by Jo Goodman
She nodded. “You?”
He murmured his assent. “You want to spend the night?”
“I—I’m not sure that’s—”
“Forget it,” he said quickly. “No pressure.”
“No ... umm, I was thinking about the kids. I don’t know—”
He cut her off again. “It’s all right, Thea.”
She stared at him, a little exasperated by his unwillingness to permit her to pursue a complete thought or finish a full sentence. It was something that Gina had told her on the occasion of their first meeting, about her and Mitch not having much time alone. Thea had had the impression that Mitch’s girlfriend did not spend the night. Now she wondered if she had been wrong. “I guess I’m not comfortable being here when the kids wake up,” she said. “It just doesn’t feel right somehow.”
Mitch hadn’t been thinking about the kids when he’d asked her. He blamed the blood loss to his brain for the oversight. “I know what you mean.” He lifted his hand, cradling the side of her neck in his palm. Silky strands of dark red hair tickled his skin. His eyes shifted from Thea’s face as her shirt parted and slipped over her right shoulder. Light glanced oddly off her upper arm, drawing Mitch’s attention to a mark he had not noticed before. Her skin had a sheen here, the gloss of flesh pulled taut by an old injury. A faint but unmistakable band of scar tissue circled her arm halfway between her elbow and shoulder. Without thinking of any possible consequence, he touched it. Before he could ask her what happened, Thea was jerking her arm away.
“Sorry,” he said.
Thea pulled her shirt up quickly. “It’s nothing.” She shrugged, her eyes darting away. “I’m a little self-conscious about it, is all.”
A little? That hardly described her reaction to something that was barely there. Mitch decided he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. “Was it a burn?” he asked.
“No. Nothing like that.” Her head came up, and she regarded him frankly for a long moment before she made her decision. “Can you picture one of those old-fashioned wringer washers?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean, but I don’t think even my grandmother had one.”
“My parents did,” she said. “It was ancient when I was a kid. I remember it was rusted and battered and it sat on the back porch. I don’t think my mother actually used it. It was the kind without the safety guard to stop someone from getting their hand caught between the rollers.”
“Is that what happened?” asked Mitch. “You were playing around and put your hand in?”
“There was no playing. My father did the honors.”
Chapter 12
Mitch lay awake in bed, his legs sprawled on top of the covers, his head cradled in his clasped palms. The light from a street lamp slanted into the room through the open curtains. An occasional breeze shifted the curtains and cast shadow play on the wall and the ceiling. He saw the movement out of the corner of his eye but he wasn’t distracted by it.
He was thinking of Thea.
It wasn’t exactly a new pastime. Mitch figured that if someone probed his brain they would find entire regions of it had been surrendered to the consideration of Thea Wyndham. Thank God for the autonomic nervous system; otherwise most days he wouldn’t be able to breathe.
He slipped one hand out from behind his head and absently ran it up and down his chest. Her hand had made this same trail only a few hours earlier. He wished she was the one making it now.
Shine and Shield. He smiled now, thinking about it. It was the thing that had tipped the scales and catapulted her into his arms. He hadn’t understood it then, but she had eventually explained. She always did that, he realized. If he had the patience to wait her out, she would find a way to tell him what he wanted to know. Sometimes she found her way to telling him things he didn’t.
He conjured up an image of a wringer washer. The one he saw had a large white enamel barrel and four spindly legs. Two cream-colored rubber rollers, each about eighteen inches long, were set in the wringer apparatus that extended above the tub and could also be positioned out to the side. Clothes could be fed from the wash water through the rollers and into a laundry tub. The advantage of a moveable wringer was that it could be repositioned over the divider of a double laundry sink and the clothes could be wrung out a second time. The one he remembered seeing rusting in some neighbor’s backyard had had an automatic wringer.
