Stories We Never Told

by Sonja Yoerg

  Jackie smiles and busies herself refilling their mugs. She’s happy that Grace can link an uncertain memory of their father to positive experiences in her own family. Jackie only wishes she knew how it felt.

  Sometimes the grave site ritual lifts her up; other times, like today, it makes her pensive, even brooding. Miles texted her earlier to say he would be running errands this afternoon, so when Jackie arrives home, the house is empty. She leaves the lunch containers on the kitchen counter and goes directly upstairs to the extra bedroom, which serves as a home office. She carries a side chair into the walk-in closet, positions it in at the far end, and steps up. A small suitcase is stacked on top of a file box. The exterior is a muted-blue vinyl with ivory overstitching faded to yellow and worn at the corners and edges. Jackie pulls it down by the plastic handle, climbs off the chair, and brings it into the room.

  She places the suitcase on the floor and kneels in front of it. The clasps are touched with rust, but when she presses the buttons with her thumbs, they open with a clean click. Jackie lifts the lid, and the distinctive smell hits her nostrils: starch, old cardboard, and a hint of lavender. The suitcase is lined with material the same shade as the exterior. An elasticized pocket runs the width of the lid. It is as empty as the day she appropriated it.

  From her vigil at her bedroom door, Jackie heard her father leave the house after an argument with her mother. She heard the clink of the keys in his hand, the opening and closing of the front door, the creak of the door of his truck, the rumble of the truck’s engine. Her mother was in the kitchen, running water. Jackie crept into her parents’ room and, with only the dim light from the hallway to guide her, reached into the inky darkness under the bed and dragged the suitcase out. She carried it, bumping against her leg with every step, to her room, and hid it under her bed.

  The next morning she relocated the suitcase to the far reaches of her closet. Later that day, her father returned, and she knew she’d done the smart thing. You can’t really leave for anywhere without a suitcase. Everyone knew that.

  Now Jackie runs her hand along the bottom of the suitcase, concentrating not on how she failed to prevent her father from leaving but rather on how proud she was of her tactical strike. She granted herself agency and created hope, when in truth she had rights to neither. She never felt foolish for trying, just not powerful enough.

  She worries the lesson has been lost on her over the years. Maybe that is why she is kneeling in front of an empty suitcase, to remind herself to have faith in the power of action—her action. She stays a few moments longer, then returns the suitcase to the closet where no one questions its presence or its meaning.

  Jackie grades papers until her eyes swim, then runs a bath—a rare event. She languishes in the tub and drifts behind the veil of sleep, dreaming of a blue suitcase that holds a piece of sky.

  Miles calls out from below. She splashes water on her face to wake herself and listens to his footfalls up the stairs and along the corridor. He knocks on the bathroom door.

  “Come on in. I’m all bubbles.”

  His head appears. “Hey, beautiful. We’re leaving in thirty minutes, right?”

  “What? It can’t be four already.”

  “It is indeed.”

  They have a wedding reception to attend, the children of two of her colleagues: Amy Chen’s daughter, Juliet, and Isaac Sorenson’s son, Leo. The dress is black tie, which means she has to pull out all the stops in precious little time. She yanks the drain plug, grabs the towel from the floor, and calls to Miles, “Do you need to shower? Because it’s going to be a NASCAR pit in here.”

  He laughs. “I can use the guest bath. What are you wearing?”

  “You pick! Extra points for accessories!” She owns only two dresses that would be appropriate, given the occasion and the season, maybe three, so the choice isn’t burdensome.

  She dries off, throws on a robe, and sets to work. As she blow-dries her hair, she thanks her mother for teaching her how to create a chignon and tries to whip up enthusiasm for the evening. She doesn’t socialize with the parents and only knows Leo from a summer he spent as an intern in her lab six years ago. No one would miss her. When the invitation arrived, she intended to decline, but shortly afterward she ran into Leo at Wolf Hall. He had returned from California with Juliet to make wedding arrangements and made her promise to attend. His appeal was so sincere—he is nothing if not sincere—that she readily agreed.

