by Autumn Sand
I want to press her more, but I realize that if he does hit her, what could I do? Nothing; I’m here and she’s there. Would she feel comfortable telling me? Or does she look at me as just another white man who wants to own her?
Guilt and shame wash over my body, leaving me with the stench of the past. “Blacks are free where I’m from.”
Her eyes flash up to meet mine; unspoken questions run through them.
“It’s true.”
“Will I be free?” she whispers.
My heart kicks. What do I say? Yes, but only through death? You could be, but you will need to survive until the end of the war that hasn’t started yet? And even then, you will be looked at as a third-class citizen whose rights are disregarded. Yes, you can survive off the backs of the tears of so many others, including yourself?
It dawns on me that I want to save her, to help her to live in a world where it is damn near impossible for her to survive in. To save her is to damn her to hell?
Her eyes plead for an answer. I give her the only one I know for sure. “I hope.”
My noncommittal answer still gives her the hope I speak of. She claps her hands joyously. I guess, when you have gone from never having hope at freedom to the possibility of it, you will cling to it for dear life.
Each morning, I wake up, not realizing that I’m taking a precious thing for granted…my freedom. Each night, I go to sleep without a threat to my independence, and I rest easy. I try to mentally place myself in her shoes, and quickly discard that idea, for fear of feeling trapped. Probably just the way she feels, each and every day of her life.
Her face slackens, and she runs to the door. I open my mouth to yell for her not to go, but I see that she places her ear to do the door to listen. She turns toward the mirror and places a finger to her lips. She listens for a few seconds more, and runs back to me.
“I’ve been too long. I gotta go.” She turns to leave.
“No, wait. Don’t leave. Please.”
“Cain’t. I promise I’ll see you again soon,” she whispers and, once again, turns toward the door and leaves.
Chapter 20
Agatha reaches for her long-stemmed wine glass and lifts it to her lips. The burgundy liquid looks like a large garnet gem plopped down in the middle of her glass. She takes a sip; the tip of her tongue glides across her pink painted lips. I watch her from across the table, at a restaurant in Charleston, as her eyes dance across the words written on the page of my completed manuscript.
She throws her head back and laughs. For a moment, she looks to be a girl of eighteen and not the forty-something matured woman she has become. This is her third glass, and her cheeks are showing every inch of how tipsy she has become.
“Evan, I forgot how funny you can be at times.” She chuckles, recalling one of my early writing stories.
I, like so many writers, have learned from my past mistakes and can now make fun of them; they are my badges of honor, after all. The wounds of my past that have healed, all scars removed.
“Well, that isn’t the half of it.” I laugh behind my glass of wine. A droplet falls to my finger, and I reach for my napkin, but Agatha takes my hand in hers.
Gently, she dabs at the liquid on my finger and smiles. The candlelight makes her eyes dance with mirth.
“There, all better.” Her tone is almost seductive, and it puts me on edge.
Don’t get me wrong; Agatha is a beautiful woman, with raven-colored hair that barely touches her shoulders, skin the color of mocha, and almond-shaped eyes. She is, what people would call, New York chic. She always wears the latest designer clothes and shoes, never to be seen without her war paint that is heavily applied, to make it look like she is wearing none at all.
There has always been an undertone with Agatha that makes me feel as though she would like more than a professional relationship with me, but I simply can’t see it.
After Rae, I never thought I would be able to feel something for anyone again, but I now know it can happen again for me. Franny has become ingrained in my heart, and I can’t imagine being with anyone but her.
The past few weeks, we’ve spent time together, each on our own side of the mirror, so close yet not close enough. We’ve shared hopes and dreams, and I’ve quickly found myself wanting to be with her more than I’ve ever wanted in a person before, even Rae. While I loved Rae unconditionally, I know she would want me to live, and to love, again.
As impossible and unbelievable as our situation is, I still hold onto the thought that we could be together. Willa, in all her craziness, has shown me that anything is possible.
I know it is unimaginable that we could ever be together, but I need to hold onto that hope that one day it could happen. The stars have somehow aligned and brought us into each other’s lives, even though she is the shadow of the past and I’m the footsteps of the future, so why couldn’t it be possible for us to be together?
A shock of guilt hits my gut, and I snatch my hand away from her startled grasp.
Words; I need words to explain. I’m the master of writing them, but when it comes to real life, I’m the master of none.
“I-I’m sorry.” I manage to mumble out an apology, feeling like an asshole.
She lifts her napkin to her lips and dabs at an imaginary crumb. “No, it’s me who should be sorry.” She laughs nervously. “It must be the wine.”
I nod, giving her the easy way out of an awkward moment because I’m a coward.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, I had a few too many.”
She peeks at me through hooded eyes. “I guess.”
The uneasiness that was not there before now settles around us like a dense fog, both of us treading through it, afraid to be hit by an oncoming car.
“Well, like I said before, Grace’s Choice is excellent. Your readers will love it.”
My heart lifts at the change of topic, and I flow right into the line of conversation with ease. “I’m glad. I struggled with it, as you know, after Rae…” I can’t bring myself to say the words, and I search for something else to talk about in its place.
