No Story to Tell

by K J Steele

  Disbelief bolted out and pounded on her heart. What if the call had been a joke? A cruel joke. Probably right now someone lay laughing at her naiveté, amused by her foolishness. She sprang up through the porch and closed the door, the mirror catching her as she whisked by. Yes. That’s all it had been. Someone’s idea of fun. Or a wrong number. She seized upon this thought, wanting to believe the words spoken had been true; she’d been the victim of nothing more invasive than a wrong number, a simple wrong number. But even this thought, although better, caused disappointment to flood through her. She didn’t want the call to be meant for someone else. She wanted the words to be hers.

  She grabbed a chair, hurled it against the pressboard cupboards, delivering a satisfying gash across their tired brown faces. Seizing it again, she raised it up, wanting to send it flying through the window with every frustrated ounce of strength that flowed through her. Catching herself, knowing that she could never explain such an occurrence to Bobby, she sat it back down, biting her lip until an appeasement of blood tasted on her tongue. The phone rang, jangled fiercely against her nerves. Paralyzed, she looked at it, hesitated, then lifted it quietly to her ear.

  “Hello?”

  Silence met her.

  “Hello?” she repeated louder, a little more desperate.

  “Oh, hi Vic. Sorry about that. Just had to grab something. So anyhow, Bobby home yet or do you have time to talk?”

  “Oh, Rose! Hi. I wasn’t expecting it to be you.”

  “You sound disappointed, who were you expecting it to be?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Not anyone really. Did you get all your stuff done?”

  “Almost. I have to have that Mrs. Miller’s seam fixed by tomorrow, and I still have two rows of potatoes to dig. I think I’ll get the kids to do them tomorrow, getting dark already. I hate it when the days get shorter, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “I don’t know. You sound upset. I didn’t upset you by what I said, did I?”

  “No, it’s not that. I just . . . I just had a really strange call before, that’s all.”

  “Really? How strange?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it wasn’t that strange. Probably just a wrong number.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Oh. Well, I couldn’t really tell for sure. The line wasn’t very clear and—”

  “Who’d it sound like? Anyone you know?” Rose barged in, eager to get on with the details.

  “Not really. I couldn’t tell. I think maybe he was disguising his voice or something.”

  “So it was a guy?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Like I said, it was hard to hear.”

  “Well, what did he say? You must have heard some of what he said.”

  “Not very much. Just a few words. . . and I’m not even sure I got those straight. There was a lot of noise on the line.”

  “Well, what do you think he said?”

  “I don’t know, it was too hard to tell for sure,” Victoria hedged, suddenly unsure herself if she’d actually heard the words or just imagined them out of the garble. “I think it was just a wrong number anyhow.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  Victoria hesitated, feeling herself being backed very adroitly into a corner she knew she didn’t want to be backed into.

  “Was it something he said? It was, wasn’t it? Come on Vic, tell me.”

  “Well, okay, but I’m not even sure I heard it right. I probably didn’t. I think he was saying something about thinking someone was beautiful . . . or something like that.”

  “Thinking who was beautiful?”

  “I don’t know, whoever he thought he was talking to I guess.”

  “Well, maybe he thought he was talking to you. That thought ever occur to you, Vic?”

  “Yeah right Rose, not likely. I’m pretty sure it was just a wrong number. The line was bad, could have even been long distance.”

  “Hey, maybe it was that Elliot guy.”

  “No, Rose. It wasn’t Elliot. It wasn’t anyone. Anyhow, forget it. It’s not a big deal. Just scared me a little bit, being out here all by myself and getting a call like that.” She glanced at the darkening windows and flipped on the light.

  “Bet it was him. Maybe he’s out of town somewhere, sitting in his hotel room all lonely, finally works up his courage, gives you a call—”

  Victoria rolled her eyes and laughed as she listened to her friend pick pieces out of the air and create a suitable scenario.

