Things I Want to Say

by Cyndi Myers

  “I can be quiet. Can you?” He nuzzled her neck, setting her to giggling again.

  She tried to relax as he began working on her blouse once more, but it was impossible now that she’d reminded herself they weren’t alone in the house.

  Tom noticed her tension. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I can’t relax with my dad and Casey just a few rooms over.” She sat up and tugged the quilt from around the pillows. “Come on. I’ve got an idea.”

  Quilt in hand, she led him out of the room and across the kitchen floor, tip toeing. Once they were out the back door, she grabbed his hand and started across the yard.

  The air was only slightly cooler than it had been that morning, but not as heavy. Dusk bathed everything in silver light and the first stars were already showing against the pale sky. They walked the path around the pond, to the back of the storage shed. “No one can see us here,” she said, spreading the quilt on the ground.

  He knelt and pulled her down beside him. “We haven’t made love outside in a long time,” he said.

  “We haven’t made love at all in a long time.” She took hold of the unbuttoned halves of his shirt and pushed them back over his shoulders, and kissed the bare skin along his collar bone. He smelled of herbal soap and clean sweat and tasted slightly salty.

  He finished undoing her blouse, then helped her out of her pants, strip ping off his own clothes soon after. They came together with heat and urgency, done with waiting. They moved with a confidence born of familiarity, yet with a sense of discovering each other all over again. She de lighted in knowing she could still move him, that he remembered where to touch her to make her pant with need, that he could still bring her to a shuddering climax.

  When they were spent, they lay together, wrapped in the quilt, looking up at the stars, a dream like quality to the moment. A Chuck-will’s-widow sounded its mournful call: chuck-will’s-WID-ow! Chuck-will’s-WID-ow!

  “Dad’s been teaching me about birds some,” she said, her head resting on his chest. The steady beat of his heart echoed in her ear and she found herself matching her breathing to his.

  “I didn’t think you were interested in that kind of thing.”

  “I wasn’t. But it gives us something to talk about. And it is fascinating, in a way. All the different birds and their habits. Plus, they’re beautiful to watch.”

  “Yeah. I guess so.” His voice was slurred, that of a man fighting sleep and losing the battle. She snuggled closer and his arms automatically tightened around her. It felt so good to be here with him again. She’d known that seeing each other face-to-face would dissolve the barriers communicating only by phone had thrown up between them. Now that Tom was here, now that he could see Dad’s condition and how much she was needed, he’d understand why she had no choice but to be here for this little while. Soon, everything would be all right again. She’d be home, the business would be running smoothly, the boys would be settled. Everything would be as it should be and it would be almost as if this summer had never happened.

  The idea brought a surge of relief. Maybe all the unsettled feelings she had since coming here were merely a product of being away from her familiar routine. Maybe the only thing she really needed to change was her location. Back among the familiar, everything would fall into place again.

  It was a com forting thought, and she drifted off to sleep cradled in Tom’s arms, relieved to know this was exactly where she needed to be.

  Karen woke Sunday morning with the com forting weight of Tom in bed beside her. She rolled over to face him, smiling, and he opened one eye and looked at her. “So I didn’t dream this last night,” he said.

  “No, you didn’t dream it.”

  He pulled her close and nuzzled her neck. “And that really was you screaming my name under the stars.”

  She giggled as he nipped her earlobe. “That really was me.”

  “I think I’m ready for a repeat.” He moved closer, leaving no doubt about how ready he was.

  She looked at the clock. It was after eight. “I don’t know if I have time. I don’t usually sleep this late—”

  “Sure you have time.” He nudged her legs apart with his knee and slipped his hand beneath the oversize T-shirt that served as her nightgown.

  “Dad needs help getting ready in the morning,” she protested.

  “It won’t hurt him to wait.” He tugged the T-shirt up to her neck. “I came a thousand miles to see you. You can make a little time for me.”

  “Of course I can.” She took a deep breath and focused her attention on him. He was right. A few minutes wouldn’t make any difference.

  She pulled off the T-shirt and helped him out of his boxers, then closed her eyes and lost herself in the sensation of his mouth on her throat, her breasts, her stomach….

  The bell began ringing just as Tom settled between her legs. “What the hell is that?” he asked.

  “Dad. He rings the bell when he wants me.”

  She started to sit, but Tom pushed her back. “He can wait.”

  “What if he’s fallen or something?”

  “He hasn’t fallen. He’ll be okay. Besides, Casey will answer him in a minute.”

  “You know how Casey is. He could sleep through a train wreck.”

  Tom nudged her thighs farther apart. “Pretend you’re a teenager again, getting away with something right under Daddy’s nose. And I’m the bad boy next door.”

  His grin was wickedly sexy, and she managed a weak laugh. She wanted to play along with his fantasy, to forget about worries and responsibilities in his arms, but the insistent ringing of the little brass handbell bored into her brain.

  She lay back on the pillows and squeezed her eyes shut, straining to focus on Tom, but the moment was lost. She felt stiff and un comfortable, impatient for him to be done.

