Lonely Souls

by Rosemary Fifield

  “He’s all set,” Marcia said as she re-entered the kitchen. “How old is he anyway?”

  “Fifty-three. Why?”

  “Kinda young for a heart attack, isn’t he?”

  “He smokes a lot. And he’s been drinking since my mother died. Plus he’s been overweight his whole life.”

  “Sounds like he needs a good woman to take care of him. Someone besides you.”

  “Who’re you thinking of?” Cassie teased. “Pamela?”

  “Hell, no. I’m trying to improve his health.” Marcia reached down to pick up her purse from the floor. “I’ll keep my eyes opened.” She stood up to face Cassie once more, her face solemn now. “By the way, I hear Corey Sloan’s on the loose.”

  Cassie’s smile disappeared. “What do you mean?”

  “She and Allen are separated. I’m not sure why. I’m still working on the details.”

  “Is that why I’m not hearing from Grant?”

  Marcia shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know about that. I don’t know if he knows. I just found out from … someone else. Okay, I gotta run. Don’t let the old man wear you out.”

  Cassie nodded distractedly; her mind was already racing with the implications of this news. She had no doubts that Grant would pursue Corey Sloan if given the chance, even more so now that he believed her child might be his. And the depth of the pain this brought her came as a surprise. The last time she had seen Grant was at the sugar-on-snow party weeks ago. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Corey then, even when he didn’t know she and Allen were having trouble.

  Or did he? Marcia said she didn’t know the details of why the Sloans had separated. Was it because Corey wanted to get back with Grant? Or maybe even because it had already happened?

  Her heart was aching now. She glanced at her dad. He was asleep in his chair. If she let Jeanine know she was leaving, she could go talk to Suzanne Dumaine. Suzanne was good friends with Grant and with Corey. She would know what was happening. But then, why would she tell Cassie? They barely knew one another, and the others had been Suzanne’s friends since high school. She and Larry would be thrilled to have Grant and Corey together once more.

  Cassie stood at the kitchen sink and stared out the window at the dirty snowbanks along the road. They were slumping in the warmth of the sun, their dark spots absorbing the radiant heat, pockmarking the old snow with holes. Everything was changing so fast. Everything she thought she knew and understood and could count on was becoming something else. Sonny was out of her life. Shelby was leaving. She no longer had a job. Her father had become a demanding invalid. And she was about to give birth to a child she didn’t want but wasn’t sure how to dispose of.

  Her father shifted in his chair and the remote for the TV fell to the floor. When she turned to look at him, he was waking up and beginning to look around the room for her. She resolutely pushed herself from the sink and began her slow waddle into the living room.

  Shelby sat alone in her room, listening to the silence around her. Mrs. Penfield had put a casserole in the oven and then gone out to help Dawson in the barn. The house was perfectly quiet.

  The thought of Dawson left a hollow feeling in her chest. She had said a terrible thing to him. She had no idea what had possessed her to be so mean. She had tried to talk to Mrs. Penfield about it, but the woman had been uncharacteristically short with her. She had responded that perhaps it would be best if Shelby and Sonny simply kept their distance as before, and then she had excused herself and left the room. It didn’t seem likely that Dawson would have told his mother about their conversation, but it was possible. He had had enough time during the interim between when he had stormed out of the barn and when his mother had come in to get her.

  Dawson had never come in for lunch, which was completely out of the ordinary, and the two women had eaten their soup without him. Now she dreaded the thought of dinner and had told Miriam she would eat alone in her room so Sonny wouldn’t stay away again.

  The bigger problem now, however, was what to do overall. She had thought she knew what she wanted when she told Shane she wanted to go back to Portland and their former life. Even this afternoon, when Shane had called from New York to check on her, the sound of his voice had buoyed her spirits. But the more she thought about it, the more the possibility of leaving Vermont for good had her feeling anxious and empty. It would mean leaving the one man to whom she felt drawn more and more.

  Movement in the kitchen caught her attention. She recognized Miriam’s gait and then the sound of Dawson stomping the debris off his boots before entering from the ell. She didn’t know if Dawson had come in expecting her to stay away. Yet, if she did, would it seem like she was simply avoiding him out of spite?

  She rose from her chair and worked her way around the bed to the doorway leading into the living room. From there, she turned right and followed the wall until she was standing in the doorway on the end of the kitchen furthest from the table and the backdoor. If she stayed to her right, she would pass the door to the bathroom, and then the countertop would begin that would curve around and lead her to the sink and more countertop and eventually the big table under the window that let in the noon sun. She remained in the doorway between the living room and kitchen and listened. Someone was washing up in the bathroom, but she couldn’t tell who it was.

