by Webb, Peggy
The fury of their lovemaking drove them until they came to that final act of giving. As the slow, sweet death overtook them, they collapsed against the wall.
Holding him tightly around the waist, she pressed her sweat-dampened cheek against his.
"You'll be leaving in a few days."
The pain in her voice was a knife wound in his heart.
"It's best."
"For you or for me?"
"For both of us."
"I know we said no commitments, and I meant that, David. But I want to know why. Why do you have to leave? You have to live somewhere. Why not here?"
"Because you tempt me to think about the future, Rosalie."
"Is that so bad?"
"There can be no future for me as long as I'm bound to the past."
"By love, David?"
He waited a long time before answering her. Waiting, she died another small death.
He cupped her face with his hands and tipped her face upward. What she saw made her tremble inside.
"By guilt, Rosalie."
Chapter Ten
The rest of the week flew by, and they didn't speak of his leaving until opening night.
"Will you leave after the performance?" Rosalie asked.
They were in her house. She was sitting at her dressing table, getting ready to go to the theater.
'I’ll stay for them all, Rosalie."
"I want you in the front-row seat where I can see you. You're my good-luck talisman."
David leaned in the doorway, watching her brush her hair. Her right arm was raised, and her head was tilted back. The lamplight shone on the blue veins on the side of her throat and the underside of her arm. He had seen her stretched upon his bed, naked and waiting. He had seen her standing on her kitchen stool, reaching for her cereal. He had seen her through the window, dancing and laughing with her sons.
But the way he loved her most was in this simple pose, rearranging her hair, with her arms stretched above her head and her skin still flushed with loving.
He loved her. The truth came to him suddenly, unbidden and unwanted. He clenched his jaw, trying to deny it. But with Rosalie sitting in front of him with her pale blue veins pulsing softly underneath her fair skin, denial was impossible.
She turned from the dressing table. "Did you say something, David?"
"No. I didn't say anything." He must have groaned. He had to be careful not to give himself away. They had agreed on an affair, and that's the way he would leave it.
How long had he loved her? For weeks, he was certain. That's probably why he had stopped trying to find a home for Rover. His unconscious mind had known what his conscious mind refused to admit.
"Where will you go, David?" she asked, still facing the mirror.
He didn't meet her eyes; he was afraid she would see the truth.
"I haven't decided." Suddenly, he knew that, too. He would go home. Back to Red Bay. Back to pick up the pieces, to get his life together again. Until then, he could never speak love to Rosalie, for he had no idea how long it would take. It wouldn't be fair to give her hope that might be false, to keep her waiting.
Anyhow, she had said nothing about loving him back.
And yet . . .
His gaze strayed to her bed. The covers were still mussed from their recent lovemaking. Over the last three weeks they had told each other in a thousand ways how much they cared.
"Wherever you go, please don't stop painting. You have a beautiful talent."
"Can we make a deal?" He smiled at her, loving her so much, he ached.
"What kind of deal?" Her eyes met his in the mirror.
"I won't stop painting if you won't stop singing."
Slowly, she laid her brush on the table. How could she sing after David was gone? He was her music, the song that sang through her body, her soul, her heart.
"I might stop for a little while . . . but not forever, David."
"Do you promise?"
"I promise." She came to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. "You've given me back my music."
He held her close for what must have been the thousandth time, and yet, knowing he loved her, it felt like the first. Bending down, he pressed his cheek against her soft hair.
They stayed that way for a long time, and then she leaned back in his arms.
"Time to go."
"Break a leg tonight, Rosalie."
"I'll try."
o0o
Rosalie stood onstage trying not to see the faces in the audience, save one. David. He was front and center, where he had promised to be.
She thought she would die of love for him in the middle of the stage for all of Tupelo to see. David. He would be leaving in two days, and she had never told him she loved him.
There was only one way she could tell him.
Her music cue sounded, and she leaned forward, singing for him, to him—"As Long As He Needs Me." She made all the moves she had rehearsed, but she never took her eyes off him.
When the song was over, the audience rose to its feet, applauding wildly. Only then did she feel the dampness on her cheeks. I love you, David.
o0o
He met her backstage after the performance.
"You were wonderful. Magnificent. The star of the show."
"You're prejudiced."
"How soon can you get away?"
"Right now."
They slipped out the side door, holding hands. Inside the car she cuddled against his side.
"Tomorrow is Friday. Jack and Jimmy will be coming home for the weekend."
"They're coming to see you in the play."
"Yes."
She didn't have to say any more. David would stay for the final performance on Saturday, but this would be their last night together. The time had come to say good-bye.
He drove slowly, savoring the feel of her head upon his shoulder. It would be the last time.
"My house," she said when he parked the car. "I want to wake up with the pillow on the other side of my bed dented."
He carried her over the threshold like a bride. In her bedroom he unveiled her slowly, as if she were a lost Christmas package that had been found after years of searching. He catalogued every curve, every line of her body. He memorized the texture of her skin, the taste of her lips.