She reaches across the table and pats the top of my hand gently. There is nothing romantic in her touch; just one human being wanting to comfort another.
I stare at our connecting hands for a moment and, as if realizing she made a mistake, she snatches her hand away, reaching for her glass of wine.
“I’m just glad that I was able to get out a book that hopefully will be well received.”
“Well received? Evan, it’s so much more than that. This is your best, to date.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but I am proud of it.”
She signals the waiter to bring the check. “Well, I would. It truly is a work of art. Do you have any ideas about your next novel?”
As if on cue, it comes to me. I will write Franny’s story. My mind begins to draft the opening paragraph.
“I can see that look on your face. You do have a story in mind, don’t you?” She smiles at me, as if we are both in on a secret hidden from everyone else.
“Yeah, I think I do.”
“Well that’s great news.” She shoves a few bills into the check holder and hands it to the waiter. “Do you want to share your idea? Consider me your sounding board.”
We both stand and walk toward the door. “It’s not ready to be shared yet. I’m still working the details out in my head.”
“Oh, what a bore.” She laughs as I hold the door open for her.
“You’ll be the first I share the details with, but first, I have to outline it.”
“No rush, I know you can’t rush a masterpiece.”
“Damn straight.”
We get into my diamond silver Benz G-Class. One push of the starter button, and I’m driving us through the streets of downtown Charleston.
“You really seem at home here,” she says, with an undertone of curiosity and a tinge of disdain.
I smile at what I know to be true. “I am. It’s one of the best decisions I have ever
made.”
She shifts in her seat to face me. “You don’t miss New York?”
I think about that as we sit at a red light. “No, I don’t. Don’t get me wrong. When Rae initially brought up about the two of us moving out here, I was dead set against it. But now, I can’t imagine living anywhere else. I’m my truer self here.” I glance at her quickly, then turn my eyes back to the road.
“Well, surely, your friends must miss you.”
I shrug. “Not sure how many really do.” I realized, after Rae’s death, that most of our friends were couples. All those friends felt awkward around me, and found our conversations strained or forced. I later came to realize it was because of their own fear of this happening to them. I was not known to them as Evan Taylor, but instead, as Evan and Rae, super couple that everyone envies. If something so drastic can happen to us, it can, without a doubt, happen to them, and that scares them. I, unfortunately, was too wrapped up in my own grief to notice, and when I dragged myself from the pits of hell, I realized I only had a few real friends around.
“One thing is for sure; you still have James.”
`“Best friend a guy can have.”
“I hear dogs are loyal too,” she sneers, as she shifts back into facing front position.
I pull into my circular driveway and park the car in the garage connected to the house, that has recently been finished. Grabbing her suitcase with one hand and helping her out of the car with the other, we walk toward the door connecting to the kitchen. Agatha’s heels clicking on the cement floor serve as a backdrop to the insect sounds of the night.
“Evan, you are literally in the middle of nowhere. Aren’t you afraid to be out here by yourself?”
She eases herself closer to me as I fumble for my keys.
“No, not at all. I actually like the solitude. Besides, the workmen are usually here during the day, so it’s really not all that lonely at all.” I open the door and let her step in first, before following.
She takes a two steps inside and waits as I flip on the switch, the fluorescent lights sparking to life.
She walks around the kitchen, occasionally rubbing her hands on the counter or the cabinets, before walking over to me.
She nods her approval. “This is actually nicer than I expected. Kind of rustic country.”
“Yeah, it came out pretty good.” Though, I mostly use the microwave to heat up my frozen dinners.
She spreads her hands out. “Well, show me the rest of it.”
I nod, smiling. “Of course. Follow me.”
I show her the rest of the house, which is still mostly under construction. And, as if on cue, she gives the “Ooh’s and ahh’s” when expected.
“Well, this is your room, and the bathroom is right there.” I point, as I place her suitcase on the bed. “Make yourself at home, and I’m down the hall if you need me.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.” She sits on the bed and toes off her heels, the ruby red soles of them turned up.
“Good night.” I close the door behind me, anxious to get to my room and back to Franny.
Sitting in front of the mirror, I wait for my lover to arrive. But minutes turns into hours, and she has yet to come. I know that it is difficult at times for her to get away and make these appearances, but I need her more tonight than I’ve ever needed her.
Each night, when she doesn’t appear exactly when I need her, I wonder if the night before was the last time I would ever lay my eyes on her. All of this is so new to me, and I don’t quite understand it. The logical side of me doesn’t believe in magic, but what other explanation could there be for what has happened?
The unknown is what scares me the most; not understanding this and how it has come to be. Because what happens if, one day, she suddenly no longer appears? What if?
I pace the floor anxiously, in front of the mirror that is my salvation but also my tormentor. Did I tell her that I loved her the last time? Was that truly our last together? Would she miss me as much as I would miss her? Is she trying to make contact with me now?
In a fit of rage, I grab the mirror and shake it, as if Franny would come tumbling out from the past and into my arms. I swallow down my fears and release the mirror. My heart beats a tattoo against my chest. I trace her name on the mirror with the tip of my finger, and my hand falls to my side, like a leaden weight.
