by Teri Harman
“Are you okay?” the young officer asked.
Henry looked away from Todd. This was the moment to help Mavis, the moment to make up for running away before. Henry looked up at the officer, then to the open door. He saw Mavis’s feet near the basement steps. Disembodied by the crowd around her, already less than a person. Maybe she had never been a full person.
“What is it? You can tell me. Did you see something?”
“Nothing,” Henry mumbled. “Nothing.”
Now, in his apartment in Silent Fields, so many years away from that night, Henry felt the shame and regret as keenly as he had then and in the long weeks after. He had never forgiven himself. He and Ronny had been sent to a shelter that night and placed in new homes a couple weeks later. Henry never saw Todd again, and didn’t get to attend Mavis’s funeral. He’d made a lot of mistakes since then, but he never wanted to make one as fatal, as significant. If he left Silent Fields now, if he didn’t fight for Matilda, would it be something he never forgave himself for?
From that night on, he’d wanted to be a writer. Writers could control what happened, could change it. A magician toying with fate. If he wanted, there could always be a happy ending. That night, though so awful, so haunting, had pointed him to his fate. The juxtaposition was not lost on him.
He wanted to write a happy ending for Matilda and himself. He wanted his words to make it better. But could they? Quickly, as much to clear the cobwebs of the past as to open up the future, Henry went to the typewriter.
A blank piece of paper was already waiting.
Matilda
Matilda fell asleep in Jetty’s bed, the pretend tropical sun of the murals on her face. But the warmth didn’t follow her into her dreams. There she found only pain, the smell of snow, and a crying baby she could never reach. And Henry standing in the shadows, calling to her.
The sound of keys woke her.
She opened her eyes and listened hard. It wasn’t possible. She’d faced that delusion and moved on. She knew it wasn’t real. Still the keys played their staccato music.
Ignore it. Don’t give in to it.
But her body betrayed her, slipping from bed and padding down the stairs. The living room was warm and dark, filled with the tap of typewriter keys. Matilda went to the bookcase and pulled away the protective layer of books. The keys danced on their own, printing words she knew she must read.
I want to write you a story. A tale of simple joy, of easy love. In which there is neither conflict nor confrontation; all is blissful and sunshine. But if I wrote that story, neither of us would read it. It would be forgotten the moment the keys set ink to paper.
So instead I write you a tragedy. I write you reality. We meet. We struggle. We agonize over what is right and what is real. Do we turn left or right? Do we run away?
Do you want to run away as much as I do?
I feel you in my bones, in my ambiguous soul. Can that feeling be denied? What is more real than experiencing the uncertainty of love? You are real. I am real. Can we survive this tragedy? Can we survive the beginning and middle to avoid an ending?
I do not want this to end.
I would never forgive myself.
And it is forgiveness that I need.
Matilda ran to the phone. “Abby?”
“Matilda, is that you?”
“Where does Henry live?”
“What?”
“I don’t actually know where he lives. I think someone said the Mayor’s House? Is that right? Please!”
“Yes, that’s right. Number three. Is everything okay?”
“I hope so. Thanks.” Matilda hung up, and ran.
Running through the streets in her nightgown was not the most modest or sane thing she could have done, but the words on the page had suppressed any logic. All she wanted to do was apologize to Henry. Whether the words from the typewriter were part of her sickness or not, they had rattled a fear loose in her that letting him go would be worse than trying to figure out how to be with him.
Her left leg starting hurting about two blocks from her house, but she kept going. She briefly looked up at the library as she passed, feeling only a quick stab of regret. The town was so peaceful this time of night, the half moon keeping watch. An unexpected harmony filled her as she neared Henry’s apartment.
Henry came running out of the building at the same time she started up the long flagstone path. “Are you all right?” he shouted, hurrying toward her. “Abby called.” He wore only a pair of blue pinstripe pajama pants.
Without thinking Matilda threw herself into his arms. He caught her easily, holding her forcefully. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer the door,” she whispered, her lips against the bare skin of his shoulder.
