Run Delia Run

by Cindy Bokma

  Glancing around, I had hoped no one noticed the interaction. My face reddened and my stomach turned over. He lifted his eyebrows and clenched his jaw, shaking his head as I put my fork down and only then did he release the grasp on my wrist then turn to greet a colleague from the studio, his mood shifting so quickly that I was left with emotional whiplash.

  I wanted a divorce but had no chance against him in court. With no education, I couldn’t support Will and myself. I worried that by bringing up the topic of divorce, Leo would fly into a rage. He was capable of killing me. He threatened to do it before.

  “If you ever try to leave me, I’ll take Will and no one will see you again. I could have you killed,” were his chilling words to me after an argument over something benign. He had a way of constructing a huge ordeal over a minor disagreement. His words ricocheted in my brain—have you killed. Was it mere talk or did he really mean it? Thinking again of Aurora, a pain wove its way around my shoulders and up my neck, squeezing my head until I couldn’t think clearly.

  I remembered Will at age two, tottering around on his little legs. “When is that kid going to be out of diapers? What are you doing that he’s not potty trained?” Leo scoffed. I second guessed myself as a mother. What was I doing wrong? Was it my fault?

  When Will wasn’t talking by age three, he blamed me. “I can’t understand a word he says. What’s wrong with him? Get him therapy. There are classes for kids like him. What is it called, non verbal? Is he autistic? Why don’t you look into it? A good mother would be on top of these things, Delia.”

  I tried to stand up for myself but Leo often walked out of the room, leaving me talking to the air.

  There were glimpses of kindness when we spent time with Will but those moments were few and far between. We visited the zoo, the beach. When he was relaxed and everything went his way, Leo was happy and loving toward Will and me, but his mood could turn quickly and I lived on the knife edge of never knowing which version of my husband I’d be interacting with.

  When Will turned four we enrolled him in the Beverly Hills Kids Baseball League. The one time Leo came to a game he laughed at Will.

  “Didn’t hit the ball once. Is that the coach’s fault or yours, Delia? He obviously gets his athletic talent from you.” He smirked, shaking his head from side to side. Will’s sweet face twisted in confusion.

  Now I shook my head, trying to loosen the thoughts as if I could shake them from my brain. Hard as I tried, it was impossible to forget the things he did. I remembered the times I tried to leave, there were three or four, maybe five times before we had Will when I packed my bags but couldn’t bring myself to go through with it. His words haunted me, “I will always find you. No one will love you like I do.”

  Why did I let myself revisit those memories? At night sometimes, when Will was safely tucked in bed and I had checked the locks on the doors and windows a few times, I sat on the couch in the dark, thinking about things that Leo said and did. How could I wipe those memories away so that I could focus on my present and future with Will?

  I watched Will run toward me, his hand outstretched and tried to shove my concerns to the back of my mind.

  “What do you have?” I peered into his little hand. “A ladybug! You know those are good luck?”

  “I know! Should I bring it home?” He tilted his face toward me, sunlight making his hair look golden. My heart nearly exploded with love. I asked myself again if I had made the right choice to take him away from Leo and right this minute, I believed the answer was yes.

  “I think you should put it back so it can be with its family,” I said. A light wind blew through the trees and I found myself suddenly cold though the sun was warm.

  We walked home, up the cobblestone streets, past the old rugged buildings with peeling paint that were so charming, up the hill past the white church, and to our house where once inside, I closed the door and locked it tightly. Even though we were happy and life was peaceful, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. I only felt truly safe when we were home, and even then sometimes, I felt Leo’s heavy, disapproving gaze shrinking me smaller and smaller.

  Within only a week of moving in, I painted the walls of the house warm welcoming colors—blues, yellows, and hints of red. I left the upstairs alone with the exception of Will’s room. I took Judy up on her offer to help me find antiques and purchased well-worn wooden beds, tables, and chairs. I hung quilts and oil paintings on the walls. I lined up pots of herbs on my kitchen window, this time no one could tell me no. I sewed curtains in blue floral prints. The entire house was cozy and comfortable..

