Secrets In Our Scars

by Rebecca Trogner

  This used to be Mae and Reggie’s home. They were childhood sweethearts and married for more than fifty years. When he died of a sudden heart attack, she couldn’t bring herself to return to the house without him.

  It had been the saddest day of my life when Stella and I packed up their belongings and sealed the boxes. Knowing Reggie would never use his favorite fishing pole again. Or seeing the box he kept with every note and card Mae ever gave him. Packing up their precious possessions had made it real.

  Grabbing my bucket of cleaning supplies, I head to the guest bathroom. It’s the smallest, with only a shower and sink and toilet. It doesn’t take long to spray everything with Clorox cleaner and scrub until the tile and chrome are sparkling.

  My bathroom takes longer, as it has the original tub, marvelously broad and deep and so heavy it will probably be here after the house is no more. It sits in an alcove with a curved archway and surrounded by mint and black tiles. The rest of the bathroom is more sedate, though still in the same Art Deco style.

  I tidy up the bedrooms and go downstairs to spray the kitchen counters and table. Sweep out the few bits of debris I’ve tracked onto the hardwood floors and give the furniture a once-over for dusting.

  Amazing how much a clean and orderly house fills me with a sense of rightness in the world, even though things are far from right.

  Pulling my long hair into a high ponytail, I grab my Nikes and go outside to the porch swing and wait for Vincent. A few minutes later, a look-at-me red convertible creeps down my gravel driveway.

  Extricating his lanky frame from the small car, he groans, “I have one word for you. Asphalt.”

  “When I win the lottery.” I meet him halfway.

  He wasn’t lying; he’s wearing purple Lycra shorts. Where would he even buy those things?

  “Where we going?” he asks, stretching his long limbs.

  I don’t want to scare him off before we get started. I point toward the hill and take off.

  “You’ve got a baby face,” he yells. “But inside, you’re a cruel woman.”

  I set the pace, letting him fall in beside me as we run upon the rock-hard ground. The September rains haven’t started yet, and everything is dry and weedy.

  “I gotta get in better shape,” Vincent pants. “If I’m gonna ride the polo players.”

  “Stop.” I bump into him. “I don’t want to hear about your sex life.” I sprint ahead into the woods to follow the animal trial.

  “Someone’s got to educate you,” he calls from behind, laughing.

  Except for his footfalls and breathing, it’s the last I hear from him until we’re past the woods and almost to the pond. I’m calm, exhausted, and at peace, with my lungs burning and my legs unsteady. I’m self-aware enough to know this is just a pain of a different kind, but this is beneficial, right? Keeping my body in shape is a good thing.

  “Daisy, come on, you’re killing me.”

  I stop, jogging in place until he catches up.

  His feet are dragging, arms hanging down, and he’s pitched forward. “Why did I let you talk me into this?”

  I stop moving and plant my hands on my knees. “You called me. Something about polo players.”

  “Walk, please,” he wheezes. “Take the road back.”

  “You’re getting old,” I taunt.

  I won’t admit it to Vincent, but I’m perfectly content to walk the short way home. The road is gravel and dusty, but it’s quiet, and with the evening light filtering through the trees it’s almost magical.

  About three-quarters of the way home, Vincent proclaims, “I’m moving to New York.”

  “Why?”

  “Like you said, I’m getting old. I don’t want to be that guy, you know, who does nothing. Who lives off his trust fund.”

  Vincent’s third or fourth—I’m not sure which—grandfather invented and patented a safety device for elevators. It keeps them from falling if there is a power failure. Because of this, and his ancestor’s shrewd business sense, Vincent’s family is what’s referred to as old money. They live off investments and never have to work. They still do work, as they aren’t the kind of people to be idle. His mother’s a fashion designer in New York, his father a developer of boutique resorts.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” I don’t want him to go. “So you’ll work with your mom?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  He’s always traveling anyway, I tell myself. “It’s only New York. I can visit anytime I want,” I say to reassure myself more than him.

  “Maybe you could shut down the shop for a few weeks. You and your aunts can visit.”

