"We do?" asked Sally.
"We're a man and a woman who are friends without the slightest romantic interest in each other."
"Yes," she said, "isn't it wonderful?" Such was Charlie's innocence that he didn't even suspect irony.
They were not completely alone at that moment, of course. They were never completely alone. Always off in the middle distance was Sally's forbidding elder sister, Harriette. At first glance it was impossible to believe they were related. Harriette was as cold and withdrawn as Sally was warm and outgoing. And yet when they were together it was hard to discover why Sally was pretty and Harriette most emphatically was not. Their bodies were not unalike; their faces were similar. Harriette had no unpleasant features; she kept her hair as carefully as Sally did. And yet Harriette was plain. When she and Sally were together, no man could look for more than a moment at Harriette before his gaze would slip away to Sally. If sometimes Charlie thought of Sally as the epitome of woman, albeit lower class, he also thought of Harriette as the quintessential chaperone. After a while, though, quiet Harriette simply disappeared. She was there, but she was not there. Sally, however, was unquestionably there.
But the untangled idyll ended when Caroline Crane was baptized. Charlie didn't see her until the actual baptism ceremony. From the first moment Charlie knew she was what he had been waiting for. Delicate and lovely, graceful of step and gesture, her voice soft, her eyes deep and sentimental. In the swirling waters of Medlock, it seemed a miracle she was not swept away like a leaf.
Charlie determined to do everything correctly. At his request Anna met her and then after a church meeting she introduced Charlie to her. Charlie spoke quietly and at once turned the conversation to matters of some sophistication. He quoted lines from Wordsworth; Caroline finished the quotation. He used his most elevated vocabulary; she answered in kind. He asked if he could walk her home, and she accepted.
This is my destiny, he thought as he guided her out of the building. He was careful not to touch her except, tremblingly, upon the elbow; then he offered his arm and her fingers pressed gently upon the back of his hand. It was ecstasy.
It was also the high point of the walk home. He did not notice it at first, but after a while he realized that Caroline Crane had nothing to say that was worth hearing. She gave correct, polite answers. She knew all the right poets. But she did not seem to care about the poetry the way Charlie did. She did not understand when he joked with her. And when the conversation lagged, she kept questioning him to start it again. But her questions were not piercing, like Sally's would have been. There was nothing to prove that she had listened to what he said before.
So he said his good-byes at the door and walked home. Nothing is what it seems, he told himself. What frightened him was the suspicion that he was the one who did not measure up to his appearance. Perhaps Sister Caroline was not shallow, she was simply uninterested in him. He was, after all, the son of a woman who had scrubbed floors in a rich man's house. He was a man of trade, wasn't he? And he despised himself for not fulfilling his own dream.
The day was not destined to get any easier. When he got home to his cottage, there outside his door waited Sally Clinton, of all people, and her older sister, Harriette.
"Why, Sister Sally," Charlie said.
"Good evening, Brother Charlie," said the girl. There was no pertness now, however, and even in the dusky light of early evening he could see that she was upset.
"I'm glad to see you," Charlie said.
Sally made a face of skepticism. "Are you?"
"I said I was," Charlie said irritably. He had faced his own unworthiness today. He couldn't deal with Sally's anger, too. "Why didn't you go inside?"
"We didn't want anyone to see us inside your cottage, for fear it would interfere with any alliances you might be pursuing elsewhere." So it was jealousy brought her here. And of course they had waited on his doorstep in the very hope that they would be seen, and word would spread, and any budding romance with Caroline Crane would be harmed. If you only knew, thought Charlie bitterly.
"Well, will you come in now?"
"I'd rather walk," Sally said. "I'd rather talk to you as we walk. Or do you only walk with ladies?"
"I only walk with ladies," he said, but offered his arm as he said it. There was no reason to accept Caroline's judgment of him. He could at least pretend to be a gentleman. Yet the touch of her hand on his arm annoyed him. She was not like Caroline; she put her arm through his, held closer to him, so that they looked more like a common laborer and his girl.
She must have felt him retreat from her, for she suddenly withdrew her arm and with elaborate care placed her hand delicately over his wrist in a parody of Caroline. Had she watched that closely when he left with Caroline?
"You're so graceful at that," Charlie said. "You must have practiced."
He immediately regretted saying it. Because of his dismal mood it didn't sound like a joke. She stopped walking and snatched her hand back from him. "I'm sorry," she said. "I made a mistake. I thought you cared for me, at least as a sister in the gospel. Now I see that you don't even consider me worth treating with respect."
