Tell Me When It Hurts

by Christine Whitehead

  In her imagination, Archer envisioned people staring and pointing as she moved down the center aisle. She imagined them saying, That’s Archer, the weird sister. You know, she went crazy when her own daughter died. Never thought she’d show up. But the organ played on, and beyond a few polite nods, the crowd barely noticed her.

  Archer walked farther and farther forward, searching for a seat, and then it struck her: she was family. This was her mother, who, with all her faults, was worthy of being mourned and shown respect in this final tribute. Archer moved to the front of the church and slipped into the front pew, next to Sharon.

  Sharon was smoothing Julie’s hair when Archer moved into the space on the aisle. Sharon turned with a faint smile, which instantly froze.

  Sharon’s eyes filled with tears. She had not seen her sister for almost three years, since the day Archer told her she was moving away to a cabin in the Berkshires. Sharon had gotten a cell phone number in the mail a few days later, but no address, no e-mail. Since then there had been no photos, no gifts, no birthday cards, no visits.

  Archer looked thin and small, but better and stronger than the last time Sharon saw her. Then she’d been a broken woman with dark hollows under her eyes, muddy skin, and a perpetually startled look. Sharon had thought Archer looked like those young horses she used to ride: ready to spook at any loud sound or unfamiliar sight.

  Today her dark hair was simple and straight, her light green eyes clear, her skin fresh. Sharon blinked, and a tear rolled down her cheek. Archer’s arms reached out; Sharon grasped them.

  “I’m sorry, Archer. I didn’t mean what I said,” Sharon wept.

  “Shh, it’s okay,” Archer whispered as the minister began the service.

  Julie and David stared curiously at this woman they did not know.

  * * *

  When the organ swell signaled the service’s conclusion, Sharon stood and waved her children, Ted, and Archer toward the West Street Grill on the green for lunch. She greeted mourners as they left, and paused for a few reminiscences about her mother. Ted kissed Archer on the cheek and gave her a hug as he hurried back to the hospital.

  Once at the restaurant, Archer and Sharon laughed like old times. They were seated at a big booth, with a solid oak table between them. Rustic chandeliers hung at periodic intervals while blue glasses and white napkins adorned each table. A pretty blond waitress in black pants and a white shirt hurried to wipe off the oak top as Archer and her family slid into the brown leather seats.

  Archer and Sharon spoke fondly of their mother, recalling her affinity for all things Hungarian, which went along with her resistance to completely adopting the English language.

  “Remember how, no matter where she was, she would find the one Hungarian person in town, and all of a sudden they’d be comparing butcher shops and inviting each other to dinner?” Archer recalled.

  “Yeah, a dinner I would have to cook. How about the time when she said the steaks were ‘laminating’ instead of marinating?”

  “Oh, God, yeah. Those were some tough steaks. Oh, and then there was the ever popular ‘swell fella’—you know, ‘He’s a swell fella’?” This got them both laughing.

  Archer turned and looked at Julie, sitting beside her in the booth. She smiled at her niece, then said to Sharon, “She has the Loh smile—like Annie did.”

  Sharon eyed her sister, fearing tears but seeing only pleasure in her face. She gazed at Julie and David, noting their enjoyment of the banter and of the attention from their lively, pretty aunt. Then Julie piped up. “Aunt Archer, I thought you lived in a cave with wolves or something and had, like, long fingernails and ate out of cans. Do you?”

  “Julie!” Sharon yelped. “Don’t be silly. You can see that your aunt is perfectly normal.”

  “But you said Aunt Archer was . . .” She stopped. Sharon raised a warning eyebrow.

  Archer smiled and turned to Julie. “My cabin is small, but it’s not a cave. Come and see for yourself sometime, darling.” She patted her niece’s hand. “Maybe you remember Hadley? Not a wolf, just a chocolate Lab.”

  And soon it was time for Archer to go. When she and Sharon separated, they hugged again, and Archer promised to stay in touch.

  “I’ll really try,” she said before driving away.

