by David Connor
Goodbye, Ewan.
Chapter 3
Pennsylvania
Ewan was on his way across the back lawn the next morning, making a beeline for the wall where they had met, so it seemed, when stopped by the snap of a voice not Georgia’s. A policeman, who must have come out of the woods, since there was no car in the driveway, stepped into my narrow line of vision.
“He is here on work!” That was Georgia, no doubt about it, and I heard the kitchen door slam from the inside as punctuation. “He has nothing to do with much else.” Sure enough, she’d run out of it, and was still moving quickly as she crossed the damp grass. “Leave him be!” Her voice carried so, from both inside and out.
“Do you own the woods behind your house, ma’am?” the policeman asked.
“A good part of it, yes.”
“There has been a discovery. One of the workmen found what looks like bones there. Human bones.”
Ewan caught Georgia as she fainted in that literary way Southern females sometimes do. “How…?” she asked breathlessly.
“By the stream,” the policeman said. “Back where—”
“Your workmen had no business there!” Georgia’s recovery was quick. She freed herself from Ewan’s hold and stuck a finger in his face. “It is nowhere near the worksite.”
Ewan struck a defiant pose. “You told us to piss and drink there, madam. Many of us need to do both several times per workday. “
“Ewan!”
Georgia was momentarily silenced. Ewan’s name came from behind him, and he screwed his face with apparent displeasure. He recoiled, actually. At least it seemed so to me, from what I could see through my prisoner’s aspect. But then, within a moment, his arms were around the diminutive woman’s waist. “What are you doing here, Fiona?” he asked her.
“I wanted to surprise you,” she said.
“You must have left just a day or so behind me.” Ewan’s tone was tinged with acrimony, I thought, which it seemed he tried to pass as humor. I wondered if Fiona caught it, too. “Traveling from Europe alone was not a keen thing for a woman to do.” I swear he almost shook her, but then he appeared to regain some composure. “This is not a good place for you to be.”
“You’re not happy to see me?” she asked, her lips in a pout, her lashes aflutter.
Both the police officer and Georgia stood and silently watched, one with a look of beguiled bemusement the other like she’d eaten a lemon, pith and all. I assumed the reunion playing out was one between either siblings or lovers. I’d read much about Ewan Parish in the international section of the newspaper that came on Sunday once every month. I could not recall any mention of a sister, and so a depressive state began to creep upon me.
“Of course I’m thrilled, Fiona.” The words read a lie. “But you must go back and wait for me at the inn. Something is afoot. Something potentially dangerous. A body has been found.”
Fiona gasped.
“I wish no harm to come to you,” Ewan said. Those words came off as nothing but sincere.
“What will I do all day without you?” Fiona asked.
“Whatever you’d have done in Paris. Except…perhaps it is not safe to roam about town.”
“That may be an exaggeration.” Georgia finally spoke again, her words still as terse as before she’d fallen silent.
“Or it may not,” said the lawman. “Perhaps you should take the lady back to the inn yourself.”
“Am I not a suspect?” Ewan asked acerbically.
“If even there was a crime,” Georgia said.
“I happen to know you’ve only been in town a short while, Mr. Parish.” The young man in blue wool fawned a bit. “Everyone knows that. The bones are old. Whatever happened to the flesh that once covered them, it didn’t happen by you and it didn’t happen recent.”
I wanted to holler out to the yard in order to correct the lawman’s grammar and did so, but only in my head as I plopped onto my bed to consider what all of this meant. As the room began to spin, I wondered if the male of the species was susceptible to the vapors, or if such was exclusively a female affliction. Were I ever in the presence of a knowing gentleman—Ewan would certainly count as one—I would have to ask. What I felt then was akin to every description I’d ever read in literature before a female heroine put the back of her hand to her forehead and fell back prone. I felt sure I was about to lose consciousness, as Georgia nearly had, though mine was definitively real, not feigned.