Because she accused him of not caring for her, he found himself protesting that he did. He did not know how to deal with Sally when she was angry -- they had never quarreled. After a few placating words she was holding his arm again, though she seemed to be no less angry. In a moment they were on Pott Street, arm in arm, and Harriette had fallen about ten paces behind. Clearly the sisters had planned this so Charlie and Sally could have a genuinely private conversation without any scandal because of a lack of chaperone. Sally led them a ways up Pott Street toward the canal, but a football game was still in progress on the field there, and in a huff she turned around, passed her sister furiously, and continued the walk another way. All this time, growing angrier and angrier, she had hardly said a word, and Charlie had dared not breach such a formidable silence. And yet she clung tightly to his arm.
At last he could bear no more. "What's this about?"
"You know perfectly well what it's about."
"As a matter of fact, Miss Clinton, I do not."
"Don't Miss Clinton me, Charlie Kirkham. What do you mean by walking that prim little Miss Snot-nose home today?"
Hearing Caroline referred to so crudely made him furious. "I won't hear a lady referred to in such language!"
"So you do love her?" It was an accusation.
"Nothing of the kind!"
"Then why did you walk her home without a chaperone?"
"On Sunday many couples walk without chaperones, Miss Clinton."
"It isn't any of my business, anyway, is it?" And then her face grew sad. "But I thought I had cause to think it my affair. I thought we were friends."
"So did I." In his coldest voice he emphasized, "Friends."
"I see," she said. Her tone was even colder, and it made Charlie uncomfortable.
" What do you see?"
"That I mean nothing to you after all. I was clearly misunderstanding your feelings toward me."
She was in love with him. She was not just being possessive or resentful of a more elevated woman. All this time she had really cared for Charlie, and dreamed, as he had dreamed, of love. She sounded so miserable that Charlie could not bear to leave her uncomforted; he felt a responsibility to comfort her -- no woman should feel utterly unrewarded for having found Charlie worthy of love. "Sally, it's not that you mean nothing to me."
"Oh, please," she said, avoiding his gaze, "tell me again how you love me as a sister in the gospel."
That was precisely what he had been planning to say. Once again today a woman was too deep and quick for him. "How should I feel toward you, then?"
"If you can't see that I'm a woman, I would rather you didn't notice me at all."
"Of course I see that you're a woman -- "
"Well, you don't show that you see it!"
"Sally, I -- "
"When did I give you permission t
o call me by my given name?"
"You didn't."
"Then kindly don't take liberties with me."
"Liberties! For God's sake, Sister Sally, I -- "
"And don't take God's name in vain!"
Charlie was about to answer in rage when he realized that she was crying. He stood facing her in silent consternation. Then he looked back at Harriette, fearful of her stern disapproval; but Harriette was discreetly looking the other way. It was nearly dark, and Pott Street was deserted right here, with fields on either side. Still, a passerby might come along; word might spread that Charlie Kirkham was seen out with Sally Clinton, and Sally was weeping. It wouldn't do. Charlie took her by the arm and led her off into the field. It was an untended one, with high grasses and the foundation of an old building that had once stood there. A farmhouse, it looked like, from the days when Manchester was a small town amid fertile fields. Now it would serve as a perfect place for this miserable conversation, for it was sunk into the ground a ways, and if they went down into the foundation the weeds would hide them completely.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked through her tears.
"Where no one will see you crying."
"You're ashamed to be seen with me."
"Not at all. I just didn't want you to be embarrassed."
"I'm already embarrassed. What do I care what anyone else thinks? You're the one I wanted to think well of me, and now you think I'm just a witch, just angry and crying and -- "
"I don't think that," Charlie said.
"What do you think?"
"I -- I think you're a lovely girl, and I like you very much."
"A girl. But you think Caroline is a lady, don't you?"
"No more than you, Sister Sally -- "
"Oh, won't you please call me Sally, do we have to be strangers?"
"Sally, then."
"Do you really think of me as a lady? As a woman?"
"Of course I do," Charlie said. He was not sure how, but the meaning of the conversation had changed subtly; the tears were forgotten as if they had never been shed, and she was looking up at him eagerly, almost passionately.
"Couldn't you love me, Charlie?" she asked. She didn't wait for an answer, just put her hands on his chest and pressed herself to him in a most startling way; he had never had a woman's full body pressed against him, and he lost balance and stepped backward.
"Oh, you hate me!"
"I don't," he said, catching her by the arm before she could run from him. "I was just -- I lost balance, that's all -- "
"Charlie, I thought you cared for me, and today you were ridiculous, waiting on her like a dog on his master. At first I was jealous because you had never fawned on me like that. And then I was glad. I'd hate to have a man like you demean yourself for me. I don't think love should make a strong man be weak."
"Was I weak?" Was that how Caroline, too, had seen him?
She saw his dismay. "No, Charlie," she said. "Not you!"
Suddenly her arms were around his waist and her lips were on his, and it was no pristine little child's kiss. Her lips were open and she clung to him passionately. Not for long, of course -- with his lips closed it wasn't much of a kiss. But she barely gave him time for a breath before she kissed him again, and this time he was readier. He knew he ought to push her away, ought to make things clear once and for all, yet he kissed her back and embraced her as tightly as she embraced him. It left his head spinning, and even when the kiss ended she still pressed her hips against his and held him tightly.