  She went through the motions of making love, saying the right things and making the right moves, but she’d never thought of herself as an accomplished actress, and she was afraid Tom knew her heart wasn’t in the moment.

  When he’d with drawn from her, she sat up and threw back the covers. The bell continued to ring. “I guess I’d better go see what he wants,” she said with a smile of apology.

  Tom frowned and turned away.

  Her father was upset at having to wait. He grumbled at her and refused to help as she maneuvered him into his chair, combed his hair and brushed his teeth. When she took out clothes for him to wear, he rejected her choices. He folded his arms and ducked his head, anger etched in every line of his face.

  Tom found her kneeling in front of the wheelchair, trying to put socks on Martin’s cold feet. The old man kicked at her and swore under his breath. At least, she assumed it was swearing. She couldn’t make out the words but his intent was clear.

  “What’s going on?” Tom asked.

  “Dad’s mad because I made him wait. Now he won’t cooperate.”

  “Stop acting like a spoiled baby.” Tom put his hand on Martin’s shoulder and glared at him. “She wears herself out looking after you. If she wants to sleep in one morning, she’s entitled.”

  Karen looked away, afraid she might blush or otherwise give away the fact that she hadn’t exactly been sleeping.

  “Go…a way!” Martin shouted.

  Tom took hold of her arm and pulled her up. “Come on, Karen. If he’s going to act like that, he can just sit here in his pajamas.”

  “Tom. He’ll get cold.”

  “It’s ninety-five degrees outside. He won’t get cold.” He pulled her toward the door.

  Once they were in the hallway, she jerked away from him. “What’s wrong with you?” she demanded.

  “I’m not going to stand by and watch him treat you like some hired servant and not say anything.”

  “He’s a sick old man. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

  “He’d behave better if you made him.”

  “So now this is my fault?” Rage rose in her like lava, threatening to erupt al
l over both of them. How could she have believed last night that everything was all right between them, when nothing had changed? Tom still wanted her to choose between him and her father. He still refused to understand why he was asking too much. She balled her hands into fists, fighting the urge to beat against his chest. She glared at him, struggling for some way to express her feelings that didn’t involve violence or swearing.

  “I’m going to make some coffee,” he said, and turned on his heels.

  The fact that he’d walk away in the middle of an argument enraged her further, but short of running after him and dragging him back, she didn’t know what to do. Instead, she headed across the hall and barged into Casey’s room.

  “Get up,” she said, shaking her sleeping son.

  “Wha—?” He opened one eye and looked up at her.

  “I need you to get up and help Grandpa dress,” she said.

  “Why don’t you do it?” he mumbled and rolled over, his back to her.

  “Because I want you to.” She jerked the covers off him. “Just do it. Now.”

  She left Casey’s room and went into the kitchen. Afresh pot of coffee beckoned, but Tom was nowhere in sight. He’d left before she had the chance to confront him again about his boorish behavior.

  She poured a cup of coffee and sat at the table, exhausted already and it wasn’t even nine o’clock. The weight of unfinished business made her chest hurt. She hated fighting with Tom—hated it so much she usually gave in and did what he wanted. Saying what she felt was much harder than letting him have his way.

  But years of swallowing words had left her feeling choked, and fearful there were some things that were too broken to fix.

  Sunday afternoon, Casey found himself standing beneath a ladder, holding a section of gutter while his dad worked on connecting it to the eaves overhead. It was amazing, really, how his dad hadn’t been in Grandpa’s house twenty-four hours and he’d come up with a list of things that needed repairing or re placing. That said a lot about the kind of man his dad was. He was a man who fixed things. The kind of man who hated any kind of disorder or uncertainty.

  Which was probably why he clashed with Casey so often. The way Casey saw it, the world was all about un certainty. Instead of wearing yourself out trying to set everything and everybody straight, you were a lot better off taking things as they came and dealing with them the best you could.

  “I talked to the counselors at school and they’re going to let you take your finals the week before classes start this fall,” his father said as he fit anew screw into the tip of the drill driver.

  “What if I’m not home by then? Grandpa—” But his words were cut off by the scream of the drill as the screw bit into the sheet metal of the gutter.

  “You’ll be home by then,” his dad answered when he’d shut off the drill. “You can’t afford to miss any more school.”

  End of discussion, at least as far as Dad was concerned. But Casey had more to say on the subject. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe I could finish school online. They have this stuff called distance learning, where you study at your own pace.”

  “You don’t study now, with your mom and I and all your teachers on your case. I’m supposed to believe you’ll volunteer to do it on your own?”

  “I don’t mind studying if it’s something that interests me. The teachers at school make everything so boring.”

  “I don’t see how a computer is going to make math and history and English any less boring. Hand me another one of those screws.”

  Casey handed up the fastener. “We could try it.” Yeah, the subject matter would be the same in the online courses, but he liked the idea of being more in charge. For instance, he could decide whether to do English or math first, and how long he’d spend with each class, instead of having a schedule dictated by others.

  “No. I don’t see why I should pay for you to take special classes when there’s a perfectly good high school not two miles from our house.”