By the time I awoke, according to my timepiece and a flash of memory about waking up to darkness several times, an entire day had apparently passed since the policeman was here, if he ever was. I still felt unwell. The fits that returned so abruptly, those I tried to downplay by calling them something romantically trite, had done so with great intensity and regularity. Was it due to my re-burgeoning libido, I wondered. Was there a correlation? I’d awoken on the floor, not the bed where I’d started. It was drizzling outside, and the air that came in through the opening was dank and unpleasant to the nose. I thought it smelled of death, but that was most probably imagination more than actuality, a false sense triggered by the news of a corpse, or the dream I’d had involving one, as I was not quite certain if any of that was real.
Finally fully awake, my mind was awhirl. Even if I possessed the ability to settle on one conception, I would not be sure whether or not that notion was believable. Dreams of tree limbs twisted into frightening forms and bark sticky with human blood invaded my sleep. I recalled listening as best I could, watching through my aperture, as Ewan and the woman, this Fiona, spoke. I did not sense much affection towards her on his part. If the way she clung to him and the large ring that caught the light each time she moved her hand was any indication, there must be some, however, and so my denial of such, or the idea they could be family, was definitely wishful, fantastical thinking. Perhaps if the lawman and the bones were a manifestation of my imagination, so was she. I was unsuccessful in convincing myself of that.
It was precisely then that my ambivalence annoyed me. I had told Ewan Parish goodbye, so what did his relation with the woman really matter? The answer was none. It mattered not in the slightest. He had made no more contact, unless I’d slept through it. I hoped he’d be back, but then prayed to my ceiling he would not. Back and forth again, and I was ready to spit.
Georgia ignored me as well. She had come to the pass-through only once in all of yesterday, to bring me sustenance in the morning. That I recalled, which offered a touch of credence to the rest, including the discovery of a skeleton and Ewan’s waning interest in me and my circumstance. It was time for another breakfast tray. None had arrived. Apparently, the fruit, bread, and jar of sweet tea Georgia had delivered some twenty-seven hours ago was not only expected to last the entirety of yesterday—for she obviously never returned with a lunch meal or supper—it must have also been meant to serve as breakfast for today. Had she forgotten me? Was it punishment, or something else, I pondered. Was it the stress of the visit from the law? Did that concern us? It was on our property, after all. I wondered on the other hand if Georgia was truly ill. When I thought perhaps something worse had happened, a panic squeezed my heart. Georgia was always prone to the vapors and dizziness. What if the playacting was something far more real?
I stood. I knocked on the pass-through, the dumbwaiter. I pounded hard and waited. Georgia did not come.
I sat on the edge of my bed. I picked up paper. The feel of the pen in my hand calmed me slightly. I thought of Ewan, and my words appeared swiftly, black against a color similar to what I imagined the flesh at his most private parts to be.
What shall I do if she has perished? Will I just sit and write? Is my lot to create pages of words eventually nonsensical, then send them to their ruin, where the effluent in the cellar’s corner is always three cinder blocks high, until I perish from starvation?
The pen that had soothed me some, the words that came forth from it undid.
Or would you remember me? Would you come
to my aid? If you believe the condemnation of the townsfolk, if you have heard even more from the officer who was here, I fear you may be too afraid to do so.
“Pennsylvania.”
He hadn’t fled after all. His voice, it startled me, but somehow also comforted simultaneously. The wallpaper was pulled back, held open by the basin stand. I did not recall either fixing it right or making it this way. My spells had me confused. I could not recollect if one brick was out, or several, or possibly all when Ewan had last left it. I dared not look any further to see.
“Are you there?”
My heart was in my throat. Yes.
“Can you hear me?”
I can. I hear you, Ewan Parish, your Scottish brogue, and also one of the bricks sliding out of place. You cannot hear me; that I know, as my answers come only in my mind, still sound enough to realize such and to be afeard to answer you forthright.
“Pennsylvania, I’m sorry I did not return yesterday. I was tied up.”
