No Story to Tell

by K J Steele

  “Hazel?”

  “Yeah, her. He’s related to her, somehow. Brother-in-law or cousin or something. You know—”

  She looked at Victoria eagerly, encouraging her to remember, but with no success. Blowing her tea cool she continued on, somewhat irritated at Victoria’s lack of cooperation. “He’s a real tall, skinny guy. Kind of ugly. You know him Vic, I’m sure you do. He used to drive that old beat-up station wagon with no muffler, remember?”

  “Oh,” Victoria agreed, just to get Rose off her case. “Yeah, kind of.”

  “Yeah, see. I knew you knew him. Anyhow, turns out his wife’s pregnant.”

  “Hmm. That’s nice.”

  “Not for him it’s not,” Rose trumped. “Millie told me he got snipped last year. Oh. Hey. Got something for you,” she said as she reached across the table and grabbed her large black purse off of the chair opposite her. “The girls made it for you. Just a little thank-you for letting them come out and watch cartoons.”

  Unzipping her purse, she struggled for a moment to unearth an oversized paper folded up into several layers. Impatiently working it loose, she gave it a tug, pulling it and a cascade of old one-hundred-dollar bills onto the table. Looking up quickly, she saw that Victoria had not missed them and her face grew hard in defense.

  “Rose!” Victoria sputtered, absolute shock crossing her face, “Did you take her money?”

  Rose laughed, flipping her hair behind her and twisting it up into a nervous knot.

  “Oh, just a little bit. Old bag has more money than she’ll ever need. Just wastes it all feeding those stupid cats of hers, anyhow.”

  “But still . . . Rose! I can’t believe—”

  The jar of the phone snatched their focus, and Victoria spilled her tea as she jumped up to answer it. Grabbing a washcloth off the floor, Rose kept an eye on Victoria’s face as she mopped up the mess, both ears attentive as she tried to eavesdrop on the conversation. She watched with mounting curiosity as Victoria’s features softened around the receiver then grew pale and hard as if she were turning to ice from the inside out. She nodded stiffly once, then twice as her mouth worked uselessly to form the words her brain was trying to send. Setting the receiver back into place, she stared first at it, then at Rose, then back to the receiver.

  “Problem?” Rose pressed, excitement alive in her eyes.

  Victoria stood motionless, unsure of whether to nod or shake her head as she wrestled with words that as yet made no sense to her.

  “It was Bobby,” she whispered, as if this in itself should hold some meaning for Rose, some meaning for herself.

  Rose shook her head, not comprehending the significance. “So?”

  “He’s at your house.”

  “So?” Rose countered again, but coherency was beginning to shift itself uncomfortably to the forefront of her brain.

  “He called from the workshop, Rose. From the extension in Steve’s workshop.” She searched her friend’s face wildly to find a denial of the truth that was marching toward her but was met instead with a self-conscious laugh.

  “Rose? Was it you?”

  Jaw set and eyes hard she leveled Victoria with her answer.

  “Of course it was me, Vic. Don’t even try to tell me you didn’t know.”

  “Rose! I had no idea it was you. I thought it was . . . I believed it was—”

  “You believed what you wanted to believe, Vic.”

  “I believed what you said, Rose. I believed what you told me.”

  “Wrong!” Rose shouted, clearly happy to be accused of something she knew she was innocent of, seizing on the opportunity it afforded her to turn the tables on Victoria. “Totally wrong. I offered to tell you several times who your mysterious caller was, but you didn’t want to know. Did you? It was you who chose to keep your little fantasy going. I just played along to keep you happy.”

  The room was spinning inside Victoria’s head, and she gripped the edges of a chair to keep herself from reeling off into space. Anger, fear, hurt, sadness, rage each raced in on her, but she couldn’t grasp one. She didn’t know what she felt other than bewildered, and she looked searchingly at Rose, hot tears accompanying her words.

  “But why, Rose? Why would you do that to me?”

  “Hey! Don’t blame me. You did it to yourself. The first time was just an accident. I tried to call you from the shop and couldn’t get through because of all the static. And then when I called back from the house, you started telling me this big fantasy about some guy calling and saying he thought you were beautiful when what I’d actually said was ‘I think you’d be a fool not to pursue that thing with Elliot.’ It was kind of funny actually.”