  In the evenings after dinner, I sat outside in my wooden Adirondack lawn chair while Will ran around kicking his soccer ball. I sipped hot tea and wrapped my hands around the mug, feeling content. Our neighbors had a chicken coop in the back corner of their yard and Will liked to watch the chickens peck at the ground.

  One night I ran up the back stairs to answer the kitchen telephone and tripped over a broken step. I twisted my ankle and had to wrap it with an ace bandage. Limping around, I hoped it wasn’t fractured but it swelled to the size of an egg. I wasn’t too bothered by it; this was the first injury I had that wasn’t due to Leo.

  The next day, when I saw Midge downtown buying pastries at the bakery, she told me to call a man named Vincent Donovan.

  “No, I’m fine. Really!” I insisted as I paid for the treats I bought for Will. He loved the raspberry twists and I stopped in once a week without fail to buy a box of them.

  “You cannot risk breaking your other ankle!” Midge shook her head, watching me hobble around the bakery. If she only knew how many injuries I endured over the years and how good I was at pretending everything was fine.

  “It’s okay,” I insisted, trying not to wince in pain.

  “No really, call Vincent. He can fix your stairs no problem. He’s the best carpenter in town. Wanda hired him not too long ago to fix a wall and redo her old porch steps. And Judy had him build a deck last spring.” She inched closer and lowered her voice. I knew what was coming next, a piece of gossip. Her eyes danced behind the glare of her glasses. I was torn between wanting to hear what she had to say and not wanting to be a part of gossip. I could only imagine what everyone would say about me if they knew the truth. I opened my mouth to talk but she spoke quickly.

  “His wife left him two years ago.” She sighed and shook her head sadly. “They were childhood sweethearts and then she ran off with someone else. Isn’t that horrible? Can you imagine?”

  Leaning against the counter to shift the weight off my ankle, I agreed it was sad, terrible. What could I really say about a woman running away? I hesitated as she looked at me expectantly. I had to say something. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Eager to spill the beans on Vincent, she continued, “They were together since junior high. Just kids. Their mothers played bridge and their fathers golfed together. Poor Trissy, when Jessica left Vincent, she almost had a nervous breakdown. And Vincent did go into such a depression. He didn’t leave the house for three months. Three months! And his wife left town; we haven’t seen her since. Good riddance though.” She watched for my reaction and I shrugged and attempted to remain neutral. The last thing I wanted was for people to think of me as someone who took joy in other people's sadness.

  “Sounds terrible.”

  “Vincent’s been working around town. Keeping close to home. After the divorce was final with Jessica, he stopped going out. I hardly ever see him anymore.” She shook her head and her gold earrings beat against her neck. “Anyway, he does all the carpentry work around town. You should call him to fix that back step before poor little Ethan twists his ankle too. Let me give you his number right now.” She squinted at her phone as she scrolled through her contacts. “Remember when we wrote everything on paper? I miss those days. Okay, just sent the number.” She nodded with satisfaction.

  “I’ll call him later,” I promised. At this point, I’d agree to anything
to shift the conversation to another topic.

  We said our goodbyes and I was left with an image of a sad guy with a broken heart. I already felt sorry for him. I imagined Vincent to be an older man with a sad, sorrowful face, bushy white hair and stooped shoulders toting a tool box.

  I was totally wrong.

  A sharp knock the next morning nearly made me drop my mug of hot coffee. I flinched at the noise, nervous to answer the door. I never shook the feeling that Leo or the police would be on my doorstep at some point; in fact I half expected it. I was careful and guarded, drilling into Will that he should never talk to strangers beyond the reasons most parents told their children. I was frightened each time the phone rang or the doorbell sounded.

  I put my mug in the sink and tip toed over to the door then peered out the side window and was relieved to find a tall man bearing a toolbox. He looked unsuspicious, but I was still careful, cracking the door open barely an inch.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m here to fix the step. I got a call yesterday from Midge about your stairs. Said someone twisted their ankle?” Deep voice. I inched the door open further until I was standing in front of a tall, handsome stranger wearing worn jeans and a blue shirt.

