Vows

by LaVyrle Spencer

  He felt her breasts heave in a great shaky sigh as she dried the last of her tears, still lying with her cheek on his chest, showing little inclination to leave. He fixed his gaze on a yellowed calendar hanging above the desk and lightly stroked the back of her neck.

  Minutes passed with each of them dwelling upon private thoughts. At last Emily asked tiredly, "Why can't she just die, Tom?"

  He heard both guilt and sincerity in her question and understood how painful it must have been for her to ask it. He rubbed her back and kissed her hair. "I don't know, Emily."

  For long moments they abided so, pressed close together, joined by her grief and his distress at being unable to deliver her from it. In a voice soft with understanding he gave her the only ease he knew. "But you mustn't feel guilty for wishing she would," he said.

  He knew by her stillness that the words had been what she'd needed: an absolution.

  Her weeping had ended minutes ago, but they stole more precious time until—as one—they realized they had remained in each other's arms too long. At some point while she rested against him they had crossed the fine line between desolation and yearning.

  He drew back, pressing her away by both arms, letting his hands linger, then dropping them reluctantly to his sides. He watched her cheeks heat and read in her blush the thousand shamefaced wishes she, too, had allowed to flee through her mind. But Charles materialized in spirit, and Emily stared at a button on Tom's flannel jacket while he studied her averted face and sat back on his heels to put more distance between them.

  "So…" he managed shakily, the word trembling between them like a shot bird waiting to plummet. "Are you feeling better now?"

  She nodded and glanced up cautiously. "Yes."

  He studied her, shaken and uncertain. If she were to move—the subtlest shift—she would be in his embrace again, and this time he'd give her far more than consolation. For a moment he watched temptation dull her eyes, but he produced a tight laugh and a dubious grin. "Well, at least we got you to stop crying."

  She covered her cheeks and gingerly touched her lower eyelids. "I probably look awful."

  "Yeah, pretty awful," he offered with a false chuckle, watching her test her upper eyelids, which looked bruised and swollen.

  "Oh, my eyes hurt," she admitted, dropping her hands and letting him see.

  They were indeed swollen and red, and her hair was rubbed from its knot, her cheeks blotchy, and her lips swollen; but he wanted to kiss them and her poor red-rimmed eyes, and her throat and her breast, and say, forget Charles, forget Tarsy, forget your mother and let me make you happy.

  Instead he got a grip on his inclinations and took her hands, drawing her to her feet, then stepping back. "So … can I walk you home?"

  Her eyes said yes, but her voice said, "No, I came down here to get some lanolin for Mother's bedsores." She gestured toward the muddle of papers and the open book on the desk where both of them knew perfectly well she kept no lanolin. "I … I have to look for it, so you go on."

  He glanced from the desk to her. "You're sure you'll be all right?"

  "Yes, thank you. I'll be fine."

  The room seemed combustible with suppressed emotions while neither of them moved.

  "Well, good night, then."

  "Good night."

  I should have kissed you when I had the chance.

  As he backed toward the door her words stopped him again. "Tom … thank you. I needed somebody very badly tonight."

  He nodded, gulped, and stalked out before he could dishonor himself and her and Charles.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  «^»

  October passed and Tom took up residence in his house. It was livable, but bare. The walls were clean and white but begged for wallpaper and pictures, the things a woman was so much more adept at choosing than a man. The windows, with the exception of those in the one bedroom Tom used, remained unadorned. Since he spent most of his time in other places, the livability of his home, for the moment, mattered little. He had an iron bed, a heater stove for the parlor, a cookstove for the kitchen, and one overstuffed chair. Besides these few purchased furnishings he made do with a few empty nail kegs, a crude homemade table, two long benches, and a woodbox. From Loucks he had bought necessities only: bedding, lanterns, wash basin, a water pail, dipper, teakettle, frying pan, and coffeepot. He stored his few groceries—eggs, coffee, and lard—on the kitchen floor in an empty wooden crate from rifle shells.

  The first time Tarsy came in, she glanced around and her face flattened in disappointment. "You mean this is all you're going to put in here?"