  “Rose, forget it. It wasn’t Elliot, and besides I can’t quite imagine him having to sit around working up his courage. He’s not exactly lacking in the self-esteem department.”

  “No? Well what department is he lacking in then?” Rose asked laughing, flipping the conversation back to Elliot before Victoria realized it.

  “None that I know of.”

  “Really? And which ones do you know of?”

  “Rose! We’re not talking about him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s nothing to say.”

  “I hear your words, Vic, but I’m not believing them.”

  “Rose, why are you so stuck on me liking this guy?”

  “Oh, well let me see. Because he’s good-looking, has a great body, obviously has some bucks and he’s nice. Oh, yeah, and also because your husband is a selfish jerk who treats you badly.”

  Victoria laughed again as Rose ticked through her list. “Okay. I can’t argue with most of that. But it’s not going to happen. Why don’t you go for him if you think he’s so fascinating?”

  “Love to, darling, but there’s one fatal flaw.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Too much bohemian blood in his veins. Can’t tie a guy like that down with three kids and a dog.”

  “He has a dog.”

  “Maybe so, but you watch. When the time comes for him to fly, the pets will be given away to the neighbors and he’ll be gone. Can’t very well do that with kids.”

  “You think so, Rose? You think he’ll just up and go one day?” She knew Rose’s words were an echo of what Elliot himself had told her, but still she resisted them. They didn’t fit with what she wanted to believe.

  “Absolutely. Leave just as suddenly as he arrived. He doesn’t belong here; you know that. He knows it, too. Just kind of playing the farm life thing for a while and then on to something new. That’s why I think you’d better just hang on and talk to him next time he calls.”

  “Rose. It wasn’t him. Really. I’m sure of it. It wasn’t a normal call; it was sort of creepy. Like whoever it was was just sitting there listening to me most of the time. Kind of scary, actually.”

  “Yeah, well, trust me, Vic, people are weird. You never know how they might get their kicks. Or maybe he was just unsure how you’d react, or maybe he just wanted to be sure it was you on the phone and not Bobby. Who knows? Next time just talk to him and find out.”

  “Well, I’m sure there won’t even be a next—”

  “Whoops. Sorry Vic, gotta run. Jenny just dumped the milk. Catch you later.”

  “Okay, bye, Rose.”

  Victoria hung up the phone, sat in silence except for the slow, steady hum of the yard light as it threw a patch of yellow onto the ground where Bobby parked his truck. The clock ticked out 6:45. She placed leftovers into the oven to warm and started a bath. Shedding her sweatshirt and jeans into a lumpy pile beside the hamper, she closed her eyes and listened for the familiar rumble of an approaching vehicle. Hearing nothing, she disappeared down the hall and into the bedroom. Leaning against a stack of unread mail-order books, a lopsided chair buried under five years of household procrastination blocked her entry into the left half of the closet. There a myriad of obsolete clothes with washed-away patterns hung hidden from Bobby’s view so he would no longer wear them. Edging the chair off to one side, she slid the door open and began to flip through the shirts
and pants, her hands feeling their way to the back of the closet. She wondered at how quickly the years had stolen by since she’d first hung the dress up, never dreaming it would remain buried for the next twenty years. Her fingers found it first, dangling in the gauzy film that encased it. She pulled it from the closet, tore away the plastic and twirled it lightly on the hanger, the brilliant green glowing vitality into the room.

  She slipped it on, smiling as she once again felt the perfection of its silky caress. Studying herself in the closet door mirror, she twisted to survey her backside, the skirt swishing playfully around her thighs as she inspected first from one side and then the other. Running her hands along the gentle taper of her waist she found the dress still fit with ease, was if anything a shadow too big. Watching the mimic of her reflection, she performed well-rehearsed movements, her limbs remembering themselves in the confident elegance of the dance and responding with grace. Slowly, she twirled herself to a stop, dropped her head and raised her eyes coquettishly to assess the vision she created and smiled, pleased to see the dress still presented her with the elusive charm of provocative innocence.