  At a quarter after six, the ceremony, wonderfully brief and ecumenical, is over, and the throng of guests has dispersed across the atrium of the Celestine Grill. Jackie accepts a glass of white wine from a roving waiter. The decor is old-world elegance; the marble floors, vaulted ceiling, and white columns are softened by potted palms and diffuse lighting. The tiers of the central fountain are arrayed with glass-covered candles, and the flower arrangements—dusky green, ivory, and blue-gray—are artful yet understated.

  Ursula Kleinfelter appears at her elbow, wrapped in a flowing gold silk pajama-like outfit. On her, it works. “I see you silently tallying the cost.”

  Jackie touches her glass to Ursula’s. “Touché. They seem so in love, though, don’t you think?”

  “If not on their wedding day, when else?”

  “Good point.” She sips her wine.

  Ursula scans the crowd surrounding them. “Is Miles here?”

  “Somewhere. When word gets around that he signs sports talent, he becomes instantly popular.”

  “In this crowd?”

  Jackie laughs. “Don’t be a snob, Ursula. You should know by now that Americans take their sports seriously, even those with Ivy League ambitions. Perhaps especially those.”

  “I keep forgetting.” She snags a salmon and caviar canape from a passing tray. “So few quarterbacks from the Middle East.”

  They chat for a few minutes before Ursula excuses herself. “I’m off to see Dodie, make sure she’s holding up.” Dodie is Isaac Sorenson’s wife and the mother of the groom. Ursula and Dodie are close, close enough that Ursula shepherded her friend through radiation treatment for breast cancer this past summer.

  “Of course. See you later, Ursula.”

  Jackie exchanges pleasantries with a couple of other acquaintances, the last of whom mentions the view from the rooftop bar, open only during private events. Dinner will be served soon, Jackie surmises, so she scans the room for Miles and, failing to spot him, heads to the elevator and the roof, figuring they’ll spend the rest of the evening together. Who knows? With a few drinks in him, he might even be up for a dance.

  Jackie steps out onto the roof deck. The nighttime air shocks her bare arms and shoulders like a splash of ice water, but as she takes in the scene before her, she forgets the chill. The perimeter is adorned with a string of fairy lights along the railing and another above, with more crisscrossing the space and along the bar itself. Her gaze travels beyond the roof, across the top of the Treasury Building to the White House, its facade aglow, then beyond to the Washington Monument, a solitary spike against a velvet background. She moves between clusters of wedding guests to a spot at the railing. The obelisk is familiar, of course, but from this angle, in darkness, it’s as if she is seeing it for the first time. The sight fills her with reverence and awe.

  “I wondered if you’d come.”

  Jackie startles. That voice. She takes a breath before turning to face him. “Hi, Harlan. I didn’t hear you sneak up.”

  He smiles and points to his shoes, gleaming black patent. “Leather soles. And you were entranced by the view, understandably.”

  “It’s remarkable.” She glances at the monument, as if confirming her assessment, and surreptitiously takes in his suit: midnight blue with satin lapels. Unquestionably new. Miles opted for the classic black dinner suit he has owned for years, a three-piece style, which, he rightly argues, outlasts every trend. Jackie can’t imagine why Harlan would have invested in such an outfit. He eschews weddings, and formal occasions in general. Perhaps th
is has something to do with his new interest in portraiture and twenty-seven-year-olds. Jackie quickly surveys the guests clustered around them for Nasira and returns her attention to Harlan.

  His smile contains great patience.

  She regroups. “I was speculating about why you were here, but remembered that Amy and Landon are your neighbors.” And Amy Chen is an ardent fan, but she didn’t voice that.

  “Yes, it would’ve been awkward to refuse.” A server nears. Harlan motions her over and takes two glasses of wine from the tray, handing one to Jackie. “To the promise of young love.”

  It’s not like Harlan to recite Hallmark verse, but there’s not a hint of a smirk on his face. “Yes. Cheers.”