  “It wasn’t funny, Rose. It was my life. Why didn’t you just tell me right then that it was you rather than let me carry on and make an idiot of myself?”

  “Why? You want to know why, Vic?”

  “Yes. Yes, Rose, I do want to know why.”

  “Because you were so damn pathetic about it, that’s why. Because it was so bloody obvious you needed a little something to hold on to.” Rose shrugged, then drained her tea casually. “And then it all just kind of got carried away. Or I should say . . . you got carried away.”

  “Me? I got carried away? You almost ruined my marriage, Rose—”

  “I almost ruined your marriage? Better back up the bus on that one, Vic. From what I heard coming across that line, I’d say it was pretty much screwed already.”

  “You bitch! You fucking, fucking bitch!” Victoria erupted, boiling toward Rose with her arm raised to strike before reason grabbed her with the realization of the precariousness of her position.

  Her mind flooded full of the details of their conversations, and her heart began pumping insanely as she remembered her unrestricted outpouring of confidences so intimate she had hardly dared share them with herself. She’d spilled her most secret of secrets across that line. Her frustrated blurting that Bobby should go ahead and kill himself. Her ill-fated confession of having been pregnant with Bassman’s child. Rose stood up and stretched leisurely.

  “So, that whole thing that happened with Steve? Was that you, too?”

  Rose shrugged.

  “How could you do such a thing? You ruined his life, Rose.”

  “Well, he was ruining mine.”

  “How?”

  “He annoyed me.”

  “Why didn’t you just divorce him then?”

  “Divorce is an expensive option, Vic.”

  Wrapping herself back inside her cloak, she leaned across the table and tapped Victoria’s hand gently.

  “So. I guess we both have our little secrets that need keeping. Right?”

  Victoria felt as if the whole puzzle of her life had just been scattered hopelessly across the floor. She looked toward Rose and nodded. But she couldn’t make their eyes meet.

  She sat silent at the table until long after the roar of Rose’s car faded into still air. Her mind was wild. Frantic collisions of thoughts that finally drove her from her chair and sent her racing through the trailer. Rose held everything in the grip of her hand. And clearly that hand could not be trusted. Every one of her most intricate secrets had eventually found their way through that phone line and into Rose’s gluttonous ear. Suddenly, she understood Pearl’s uncharacteristic tolerance of Rose. The quick flicker of fear that sparked in her eye whenever Rose voiced any displeasure. How could she not have seen it before? How could she not of understood that Rose held the most damning of Pearl’s secrets as well. She felt sick. Like poison was slowly filling her.

  She slumped onto the couch, pushing newspapers and mail to the floor. Her hand stopped over a small envelope, embossed in beautiful script like black lace over a white dress. She flipped it over and over, then held it in her hand as she curled her knees up to her chest and rested her head.

  The discovery of the caller’s identity, or lack thereof, was no less than a death to her and many degrees more jagged. The thought could find no place within her, n
o nook or cranny in which to settle. Finally she rejected it. Him, Rose could not take from her; she would not allow it. She could no more deny his existence than if she had looked into the fullest of nights and tried to believe it day. Within her mind, he lived. And beyond that, in her senses. She had heard his voice. Felt his hands. His hair. She had smelled the warm, sensual pleasures of his skin and tasted his kisses. He had moved over her and in her. Became one with her. And she with him. All of this she had felt and, at the drop of her lashes, she still could.

  She stood up, crossed to her rocking chair and sat down. She did not rock. Did not wait. Just sat quiet and empty watching out the window as creation slowly reversed itself. Softly, she stroked the envelope until her hands found their way inside.

  Her fingers traced the lettering as she read it. Strong, slanted consonants and soft, feminine vowels joined together with promises of true love, godly unions and happiness eternal. Reaching under her chair she pulled long handled, sharp scissors from her knitting bag. She began to make quick, intricate cuts. Consumed with her task she didn’t notice when she cut herself and her blood was smeared along the sharp, tight creases and folds. She worked intensely until her shoulders began to ache so convincingly that she had to stop. In her lap lay a tiny square box and an exquisite origami crane. Taking the lid off of the box, she placed the bird inside and tried gently to make it fit until finally her patience failed her and, taking it back out, she clipped short its wings and forced it into place.