  “Are you Vincent?” I asked, sizing him up. No, he wasn’t some old guy with sorrowful eyes, he was a good looking man about my age with a head full of black curly hair and eyes so dark I couldn’t tell where the pupils ended and the irises began. He had a days worth of stubble on his face, a strong nose, and a nice smile. I realized I had stopped breathing for a second.

  “Yeah . . . that’s me.” He nodded and held up the toolbox. “Is now a good time to look at what you need or should I come back?”

  I held the door open for him to come in. Suddenly I was conscious of my white button down shirt and baggy tan pants, which seemed like a perfectly fine outfit earlier but now seemed frumpy. I ran my fingers through my hair, which had grown out into a lopsided shag with longer layers in the front. I realized I couldn’t put off a haircut any longer. I almost heard Leo’s stern voice reprimanding me, “You would look much better if you put some makeup on, do you realize how unattractive you look without it? And your hair, it’s a travesty, what are you wearing?”

  I was hyper aware of everything as Vincent checked the steps; my hair, my outfit, the dry cuticles around my fingers, I wasn’t wearing any makeup. Had I let myself go? My worries were greater than how I looked and Will was always my priority. Being in the presence of a handsome man knocked me off balance. While he measured and worked, I poured a fresh cup of coffee and sipped it, my mind racing a thousand miles an hour.

  I cleaned the dishes in the sink and watered my plants, swept the floor and tried to calm myself down until he stepped into the kitchen.

  “Yeah, I can fix that without a problem and I already have most of the materials I need.” Vincent offered a smile, the corners of his mouth turning up. Even though his voice was deep, it had a gentle timbre. Two dimples appeared when he smiled like someone had lovingly carved his face and poked their fingers in his cheeks. My face reddened and I looked away.

  “Great. Thanks.” I wondered if I should offer him coffee? Water? Was that weird? Was I being impolite? This was not Beverly Hills, people were friendlier and more open. I tucked my hair behind my ears and licked my lips, my heart pounding.

  “I always liked this house.” He glanced around, his dark eyes not settling on anything in particular. I hoped he didn’t notice my trembling hands which I twisted around a dishcloth. “I used to come over to deliver Mrs. Jenkins her newspapers way back when. I haven’t been in here in years. I always liked all the woodwork.” Vincent cocked his head to the side and lazily leaned against the wall. “I hear you’re from Florida. What brings you up this way?”

  Our eyes met and I quickly looked away. “Oh. Umm . . . I moved here with my son after going through some . . . difficult times.” I swallowed hard, nervous to be having a conversation with a man in my kitchen. We were both quiet for a few seconds and I turned away, absentmindedly wiping non existent crumbs from the counter.

  “Hey, I know all about difficult times.” He chuckled then cleared his throat. “Let me get started on that step. Is there anything else that needs work?” Again our eyes met and I started running water in the sink to have something to focus on other than the darkness of Vincent’s eyes.

  “No, just that step. Thanks.” I kept my head down and peeked up beneath my long bangs to watch him walk away.

  Why did I feel so drawn to this man? What was I thinking? I didn’t need to be having attractions to men right now. I chastised myself for even finding Vincent attractive, for allowing myself to feel something when all we did was speak briefly. It was all too easy to bring to mind the bitter memories of Leo and the bad-tempered words and disapproval that he continually emphasized. I put a hand to my collarbone, the delicate area was still sore from long ago. An accident in the house. I pushed the memories away. That part of my life was over.

  I went into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and noticed the bags under my eyes. My sleep had been interrupted by nightmares, strange sounds, and worry that lurked in my subconscious. While Vincent worked, I ran the vacuum, did some dusting, and tossed laundry in the washing machine. I started a fresh pot of coffee and offered a cup to Vincent when he came back.

  “I’d love some. Thanks.”

  I tried to act natural as I got a mug from the cupboard.