  They drink. Harlan leans back, and his eyes roam over her body—appraising, but not lascivious—then return to her face, her lips, and settle on her eyes. Her first impulse is to throw her drink at him, but this is a wedding, and the roof is crowded. Plus, he’s giving her that look, the one that twists her, creating an ache she would rather not admit to.

  “Don’t squirm,” he says softly. “You look extraordinarily beautiful. That dress on you . . . I can’t take my eyes off you.”

  Her cheeks flame.

  He grins. “That’s not helping.”

  She escapes by turning to the view and sips her wine. Miles chose this strapless burgundy silk sheath. “To show off what rowing does for shoulders,” he said when she found it on the bed earlier. She was pleased then. Now she feels exposed. How dare Harlan play with her this way? She’s married; he should make no claim on her. Jackie’s anger flares, but the admonishments sitting on her tongue remain there. Her thoughts blur in confusion. She’s been obsessing over Nasira, and all along Harlan has remained attracted to her? Is he serious? The idea that he might be triggers a warm surge of—what? Desire?

  No.

  Her body is treacherous to respond to this man, here, now. Harlan had his chance. She loves her husband.

  She feels the impulse to flee, and the muscles in her legs tense. But he has frozen her. She is going nowhere. His claim on her is fresh, real.

  Damn him.

  “Jackie. Please look at me.”

  She takes a half step back, creating a buffer. She’s aware of other people nearby, talking, laughing; she can’t imagine what they are saying. She is numb, confused, ashamed.

  “Jackie.”

  She lifts her eyes. The air separating her from Harlan is made of crystal.

  “I can’t—” His voice falters, but his eyes are certain. He is in pain. His pain is for her.

  She sees it. He allows her to.

  Jackie grabs hold of the railing, unsteady. She squeezes. The hard, cold metal ushers a signal up her arm, breaking the spell.

  She drains her wine, sets the glass on a bar table behind her. “It’s freezing up here.” She rubs her arms, erasing gooseflesh, to show it is true. Jackie steals a glance at Harlan, but he is now surveying the people behind her, casually, as if the two of them are both somewhat bored with their small talk and are ready to move on.

  “You go in,” he says, mild as a June morning.

  Jackie hesitates. A moment before, he was bare to her, utterly. According to a moral calculus she cannot explain, it seems wrong to leave him like this. “Aren’t you going down to dinner?”

  He glares at her, his irises fusing with his pupils, black as sin. A rushing sound fills her ears. He places his drink on the railing, shoots his cuffs as if he wears black tie every night, and walks away.

  CHAPTER 10

  Last year, Jackie and Miles were late to Thanksgiving dinner at her sister’s in Staunton, caught behind a big rig crash on Interstate 66 out of DC. So this year they leave at eight o’clock, armed with coffee and muffins for the road, plus citrus sweet potatoes, pecan pie, several bottles of wine, and a bouquet of yellow roses—Grace’s favorite. The drive is only two hours, but Jackie figures they can help Grace and Hector with the dinner and kids. With five, adults are always in short supply.

  Miles is driving and singing along with Adele on the radio, his voice soft but perfectly tuned. Jackie smiles. For several weeks she’s successfully reined in her preoccupation with Harlan and Nasira, and although Miles has been away five days of the week, their time together has been nearly conflict-free. Antonio is teetering on the verge of needing to be checked into rehab again, but he’s resisted—with Miles’s acquiescence. Jackie wants to see Antonio complete the semester, too, but his health should take priority. She’s only the stepmother, though. Antonio’s mother, according to Miles, has never taken their son’s problems as seriously as she should, so it is down to Miles to work things out with him.

  “You’re lost in space,” Miles says.

  “I was wishing Antonio could have come this year. I know his mother flew in for the break, but I would’ve loved to have him be with my family.” Jackie paused. “Other than my mom.”

  “Your mom’s not so bad.”

  “Compared to whom? Hannibal Lecter?”

  He laughs. “When is she arriving at your sister’s?”

  “After the kids are asleep.”

  He glances at her. “You’re joking.”

  “Only slightly. I mean, my sister’s house is the embodiment of chaos. I get that.”