And when he placed her upon the bed, he came to her like a bridegroom, sealing forever his vows of love.
o0o
They awakened early Friday morning, tangled in each other's arms. Rosalie touched David's face.
"Once more, David. And then leave quickly, without saying good-bye."
They said good-bye with their hearts.
o0o
The winter sun filtered through Rosalie's curtains, streaking across her linoleum floor, then spread its beams across the Sunday-morning cereal bowls on her kitchen table. She stood at her window.
"You were great in the play, Mom," Jack said.
"Yeah. Terrific. Did you see all of us in the front row giving you that standing ovation. . . . Betty and Jack and me and that neat dude from next door?"
"He has a name, Jimmy. It's David." She held on to the curtain, watching.
Jack and Jimmy looked at each other, their spoons paused in midair.
"You didn't eat your cereal, Mom," Jack said. "Why don't you sit back down and eat?"
"In a little while . . . maybe." She pleated the curtain between her fingers.
Jimmy said a word under his breath. Jack furrowed his brows.
David's back door opened. Rosalie leaned forward propping her elbows on the windowsill. He was carrying two duffel bags, and Rover trotted at his heels.
She held her breath. He stood in his backyard a moment, as if he were taking stock, and then he looked at her window. Their gazes met, held. She squeezed the curtain with both hands.
A taxi pulled into the driveway and honked its horn. Slowly, David turned away. He didn't nod, smile, or acknowledge her in any way.
They could never say
good-bye. Their eyes had said it all.
Rosalie stayed at the window until the yellow taxi was far down the street, taking David and his dog to a destination unknown.
He had carried his dog. That was her only hope.
Slowly, she turned back to her sons. "How about chocolate chip cookies? Or I could make apple pie? Or would you rather have doughnuts?"
Jack came to her and put his arm around her shoulders. "What has he done to make you cry?"
"Me? Crying?" Rosalie put her hands on her face and was surprised to find tears. Furious at herself, she scrubbed them away. "It's called the I'm over thirty-five blues."
"Sit here, Mom." Jimmy pulled out a chair. "Jack and I will make the cookies."
"You are such wonderful sons. What more could a woman want?"
She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the table while her sons made cookies. They horsed around, getting more flour on each other than they got in the mixing bowl.
With her hands wrapped around her cup, Rosalie watched them. They were wonderful sons, loving, responsible, hardworking. But she wanted more. The admission, coming so suddenly to her conscious mind, shocked her.
What kind of mother was she? She quickly pushed the old thought pattern aside. A damned good one, that's what kind of mother she was. But being a mother didn't necessarily mean being nothing else at all.
"Jack, Jimmy ... I need to talk to you."
"Shoot, Mom," said Jimmy, turning with the mixing bowl in his hand.
"I'd like you at the table, please. The cookies can wait."
"This must be serious." Jack straddled the chair across from her.
"It is." Rosalie pushed her coffee cup aside and folded her hands on the kitchen table. Then she drew a deep breath for courage. "I want to make some serious changes in my life, but I can't and won't do it without your cooperation, your permission, even."
She reached across the table for both their hands. "I know how hard you work, and I appreciate that. I don't think I could keep you in school if both of you didn't have part-time Jobs."
"It's the least we can do," Jack said.
"How would you feel about taking out a school loan? Not a big one, not for the full amount of your schooling, but just enough to give me money for a voice coach? Somebody here in town, somebody who will tell me whether I have enough talent to keep on trying."
"Hey, Mom, that's great! Jack and I always wondered why you never did anything with your voice."
"You did?" Rosalie was astonished. She supposed she had never considered that children sometimes worried about their parents the same way parents worried about children.
"Yes, we did. You don't have to worry about us, Mom. Jimmy and I are men now. We can take care of ourselves."
"I know you're men, and I'm proud of you." She reached for her hair ribbon. "Lately I've discovered that I want to be proud of myself, as well. Once I dreamed of being an opera singer. Now ... I know it's late to be starting over, and it's a very long shot, but I want to give it a try."
"We're with you a hundred percent, Mom," Jack said.
"Yeah," Jimmy added. "All the way." They both came around the table to hug her.
o0o
Later that evening. Jack and Jimmy sought out Rosalie at the Edge of Paradise.
"What are you two doing here?" she asked. "I thought you'd be headed back to school by now."
"Shine's going to wait until early in the morning." Jack took her hand and led her back to the kitchen. "Jimmy and I have been talking. We want a family conference."
"With Betty too," Jimmy said. "We've come up with a plan."
"Linda!" Betty yelled to her assistant cook. "Take over here. Got a family emergency that needs my attention." Beaming, she led them to her cubbyhole of an office. "Whatever it is that's got you boys looking like the mouse that belled the cat, I want in on it."
"Here's the plan." Jack took the floor while his mother listened, astonished.
o0o
David sat in the Red Bay Police Department, talking to the chief of police, Clyde Downing.
"So, you want your old job back?" Clyde pulled open a fresh bag of corn chips and stuffed one in his mouth. In spite of his habit of nibbling junk food throughout the day, he was hard-muscled and trim.
"If you'll have me."