  CHAPTER 18

  Archer got back to the cabin in the late afternoon. After changing into her old jeans, she lay down on the couch, legs up, ankles crossed. She thought about the day. Connor had wanted to go with her to the funeral, but she’d felt there was enough in the mix without adding another wild card. Further, Sharon’s comments on the phone had hit home. She didn’t want to be that woman—self-pitying and ultimately self-centered.

  Connor walked in with groceries, Alice on his heels.

  “Hey, how are you doing? I didn’t know when you’d get back, but I thought I’d get some supplies,” he said, resting two bags on the counter.

  “I’m okay actually. It started out rocky. I wasn’t sure what I’d find after that call from Sharon . . . thought she might physically bar me at the church door. But it turned out okay. We talked. And I saw my niece and nephew for the first time in about six years. It was actually better than okay—it was good.”

  “That’s great. I’m glad. And, now that you’ve left the mountain, and the mountain doesn’t have to come to Mohammed, maybe we should try going on an outing.”

  Archer was up, helping to put groceries away. She looked curiously at Connor over her shoulder as she put a half gallon of milk in the refrigerator. “Just what kind of ‘outing’ do you have in mind?” she asked.

  “Well, I haven’t given it too much thought, but maybe like a weekend into Boston,” suggested Connor.

  Archer put a dozen eggs away. “Boston. Hm-m. I haven’t gone out anywhere in over four years.” She was quiet a moment, then said, “Hey, do you think I’m self-centered and wallowing in self-pity?”

  Connor looked at her, surprised. “Uh, no. Where’d that come from?”

  Archer told him about Sharon’s attacks.

  He stopped putting the rice boxes up on a shelf, caught Archer by the shoulder, and turned her toward him. “Listen, Arch, no one has the right to judge you. Whatever you feel or do is okay. But I will say this. Don’t just grieve Annie—honor her. Honor her memory in a way that’s as unique and special as she was. You’ll know what it is when you find it.”

  He went back to putting the groceries away.

  * * *

  Connor made reservations at the Four Seasons Hotel on the Boston Green, across the park from Beacon Hill. They planned to go for Thanksgiving weekend, leaving Wednesday night and returning Sunday night.

  Without discussing it, Connor reserved two rooms, one overlooking the park, the other across the hall with a view unknown. Ah, to rent just one . . . but that would never be.

  He sighed. The moment either had passed or never would come—he wasn’t sure which. Since the day in the woods, nothing more had been said about romance or sex. Archer had to be the one to make a move, and she simply never would. He knew it.

  He had not been back to Boston since moving to Wyoming seven years ago. It would be fun to eat in a nice restaurant, see a play, maybe even go dancing. Did she even like to dance? He didn’t know, but he had seen her waltz in fun around the kitchen.

  He asked her one night, as they read by the fire after dinner, “So, do you dance?”

  “Do I dance? Do I dance? Did Martha Graham dance? Did Nureyev dance? Did Baryshnikov dance? Nobody puts Baby in a corner,” she declared dramatically, putting her book down.

  “Spoken by Johnny, a.k.a. Patrick Swayze, in Dirty Dancing, to Baby’s a.k.a. Jennifer Grey’s, father. So is that a yes?”

  “Yes, it’s a yes!” she proclaimed, and she stood up, took Hadley by the forepaws, and began two-stepping about the living room, with Hadley doing her best to keep up. Alice began barking and chasing Archer around the room, bouncing up and down, as Connor’s laughter added to the general upr
oar.

  “Okay, I get it,” said Connor. “You dance. Now, does that mean you only dance alone, or just with large dogs?”

  “I dance with other people, too—under the right circumstances,” Archer said with great dignity.

  The plan took shape. Jenny, Archer’s dog sitter, would watch both dogs, and Millie was placed with the owner of the feed store, who had an empty barn stall and a small pasture and was happy to have her while they were out of town.

  * * *

  Every few days, Connor called Three Chimneys. Usually, he just got the answering machine and left instructions: call the vet about worming next month; make sure the fields have the fall fertilization; check the barns for leaks before it gets too cold. Sometimes he got one of the men. At other times, his farm manager, Felix, called back. When Archer answered, he stammered.

  “Hey, McCall, I think I make him nervous.”

  “You make everyone nervous, Archer. It’s your destiny,” he chuckled.