  "For now. I'll get more when the oxcarts start moving again in the spring."

  "But this kitchen. It's … it's bare and awful."

  "It needs a woman's touch, I'll grant you that. But it serves my needs. I'm at the livery barn most of the time anyway."

  "But you don't even have dishes! What do you eat on?"

  "I eat most of my meals at the hotel. Sometimes I fry an egg here for breakfast, but eggs aren't much good without bread. Do you know anybody I could buy bread from?" Tarsy, he could see, was dismayed by his Spartan furnishings.

  On a Saturday night in late November he was sitting in his only chair with his stocking feet resting on a nail keg, feeling somewhat dismayed himself. The place felt dismal. He had closed the parlor and stairwell doors, so the kitchen was warm, but too silent and stark with the curtainless windows black as slates and the ghostly white walls broken only by the stovepipe in one corner. If he were at the stable he'd be polishing tack. If he were at home in Springfield, in his mother's kitchen, he'd be prowling for food. If he were with his friends he'd be at a house party, but he'd begged off again, because Emily would be there with Charles. Tarsy had badgered and begged him to change his mind, then stormed off declaring, "All right, then, stay home! But don't expect me to!" So here he sat, staring at the red toes of his gray socks, listening to the silence and wondering how to fill his evening, thinking about Emily Walcott and how the two of them had been avoiding each other for weeks.

  Charles had questioned him about why he never came to the parties anymore and he'd concocted the excuse that Tarsy was becoming too possessive and he wasn't sure what he wanted to do about her, which wasn't far from the truth. She was displaying a sudden, alarming nesting instinct. She'd even started baking him bread (heavy and coarse as horse feed, though he thanked and praised her first attempts at domesticity) and showing up at his door uninvited in the evenings; and dropping hints about how she'd love to live anywhere but with her parents; and asking Tom conversationally if he ever wanted to have a family.

  He let his head fall back against the overstuffed chair and closed his eyes, wishing he loved Tarsy. But not once had he felt for her the swell of protectiveness and yearning that had overcome him the day Emily Walcott had cried and confided in him. He wondered how Emily was holding up. He knew from Charles that Mrs. Walcott was worse than ever, clinging to life though Dr. Steele had declared weeks ago there was nothing more he could do for her.

  In his silent house Tom rolled his face toward the window, wishing he were with Emily and the others. It was a skating party tonight, the first of the year down on Little Goose Creek, and afterwards the group would move to Mary Ess's house for hot punch and cookies … and undoubtedly those damned parlor games. No, best he'd stayed away, after all.

  In his pensive state, Tom failed to register the first sounds. He heard only the snap of the fire and his own gloomy monologue. Then it came again, a distant clanging, growing louder, accompanied by shouts and hallooing. He listened closer. What the hell was going on out there? It sounded like a gold prospector's pack mule rolling down a mountainside, only it was coming toward his house. He heard his name being called—"Heyyyy, Jeffcoat!"—and left his chair. "Company coming, Jeffcoat! Yoo-hoo, Tommy boy, open up!" More clanging accompanied by laughter, the commotion now seemingly circling his house. Next came the sound of horses' hooves.

 
At the front window he cupped an eye and peered out into the winter night. What the Sam Hill? A team and wagon were drawn right up to his front porch steps and people milled everywhere! Footsteps thumped on the hollow porch floor and a face peered back at him with crossed eyes: Tarsy. And beside her Patrick Haberkorn, then Lybee Ryker, then a whole chorus of merrymakers, shouting and rapping on the glass. "Hey, Jeffcoat, open the door!"

  He threw it open, stood with his hands on his hips, grinning. They were all supposed to be at a skating party.

  "What the hell are you fools up to?"

  "Shivareeeeeee!"

  Lybee Ryker shook silverware inside a covered pot as if it were corn popping. Mick Stubbs banged a frying pan with a wooden spoon, and Tarsy led the pack playing a pair of kettle covers as if they were cymbals. They were all there, all his friends, making such a clatter it seemed as if it would shake the moon from the sky. They left tracks in the snowy yard, clear around his house. Someone's dog had followed, and its barking joined the din. Tom stood on the front porch, laughing and feeling his heart warm, watching their faces flash past in the light from the open door behind him. She was there, too—Emily—though she hung back in the shadows when they all gathered, breathless and excited at the foot of the porch steps.