Henry breathed into her neck. “No, I’m sorry. The bookshop was so perfect and then … Beverly …”
“I know. But I want to try. Can we try?”
“Yes. We can. Please, yes.”
Matilda laughed quietly, her face against his warm chest. She wanted to ask him to take her upstairs, she wanted to stay, her skin against his. She blushed fiercely. Whoa, girl. Slow it down. “Did I wake you?” she whispered, hoping her voice didn’t sound shy or sultry.
“No,” Henry said as he pulled back to look at her. “I was awake. What changed your mind?”
She thought of the typewriter. “I just didn’t want to regret you. I’m scared but I don’t want to be sorry. I think how we felt in Booker’s is real, right, but it’s our ‘screwed up’ thing that keeps getting in the way. I want to find a way to get around it.”
Henry nodded, his hand rubbing gently against her back. “Good. I’m glad. I was just thinking the same thing.” His eyes moved to her lips, and then back to her eyes.
“But … it’s not going to be easy. There are things …” She wanted so badly to explain, but didn’t know how. She still hadn’t figured out a way to explain it to herself in a way that made sense. She didn’t want to just blurt out that she was crazy, like actually clinically unstable.
Henry sensed her struggle, stepped in to save her. “I get it, really I do. I have things too. We will get there. We can figure it out.”
She hugged him tighter. He smelled like books, like fresh paper.
“Do you want to come inside?” he whispered, lips on her ear.
She sighed, allowing her hand to trail down his chest, following a path of freckles. “I better not.” It hurt to say it.
Henry nodded. “Yeah, you’re right.” He tucked her hair behind her ear. “You’re right.” He took a long breath. “Will you have lunch tomorrow with Abby and me?”
“I’d love to.” She almost kissed him, but shied away. This was enough for one night. “Will you walk me home?”
“My pleasure.” Henry hugged her close again. “Let me just grab a shirt. Imagine the rumors if anyone saw us like this.” He smiled mischievously. She laughed again, more tension leaving her body. He ran back to the apartment building. She waited outside, enjoying the quiet night. He was gone only a moment before he was back, taking hold of her hand as they walked barefoot toward her house. They said very little. The hot breeze swirled around. Matilda let herself smile. Cricket song and leaf rustle filled the air.
At the back door, Matilda lifted her chin to look at Henry. She focused on a small cluster of freckles near his lips. Like berries, she thought, a strange sense of familiarity flushing her cheeks. Why does it feel like I’ve thought that before? “Why did you come here?” she asked before she really thought about it. “To Silent Fields, I mean.”
His expression clouded. “Honestly, I’m not really sure. I was … a little lost, confused. I saw an old ad in a random paper and just …” He shrugged. “… came. I just came.”
She nodded. “Jetty always said there are forces at work that we don’t know about or understand. Do you believe that?”
He looked at her meaningfully. “I think I’m starting to. You?”
“Yeah. Kind of scary.”
“Agreed.”
&n
bsp; She nodded slowly, apprehension itching at her stomach. No, don’t do that. It’ll be okay. It’s okay. “Trying isn’t gonna be easy. This, us …”
“Not easy. I understand.” Henry tightened his hold on her hand. “It’s okay. That’s normal, right? Doing the little things every day, trusting. Otherwise you end up walking the moors, seeing ghosts, and wanting to swing a reaper scythe at your own neck.”
Matilda let out a burst of laughter. “We wouldn’t want that. Dramatic, and very messy.”
Henry smiled down at her, his eyes softening. “Thank you for coming tonight.”
Matilda stepped closer, put her arms around his neck. He held her tight. “I don’t want to go inside,” she murmured.
“Why wait till lunch—have coffee with me at Estelle’s first thing in the morning?” Henry asked.
“Yes.”
“Perfect.” He released one arm from around her and pulled open the back screen door. “Good night, Matilda.”
“Good night, Henry.” Her hand trailed down his arm as she moved into the mudroom. Henry closed the door without a sound. Matilda didn’t think she could watch Henry walk away without calling him back, so she slipped further into the house. In the dark living room, she stopped to stare at the typewriter. She wanted to feel excited, eager for what was to come, but still fought the darkness in her mind. This darkness inherited from her mother.