With the woman or the crime?
“Pennsylvania?”
His voice was a whisper, the hour quite early. Too early for work. What was he doing here? Was it solely for me? How dare I think such an ego-driven thought.
“Answer me somehow, if you can, Pennsylvania.”
I could not. I did not, and so silence followed, as I lay there still as possible, until…
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sound, the vibration from the cellar.
My leg slipped off the side of the bed, seemingly of its own mind. Thump. It hit the floor hard and that became my answer.
Thump. Thump. Ewan signaled once more, possibly to be sure.
Thump. Thump.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I heard Ewan springing up the cellar steps an instant later. His boots were loud, his stride quite quick. I imagined him smiling, and I smiled too.
“Come closer, lad. To the open bricks.”
He pulled out one, two, four of them. “Fucking tree!”
I still sat facing the other direction. I dared not look, my burst of glee and valor gone. The next thing I heard was the cut of a saw on wet wood. I feared for the yew. I feared for Ewan, when Georgia saw what he was doing to her shrubbery right against the abode.
“Come, lad. Come and talk to me.”
I still did not obey, not entirely, despite the pull so very strong. I did turn toward him though, toward his voice, so that if he could see the whole of me, something he’d disturbed rows of brickwork to do.
“And there you be,” he said lightly, and I stood.
In off-white britches, bare on top, I tried to cover myself with both hands, first my face, then my torso, and lastly my blossoming organ tip, coming forth from its foreskin and also, I feared, the gap in the garment meant for that purpose when appropriate.
“You are striking,” Ewan breathlessly uttered. “Please do not hide. I am not a poet, not good with words, like you, but if I were to describe you, as I see you here now, would you listen? Your eyes, Pennsylvania, even at a distance, are reminiscent of priceless black diamonds from South America, and your hair captures perfectly the color and sheen of a raven’s down as it falls limp to your collarbone on both sides.”
I tried to shrink into myself, to hide from Ewan’s description, quite lyrical in fact, and also from his assessing leer.
“Stand tall,” Ewan said. “Proudly put back those broad shoulders, with skin nearly as pale as the fine marble used in Greek statuary. I have seen such beauteous art, Pennsylvania, and also touched it. It is an apropos comparison, be certain, considering the deep etchings of lovely muscle in your flesh and the angular features of your remarkable face. Your cheekbones, thick brows, and nose say Athens, now that I think, somehow displaced to the American South. Even the philtrum dimple above your full, near-magenta lips seem crafted by a Renaissance master.
I shook my head.
“What is it you do not believe? Are you scolding me for mixing my historical periods and locals?” Ewan chuckled. “I was mixing metaphors. Similes, actually, as I am well aware the Renaissance had little to do with anything Grecian. I trust fully, Pennsylvania, that you are as well.”
Ewan paused, perhaps for a response.
“Or is it that you wish me to go?” he asked, when none was offered.
I gestured “no” again.
“Are you okay? Are you safe and fed? Do they harm you? Are you held against your will?”
I nodded and then moved my head side to side.
“Too many disparate questions.” Ewan smiled. “For the moment, do you need to be rescued?”
I answered with a twist of my chin.
“I’ve read your writings,” Ewan said.
My mouth fell agape. My brows shot up in bewilderment and disbelief, an expression asking, “How?”
“In the cellar.” Ewan had deciphered it. “Dozens of pages,” he said. “Hundreds, even. Over how many years?”
I turned away.
“I worry for you. You are not what they’ve led you to believe. You are not a fool. Not a fool or a simpleton, except of their making.” Ewan removed more bricks—six, eight, ten of them.
I turned back, a look of worry on my face Ewan once again read for what it was.
“Do not fret.” He stuck his entire head inside. “I know a little something about structure.” He offered another smile, hoping to appease the pathetic prisoner with the rampant thoughts, no doubt. “Don’t be scared.” He tried with words. “I simply want to speak with you.”