  Overwhelmed, Tom searched for words. "Well, hell, I don't know what to say."

  "Say nothing. Just step aside and let us get this stuff inside!"

  They filed past him and deposited pots and pans and cutlery on his plank table. Tarsy wrinkled her nose just beneath his and gave a smug, self-satisfied smile as she carried a white bundle inside. "Look out if you don't want to get your toes stepped on."

  "Is this your doing, Miss Fields?" He raised an eyebrow, secretly pleased.

  "Might be," she said, twitching her skirttails as she passed. "With a little help from Charles."

  Charles was busy on the wagon, sliding things to the rear for unloading.

  "Bliss, you underhanded scoundrel, is that you out there?"

  "I'm busy, you can call me names later!"

  "Jerome, Ardis … hello." Tom's head swung as he caught glimpses of housewares and spindle chairs being carried past. Cheery voices, warm smiles, and everywhere motion. And somewhere in the middle of it, a much more subdued "Hello, Emily."

  And her equally subdued "Hello, Tom," as she moved past him into his kitchen.

  Someone kissed his jaw—Tarsy, going back out.

  Someone bumped his arm—Martin Emerson heading back in on the lead end of a beautiful hide trunk with Jerome Berryman at the other end.

  "Oh, you people, this is too much," Tom said.

  But the parade lasted a good five minutes—in and out—with Charles supervising the unloading, until finally, with the help of all the men present, he unloaded a piece of furniture as wide as three men and taller than their heads.

  "Charles, good God, what have you done?"

  The piece was too heavy to allow Charles more than a few grunted words as he lifted it. "Just … step aside … Jeffcoat … or you'll get … plowed ov—"

  They set it against the south kitchen wall between two long, narrow windows, a beautifully crafted breakfront-server of bird's-eye maple, hand rubbed to the smoothness of an old ax handle. It sported two wide drawers and matching doors below, a wide serving counter at waist level, two more doors and a plate shelf above. Into each of the four doors had been carved shafts of wheat curling up to circle a centered brass handle. Many hours of loving care had gone into the meticulous crafting of the piece.

  Tom stood touching it, staggered. "Lord, Charles … I don't know what to say."

  Someone closed the outside door. Though the kitchen was filled with young people, it had grown silent as Charles brushed a haze of condensation off the top of the piece then backed off, removing his gloves. "I thought it'd make the place feel more like home."

  Gratitude and an undeniable font of love welled up in Tom Jeffcoat as he closed a hand over his friend's shoulder. "It's beautiful, Charles … it's…" It was more than beautiful. It was a heartful. He embraced Charles hard, with a sincere clap on the back. "Thank you, Charles."

  Charles chuckled self-consciously and they backed apart—eyes meeting for an awkward moment—then laughed. And when they laughed, the others followed suit, bringing relief from the emotional moment.

  Tom turned to the other offerings. "And, Jerome … you made me a trunk?"

  "The old man and me."

  Jerome Berryman's gift was almost as surprising as Charles's—a beautiful cow-hide trunk with wooden hardware and brass hasp, made in his father's leather shop. Tom inspected it minutely and gave Jerome, too, an affectionate thank-you and slap on the back. "Tell your father thank you, too."

  "Open it."

  Inside was a motley collection: a boot scraper, a cornbread pan, a pair of dented tin kettles, a collection of clean, washed rags tied in a bundle.

  "What's this?"

  "Rags."

  "Rags?" Tom held them aloft by their twine binding.

  "Ma says everybody needs rags around a house."

  A burst of laughter began a new round of commotion: the women used some of the rags to wipe melted snow off the kitchen floor while others began unpacking an amazing variety of housewares. Curtains, which one contingent hung while another began lining the pantry shelves with butcher paper. The men opened jugs of homemade beer; someone found glasses in the rummage; someone else opened the parlor door and built a fire in the small heater stove; the Fields's gramophone was wound up and a tube put on, filling the house with music; someone unearthed a reflectorized wall lantern and mounted it on the parlor wall; two of the men returned from taking Edwin's rig back to the livery stable and got scolded for stamping snow off their feet; Lybee Ryker produced a braided rag rug for in front of the door; Tarsy untinned sandwiches. And through it all, Tom unpacked his bounty.