  He knows how I hate to leave them alone to work the shop. Financially, we could manage it, though I don’t know how I would convince them. They’ve worked six days a week their whole lives. It’s hard to reconcile, especially living in Middleburg, how some people are born to such wealth and others work hard for every penny. Resentment would be easy, but I find that lazy. Instead, I think it’s what we make of our lives that matter, not how we start out.

  We’ve turned onto my long driveway and hit the peak of the small hill, my home’s chimney in sight.

  “You expecting company?” Vincent asks.

  My heart skips, but I’m not as tall as Vincent, so it takes me a few strides more to reach a point where I see a black Suburban parked next to Vincent’s car. The door opens. Mr. Lethal steps out.

  “Is that Roy?” Vincent tosses his arm over my shoulder. “Baby girl’s got herself a dangerous man.”

  I swallow hard, my throat dry. Roy’s walking toward us dressed in fatigue pants, black boots, and a khaki-colored shirt. His hair, longer than before, skirts the top of his shoulders. A full beard covers the lower half of his face. When he’s within a few strides of us, I see his eyes are weary like he hasn’t slept in days.

  “Miss Aldridge.” He stops and waits for us to reach him.

  So this is soldier Roy. He looks like the picture I found on the Internet, except he’s not holding a gun to his chest.

  “Roy,” I croak. “You’re here.” In a suit, his body was intimidating. Now, with his biceps bulging against the thin fabric, he looks like the personification of a warrior. I catch his quick glance over to Vincent. “Vincent Stuart, this is Roy Blackwood.”

  “Call me Roy.” He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you.” I notice he uses his left hand—though I know he’s right-handed—so Vincent does the same and removes his arm from my shoulder.

  The contrast couldn’t be sharper between the two men, Vincent tall and thin and wearing purple shorts, Roy a mountain of a man decked out in military fatigues.

  “Right.” Vincent is the first to move. “I need to get home and take a shower.” He stops at his car. “Unless you need me to stay?” He’s making sure I’m okay before he bolts.

  I shake my head. “Thanks for the run. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “You better.” He folds his body into the driver’s seat and creeps along my gravel driveway.

  Roy’s fingers lightly touch my palm as he takes my hand and walks me to the house. “I called first. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  I’d forgotten how much I love his hands, their warmth and size. How would they feel on other parts of my body? “What?” Oh, he thinks he’s intruding. “You aren’t.” In my excitement, I start babbling. “I missed you and hoped I’d see you again. And now you’re here. With a beard.” I go to touch it and yank my hand back. “It looks good. I like it. And your muscles. Wow!”

  I need a muzzle, a goddamned muzzle to keep from embarrassing myself.

  His eyes crinkle at the corners. “It’s good to see you too.”

  It pains me to let go of his hand, but I do to open the screen door.

  “You should lock your doors.” He runs his fingers over the molding. I’m sure he notices there isn’t a deadbolt. “Things happen, even out here.”

  As he passes, I notice the right side of his shirt is covered in blood. “You’re
hurt.”

  “It’s nothing.” But he winces when he reaches back with his hand.

  I lead him into the kitchen and pull out a chair. “Sit,” I order. “I’ve got hydrogen peroxide. I can clean it up.” There’s a lot of blood, and I doubt some cotton balls and disinfectant are going to do the trick.

  “You don’t want to see this.” He remains standing. “Scott will take me back to the Red Fox. He can fix me up there.”

  I step into his space and lightly place my open palm on his stomach. Under my touch, his muscles flex and that delicious heat of his flows into me. I lift my eyes to meet his. “I want to help you.”

  He evaluates me with those hawkish eyes of his. “Are you squeamish about blood?”

  My body leans in close enough that his breath flutters the fine hairs around my face.

  “Daisy,” his voice, husky.

  What am I doing? I snap out of it and step back, remove my hand from his body and, luckily, remember what he asked. “No, not squeamish.”

