by Amy Saia
“Anyway, I have something to show you.”
We left, and William opened a stairwell door. He waited for me to pass under his arm.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you when we get in the car.”
I felt my backpack slip from my arm, and then watched as it swung across William’s shoulders. “Your headache,” he said as an excuse, even though he always tried to carry my bag. If I knew he was going for it, I’d put a protective arm up to block the steal. But this time he was right; I was tired. Really truly tired, and so I made no complaints. I followed him as he ascended the steps and led us outside, wishing at once I’d remembered to bring a jacket. The tepid fall air had changed to a pre-winter chill.
We made our way across the student parking lot, William stepping ahead to open the car door for me. I got in, then sat and watched him stop a minute to sweep away all the multicolored fall leaves which had fallen across the windshield.
“It’s freezing tonight!” he said, taking the driver’s side. “Winter’s coming.” He slung our book bags into the backseat, and instead of shoving the key into the ignition, he reached to grab my hand. “Emma?” he asked, then met my eyes with a gentle caution.
“Yes?” My heart sped up a little. “What is it?”
“I have something for you.”
I swallowed with a tight throat.
“I love you.” William moved my hand inside the warmth of his jacket. He whispered my name. “Feel my shirt pocket,” he said, still whispering. His eyes were intense.
What was he doing? What kind of trick was he playing? Stretching my fingers across his chest, I came across a hard little lump. I kept feeling, using my fingertips to give a more detailed examination. Something was caught in the bottom of the pocket, deep in the corner edge.
“Take it out.” His voice was husky.
The low sunlight of dusk came through the windshield, helping to illuminate a tiny circle form. A ring. It was vintage style, with a facet setting rising up like a crown and one diamond nestled brilliantly inside.
“Oh, William. How?”
“I wrote a few stories awhile back, for a magazine. The pay was mediocre, but enough for this. I’ve been saving.”
“Did you buy it just now? Today?” I asked, and saw from the image in his mind he’d skipped American Lit and gone to a jewelry shop instead.
He plucked the ring out of my palm and motioned for me to turn my hand over. When he slid the ring across, I cried. I loved him so much for giving me a symbol of his total devotion. But I still wouldn’t allow myself to believe he could love me that much. I didn’t think I was worthy. Not with all those thoughts of Jesse.
“But I don’t have a ring for you,” I said, staring at the diamond like it was a tiny god.
“Feel inside my other pocket.”
So I did. And there it was. A golden ring like mine, but thicker and with no diamond. “They must have cost a fortune.”
He didn’t say, and he didn’t show. It was all blocked.
I motioned for him to turn his hand over, and when he did, I slid the ring all the way across his long, bare finger. He grasped our hands together and squeezed.
“Forever, Emma.”
Chapter 4
I couldn’t stop staring at my ring. Upon waking, while taking a shower, in the library entering data—it looked really cool in the glow of the TRS-80’s neon green prompts. I couldn’t believe how beautiful it was, and how perfectly it fit around my finger. But sometimes a worry would nag at me over how much it cost, and how a few stories couldn’t possibly bring in enough. Then a rainbow of diamond sparkles would erase the thought and pull me into blinding joy once again.
William would catch me oohing and aahing over it, and he’d produce a grin, sure and wide. He was as happy as any husband could be, and I was thrilled to see his ring flashing “occupied” to all the girls who happened to cross his path. Who knew a tiny object could mean so much?
Mr. Hershel seemed surprised when I came into class wearing it the next day. He halted his coffee cup midair but said nothing, wouldn’t even meet my eyes. Onward he strolled, taking a cautious sip.
Jesse’s drawing was a work in slow progress. I’d outlined his entire body and now spent each class isolating my focus to things like his hands, or a button from one of his shirts. How I could remember such detail, in the midst of what at the time was nothing short of chaos, I’d never understand. But there it was, stuck in my memory like a Polaroid.
William, obsessed with his new ability to bring in money selling stories, spent every spare moment in his office. Sometimes the door was left open, and I would say a quick hello before going off to watch television or do laundry, but sometimes the door was closed. When it was closed, his thoughts were, as well. I figured I was finally learning about the writer William, and as his wife, I would do my best to accommodate. Because now I truly felt like a wife with that ring on my finger. I even tried washing the dishes more often, and I no longer snuck away for smoke breaks. Yesterday’s Emma was over. She’d been so childish.
But sometimes I was lonely and didn’t know why. Sometimes the rhythmic sound of typing in his office would stall—for hours—and I’d wonder if he’d dozed off, or become stuck in a bout of writer’s block. There wasn’t much I could do about it, other than stay out of his way.
Out of boredom, I took to going into art lab on Saturdays.
Early one morning, I sat down to work at my desk and opened Jesse’s sketch, only to see Mr. Hershel enter the room from his office. He came right over and pulled up the stool next to mine, chipped white coffee cup in hand. “You’re going to help me win a grant,” he said.
“I am?” I turned my head to give the long and lean human I’d come to associate with an older Jesse—if Jesse were still lucky enough to be alive—a flash of mocked surprise. Being so close to him made me nervous. He even smelled like Jesse. How was it possible?