That wasn’t the kind Thea described. The one her father had used to teach her a lesson was manually driven, which meant he had not only fed her small fingers between those hard rollers, but that he had flipped the lever to close them over her hand, then turned the handle to make the rollers begin their slow rotation.
Thea didn’t have a clear recollection of it happening. She imagined that she had screamed because a neighbor had come to their apartment. She could hear the pounding on the door with more clarity than the raw pitch of her own voice. Later there were police and doctors. X-rays. Cries for her mother that went unanswered. Strangers. Pictures. Angry people talking in hushed voices, almost but never quite out of her hearing. A Gund bear that was nearly as big as she was to sleep with her in a consciously cheerful hospital room. The certain knowledge that all of it was her fault.
The pain of that night was buried deep, but Mitch understood now that it leaked into every aspect of her life like toxic waste in a landfill.
Some of what she knew, she’d been told, and so she told him. She had her scars, some said, to remind her how fortunate she was to have been taken away from her parents. She might have died in the care of her psychotic father and her terrified and terrifying mother. Failure to protect, they called it when they spoke of the woman who had done nothing except stand by as her husband tortured their child.
Doing nothing was tantamount to participating, the social workers argued, and the judge agreed. What Thea remembered was her mother clinging to her father as he was taken away and then turning accusing eyes on her.
“That’s what I come from,” she’d said when she had finished. “When I look at Emilie and Case and Grant, and I think of trying to be a parent to them, I can’t forget what’s in my blood. No laughter. No warmth. I remember hurt. Deep, abiding pain. I never wanted to know more about my parents. Never searched for them when I could have. I was afraid, I suppose, that what I would discover would be even worse than my memories. Emilie was right about me. She told you I was nervous around her and the boys. She just didn’t know why. I’m not sure even Gabe understood. He never asked me about my arm. If the Reasoners ever talked about me in front of him, he never let on.”
“You let me believe it was the drugs,” Mitch said quietly. “Why would you want me to think that?”
“Because it’s something I did to myself, I suppose. Talking about it doesn’t make me feel entirely helpless. And people can relate to it in some way. There’s hardly anyone who doesn’t have at least one experience with drinking, eating, gambling, smoking, or spending too much.” She had touched his face, then, cupping his cheek so gently in her palm that it was not pressure he felt, but warmth. “But this other thing ... a father who puts his daughter’s arm in a wringer because she annoyed him with her clumsiness and her crying ... and a mother who did nothing because she was too afraid or too needy or as sick as her husband ... well, it was done to me and it lives inside me and sometimes I think I’m only containing all that ugliness, that it will come spilling out and I’ll hurt someone, too.”
Thea took a shallow, steadying breath. “Those medical problems I had as a child ... the ones that kept me from being able to stay with the Reasoners ... that was because of the abuse, Mitch. Getting kicked, tossed, shaken, a couple of times too often, I guess. My father had a short fuse. And in the event I took after him, I found drugs that kept my fuse long. Really long.”
Mitch allowed her to talk. Even when she finished, he remained silent, watching her grave features settle until they became merely solemn. She actually believed what she was saying about herself, Mitch re
alized. It stunned him.
It still stunned him.
Somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled. A spattering of rain hit the open window, then stopped. He should get up and close it, he thought, but he made no move to do so. The curtains continued to beat a light tattoo against the wall and sill. Rain came and went and then came and stayed.
“Uncle Mitch?”
Mitch turned his head. The night-light in the hallway cast a penumbra around the figure at his open door. “Hey, Mutt. Where’s Jeff?”
“It’s Grant, Uncle Mitch.”
Mitch smiled. “I know, Sport.” He extended his arm over the side of the bed and beckoned Grant with a quick, curling gesture of his fingers. “You want to hop in?”
Grant’s response was to hightail it over to the bed and jump on board. “You’re not under the covers.”
“You think I should be?”
“There’s gonna be a storm. Can’t you hear the thunder?”