  “Do you have any liquor in the house?” He pulls a phone from his military fatigues. “Scott’s waiting for me outside.” He engages the call. “Bring the kit. I’ve popped a couple stitches.”

  I nod. “Where have you been?”

  “Overseas,” he responds. There’s a knock at the screen door. “We’re in the back room,” Roy calls.

  How many facets are there to Roy? The businessman, the soldier…what else? The lover, my libido responds.

  Scott appears in the kitchen doorway, dressed like Roy, with the same matter-of-fact, task-oriented manner. “Ma’am.” He dips his head to me and drops his backpack on the kitchen chair. “Whoa.” He tips his head back, inhaling deeply. “Cleaner than an operating room.”

  I might have used a bit too much Clorox.

  “No offense intended.” His boyish face looks sheepish. “Makes me think of home. My momma thinks God himself invented Clorox and it’s her duty to use it liberally.”

  I like Scott. I’m trying to ferret out where he’s from. My guess is South Carolina or Georgia.

  “Can I get you anything?” My hospitality gene kicks into overdrive. “I’ve got ice-cold Coke in the fridge.”

  Roy eyes the two of us like he’s watching an extinct ritual. “I’m bleeding over here.”

  Scott shakes his head. “Don’t mind him. He’s always grumpy after a stabbing.”

  I wipe the silly grin off my face when Roy catches my glance. He looks pissed. Is it the injury? Or does he not like me talking to Scott?

  Scott inspects Roy’s shoulder. “Blood’s stuck your shirt to the wound. Gonna have to cut it off.” He pulls scissors out of his pack and efficiently slices through the fabric. He nods in my direction. “Do you have a trash can I can use?”

  “Sure.” I jump up and grab it from under the sink and place it next to Scott’s feet.

  “And the liquor,” Roy reminds me.

  “Right.” I go to the dining room and open the china cabinet. In the back, behind the serving dishes, is a bottle filled with clear liquid. “I think I’ve got whiskey,” I yell. “Will that do?”

  “Yes.” Both men respond.

  When I return, Roy’s seated with his back facing me and his arm resting on the chair back. There is a deep gash down his right shoulder, partially stitched, red and inflamed.

  “Oh God.” I exhale, a clammy sweat breaking out over my body.

  Scott gives me a quick once-over. “Ma’am.” He waits until I turn my eyes from the wound to him. “I don’t need you fainting.”

  “I'm all right.” I nod, mainly to convince myself.

  “Go on and sit. Hand Roy the bottle.” He waits for me to get situated.

  I place the bottle in front of Roy, whose eyes are closed as Scott cuts each stitch and pulls the blood and pus-soaked material free of the wound. With eyes glued to the cookbooks lined up on my kitchen shelf, I do my best to ignore the sharp intake of Roy’s breath each time Scott pulls out a suture and the awful wet, plopping noise it makes falling into the trash bag. Throughout, Roy is like stone, never moving.

  Scott steps back. “Sorry, brother, suturing this up won’t be easy.”

  “Quit your nagging and do it,” Roy replies, dropping his head onto his folded arms.

  I make the mistake of looking at his back. Is that muscle? “You can’t sew him up like a pair of pants. He needs painkillers and…” I’m not sure what he needs, but having triage in my kitchen doesn’t seem right.

  “It’s nothing.” Roy opens his eyes and places his hand on mine. “Scott’s a medic. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “Damn right, so you should listen to me.” Scott dips his head to me. “Let me use a local anesthetic on this.”

  The look Roy gives Scott over his shoulder is withering.

  “Why not?” I’m a twitchy mess thinking of how much this will hurt.

  “Cause he’s an ornery old goat,” Scott replies.

  Roy snorts and nods at the bottle. “Open it up, if you would.”

  I try, but my hand keeps slipping. “It’s stuck.”

  Roy reaches for it and positions the bottle to twist the top off—in one try—without jolting his injured shoulder. He gives it a smell. “What did you say this was?”

  “Whiskey, I think.” Catching a whiff, I scrunch up my face. “Mae calls it her medicinal joint remedy.”