I spun my backside around to him again.
“I must, you see. The intellectual reasoning uncertain, the strong feeling, though, requiring it. Come back. Please.” Ewan backed out then offered his hand through the opening he’d occupied. “Take it, Pennsylvania. Put your hand in mine.”
I kept my back to him, yet found myself moving, somehow again not of my will. At least I might try to excuse the farce of it that way. I knelt at the wall and a jolt surged through me when Ewan’s fingertips barely brushed against mine, outstretched in his direction. My breath caught loudly. When I finally remembered to exhale, it came as a rush.
“It’s alright,” Ewan said.
And then I grasped his hand, clutched it to my face, and wept openly against it, most of my face still turned away from his.
Ewan pushed me gently back. “Though I do not deny you your tears, I ask that you show yourself to me. I want to—Nay, I need to see your face up-close.”
My eyes remained closed as I slowly turned toward him, trepidation, I supposed. I willed him to speak to me more. Ewan’s native Scotland tinged his words, though his many travels came through as well. Not that I knew for certain what a foreign affectation should sound like, except what I’d heard on the radio in the parlor. Please, how I do enjoy your voice playing over me, as I fantasized yesterday your hands might someday—
I fell back. My eyes flew open.
“I’m sorry that I frightened you.”
Ewan had helped himself to a touch somewhere other than my hand. Since I’d asked for it silently, it came unexpected and startled me.
“Please. Please come back.”
Twas a blessing my gut was empty. Were there anything in it, it would have surely come up with the bile in my throat.
“Speak to me, Pennsylvania.”
I grabbed paper and pen.
I’m hideous.
I held it up in trembling hands.
“Quite the contrary. You are beautiful. That which is obvious to all on the outside, glows from inside you as well, as evidenced through you writings.”
Those were not meant to be seen.
“The pages stick in the rafters. They never make it to the muck, Pennsylvania. Caught up in the structure of the floor beneath you, they remain preserved and dry. I was up most of one night and distracted from work by them most of one day. I held every one, Pennsylvania, even that one recently branded special by your manly extract.”
/> I felt myself blushed.
“It brought me pleasure of the erotic, but also of my heart, young man, that I could have awakened that part of you once more. It is something not to be feared.”
How dare you speak of such, Mr. Parish? Are you not promised to that woman?
Ewan bowed his head after reading the question. “Not in my heart,” he said.
Then why do you pretend?
I wrote quickly and large. Ewan was able to see, even as I remained a safe distance. Safe from what, I was not certain.
Do you struggle against unwanted desires for men? If so, is it not hypocritical to try and soothe me of qualms over mine?
I turned my fear on him by way of accusations and was rewarded when his cheeks reddened as had mine.
“It is not so much fear that keeps me from inviting a gentleman to my bed; it is more…obligation, I suppose. A need to fit a standard.” Ewan caught my eyes once more, though only a sideways glance. “I wish most to talk about you,” he said. “Tell me why you believe these awful things about yourself. In your voice, in sound. Can you?”
I shook his head.
“You do not speak?”
I pantomimed a negative response.
“Do not or cannot?”
I wrote out my answer as quickly as I could. Ewan waited patiently. I debated a moment once done, but then leaned forward as far as I could stretch while still keeping part of myself against the foot of my bed for security. I held it out to Ewan, hoping he might brush against me, or boldly grab ahold. He did not. I respected that as well. My contradictory thoughts begged him to be brazen, yet praised his empathetic restraint. Ambivalence needled me, like Abee Mobley’s teasing when we were young.
Ewan read.
Auntie Virginia asked for what I had wished on my eighteenth birthday candles. I was surprised she was there. For a while, even after vowing never to see us again, she would sit with Georgia once a month or so, for light refreshments and condemnation in the kitchen or one of the salons. That had stopped. I had not seen her since two Christmases prior. I was certain she only attended that day out of curiosity, amazement, or possibly hope against my actually making it to the age of manhood.