  What they hadn't made they'd acquired by raiding their homes. The result was a collection of oddments from spoon holders to spigot jars, some useful, some useless. The women found places for everything as he unpacked: four chipped enamel plates in white, edged with blue; some wrinkled metal flatware; a grater; a wooden potato masher; dishtowels; fruit jars of home-canned vegetables and jellies; three scarred spindle chairs of assorted styles; a dented copper cuspidor; a small square parlor table with one cracked leg; a horsehair sieve; antimacassars; pillowcases; a comb pocket for the wall; a cracked mirror; a hair receiver.

  "A hair receiver?" Tom covered his head as if to hold his hair on. "Lord, I hope not!"

  Everyone laughed as Tarsy came over and ruffled his thick black mane. "No danger yet."

  He squeezed her waist and gave her a private smirk. "Pretty sneaky, aren't you?" he teased in an undertone, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

  "Having fun?"

  "Remind me to thank you later."

  One of the last things he unwrapped was a beautiful hand-pieced quilt. The women drew closer, oohing. All except Emily.

  "It's from Fannie," she announced quietly, keeping the same distance she'd been maintaining all evening.

  Tom met her gaze directly for the first time since the party had moved inside. "She made it?"

  "Yes, she did."

  "It's very nice. Tell her I said thank you, will you?"

  Emily nodded.

  Looking on, Charles mistook their careful distance for chilliness and—ever eager to promote amity between the two he loved most—moved to take Emily's hand. "Want to see the house?" he asked. "I'll show it to you."

  She flashed him a quick, distracted smile. "Of course."

  With Charles she walked through Tom's house, the house the two men had built together: up the stairs with a turn at the landing, through three second-story bedrooms, each with its own closet, and with charming gabled windows jutting from the angled ceilings but without so much as a stick of furniture. Charles could not have been prouder were the house his own. He described each feature enthusiastically, holding the lantern aloft, leadin
g Emily by the hand. In the third bedroom they paused, glancing in a full circle at the new floor, freshly milled and fragrant of wood smell, at the attractive ceiling line, the long, slim windows, bare as the day they were installed. The lantern flooded them with a ring of light. Against the black night their reflections shone clearly in the shiny window glass. They both caught sight of their reflection at the same instant; then Charles tightened his hand around Emily's and bent as if to kiss her.

  Dipping, she slipped free.

  "Is something wrong?" he asked, masking his disappointment.

  She turned away. "No."

  "You're awfully quiet tonight."

  "It's nothing. I'm worried about Mother, that's all."

  It wasn't all. It was Tom Jeffcoat; and this house where he expected to live with a wife someday; and his eyes, which had avoided hers all evening; and the memory of the last time she was with him, crying against his collar, wrapped in his arms, feeling secure and comforted.

  "That's not all," Charles insisted, moving close behind her, squeezing her arm. "But how can I understand if you won't tell me?"

  She groped and came up with a plausible reply. "It's these bare windows, Charles. Anybody could look in and see us."

  "So, what if they did? We're engaged to be married. Engaged couples are supposed to kiss now and then."

  She had no further justification for avoiding Charles and turned, lifting apologetic eyes. "I'm sorry, Charles."

  His expression appeared hurt.

  "I am, too."

  He had lowered his arm. The lanternlight lit his face from below, making of his eyes great dark shadows. "Do you know what I think is really bothering you?"

  She stared at him without answer as he continued, "I think it's Tom."

  She felt a hot lump burst in her chest and spread tentacles of guilt to her face. "Tom?"

  "Whenever you're around him you change. Either you snub him or cut him. Tonight you've hardly spoken to him, yet this party is in his honor. He's my best friend, Emily, and I feel like I'm caught in the middle of a tug-of-war between you two. Can't you try to be his friend for my sake?"