Taking a slow gulp of coffee, Mr. Hershel paused before speaking. “Yes, indeed you are. I’ve really been thinking about this. For years I’ve been trying to get out of this place, and since I’m not getting a raise anytime soon, I’ve decided it’s up to someone else to present me with a viable opportunity.” He leaned over one of his denim kneecaps. “You see, there’s a contest coming up with amazing prizes—that part’s for you—but it’s the accreditation I’m after. If I can get one good student to snag the attention of some of them contest gods, then I can hike my ass out of here to a better school out east, maybe out of the U.S. of freaking A.”
I paused before sharpening the tip of my graphite pencil. “I thought you were a famous artist.”
He shrugged. “Do I look famous?”
Why did he always unnerve me? “I’m not even in the graduate program,” I said at last.
“Doesn’t matter. I think you have what it takes.”
I was dumbfounded, but tried to act cool. “Okay, well, aside from the fact that you told me my work lacks heart, I would be honored to help out. Only, I don’t have a portfolio yet.”
“We’ll work on that. The contest is in a few months, right before Christmas, so there’s plenty of time.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Okay.” Then I sat back to meet his stare. “Why aren’t you asking Charity Bent? Did she finally reject you or something?” Everyone in class knew about his “secret” relationship with sexy Charity, his prize student.
“No,” he said, slugging back a few gulps of coffee. “How do you know about that?”
“We all know.”
“Oh.”
I pushed up a sleeve cuff and allowed myself to enjoy making him look so defeated. He really did act like I’d socked him in the gut. He recovered well, though, pulling a pair of shades down over his eyes with a slick hand.
�
��Her work’s only gone so far,” he explained. “There’s no real passion. A real artist never loses their hunger or ability for growth. She has. I think you never will.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you have a past motivation that can never be filled. I see it—it’s in your work.” He glanced down at Jesse’s drawing, inspected how meticulously I’d executed every single line, and yet had avoided the heart of the picture: Jesse’s face. “Is he the reason?”
“No,” I answered too fast.
Mr. Hershel laughed. “Sure, he ain’t.” He reached a hand in through the strands of my hair to squeeze at my shoulder. “Well, whatever it is, finish this picture, and about eleven more, and I might have myself that stupid grant. No pressure, though.”
“Right.” I was stunned by his offer. It alluded that he thought I was good, after all. “No pressure.”
“And another thing, Bennett.”
“What?”
“Are you always so beautiful this early in the morning?”
I raised my left hand to show him the ring.
He laughed. “I saw it when you came in wearing the thing. It’s a lot like the one I gave to my girlfriend Betty when we were both young and stupid.”
I twisted it around my finger in anger. Stupid? What a jerk.
He laughed again. “I thought giving her a ring meant I could go off and have fun while she stayed at home being a good wife. Things fell apart, I had an affair, and she left me. She’s been married a few times now, as have I. All ended within a few years.” Mr. Hershel picked up my hand to inspect the ring with care. “This beautiful little finger of yours might as well be your neck, and this ring, a chain. ’Cause that’s what it is. A chain. But it don’t have to be. If you can see past what it’s supposed to mean, and what it really is, then you can see that you’re too talented to be someone’s wife. I got plans for you, Bennett.”
I yanked my hand away, rubbing at the remnant, abrasive sensation of his grip. “I didn’t ask you to make any.”
“Too late. I already did. Plans. For both of us.”
¤ ¤ ¤
That afternoon, I rapped on William’s office door and listened to every sound coming from beyond the thick mahogany panel. I knew he was in there. “William?” I said, knocking again. A minute later, I heard the sounds of a chair creaking, and footsteps padding across the wooden floor. A lock rattled loose in the knob, then the door opened and he stood before me.
“It’s lunchtime,” I said, meeting his unfocused eyes. “Heavy writing session?”
He stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind. “You could say that. What time is it?”
I showed him my wristwatch. “It’s past one. Do you want me to fix you something, a sandwich, fry up a horse?” I smiled to show I was joking, but he appeared distant. “You okay, Will?”
“Sure. Just worked too hard, I guess.” He started down the hall toward the staircase. I followed behind.
“If you don’t want me to make anything, we can go out. We haven’t done that in a while.”
“All right, we’ll go out.” He reached the landing and grabbed his keys, his tweed jacket, and his fedora off the coat rack. “Pardon me for being so stupid as to ask this question, but, what day is it, Emma?”
“You’re joking, right? You went on all week about how much you couldn’t wait for Saturday to come around, and now you’ve forgotten what day it is.” I grabbed my jacket. “Saturday. It’s Saturday, Will.” I looked into his eyes to see if he was indeed joking, but they were serious, glazed and indifferent. He blinked a few times, and finally I saw something light up inside. He smiled. “Of course, it’s Saturday. The best day of the week. Means I get to spend the rest of it with you.” I slipped into the passenger seat, and he leaned in to kiss me. I thought it would be a quick peck, but his lips were filled with such intensity that I soon found myself struggling for breath. “Whoa . . . whoa! Hey, Will. What is going on with you?” I was laughing, but at the same time I felt a little overwhelmed.