"You must think I'm a slut," she said coarsely.
"I don't," he denied. He only vaguely sensed that by accusing him she was forcing him to deny every single thing he really felt.
"You're the first man I've ever kissed," she said.
He doubted it.
"You don't believe me."
"Of course I do. It's just -- you kissed me so -- "
"I kissed you like my mother kisses my father, because that's how much I love you! Charlie, can't you love me, too?"
"Sally, this is so quick -- "
"It's only because I was afraid I was losing you! Charlie, we're going to America and I don't know anybody there! Won't you take care of me?"
"I -- of course, I -- "
"I'm not asking you to promise anything. Just don't ignore me, please!"
No, not promise anything. But even being here with her was betrayal of his promise to himself that he would marry wisely, marry well. He could not entangle himself with a girl like Sally. She was too coarse for his future. Or was she? Perhaps the lesson God meant him to learn today was that his future would not be special. That his proper mate was a sturdy girl with the hips to bear a dozen children and the strength in her back and legs and arms to plow a field. He could not decide which was harder to bear, the knowledge that he was only fit for a working-class marriage after all, or the fact that at this moment, with Sally's kiss fresh on his lips, the impress of her body still strongly felt, at this moment he could not think of anything more important in his future than Sally Clinton.
"Charlie, are you promised to Caroline?"
"Of course not."
"Then you do care for me?"
"Yes."
"I'm a proper lady," she said. "I'm not what you think."
"I think you're a proper lady."
"Charlie, you'll be my friend forever?"
"Of course I will."
And their interview was over. Charlie had a terrible feeling, helping her out of the old foundation, that he had promised her much more than he could possibly have meant to. He felt that he had betrayed himself, but what could he do? As he walked through the field his knees were weak from the passionate embrace. He felt guilty; he felt exhilarated. He braved Harriette's stern look of disapproval and squeezed Sally's hand in farewell.
"In America," Sally said. She smiled shyly in a half-successful effort to hide her triumph.
Charlie watched the two sisters on their way, then walked back home, feeling unsatisfied and ashamed and blissfully happy. What an incredible, miraculous day. He had lost a few illusions, but he had also conquered a fear that he hadn't ever named: that no woman could ever love him.
When he got home the house was still. At first he assumed that his parents were out. Had there been an evening meeting scheduled at the hall? No -- even love could not make Charlie forget his responsibilities. Perhaps they had gone visiting, then, though it was unlike Mother not to lay a supper for him. He took off his jacket and hung it on the peg by the door, then began undoing his waistcoat as he walked to his room. It was not until he was naked and began looking for his nightshirt that he realized what was wrong with the room. There was nothing of John Kirkham's in it. For weeks now it had been a constant annoyance, John's clothing here and there, his unmade bed, his poor-man's habits. And now it was all gone. For a moment Charlie thought his Father had gone; to his surprise, it was not a joyful thought. He had come to rather like the man, though loving was out of the question. Then he realized that John would not have gone any farther than across the hall.
Charlie strode to his door and flung it open. Across the hall the other door was already open; John Kirkham stood there, regarding him placidly. He was in trousers and shirtsleeves, but his rumpled hair spoke of his being recently in bed. In Anna's bed. They regarded each other without words, until Anna emerged from the bedroom, John moving aside to make way for her.
"We thought since he was baptized," Anna said, "that what God had made clean was worthy of my love. I'm surely no better than God."
Charlie said nothing. There was no answer. When he had set himself in Father's favor against Robert's attack, Charlie should have known it would end with the old man in Mother's bed. He had thought, however, that the permission would come from him, that only his consent would allow John back into Anna's bed.
"You're naked, Charlie," John pointed out gently.
Yes. Naked, that was it. His authority, his power was only clothing that could be stripped away
in a moment. Charlie turned away and closed the door to his room behind him. He lay on his bed, staring up into the empty gloom that hovered just under the ceiling. He heard his mother knock softly on his door, but he said nothing. The door might have opened a crack -- he thought he heard the sound of it. If she did open the door, his nakedness drove her away again, and he was alone.
At first he tried to think of anything else, but it was impossible. So he allowed himself to conjure the scene. John Kirkham, dissipated and weak-eyed, yet still manly; Anna Kirkham, heavy with the residue of so many pregnancies, and yet all the more voluptuous in her lingering beauty. Each knew the paths of the other's body so well that trespass was inevitable. And as Charlie thought of his parents doing what he had so long prevented, he forced himself to believe that it was all right, that John was clean now, forgiven now, worthy of her after all. That his mother was still his mother, despite her unfaithfulness to him.
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