  “Whiskey’s a brown color,” Scott interjects.

  What do I know, I don’t drink.

  “Take a couple good swigs,” Scott encourages. “You’ll need it.”

  “I have Advil, will that help?”

  “Not for this.” Roy takes a long drink and coughs. “She drinks this?” I nod. “It’s grain alcohol.” He takes another healthy swallow. “Give me a minute,” he says over his shoulder to Scott.

  “Not going anywhere with you open like a gutted fish.” Scott assesses me for fainting, I think. “Can you get me a warm washcloth?”

  I stand, checking the status of my legs; I’m good. I pull out two clean dish towels and run the water on hot.

  He pulls items from his pack and places them on the table. “I’ll lay them over the wound. The heat will help.”

  I nod, trying to keep my face composed. When the water’s hot, I run the towels under the tap and wring them out as best I can. “How did it happen?”

  “It happened.” Roy takes another substantial swig and gives me a quick glance before closing his eyes.

  “He was saving my ass…sorry, butt.” Scott uses a scissor-like instrument to grab each towel from me and place it over the wound.

  I remember how Roy dealt with Jason. “Were you punishing someone?”

  “No, Daisy, a rescue mission.”

  I mentally scroll through what news I’ve read. I don’t recall anything about any hostages.

  Scott grabs a pill bottle from his pack and shakes out two tablets. “Go on and take two of these now. They’re antibiotics. Don’t give me any grief; you’re halfway to an infection already.” He places the large white pills in Roy’s outstretched hand. “Daisy, you’ll need to give him”—he digs in his case—“a couple of these in four hours.”

  “Won’t need those.” Roy pops the pills and washes them down with another healthy dose of Mae’s liquor.

  “You will.” Scott shakes his head. “It’s more antibiotics.”

  I take the medicine bottle, turning it from side-to-side, looking at the horse-sized capsules inside.

  Scott grabs the liquor bottle from Roy’s hand, screws the top back on and puts it on the kitchen counter. “It’s time to get this shit-show on the road.” He gives me a guilty look. “Sorry, Ma’am.” He goes over to the sink and washes his hands, shaking them dry, and heads back to Roy.

  “Daisy.” Roy demands my attention. “Distract me.”

  Distract him. How? “I could bring my laptop in. You could watch something on Netflix.”

  Scott rips open a package and uses an instrument with a clamplike tip to grab a long, c
urved needle with the suture already attached. “Ready?”

  Roy nods. His face pales, and sweat beads on his forehead as Scott works. Through clamped teeth, Roy asks, “Are Mae and Stella your biological aunts?”

  I’ve never known anything else, so I’m always surprised when someone is curious about us, but it’s perfectly logical. As Mae puts it, “a girl as white as Wonder Bread with two old black women ain’t an everyday occurrence.”

  “No, they adopted me.”

  “Keep talking, Daisy,” Scott urges, not taking his focus off his task.

  Oh, I see now. This is the distraction thing I’m supposed to do. “They found me on the back steps of Mangler. I was wrapped in a white blanket.” When I was little, I never tired of having them tell me this story. “They were in the shop. It was a Tuesday, early, before they’d opened up. Mae had just put on the coffee when she heard squalling coming from the back. They found me on the top step of the back stoop and scooped me up and brought me inside. Mae went to the Safeway for formula. Stella held me and called the sheriff.”

  Roy speaks over his shoulder to Scott. “They’re black…African American.”

  “They don’t mind the description you use for their color. Well, except for the N-word. They find that offensive, even in music and shows.” I realize I’ve veered off course into uncomfortable territory for white people. “So the sheriff came and took what information there was about me—newborn, white, and healthy—and left. By the time someone from social services came by there was no way they’d let me go.”

  Scott stops mid-stitch. “So they kept you?”

  “Finish it,” Roy urges.

  I’m not sure if he means Scott or me. “Yep, I became Daisy Aldridge because there was a daisy tucked inside my blanket. I celebrate the day I arrived as my birthday.”

  “Do you know who your parents are?” Scott asks.