  One day, after Felix apparently managed to ask if Mac was there, Archer covered the mouthpiece and whispered: “Hey, McCall, are you also known as Mac?”

  “Yup, that’s my Wyoming moniker.”

  “Hey, Harvard, no need to show off with big words to impress me,” she said with a grin, handing him the phone. Their fingers touched briefly, and Connor tried to ignore the little jolt he felt. “Then I guess this is for you.”

  Connor talked about tagging the new sheep, outstanding orders to be filled, and business arrangements to move money for funding various projects, payroll needs, and repairs.

  “So, Mac,” said Felix at the end of the call, “when you coming home?”

  “Well, you seem to be running things real smoothly, Felix, my good man,” Connor said jovially.

  Felix paused and said, “Mac, we need you. I’m doing okay, but the guys aren’t afraid of me like they are of you. You know, when you screw up your face and yell at everybody and pound your desk, things are really good for a while.”

  Connor sighed. “I know. Soon, Felix, soon.”

  * * *

  “You’re a killer, aren’t you?” Connor asked out of nowhere as they sat together on her front porch steps one evening, watching the sky darken.

  “What do you mean?”

  He turned a cold gaze on her. “Just that. I’ve seen your gun. And I’ve seen you shoot, you’ll recall. And that’s the ‘legal work’ you sneak off to do, isn’t it?”

  No answer.

  “So, just out of curiosity, tell me, is it freelance or organized?”

  Archer sat bolt upright in bed, sweating, her heart racing. She tugged at the neck of her T-shirt, feeling as if she couldn’t breathe. Her gaze darted around the room, into corners mottled in dark calico by the moonlight. The snug, comfy room felt mysterious and somehow menacing.

  As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could see Hadley sleeping on the needlepoint rug at the foot of her bed, her breathing steady and regular. Reassured, she felt her own breath slow and her senses relax. Just a nightmare, silly, she chided herself. Connor doesn’t even talk like that. If you must dream, at least dream realistically . . . But he had sounded so accusing and hostile, even mean—not like himself at all. What a stupid nightmare.

  Reaching back to pull up her pillow, Archer sank back down in the bed. A killer? She had never thought of herself that way. Avenger? Yes. Hit woman? If the shoe fits . . . But killer? No. She folded the white cotton quilt back and got out of bed, padding barefoot into the kitchen for a glass of water.

  Killer. Such an ugly word.

  CHAPTER 19

  Connor and Archer arrived in Boston just before dark, in Connor’s F-350 crew cab dually pickup, which, apparently, was something of a novelty at the Four Seasons. The valet, who looked to be about fourteen, was rendered temporarily speechless.

  “Yes, please park it,” said Connor, “but no joyriding, okay? Though I know the temptation is great.” The humor was lost on the valet, who kept staring.

  Once the valet recovered, they went into the lobby. For their first evening, Connor had made dinner reservations at the hotel’s four-star restaurant: cushioned seats, benches for two, candlelight—the room positively oozed elegant serenity.

  After checking in, Archer and Connor went to their rooms. Archer’s was big, with a yellow and red chintz sofa under a big window. The cream wallpaper with pink flowers was reminiscent of a Yorkshire bed-and-breakfast she’d seen in one of her design magazines.

  She pulled a looped cord hanging along the right edge of the window, and the thick drapes parted to give a view of the Boston Common, all green and yellow in the weak November light. Across the park stood the red brick homes of Beacon Hill, on cobbled streets lit by the faint glow of gaslights. It was peaceful, like a painting of Victorian London.

  I’ve missed a lot in six years, she mused.

  Entering the white and green marble bathroom, Archer grabbed a thick white towel and ran a hot bubble bath, then undressed slowly, enjoying the pleasure of being in a beautiful place. She lowered herself into the water, gripping the edges of the huge porcelain tub. The little water tank at home allowed for only the smallest, quickest, meanest of baths, making this bath a wild and decadent luxury. She lay back and relaxed, with only her head and toes sticking out of the water. The water sloshed over her, sensuously dipping in and out between her legs and lapping over her shoulders, soothing her.