  ~ Chapter 24 ~

  It was raining. Not a driving, healthy rain but a sick, miserable drizzle that had eventually overwhelmed the potholes and transformed the fine, powdery road into a greasy, gray paste. As they approached the church, Victoria was surprised to see a steady stream of muddy vehicles pouring into the yard as the valley’s inhabitants, most of whom had forgotten Bobby’s mother in her life, now came out to remember her in her death. She kept her eyes riveted to her feet as Bobby slopped the truck through the puddles and bounced it to a stop. As usual they were running late and Bobby immediately rushed off into the church, leaving her standing alone as she struggled with her umbrella. Shielding herself from curious stares, she held her umbrella low and made her way into the vestibule. Pastor Jack’s wife spotted her immediately and waved pointedly from across the room. She was a hawkish woman, brittle as last week’s toast, and she fit no one’s ideal of what a good pastor’s wife should be. As if to counteract this sentiment, she’d taken to fluttering her lashes helplessly, as though she had a constant irritant in both her eyes. Her smile, perfect, open and painted, never left her face, and Victoria wondered if she removed it at night and dropped it into a glass on her bedside table along with her false teeth. Despite her attempts to appear otherwise, no one ever had any illusions that a hand other than hers puppeteered Pastor Jack’s every move.

  “Well, well, well. And how are you doing, Vic? Tsk. Wasn’t it just a pity about Mrs. Lackey’s passing?” gushed Pastor Jack’s wife. She grabbed Victoria’s cold hand, patting it vigorously as if checking for life. “And how are you yourself, dear? After the accident and all? Trust you’re doing better now?” She crushed her face into a question mark as she left off, hoping Victoria would fill in the story.

  Victoria returned a stiff nod. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Oh, well praise the Lord, dear. Praise the Lord. Our ladies group prayed for you every Wednesday, you know. Not a Wednesday went by when we didn’t raise our voices to the throne and beseech the Father on your behalf.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you,” Victoria offered dryly. She knew the more likely truth was that they had bantered around the latest gossip about her, then quickly offered up a prayer to appease their guilt. Nausea was beginning to disrupt her stomach again and she gently tried to retract her hand, but the older woman held on.

  “And so . . . what was it that happened again, dear? Goodness sake, you hear so many different things. Most of it such nonsense.” She shook her head and fluttered her lashes with manic exaggeration.

  “Nothing happened,” Victoria shot back coldly.

  Pastor Jack’s wife dropped her hold on Victoria’s hand and leaned back slightly. “Oh. Well, of course I wasn’t meaning to imply anything . . . um, well. Well, you’re sure looking good now, anyhow. Isn’t she, Sara?” she said to an elderly woman just passing by.

  “Ay? What’s that?” crackled the old lady as stiff fingers fumbled with her hearing aid. “What’s that you say?”

  “I said—” intoned Pastor Jack’s wife loudly enough to draw several stares, “—that she’s looking well, now. Since the accident. She’s looking much better now. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Accident? Who had an accident?”

  Victoria shifted uncomfortably as the women’s loud interchange attracted several, rather obvious, eavesdroppers.

  “Tsk. Well, Vic did, Sara. Down by the bend in the river. She drove off the bridge. Remember?”

  “Drove off the bridge?”

  “Yes. Down by the gravel bed in the river.”

  “Well,” the older woman hrumphed. “Now what in tarnation did she do that for?”

  Pastor Jack’s wife again seized Victoria’s hand and patted it consolingly as she whispered below the other woman’s hearing. “Don’t pay her no mind, dear. She’s getting a little daft in her old age.”

  “Hrumpff! I most certainly am not getting daft!”

  “Oh. No, no, nooo. I didn’t say daft, Sara. I said deaf. And that’s mostly just the fault of your hearing aid not working so well sometimes. Remind me to check those batteries for you.” She slipped Victoria a sly wink as she took the older lady’s hand and began to pat it like the withered back of a spotted, yellow frog.