Matilda tried to imagine her mother yanking on the steering wheel that night in the car. Her father’s certain screams of fear. Had her six-month-old self sensed the danger? Did I cry? Was that the crying she heard coming from the corners of the room and shifting in her dreams?
She thought of her favorite picture of her mother. Ivy held newborn Matilda in her arms, in a hospital bed. Baby Matilda was wrapped in a pink blanket, red face puckered with deep sleep. Ivy beamed, her face glowing and eyes bright. Matilda loved the picture because of the joy it had captured. Fleeting joy, she thought bitterly.
I don’t believe she gave it to me.
Matilda still couldn’t swallow the sharp barb of the idea that she, too, had a broken mind. The facts were before her and yet none of them seemed right. But perhaps that was just the denial, the fear of accepting. She had Henry now. She would heal herself and move on. She’d dutifully take her pills, looking forward instead of back. She would not repeat her mother’s life.
With new determination, Matilda went out to the garage to scavenge for a box. She found one, medium size, warped and dusty, but serviceable. Back in the house, she took an old white sheet from the linen closet. She snapped it out, letting it open and flutter to the floor. Then she placed the copy of A Thousand Sleepless Nights, the typewriter, and all the letters in the center. She wrapped it like a present and put it in the box. Sealing the box with packing tape, she shoved it into the coat closet by the front door, and slammed the door shut.
Moving on.
PART THREE
Henry
July 1998
You still haven’t kissed her. I can tell just looking at your sad puppy-dog face.”
Henry scoffed. Only Abby would have the guts to say something like that before even saying hello. “Well, hello. Nice to see you too, Abby. I’m fine. How are you?” he teased as they slid into line at Estelle’s. The smell of freshly fried donuts clung to the air. The small bakery was abuzz with lunchtime conversation.
Abby slugged him in the shoulder. “Don’t you sass me, son. It’s been a couple weeks. What’s wrong?”
Henry’s humor faltered. He turned away, eyes trained on the glass display case showcasing sugary confections. It reminded him of Matilda these last weeks. She’d placed herself behind a glass case, prettily displayed as if all was as it should be, but it wasn’t. They spent each evening together. She’d make delicious food, they’d sit outside, and talk lazily of unimportant things. Each moment, he felt the glass between them, smooth and cool. It made them both awkward, and though Henry longed to reach out and take her into his arms, kiss her until they both melted away, he couldn’t do it. It felt too … dangerous. The reason for that feeling completely eluded him. Each night he left feeling twisted up inside. So naturally, he spilled his worries and frustrations onto the typewriter. Since throwing it against the wall, it hadn’t tried to type messages in response. Mostly he was relieved, but a small part of him felt lonely.
But now he knew why the typewriter had typed back and why he couldn’t remember six years. There’d been a shadow on his MRI, on his frontal lobe, no bigger than the eraser on a pencil. Dr. Wells said it could be the damage causing his symptoms or it could just be a shadow. He wanted to run more tests, but Henry had been putting it off. The explanation fit. Yet something about it didn’t feel right. So it wasn’t just Matilda who’d been fouling up their nights together. He’d been distracted, worried. When they’d told each other this wouldn’t be easy, they had definitely been right.
Abby nudged him, pulling his attention back. “We are taking things slow,” he said with a frown. What a stupid phrase. And by the dubious look on Abby’s face, she wholeheartedly agreed. Henry braced for the impending lecture.
Abby shook her head. “Henry …” A considering pause. The lecture drained from her eyes. “Did she find a new job yet?”
Henry sighed. “No. I’ve collected applications for every opening in town.” They moved forward in line. “And they are all sitting on her coffee table. Untouched.”
“Well, I guess there’s no rush. I think Jetty left her a little money. She’ll be okay.” Abby clucked her tongue. “Beverly’s been talking too. Matilda is smart to wait for that gossip to die down.”