  “That should do it. No more twisted ankles or other injuries.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

  He shrugged, “Wasn’t too difficult to fix.”

  I smiled, silently begging for him to leave. I was uncomfortable and not used to talking to men besides Leo.

  He glanced at his watch, a plain digital with a black face. The corner of my mouth pulled into a grin as I thought of Leo’s fancy watch with the diamonds and how I was often disgusted at his show of wealth.

  “I have some time before I have to be over at my next appointment. I’m giving an estimate for new cabinets; I know it sounds exciting.” Vincent smiled as he pulled out a chair and sat down.

  I longed to pour out my own story and share the burden that I had been shouldering alone for years. I got the impression Vincent would understand, but I could be wrong. I was not able to trust anyone, not yet. Maybe not ever.

  Over the years, I wanted to write to or call my brother and tell him what was going on, but I feared my letter would be traced, phone calls overheard. Leo didn’t want me in contact with my brother and oftentimes I thought he was trying to poison me against David. I didn’t understand why. Now, I pushed David and Leo from my mind.

  “Milk? Sugar?” I retrieved a carton of milk and a container of sugar and set both on the table.

  “No, thanks, I drink it black. So, tell me, Grace, how long have you been in town? I haven’t seen you before.”

  “That’s because I don’t go out much. I mean, I work,” I blurted. My face reddened and I quickly clarified. “...and then I come home. Not much of a social butterfly I’m afraid.”

  I spilled a bit of coffee down the side of the mug and I winced as I anticipated him saying something sarcastic or making fun of me. My whole body clenched as I waited for an insult.

  Instead, he grabbed a napkin. “Oops, here let me clean that up.” He gently wiped the side of the mug and tossed the napkin in the trashcan. Then he sat back down and turned his smile up a notch.

  As my body relaxed, I pulled out a chair and asked, “How long have you been doing carpentry work?” I hadn’t made small talk with a guy in years. My thoughts traveled to Randall for a moment. I wondered how he was doing. He was probably married with kids of his own by now.

  “Since I was about six years old. I’ve built all kinds of things. I like to work with my hands. How about you? What do you do?” He sipped his coffee, his eyes never left my face, which both thrilled me and made me nervous.

  I waved my hand. “Oh nothing. J
ust take care of my son. Take care of the house.”

  “That’s not nothing. Raising a child on your own, that’s enough to keep you busy.” Vincent nodded. “It’s hard work, that’s the truth.”

  I flushed but didn’t say anything.

  We made polite chit-chat for a while and then he announced he needed to leave. “It’s been nice talking with you, but I can’t keep a client waiting. I promised I would be over in the morning and I don’t want to be late. Thanks for the coffee and if you need anything, please call me . . . I mean that.” Vincent paused.

  His unspeaking eyes prolonged the moment and we stood inches apart. I could almost feel the heat from his body and my pulse raced. The thought was irrational, but I couldn’t help but wonder—what if Leo was watching?

  “Okay then. Nice meeting you Vincent.” I said leading him to the door.

  I watched him get into his pickup truck and drive away. The morning was chilly, despite the sunshine and I shivered as I closed the door. The sun streamed through the windows in long ribbons and everything was quiet. As I glanced around, a feeling swelled inside. I loved my little house with all the warm, homey touches that I lacked at Leo’s.

  I didn’t mind Will’s sneakers by the door, his books and toys around the house. When he came home from school, his backpack spilled papers and pencils and I didn’t say a word. Kids needed to be kids and I refused to get mad over little things. My own parents didn’t mind a minor mess and I appreciated how relaxed they were. I imagined Leo would instruct Will to keep things in their place and not leave any bits or pieces of his life where he could see it. Leo had been strict about Will’s toys and often inspected the playroom to double check every item was in its special place on a shelf in the closet, doors closed. Stuffed animals sat in baskets, books neatly shelved according to the authors last name. Not any more. Toys and books were in Will’s room, his clothes neatly folded in drawers, but I wasn’t going to be like Leo. The house was neat and clean, but lived in and loved.