  “But as a grandmother, she should be tolerant.”

  “Or delighted. Many grandmothers are delighted with five healthy, adorable grandkids. I’m only an aunt and I’m delighted.”

  They exit I-81 and head west into Staunton, passing the old brick buildings of the state asylum on the hill to the left. The next exit off the interstate offers a slightly more direct route to Grace’s house, but Miles knows that Jackie likes to swing through her hometown. Not much changes, but Jackie keeps tabs. It’s a game.

  At the next stoplight, Jackie points down the next block. “Look, Miles. That’s the third restaurant in that building in two years. Think it will stick?”

  He cranes his neck to see the sign. “Trapeza. Greek for ‘table.’”

  “Who knows that?”

  “Every English schoolboy.” He turns left onto Middlebrook Road. “Drive by?”

  “Yes, please.”

  A left on West Hampton and left again on Winthrop. The houses on this tree-lined street are nearly all the same: two stories high, two rooms wide, and three rooms deep, with full-width front porches, modestly adorned with decorative spindles, sidelights around the doors, and brackets at the top of the porch supports. Each house is painted a different color. Jackie’s childhood home, her mother’s house, is white with red shutters, with the front door on the left, between a blue house and a pale-green one. Farther up the street, where Miles will turn around, are a few older, more stately brick buildings. Jackie’s mother always coveted one. It was a sore spot, the brick houses so near yet out of reach. The blame went to Jackie’s father.

  Miles slows down in front of the house.

  “Okay,” Jackie says. She knows Miles doesn’t think there’s anything to see but is too polite to say so. Jackie is compelled to visit the house (but not her mother) whenever she is nearby. The house adds heft to her memories and reattaches her to her sister. We lived here, inside these walls, Grace and I. We slept under that roof, learned to walk in that backyard, took baths together in the tub with the chipped enamel, and when our father left, he went out that front door. From this distance, the house still belongs to Jackie. As soon as she steps inside, it is her mother’s house, every inch of it. She is a visitor, and visitors don’t belong.

  Miles points across the street to a peeling gray house; the front lawn has become a field. “I still don’t understand why that’s not on the market.”

  “The kids can’t agree on what to do with it. It’ll fall down first.”

  “That’s tragic.”

  “It is.” But Jackie hasn’t been looking at the gray house. Her eyes are fixed on her house, picturing herself at twelve.

  Jackie stood on the porch counting to one hundred so she wou
ldn’t turn around and watch Matthew King leaving. She could hear his skateboard rumbling down the sidewalk. But was he looking back at her? That was the question. Jackie didn’t check. She played it cool.

  As she opened the front door, her mother pounced on her. “You’re thinking about kissing that boy, aren’t you?”

  “What boy?”

  “Don’t be smart. The one practically on top of you on the porch.”

  Jackie focused on her mother’s right earring and thought of the most boring thing she could—reciting the states in alphabetical order—and was glad she had counted to a hundred earlier, dropping her pulse. She sighed hugely. “Oh, you mean Matthew? He’s just a friend.”

  Her mother scoffed and jabbed the air with the eyeglasses she was holding. “That’s how it starts. I suppose he’s funny, too. Remember what I told you about men and their senses of humor. Get you laughing and you’ll forget you were once an intelligent, independent person without the slightest desire to do the bidding of a man-child.”

  “He’s not that funny.” Actually, he was.

  “They have other methods, Jackie.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  Her mother glared at her for a long minute, weighing the necessity of repeating the lesson she’d been drilling into Jackie for three years since her father left—or was forced to leave. She went back and forth on which it was, and mostly it didn’t matter because it was her mother she had to deal with. Jackie did like Matthew quite a lot. He was goofy and smart and hadn’t been put off by her pretending for the longest time he didn’t exist. He’d broken through her mother’s training, and now every time she saw him, her stomach was full of squirrels. It had to mean something.

  Her mother released her death stare, satisfied for the moment that her daughter would not fail her and fall stupidly in love. “Grace is at Natalie’s, and I’m working through dinnertime, so just order whatever sounds good, okay?”