Henry’s stomach tightened. He agreed, but didn’t know how to help Matilda. He wanted so much to fix things, to break through the glass, but didn’t know how. They made it to the front of the line, ordered sandwiches and donuts. “Let’s eat outside,” he suggested, arms loaded with food.
Abby guided him through the crowd and plopped down onto a bench a little way down the street under the shade of a giant maple tree. “Maybe the festival will help pull Matilda out of her funk.”
Henry handed Abby her paper-wrapped sandwich. “I hope so.” Even now the noise from the setting up of the festival could be heard. Energy flowed like water through the streets of Silent Fields. All of Main Street was lined with fluttering American flags. The BBQ pits were already sizzling, filling the air with the rich smell of roasted meat. “I’m picking her up at five. I tried to get her to join us for lunch, but she said she didn’t want to intrude.”
“I told her she was welcome!”
Henry nodded as he bit into his sandwich. As it so often did, his mind wandered back to the night in the bookshop. He hoped to find a way to recapture some of the effulgence of that evening tonight at the festival. He wanted to hold Matilda’s hand, win her a ridiculously sized stuffed animal, and wrap his arms around her as they watched the fireworks. Kiss her good night. Finally.
Abby set down her sandwich in favor of a hot donut. “Be sure to stop by my quilt tent tonight and say hi. Also, I need to talk to Matilda about one of the books she gave me.”
Henry smiled. “Of course. Is Gill coming?”
Abby paid close attention to her donut. “No—old grump. Says he’s feeling poorly. Same excuse he gives every year. You think he’d at least try to come up with something new.”
Henry felt a tug of empathy. Abby deserved better. Where was that soft concern Gill had shown in the hall that night? “Sorry,” he mumbled, unsure how to express his true sentiments.
Abby shook her head, chewed slowly. “He wasn’t always this way.” It was the first time she had offered explanation or reason for Gill’s behavior. “Losing the babies—he didn’t reach for the joy. He grew bitter. More with each one, until he … changed. The chip on his shoulder is cavernous.” An unexpected smile. “How ’bout that word? Cavernous. Read that in one of the books Matilda gave me.”
Henry offered a smile. “I understand how that could change a perso
n.” That phantom black sadness rose inside him.
“Yes, that’s for sure. Grief and Gill did not agree. I still love him to death, and sometimes the old Gill is there, sweet and funny, but it’s more and more rare as the years go on. Breaks my heart. Breaks his too—he’s had two heart attacks in the last five years.” A long sigh. “Getting old is extra hard when life has hurt you too many times.”
Henry took her hand and kissed her wrinkled knuckles. There was nothing he could say to that. Abby sighed heavily, sniffed. After a moment, she took a sharp breath. “Look at me spoiling this perfect day.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry I said all that. Every year I get my hopes up that he’ll come and buy me a plate of BBQ. That we’ll sit by the Ferris wheel and eat it. That we’ll dance under the lights, like we used to. You’d think years of experience would teach me the danger of hope.”
“I’ll buy you a plate of BBQ.”
Abby laughed. “I know you will, son.” She touched his face. “Thanks for that.” She plucked another donut from the bag. “Sorrow and sugar,” she mused.
Henry laughed, taking the donut she offered.
Matilda
Even the weather celebrated.
The hot day gave way to a warm, vivacious evening. From her backyard Matilda could smell the food and hear the music. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. Summer. That is the smell of summer. The din of the festival rose on the air and with it her spirit.
Her eyes roamed over the fat, thriving plants in the garden. There were baby tomatoes and pumpkins, weighing down their vines. The basil plant was as big as a bush. Matilda bent and snapped off a leaf, bringing it to her nose to inhale the rich scent. Jetty used to put basil leaves under her pillow to keep away bad dreams.
I should put the whole bush under there.
Sadly, she had little influence over the night wanderings of her ruined mind. Last night, and every night since she’d run to Henry, she dreamed of typewriter keys and words. The clack clack almost pushing her out of bed to pull the typewriter from its tomb in the closet. But she’d stubbornly resisted, forcing the sound out of her head, fighting for sleep like an angry bear.