“I hear it.” Mitch also heard someone moving with exaggerated stealth in the hall. “Your brother’s coming. Move over.” Grant rolled himself across Mitch’s chest and flopped on the other side. “Come on, Case. There’s room.”
Case peeked around the door frame. “How’d you know it was me?”
“I have X-ray vision.”
That stopped Case in his tracks. His eyes narrowed in the semidarkness of the room. “You’re just joking me, right?”
Mitch smiled at Case’s word choice. “Teasing,” he said. “Right.”
Giggling, Case climbed in. “Hey, you’re not under the covers.”
“Seems to be the consensus.”
“Huh?” Both boys questioned him at the same time.
“It means everyone agrees.” His definition was met by silence. “Never mind,” he said, sitting up. “Help me out here.” They all tussled with the sheet and blanket together. It only took another boomer for the twins to find an opening and burrow deep. They wedged themselves on either side of Mitch. Their small bodies smelled of soap and sleep. The comfort was mutual. Mitch didn’t bother asking them to leave him some room.
The rain began to fall steadily. Mitch could tell by the direction the droplets were hitting the house that the carpet in front of the open window was going to be damp. It didn’t make him any more motivated to get up and shut it.
“You guys okay?” he asked. He felt heads nodding on either side of his shoulders. “Good. So what do you think’s going on up there to make all that noise? Angels bowling? God talking? Thor’s hammer?”
Grant raised himself up on one elbow and peered closely at Mitch. “Actually,” he said with careful precision, “it’s two air masses butting heads.”
One of Mitch’s brows kicked up. “Really? Who teaches you stuff like that? You sure it’s not angels bowling?”
Case said importantly, “They teach kids a lot of different stuff now. Not like in the olden days.”
Mitch groaned softly. “You guys are killin’ me.” As soon as the words were out Mitch regretted them. Beside him he felt the twins jerk to attention. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he said quickly. “It’s just a way of saying that I can’t keep up with you two. You’re too smart and fast for me. It’s a compliment.” He looked from side to side trying to figure out if he’d explained it adequately. They seemed to be mulling it over. “You understand?”
“Got it,” Grant said.
“Got it,” Case said.
“Good,” Mitch said, relieved. “Go to sleep.” There was some snuggling, a few moments of peace, then the two air masses butted heads again. The rumble actually shook the house. Mitch thought the boys were going to crawl under his skin. Apparently semiscientific explanations didn’t significantly reduce the fear factor. Still more surprising was Emilie’s continued absence from his room, then, as if on cue, she materialized in the doorway. “What took you so long?”
“I just woke up,” she explained with some dignity. Lightning flashed, illuminating her pale face on the threshold, and dignity was no longer a consideration. Her feet barely touched the carpet as she made a run for the bed. Case and Mitch held up the covers for her and she threw herself under them. The bed shook.
“Everyone accounted for?” asked Mitch.
“Where’s Anthea?” Case wanted to know.
“Aunt Thea,” Emilie said. “When are you going to get some teeth, anyway? You sound like a baby.”
Mitch cut it off before Case could retaliate. “No kicking,” he said, grabbing one of the boy’s legs. “Em, you used to sound exactly the same.”
Case voiced approval of Mitch’s defense. “Yeah! You were a baby, too. A girl baby.” He managed to inject the g-word with all the righteous scorn a five-year-old chauvinist could muster.
“Enough,” Mitch told him, thankful no one could see he was smiling. He brought the subject around to the question that had started the ribbing. “Thea went home. She has to go to work tomorrow.”
“You think she’s afraid of the storm?” asked Grant. “Girls are sometimes.”
Here we go, thought Mitch. But Emilie remained uncharacteristically quiet. “Sometimes,” Mitch said. “But so are boys. And no one is always afraid of the same things. Thea might like watching a lightning storm.”
“Really?” Case asked. “Mum didn’t.”
“I’m not crazy about them either,” Mitch admitted. “But I bet you anything that Thea’s watching this one.”