"You're the best damn cop I ever had. Of course I'll have you." He rammed another handful of chips in his mouth. "That thing with Stephanie. Is it over with?"
"I don't know. I still blame myself. I guess I've got to prove that I can carry out the duties of a police officer without letting emotion cloud my judgment."
"It was her judgment that was clouded, David. She went into that alley alone while you were in the shop next door getting doughnuts and coffee. She broke the rules, and she died for it."
"No. We broke the rules, and she died for it. If it hadn't been for what we did ..." Pausing, David raked his hands through his hair as memories flooded through him. "We had stopped for a break. The kids weren't there when I went into the shop, and then, when I came out, Stephanie was already in the alley. It all happened so fast. I rushed in, but it was too late. They had already knifed her."
"Some officers would have gunned the punks down, but you didn't."
"It was already too late for Stephanie, and they were just kids."
Clyde stood up and offered his hand. "Welcome back, David."
o0o
David took a small apartment close enough to walk to the station with his dog trailing at his heels. Rover quickly became the police mascot. A few wags even talked of turning him into a bomb-sniffing dog.
He volunteered for the hardest shifts, numbing his mind to everything except his work. On the job he kept his memories locked tightly away, but in his apartment surrounded by his watercolors of Rosalie, he let them roam free.
At first he suffered. He missed her; he longed for her; he needed her. With only a beer and a dog for companions, he wallowed in his despair.
Even his dog grew tired of listening to him.
"You're right. Rover," David said after a lengthy recital of woes. "I walked away. And I've got to earn the right to go back."
o0o
On Christmas Eve he took up his brushes for the first time since leaving Tupelo. Painting from memory, he did Rosalie at her dressing table, brushing her hair. When he was finished, he went out and bought a tree. It was the first he'd had in many years. Since it was so late, he got the leftovers, the scruffiest one on the lot, but he guessed that would do for starters.
He strung popcorn on the tree, then topped it with a tinfoil star he had fashioned.
o0o
"That's the damned ugliest tree I ever saw." His friend and fellow police officer Hubert Franklin had dropped by and was standing inside David's front door, a gift of food in his hand.
"It's my first since I was a kid. I'll eventually get the hang of it."
"Here." Hubert thrust a warm dish into David's hand. "My wife is scared you'll starve to death without her eggplant casserole." He grinned. "I'm taking them around to all the Red Bay PD bachelors."
"Tell her thanks."
"I will, but you need to call her and tell her yourself. She saw you in the grocery store looking at some butterscotch sauce and said you looked like you were pining away and fixing to die."
He had been. Dying of memories.
"June worries too much."
"Yeah . . . well ... I guess that's why she married me, so she'd have somebody to worry about." Hubert took his hand. "Merry Christmas, David."
"You too, Hubert."
After Hubert left, David poured himself a glass of wine, then sat beside his puny tree looking at his latest painting of Rosalie. She would be celebrating the holiday with her sons and Betty. Did she ever think of him? Ever miss him?
He saluted the portrait with his wineglass. "Merry Christmas, my love."
o0o
Betty and Rosalie were putting the final touches on the tree at the cafe. The last ornament i
n the box was a pink porcelain rose. Rosalie picked it up and held it to her cheek.
"You miss him, don't you?" Betty asked.
"How did you know I was thinking of David?"
"You had that dreamy look in your eyes."
"I wonder if he's happy, Betty. I wonder if he's celebrating this holiday."
"I wonder if he knows what a good woman he walked out on."
"He didn't walk out. We had an agreement." Rosalie ran her fingers over the porcelain petals of the rose, then tenderly hung it on the tree. "I loved him, Betty. I still do. But even If he were here and even if he loved me, I wouldn't be rushing into another marriage. I have plans." Her eyes began to sparkle. "Big plans."
"You're going to make it, honey." Betty hugged her close. "I know you will."
o0o
With each passing day David's guilt over Stephanie's death faded. The pride he took in doing his work well, the encouragement of his fellow officers, and the praise of the chief of police made him feel whole again.
And yet . . . there was one more thing he had to do, one more person he had to see.
o0o
He called his ex-wife on the first day of January.
"Gretchen. I need to talk to you."
"You had your chance to talk when we were married. I'm not interested in anything you have to say."
"You have every right to be angry. What I want to do is apologize, and I would prefer to do it in person."
After a long hesitation she agreed to see him. When he hung up the phone, he felt a rush of relief and well-being. He hadn't let her goad him. He hadn't let himself get angry and be drawn into a quarrel. All he felt for her now was a sort of sadness.
o0o
Two weeks later he met her at her apartment. She had insisted on both the delay and her home turf. He supposed it made her feel more in control.
He had dressed for the occasion. Although he loathed suits and ties, Gretchen always reacted better to him when he was dressed. "Why do you always insist on looking like a bum?" she used to say. "Other husbands spend their days off in nice- looking khakis and button-down shirts. But you? No. You have to wear those ratty old jeans and tacky old sweat shirts."
He pressed the buzzer. She kept him standing in the cold for five minutes before she came to the door.