  She wondered about tonight. Connor had planned this trip with her interests in mind. He was so different from Adam, she mused, and yet both were so appealing, so basically good. She and Adam had built a history together, while she and Connor had a history to get past. And she didn’t know if they could or if she even wanted to. What she did know was that her heart fluttered at the end of every day, when she heard his whistle as he stepped up onto the porch. She thrilled to his huffy whispers at the movies, reliving them for days, and weakened when, after dinner, he handed her a plate to dry and their fingers touched lightly.

  Since the day on the mountain when Connor shocked her with his non-declaration declaration, it was as if he’d never said it at all. There was no awkwardness, because it was as if no new element had been injected into the mix. In fact, his behavior was so utterly unchanged that some days Archer wondered if she had imagined the whole thing. Was it just a giddy moment for him, brought on by the high altitude up there on—what did he call it? Mount Loh? Maybe he was embarrassed now and hoped it would never come up again. Then she scolded herself, Oh, Loh, just enjoy the weekend, for God’s sake. Don’t analyze everything to death. Snap out of it!

  Archer stepped out of the tub, wrapped herself in a towel, and slowly dried off. Pulling on a clean white T-shirt and cotton bikini underpants, she lay down on the plush bed, imagining she was like any other person in the hotel, on a little getaway, taking a short nap before dinner.

  She woke up an hour later, feeling refreshed, and began to dress for dinner. She had brought a black dress—from her past, of course—with sequins and a ruffle along the bottom that had a bit of a Carmen Miranda look. The front was just below knee length, with a back hem several inches longer, falling to just above her ankles. The dress dipped in a swoop to mid back; black stockings and black high heels completed the effect. The only jewelry she wore was a pearl and diamond ring set in platinum, which had been her mother’s, and small diamond earrings. She planned to wear her hair down, loose. Closing the drapes, she sat at the vanity mirror to finish getting ready.

  * * *

  Across the hall, Connor felt like a fool. He had rented a tuxedo, and it had just been delivered to his room. This was his chance. His only hope of changing the dynamic between him and Archer was to change the context—to stun her, but in a good way. Now was the time.

  He stood in front of the mirror, eyeing himself in the Ralph Lauren black tuxedo and a black cummerbund. It fit his lean, athletic form as if it had been tailored for him alone. His starched white shirt and platinum cufflinks looked graceful, elegant. B
ut what if Archer laughed at him, maybe even secretly pitied him, catching the scent of his desperation? Most women found him handsome, but not all did. Looking appraisingly at himself in the mirror, he decided he looked as good as he ever would.

  This is as good as it gets, at least for me, he reflected, giving his bow tie a final tug. And he left his room and knocked on Archer’s door.

  * * *

  Archer turned from the mirror. She had one earring on and was fumbling with the second one. “Just a minute!” she called out as she finished getting the little diamond stud through her right ear.

  She looked at herself, satisfied, and turning away from the mirror, she walked to the door and opened it. And stared.

  Was that Connor? It looked like him, but it didn’t. She had seen him only in jeans and a rough jacket, and thought he couldn’t possibly look better in anything else—they suited him. But in this tuxedo, with crisp shirt and hair freshly washed and combed, he looked amazing. Yes, “amazing” was the word. Amazingly good-looking. She swallowed hard and then smiled.

  * * *

  For his part, Connor was frozen. When he saw her, sparkling there in a black-sequined dress, eyes expectant and smiling, and dressed up for no other reason than that he had asked her to dinner—well, she could have worn anything. But she had chosen to adorn herself in such finery, knowing that she would be with him alone. Clearly, she had made an effort to look good. But she had overshot the mark—she was breathtaking.

  “Okay!” she said nervously, turning back to get her room key and then quickly drawing open the drapes to let in the lovely scene of Boston Common. “Let’s go!”

  Closing the door behind her, she checked the handle to be sure it had latched, and then turned to Connor, who was waiting patiently for her, leaning casually against the corridor wall.

  “Hey, cowboy, stand up straight,” she said. “We’re not in the hills anymore.”

  “Thank you for doing this, Ellen.” he said awkwardly, unsure how to break the ice with this goddess standing before him.