  Stepping lightly across the unmade bed, she slunk into the living room on a sweeping step, her skin and the silk slipping against each other igniting her as she went. Twisting her hair on top of her head, she held it there with one hand as she moved to the motion of the music in her mind, the accompanying steps ones from the dance she never performed. She had lived to dance. Loved the feel of appreciative eyes on her as she moved in synchronicity with the music. Flowed across the stage as she lost herself in the passion of her love, becoming not a body moving to the music but a body moved by the music. Stepping carefully in the cramped room, she performed a minuscule version of her routine, remembering rather than executing the full flying leaps and intricate spins. Drawing to a close, she curtsied deeply to herself and favored her audience with a smile. With exquisite balance, she raised herself up on tiptoe and slipped the dress off in a fluid arc, letting it dissolve into a pool around her feet soon joined by a black bra and white panties.

  Critically she examined her nakedness in the hollow eyes of the windows, spun a slow pirouette to view herself from all sides. In spite of how she’d come to feel about herself, she had to acknowledge her own image did not bear her out and, although the dynamic strength of her youthful body had left her, its shape had not. Scooping her clothes off the floor, she looked again at her reflection. The uncomfortable realization settled over her that she was also fully visible from outside, and instinctively she covered herself as best she could. Quickly, she crossed over to the porch door. For the first time in almost twenty years she locked it, then retraced her steps back down the hall and into the bathroom.

  She twisted off the faucets, the steaming bath scarcely an inch short of overflowing onto the floor. Wiping a blurred swath across the medicine cabinet mirror, she pulled her hair away from her face and gazed openly at herself. She supposed she might be thought beautiful, although the presence of her mother’s diminutive mouth overpowered by her father’s stark green eyes disqualified her ability to judge herself that way. But her jaw was strong, her cheekbones set on an angular cut, giving the impression of a strength of character she did not feel she possessed. She released her hair and watched as it swung forward crowding her face, the steam forming once again over the mirror slowly fading her out.

  Sliding deep into the bath, she smiled as the displaced water swelled up and over the sides. Screw Bobby and his water restrictions. Tonight she was going to pamper herself. Sliding even lower, she closed her eyes and felt the warm lapping of tiny waves against her nipples. She set her thoughts free to run wild and they ran at once to Elliot. She searched back through her memory of the time she’d spent with him, looking for evidence that perhaps he’d heard the rumors of Bobby’s alleged unfaithfulness toward her, but nothing presented itself. If he’d been a longtime resident of the valley, he’d have heard for sure, gossip being passed among the locals like colds and flu. But Elliot was still considered an outsider, and as such was kept just outside the most intimate sins of the valley.

  The soap in one hand, she raised her left leg upward, admired it and drew it toward her. Elliot was right; she should open a studio. No. She was going to open a studio. Her studio. Her very own studio. She would make the suggestion lightly to Bobby this time in order not to upset him. Plant the seed and let it take root. Perhaps, if she went slowly enough, he might even agree to help her get a place set up. Cupping her foot with both hands, she pressed the soap into the hollow of her sole and slid it slowly back and forth in a gentle arc, the motion evoking sensual feelings within her. Gradually she worked the bar over to the top of her foot, massaging her toes and slipping a pinkie deeply between them as she went, slowly spreading them apart until they almost signaled pain. Dropping the soap beneath her, she dipped her leg into the water, found the soap and again began to lather her calf, her knee, her thigh into a bubbly white stocking of silk champagne. Closing her eyes she continued up over the smooth flatness of her stomach, traced a slippery curve over first one breast then the other. Raising the other leg she again began the slippery ascent, the bar of soap settling against her inner thigh where, pressing it tightly against her she slipped it upward and over to the other leg, the pressure catching her with a stifled cry.