  “Now, anyhow, Vic, we just want to welcome you to our little church and to invite you to join our Wednesday night prayer group.” She paused an extended moment as she melted her face into an image of pained compassion. “Just remember dear, the Lord is faithful to those who worship him and no matter what you may have done . . . His grace is sufficient for all, and all one needs to do is throw all of themselves, mind, body and soul at the Father’s feet and beg for forgiveness. Praise God!” She ended with an inspirational glance at the vestibule’s stained ceiling, and for a moment Victoria suppressed the urge to applaud.

  Instead, she excused herself. What her mind, body and soul were begging for right now was a washroom. Pressing the bathroom door open, she was relieved to find both cubicles empty. She flipped down the toilet lid, sat on it and locked the door. Resting her head in her hands, she closed her eyes and tried to will the swirl in her stomach down. Failing to do so, she flew onto her feet, smashed open the lid and erupted with painful dry heaves. Sitting back down again, she loosened the button of her skirt and ran a soothing hand over her stomach. Cold pricks of sweat glistened on her forehead. She had to get back upstairs and find Bobby. Make sure he didn’t drink too much before he had to pack his mother’s coffin across the slippery churchyard to the grave site. Although he tried to hide it, his mother’s death had winded him like an unexpected punch, his steady injections of alcohol deepening his moroseness.

  An organ began to wheeze a dusty hymn and she looked at her watch, trying to calculate how long it would take to bury the dead. Not long at all if most people had their way, she knew, but Pastor Jack rarely saw fresh faces to preach at and was sure to take full advantage of the situation. She stiffened at the sudden irritated squeak of the bathroom door, instinctively pulling her feet up from the floor so no one could see she was there. She followed the other person’s movements with her ears, heard their shuffling about, opening and closing cupboard doors, then stop. The footsteps came closer and Victoria held onto her breath as she waited for the woman to enter the plywood cubicle next to her but instead she started as a hard push rattled her own door against its lock.

  She sat very still, her legs cramping against the discomfort of their position and knowing it was only a matter of time before she had to set them back
down. Closing her eyes, she willed the other woman to use the empty toilet and leave. She had no desire to talk to anyone, even less so to have to try to explain why she was holed up in the toilet with both feet off the floor. The other woman, however, appeared to be making no effort to either use the toilet or leave but rather seemed to have positioned herself outside the cubicle to wait and see who would come out of it. Her thighs beginning to scream, Victoria edged herself over to peek through the gap in the door and was shocked to meet two shiny brown eyes staring in at her. She darted away in an instinctive movement that came far too late. Clearly she had been seen, and now felt as trapped as a rabbit in a one-way hole. In a somewhat belated attempt to save face, she coughed, grabbed some toilet paper and blew her nose loudly.

  “Who’s that in there?” the eye’s voice demanded.

  Victoria ignored the request, struggled to refasten her skirt button, wiped the black smudges under her eyes into gray ones, and opened the door.

  “Oh,” Pearl said. “Just you. What you doing hiding in there?”

  “I wasn’t hiding, Pearl,” Victoria countered peevishly. “I was blowing my nose. What are you doing here? Cleaning up?”

  Pearl stepped her stick legs in front of her bag, which sat on the floor, straining with its bounty of pilfered toilet paper rolls. “Naw, I came in to check my makeup.” She snorted with sour humor. “You don’t look so good.”

  “Well, thank you, Pearl. Neither do you. Could you move please, so I can wash my hands?”

  “Be my guest,” Pearl said, gesturing to the sink behind her without budging an inch. She looked at Victoria with unflinching intensity. “Yup, Pastor Jack’s wife was right. I figured she was carrying on a bit but, nope . . . you really do look like hell. What’s wrong with ya, anyhow? Got cancer or something?”

  “No, Pearl. I don’t. Just picked up a flu bug, that’s all.”

  Pearl visibly shrunk, pulling herself away. “Well, don’t be breathing no germs on me, then. I sure as hell don’t want it.”