  Casey could have argued that the high school wasn’t all that good, but what was the point? Dad had made up his mind. He was always right.

  The thing to do now was to wait and go to Mom with his plan. She at least considered his point of view. Maybe she could sway Dad to let him give this a try.

  “I know you think I’m too hard on you, but it’s because I know you can do better. And I know life will be easier for you in the long run if you apply yourself more.” He leaned back and studied the gutter. “Does that look straight to you?”

  “Yeah, it looks good.” Casey didn’t know what to say to the apply yourself remark. It was one of those clichés parents and teachers threw around, but what did it mean, exactly? If he preferred to focus on things that interested him, how was that not applying himself?

  “Your mom says you’ve been a real help with your grandfather.”

  The change of subject caught him off guard. “Yeah, well, he cooperates a little better with me on some things. Maybe he’s embarrassed because Mom’s his daughter.” It had freaked him out a little, the first time he’d helped the old man change clothes, or worse, when Grandpa wet his pants and Casey had to clean him up. He didn’t do that so often anymore and besides, after the first time it had been sort of routine. He’d gotten into the habit of talking them both through it, making like it was no big deal.

  “I’m not happy about the way you ran off without telling anyone, and without finishing school,” Dad said. “But I’m glad you’re a help to her.”

  Dad wasn’t the type to go around handing out praise left and right, so having him ac knowledge that his youngest had done something good for a change made Casey feel about a foot taller. “I’m glad I could help her, too.”

  “Good.” Dad nodded and climbed down the ladder. “That should do it. Now let’s see about getting that porch light replaced.”

  “Right.” One job done, time to move on to another. Casey would never understand this kind of methodical approach to life, but he guessed that was okay. He’d just do like he did with Grandpa—keep talking and keep moving along. It saved everybody from a lot of awkward moments that way.

  13

  My heart is like a singing bird.

  —Christina Rosetti, “A Birthday”

  Karen returned from shopping to find Tom, Casey and Martin on the back porch, arguing. She followed the sound of raised voices and found the three of them gathered around the back steps, scowling at each other.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked.

  “I’m trying to repair this broken light over the back steps,” Tom said.

  “Don’t want…fixed,” her father said, shaking his head.

  “Why wouldn’t you want it fixed?” Tom’s voice was full of scorn. “Do you want everything to just fall down around your head?”

  “Hurts…birds.” Martin’s chin jutted out and his eyes were dark and agitated.

  “What? How the hell does the light hurt birds?”

  “Re-flex.” The old man shook his head. “Like mirror.”

  “I think what he means is, when the light’s on, it reflects on the glass on the sunporch and the birds think it’s a mirror and fly into it,” Casey said.

  “You stay out of this,” Tom snapped.

  “Leave…him…alone!” Martin roared.

  “He’s my son, I’ll—”

  “Tom, please.” Karen stepped between the two men and urged Tom into the house. Once inside, she pulled him into her bedroom and shut the door.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m trying to help the old man and he picks a fight.”

  “It’s his house. If he doesn’t want the light fixed, leave it alone.”

  “It’s his house, but you’re living here. Not having alight over the back steps is unsafe.”

  “It’s okay. I won’t be here that much longer.” She hoped. She had a feeling Tom’s anger wasn’t so much over the lack of alight as it was over her father not appreciating his efforts to help. That, and a cont
inuation of the argument he and Karen had started this morning.

  “You won’t leave here soon enough to suit me,” he said.

  “I’m hoping by the end of the summer Dad will be able to look after himself. Or be able to manage with a house keeper or other help a couple of days a week.”

  “I don’t know why you didn’t put him in a nursing home in the first place.”

  “He’s my father. I couldn’t do that.”

  He looked past her, toward where her dad sat on the other side of the wall. “Why not? He’s an antisocial introvert who relates to numbers, not people.” His eyes met hers again. “You think I don’t know how he’s hurt you in the past? You can’t expect me to be happy you’re choosing to look after him, in spite of all that, when you could be home with your family.”

  When you could be home with me. If that’s what he meant, then why didn’t he say it that way? She ducked her head, blinking hard. She didn’t know if the tears that threatened were because of Tom’s outrage over her father’s past neglect of her, or the way his words reminded her of those old hurts.

  But since coming here, she’d discovered another side to her father. In the hours he’d spent teaching her about birds, she’d discovered a sensitive soul who appreciated beauty for beauty’s sake. She’d thought birding was all about the numbers for him; this spiritual aspect had surprised her.

  “He is introverted. And sometimes antisocial,” she conceded. “But now, while he has to depend on me, is the best chance I’ll ever have for us to be close.” She struggled to find the words to make Tom understand why this was so important to her. “All my life, I’ve felt like…like I loved my father more than he loved me.” She closed her eyes, squeezing back the tears that painful truth brought forth.

  “Then you know how I feel.”

  The words floated on the top of her consciousness, like black oil spilled across a pristine lake—dark and ugly and shockingly out of place. She stopped breathing for a moment, stunned. “Wh-what do you mean?”