I know I can’t stand here for the rest of the night, but I also know I won’t be able to sleep. Lethargically, I turn my back to the mirror and walk toward my door.
As if in a trance, I stumble my way downstairs in the dark, and pour myself a stiff drink. Suddenly, I hear a blood-curdling scream. I drop the crystal tumbler, and it splinters into a million pieces on the floor, as I dash up the steps and in the direction of where the hysterics are coming from.
My room?
Crashing through my bedroom door, I see Agatha, standing naked, by my bed, and a frightened Franny in the mirror.
Chapter 21
I stand immobile, not because I’m unsure of what to do, but because of Franny’s beauty. As usual, she takes my breath away, and everything else in her presence fades away into nonexistence.
Agatha rushes toward me and wraps her arms around my back, her body trembling. My eyes lock onto Franny’s, and I see the pain in them, of watching another woman in my arms. I have to fight the instinct to push Agatha away as I silently plead with Franny to understand. She turns away, and I am once again lost without her.
“Shh,” I murmur to Agatha and walk to my bed, snatching up the comforter and wrapping it around her naked form.
She pulls the material around her tighter and lays her head on my shoulder. Franny’s back is still facing us, and I want to go to her, but I know I must, at this time, remain in the here and now. I wrap my hand around Agatha’s waist and guide her toward the door, back to her room.
“Stay right here. I’ll get you a drink.”
“No.” She wraps her arms around my neck and cries into my shoulder. “What…who was that?”
Deny, deny, deny comes to my mind, but my heart feels as if it would be a slap to Franny if I denied her existence. It would be an insult to what she means to me. But denying her would be the easier road traveled.
I clear my throat. “It’s a…a…trick mirror.” It feels like a sledgehammer has slammed down on me, and I wince as the words leave my mouth.
She looks up; her almond-shaped eyes shows signs of belief in the greatest lie ever told. She closes her eyes for a moment, then re-opens them. I try to steady my resolve and give her an understanding look.
“A trick mirror?” Her head tilts to the side, and her thick dark hair swings.
Disappointment in myself floods through me like a wrecking ball. But instead of correcting the lie I just told, I dig in deeper. “Yeah, my sister-in-law bought it for me from some crazy voodoo shop in New Orleans.”
A full smile spreads across her face, and thin lines form at the sides of her eyes. “Dawn is at it again?”
She has met Dawn a few times, at some of the social gatherings we had at the house. She’s familiar with Dawn’s quirky ways.
I exhale slightly as the guilt slides into the depths of my soul. “Yeah.” I give a partial laugh.
She places her hand on my chest and laughs. “Well, next time, you should warn your guests of that trick mirror of yours.” She turns around and walks to her bed, sitting down. “Whatever possessed her to get that as a gift?” She holds her hand up. “Never mind; I don’t think I want to know.”
Her head throws back in laughter. “My God, it really did trick me. I was terrified.”
I laugh nervously with her, and when the laughter stops, the awareness of the fact that she was in my bedroom naked while Franny stood there…my goodness. Franny! I need to get back to my room and explain this to her.
I turn hastily toward the door, an urgency overtaking me to get back as soon as possible, or all is lost for us.
“Evan, wait.”
I don’t want to wait; I need to get to Franny. Too much time has passed, and she might have left; this time, forever. But once again, my acute awareness of my present predicament descends on my shoulders, weighing me down with obligation.
Turning around to face Agatha, I see her fear of being rejected, when she is at her most vulnerable.
“Don’t leave. Please?” She holds her hand out to me, waiting, pleading, for me to take it, and by that, taking her.
I shove my hands in my pockets and stare at the floor. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
She rises and theatrically lets the comforter fall to her feet, exposing her naked flesh to me. “Still think it’s a bad idea?”
I avert my eyes and picture Franny in my arms. “Yes, I do, Agatha. I’m sorry if I’ve ever given you the impression that our relationship was anything more than business and professional, but that was never my intention. I respect you as my editor, and colleague, too much to blur the lines.” I reach for the doorknob. “Have a good night,” I murmur as I close the door behind me.
Laying down with Agatha would be the easiest thing I could do. I could sink myself into her and forget about it all for a few hours, knowing that I could never give her my heart because it belongs to another.
The further I walk away from her door, the closer I walk toward the unknown and away from any form of normalcy.
I step into my room, with fear and trepidation that she won’t be there. That I have lost her forever, but when my eyes settle on her waiting form, my heart lifts.
“You waited.”
Pain flickers through her eyes, and I feel a kick in my gut for having been the one to cause it. She is silent, and just simply nods.
“It’s not what you think,” I say, as I take a few awkward steps toward her.
She wipes at her falling tears with the back of her hand. Her thick, curly jet-black hair hangs down to her waist. I know she let it down just for me, and I feel another kick to my stomach.
Her silence speaks so many unspoken questions. Who was that woman? Do you love her? How can this ever work? I thought you were different, but are you just like them?
