who would cling to old dreams.
She put on her hat and dropped the veil into place. No sense in taking chances. Outside, she stood for a moment feeling the breeze in her hair.
She wondered if the cicadas were singing.
For a moment she thought she heard them. Cocking her head, she listened. But there was only silence.
As she made her way across the yard she wanted to pull off her shoes to feel the cool tickle of grass on her feet, but she was afraid of stepping on a stick or a stone. She had enough injuries without adding more.
When Spanish moss brushed against her face, she parted its lacy curtain and stepped inside. Instantly she froze. There was a brooding presence about the tree... and something else, another presence, big and solid, pulling at her like a magnet.
Hunter. She leaned her head against the trunk and closed her eyes, feeling once more his lips on hers, his hands moving over her body, branding her, possessing her. So real was the vision that she almost sank to the ground and spread herself out to receive him.
She put one hand over her locket to ground herself in reality. Hunter was in Africa, and she was deaf and blind. Period. End of dream.
With her other hand, she pushed away from the trunk—and felt the piece of paper in the knothole. Her hands shook as she pulled it out and unfolded it. Inside lay a heart-shaped locket, the engraving a perfect match to the one that hung around her neck.
Breathless, she traced the fleur-de-lis, and as she did she felt the raised lettering on the paper. Braille.
My darling Kat...
“Hunter?”
She felt his hand on hers, the long blunt fingers, the moon-shaped scar in his palm. He tapped once. Yes.
“No! It can’t be. I won’t let you see me like this.”
She tried to run, but he caught her shoulders. Cursing the darkness and the silence, she kicked him on the shin.
“Dammit, Kat! Hold still.”
She stiffened. Did she hear him or was it merely her imagination, drawing on ancient memories?
“Did you say something?” She cocked her head, listening for an answer, but there was nothing except the dark night filled with smells and silence.
Hunter lifted her hand to his lips. They were warm and insistent against her palm, setting off such a storm of emotional conflict that her whole body trembled.
“I can’t bear it if you kiss me, Hunter. Please, don’t.”
He released her hand, then gently pressed it to the Braille letter. She jerked it away.
“No. I don’t want to know why you came or what you have to say. All I want you to do is leave.”
He pressed her hand to the letter once more. There was no gentleness in him now, and she knew he would not relent. Hunter’s will was as strong as hers, perhaps stronger. He would never back down.
Nor would she.
“No!” she said, and made a move to tear the letter. He put out his hand to stop her. His arm was rigid, and she knew his body would be the same way, as unyielding as the massive trunk of the live oak tree.
“I’ll scream if you don’t let me go.”
He wrote in her palm with bold, angry strokes.
Scream.
Memories threatened her once more. The last time she’d threatened to scream, they’d ended up on the ground together, joined heart, body, and soul.
They’d both thought it would be forever. Inside, Kathleen wept for the lost innocence of her youth.
She felt the heat of Hunter’s body and his warm breath against her cheek. He was so close... and yet he might as well still have been in Africa.
“Why did you have to find me?” she whispered.
He lifted her veil and cupped her face. His hands were exquisitely tender as he traced her eyebrows, her cheekbones, her lips. She knew he was going to kiss her; she felt it in the way he held his body, the way he touched her skin.
And she knew she was going to let him. Because she had to. Because she would not be able to live if she didn’t feel his lips on hers once more.
Suddenly she was in his arms, pressed hard against his chest, her lips open and waiting for his. The first touch sent shock waves through her. Thirteen long years had dimmed the memories. Reality far exceeded the dreams.
She clung to him, u
naware of his groans and her own deep-throated sounds of satisfaction. There was no gentleness in them, but the sharp, all-consuming sensations of being reborn. Taste and feel and smell were heightened until their very skin hummed with the electricity of their kiss.
Pressed tightly against him, she felt her blood leave her body and flow through his, felt the strength of his heart beating in her chest. For a heady moment power and beauty and grace surged through her, so that she believed her life lay just ahead of her, in this city with this man. As his tongue delved into her mouth she was sixteen again and filled with promise.
She wove her hands into his hair. It was longer than she remembered. Was it still as dark as the boot blacking used by the old shoe-shine man on the corner of Bourbon and Canal? It felt as untamed. With his beard he must be an awesome sight, every inch the swashbuckling vagabond pirate of her memories. Her Prince Valiant. Her best friend. Her hero.
As she clung to him she felt all her resolve crumbling. His body heat melted her, and her knees started to buckle. Hunter pressed her against the trunk of the tree, just as he had so many years ago, and his hands roamed freely over her body.
He used to murmur her name, over and over, in a voice so rich and deep with love, it sounded like music. Was he calling her name now?
Hunter braced his arms on either side of her body, and with her back against the tree she felt the full impact of his passion. He had always been a turbulent man, full of thunder and lightning and storm winds, and now he raged through her with hurricane force. All the years she’d spent with Earl went tumbling away like chaff before the gale, and she knew that there had never been another man for her, would never be another man except Hunter La Farge.
Reason told her to leave immediately, to run as far and as fast as she could, but passion had nothing to do with reason. Her body was twisting in the wind, and she was begging to be rescued.
“Hunter... oh, Hunter...”
Savage, unrelenting, he ground his mouth and hips against her, and even through their clothes she felt the sweet hot friction. She slid her hands inside his shirt and sank her fingernails into his back, screaming into his open mouth as the spasms shook her.
He held her, gentling her with his hands, his lips, his tongue. He licked away the sweat that inched down the side of her neck and into her cleavage. Spasms shook her anew as his tongue dipped beneath her neckline. With long, sweeping strokes he soothed and provoked until she was pleading once more, his name on her lips like some ancient litany to a demanding god.