He came up for air with a big grin.
William, who had learned to drive clutch like a natural after only one lesson from me, stripped the gears on our way through town. I heard a few curses escape under his breath, but I said nothing.
There wasn’t much to choose in lieu of fancy eateries in Penn Peak, but we had a few places with simple charm. The Cardinal Cafe was one of those, a 1950s style diner with the usual staples of burgers and malts, and little quarter jukeboxes on every table. Will and I had been there many times before. We walked in and took a table in the back. Our waitress, LuAnn, came over right away in a starched pink dress and little white apron. Her hair was sprayed to a round bouffant.
“Good afternoon, folks. What can I get ya?”
Will handed me a menu and glanced over his. “I’d like a coffee to start. Emma?”
“Dr Pepper,” I said, still reading.
LuAnn didn’t need to write it down. We always ordered the same thing. “Okay, anything else?”
I shook my head, picking over the menu. I was starving, but nothing appealed to me. Another headache had eased off, but nausea was creeping in.
Will ordered two cheeseburgers and a large plate of fries, and I settled on a salad with a chocolate shake on the side.
“Great combination,” Will teased after the waitress had gone.
“Yeah, well, my stomach’s all . . .” I circled a finger in the air. “Kind of weird right now.” He gave me a frown, and I focused in on the tiny jukebox. “Got any quarters?”
“Sure.” He dug in his pocket. “I knew I’d left one in there.”
“Thanks.” I slipped in the quarter, and out came “The Knack.” Someone had put in a few modern songs to mix things up. It was too loud, though, and I regretted it. Will acted so uncomfortable that I put my hand over the tiny speakers to muffle the volume. “You hate it.”
“Well, I don’t hate it. But do I love it? No.”
I removed my hand, and loud guitar blasted out. It reminded me of Jesse. “Maybe I shouldn’t have picked this song. I didn’t think it would be so loud.” I started to flip through the rotating menu again.
“Just leave it, Emma.”
Our drinks arrived, but I was still flipping through songs. “This is strange, there’s nothing in here but fifties and loud rock. Somebody has a wicked sense of humor.” It was similar to something Jesse would do. I remembered us in Phil’s Record Store before the eclipse, and how wild and stupid we had acted. Like dumb, reckless kids. The way people our age were supposed to act.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” I reached for my soda.
The song ended, and William took my hand to inspect the ring. The same expression of pride crossed his face. “I’d buy you a million of these if I could. Maybe if I keep selling stories.”
“Have you sold more?”
He caressed my finger for a moment longer before letting go. “A few. But I’ve been neglecting you.”
“Yeah, well.” I sipped my pop again.
Then, out of nowhere, he said, “I’ve never noticed how young you are, Emma.”
My hand flew to my face. I touched my cheek, like doing so would answer the worry in my mind telling me I was still nineteen, not the young seventeen-year-old he’d met back at Springvale. “We’re the same age.” How many times did I have to tell him that?
Our waitress came back with plates nestled along her forearms. Will dug in, ravenous. “Not hungry at all?” he asked when it was apparent I wasn’t going to touch the salad.
“No, I—” My stomach lurched. I couldn’t eat the food. “Will, tell me about the stories you write.”
He choked a little on the bite he’d taken and sat back to wipe his mouth with a paper napkin. “They’re, uh, just stor
ies about life. Boring, really.”
“Are they fiction?”
“Some of them. Aren’t you hungry, Emma?”
“No, not really.” I sat back and watched him eat. He acted like it had been a month since he’d last had food, when in actuality I’d made him a breakfast in the morning with bacon and waffles—the works. “If you ever need someone to proofread your stories, I’d love to do it.”
“Ms. Jacomber proofs all my work before I send it out.”
“She does?” I asked with a twinge of jealousy. Why did she get to read his work when I had been waiting over a year to get the chance? It wasn’t fair. I watched him eat while occasionally taking small sips of my soda. It had a faint taste of sourness, like vinegar. Everything did lately. “Well, do you want to hear what I’ve been up to?”
His mouth was too stuffed to answer, so he gave a nod.
I leaned across the table. “Mr. Hershel wants to put me in an art contest. He says he thinks I could place, maybe even win. That’s kind of crazy, if you ask me. I’m not that good.”
“Sure you are.” William raised a brow. “But I heard he’s been sleeping with one of his students, so I’m not sure I’d take much stock in any of his opinions.”
Taken aback, I told myself not to get hurt by the subtle way William had brushed off Mr. Hershel’s compliment. Also, I tried not to think too hard about who had been telling him the gossip. Seeing his plate was empty, I slid my shake across the table. “Here. I don’t want it after all.”
“Are you sure?” I nodded, and he started in, ravenous. Something was different. His face. Staring hard, I saw the hint of little stubbles running along the length of his jaw.
“Will?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“Are you growing a beard or something?”
He seemed embarrassed, raising up the metal napkin dispenser to glance at his reflection, back and forth, side to side. “Actually, I am.” He smiled. “Does it make me come off more . . . distinguished?”