“Can we call her?” Emilie asked suddenly. “Please, Uncle Mitch? Aunt Thea’s all by herself. What if you’re wrong?”
Mitch glanced at the clock. It was almost three. “I don’t know, Em. It’s not a good idea to be on the phone in an electrical storm.” More importantly, Thea was probably asleep. He had worried about sending her home so late and as tired as she was, but she had her mind made up and in the end she had convinced him. “I’m sure she’s fine,” Mitch said lamely. On the other hand, he was wide-awake and so were the kids. Perhaps this was a moment she should share with them.
“Call her,” Case said.
“Please,” Emilie said.
“Seems to be the consensus,” Grant said. The pitch of his delivery was higher than Mitch’s, but in every other way—inflection, rhythm, and tone—it was a dead-on imitation.
Hearing not only his own words come back to him, but in a manner that mimicked him perfectly, just about took Mitch’s breath away. Pride, amusement, a touch of fear at this reminder of his influence, he felt all of that. It was worth risking electrocution to share the moment. “All right,” he said. “But I’m calling her and holding the phone. You can listen. Em, hand me the phone.”
She did, reciting Thea’s number for him before he could find it on speed dial. The children were silent as Mitch held the phone a little away from his ear so they could hear the ringing. Thea picked up on four.
“Hello?”
“It’s Mitch, Thea.” He added quickly, “We’re all fine.”
There was a pause. “Mitch, it’s three o’clock.”
“I have two-fifty-seven.” He smiled as she made a sound somewhere between exasperation and a sigh. “I’ve got company in my bed.”
“Are you talking about the hand puppet?”
Mitch immediately pressed the receiver back to his ear and covered his mouth and the mouthpiece with his hand. “Jeez, Thea, I’ve got the kids here,” he whispered.
“Oh. Well, you should have said that right away.”
He could tell she was laughing. Mitch held out the phone again. “Are you having a storm there?” he asked.
“A spectacular one. Lots of thunder and lightning. You?”
“The same.”
“Aaah,” she said after a moment. “I understand. Are they listening?”
“Uh-huh. They wanted me to call. They were concerned that you might be afraid.”
“Afraid? No. I love storms. I was sitting on the sunporch watching this one.” There was a hesitation before her voice came over the line a little huskier and mor
e intimate than it had in the moment before. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Mitch’s own voice deepened. “Same here.” Beside him, Case puckered his lips and began making kissing noises. Grant joined in almost immediately. Emilie started giggling.
“What’s going on?” Thea asked.
“A little comedy routine,” Mitch said dryly. He poked Grant lightly with his elbow. It had absolutely no effect. “Three kids who think they’re pretty funny.”
“Well, if they’re laughing they can’t be afraid any longer.”
“I think you’re right. Thanks, Thea. Good night.”
She answered automatically. “Sleep tight.”
The chorus finished. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite!”
Chuckling softly, Mitch ended the call and passed the phone back to Emilie. He heard her fit it back in the base. “Satisfied?” he asked. “Told you she wouldn’t be afraid.”
“How did you know?” Emilie asked, settling back down.
Because a little girl who had her fingers forced through a wringer wouldn’t be afraid of something so natural as thunder and lightning. That little girl knew about things that were infinitely more frightening. “I just knew,” Mitch said quietly, tucking them all in. “I just knew.”
Thea walked into work on Monday charged with energy. She gathered the Blue Team together in the conference room and told them her idea about Shine and Shield. “We’ll do a product tie-in. Work up ideas for the Nissan Xterra, especially the yellow one they have. GMC. Ford. Toyota. BMW. You know the drill. Find a hot color and model.” She saw some skeptical expressions. “Test it on your own cars if you don’t believe me. I did. This morning. My Volvo”—she pronounced the make of her car very carefully and looked around to make sure no one was snickering—“shined like it was just off the assembly room floor. What I want to know is why didn’t any of you know this?”