  The glide of the soap against her skin became Elliot’s lips. Her breath, his voice. Her hands, his. His hands that had obsessed her every waking hour for the last few weeks, haunted her dreams, reaching in and drawing her toward nocturnal ecstasy. The hands that materialized before her in the branches of trees stroking the wind, became the caress of her hair as it kissed her neck. She sucked moist air deep inside her, continuing to run the soap firmly and quickly over her body, then froze. Her eyes flashed open as she attempted to reconcile in her mind the unmistakable roar of Bobby’s truck coming down the driveway.

  ~ Chapter 9 ~

  They sat silent as the truck grumbled its way toward town, the radio providing the entertainment with sketches of static occasionally interrupted by music. The slate sky stretched tight and serious across the valley, darker clouds threatening at the edges and hinting at more snow. Bobby had been right: it was barely the end of October, winter arriving early and with such severity it made one wonder if the earth could ever again find its way into full bloom.

  “Heard Gainer’s got himself a new truck. Brand-new ’78 Ford. JJ says it’s decked right out, got all the bells and whistles. Bet Diana’s old man helped him out with it.”

  He yanked a cigarette from the pack on the dash, lit it angrily then flicked the dead match into the garbage littering the floor. Taking a forceful drag, he expelled it sharply.

  “Shit! Bet that dumb bugger’s mortgaged right to the bloody nuts. Won’t be thinking he’s so damn smart once those peckers at the bank start jerking his chain.”

  He smiled at this thought, paused to savor a couple more squinty-eyed pulls from his smoke then continued airing his complaints.

  “Any dumb-ass can drive ’round in a new rig if they’re willing to be mortgaged to the hilt. I sure as hell wouldn’t do that. No way those crooked buggers gonna think they’ve got me by the balls. No blee-oody way. Nope. Don’t owe a dime on this here truck and that’s how it’s gonna stay. Man can be damn proud of owning what he owns.”

  He stamped this declaration with a heavy fist brought down emphatically on the dash, sealing his words with the dusty print. Snatching his red Finning cap off his black curls, he scratched his head then pulled it back on decisively, as if he’d settled the matter.

  “Yeah, Gainer ain’t near so smart as he thinks. Potlicker’ll be kissing ass before he knows what hit him.”

  He took another drag, harder, longer, and the cigarette flared viciously. A frozen pothole jarred them off balance, breaking away the ash, which exploded softly across the top of his thigh.

  “Shit!” He immediately rubbed the ash into the light beige dress pants, where it ref
used to disappear but rather transformed into an unsightly gray smudge down the length of his femur. “Shit! Damn, useless, faggot pants. Look at that. Just bloody lovely.”

  Pressing harder, he scrubbed his palm against the mark as if he could, by causing enough friction, reverse the damage done. Checking his progress and seeing none, he abandoned his efforts and returned to his former laments even more irritated, as if his trials were a direct consequence of Tom Gainer’s new truck.

  “And you know what else? You’ll never believe what color that dumb mother bought. Petey says it’s this real puke green. Uglier than snot, he says.”

  Pulling the last bit from his smoke, he tried to open his window to flick it out, but it was stuck, frozen shut. He jammed the butt into the overflowing ashtray, sending several others out onto the floor. A litany of defenses had jumped to her mind as Bobby spoke, but she’d let them slide away. Tom Gainer was by no means dumb, and everyone, including Bobby and his friends, knew the truck had been purchased with the gains of wise dealings and hard work and not on the back of bank credit as Bobby would have wished. But she held her words and ignored his tirade knowing a confrontation with the truth would do little more than enrage him. She didn’t want him enraged; she wanted his cooperation. Wanted an answer to the questions that prickled in her mind.

  “Bobby, do you . . . do you think I’m . . . beautiful?”

  Her voice faltered, hesitated with the words, not sure if she wanted to commit herself to the question, and the roar of the engine and rattle of the truck consumed her soft voice. Bobby, talking around a fresh cigarette stuck in between his dry lips continued on, unaware she’d even spoken.

  “Paid way too damn much for it, too. JJ says he could’ve got that exact same rig for at least a grand cheaper. I betcha—”

  “Bobby, I asked you a question.”