  “Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes,” Mrs. Penfield said quietly. From the sound of her voice, she was to Shelby’s left, most likely checking the oven where her casserole was cooking.

  “Would it be better if I stay away? Would Dawson prefer that?”

  “He’s right here, Shelby. Ask him yourself.”

  To her right, the bathroom door had opened, and she could feel his presence.

  She turned toward him and said quietly, “Can I talk to you, Dawson?”

  His monotone response conveyed his disinterest.“Go ahead.”

  “Can we go in the living room?”

  She couldn’t see or hear it but she sensed eye contact had occurred between Dawson and his mother before he said, “After you.”

  Shelby turned and worked her way across the room to stand beside the couch. “Where are you?”

  “Here.”

  She turned toward the sound of his voice. “Dawson, I am very sorry about what I said to you. It was completely stupid, and I don’t know why I said it. I feel terrible.”

  Silence.

  Shelby’s heart was pounding hard enough to make her feel light-headed. “You’re not going to forgive me, are you?” she said softly.

  “It’s not about forgiveness.”

  “Dawson, take pity on me, okay? I can’t see your face right now. I can’t guess what you’re thinking. I can’t read you like I could if I could see your expression or your eyes or …”

  “What difference does it make, Shelby? We’re a thousand miles apart in so many ways. And you’re right. We don’t know each other. At all. We’re strangers, and we’re meant to stay that way. I realized that today.”

  His words made her stomach tighten as though she had been hit. “What if I tell you I don’t agree?”

  Dawson sighed. “I’m hungry, Shelby, and I’m tired. I need dinner, and I need a shower.”

  Shelby turned her face away from the sound of his voice. “Okay. Sorry.”

  Dawson left the room, and Shelby sank down onto the couch. The hollow ache in her chest expanded until she felt as though her ribs would crack.

  She never heard Mrs. Penfield enter the living room. “Come to dinner, dear.”

  Shelby shook her head. “Thank you. I … I’m not hungry after all. I think I’ll just go to bed.”

  Mrs. Penfield returned to the kitchen without comment, and Shelby worked her way back into her room. She sat in her chair once more and forced herself to think about her future. It was time to go back to Boston and move in with her parents. She had no right to keep Shane from pursuing his personal goals. He was on the verge of starting the instrument-building school he had a
lways wanted. She would let him get started and once it was successful, they could agree on appropriate rent for the space.

  She would work out an agreement with Grant and Larry for the use of her maple trees with an option to consider subdivision of the land some day if they wanted to purchase it. Most likely, subdivision and sale of the land would be the best thing anyway because Shane would have no use for the additional acres of fields and pine forests. If Shane found he didn’t want any of it, she would simply put the whole place up for sale. As long as she had enough money to pay her own way going forward, she would be okay. She didn’t need to make a killing on it; she just needed to be financially secure.

  She could do this. She had done it before. She would have her parents and her sisters. And who knew whom she might meet and how her life might change? It had changed drastically when she met Shane, and they had been happy together for over two years. It could happen again. And if it didn’t, she’d find other meaning in her life. Other blind people did it.

  The deep sound of Dawson’s voice came into her consciousness, but she couldn’t hear his words. He was carrying on a quiet conversation with his mother. She wondered if he was talking about her, then realized with a painful squeeze of her heart that most likely he was not. She wasn’t that important to him anymore. He had made that clear.

  And she realized now what she had lost. Yes, he had been the one to find her when she was being ravaged by Blake. And he had stopped it. He had helped her. Not because he wanted to take advantage of her helplessness. Not because he reveled in the opportunity to see her naked or found it titillating to watch Blake defile her. He had covered her and held her and tried to comfort her. And now she wanted him to hold her again and make her feel better about herself and about him and about all the things that kept changing around her. But he wasn’t willing to do that anymore. She had accused him of something worse than wanting to see her as the sexual being that she was. She had accused him of being something that he wasn’t—a heartless bastard who had been kind to her only because he was after her money. She had accused him without any basis or reason to believe it was true; she had accused him knowing it wasn’t true.

  She listened to them clean up from their dinner, walking across the kitchen floor, thumping things into the sink, running the water to fill the dishpan. The bathroom door closed and the noise of the running shower penetrated the old walls. Eventually the shower stopped, the door opened, and she could smell the freshness of shampoo and soap. Bare feet traveled from the linoleum to the hardwood floor in the living room.

  “Did the shower help?” Mrs. Penfield asked.

  “A little. I guess I just pulled something,” he said. “My right shoulder really hurts.”

  “I’ll get the Bengay.” Mrs. Penfield left the room.

  Shelby rose to her feet and made her way to the doorway of her room. The back of the couch where Dawson usually sat to watch television was about three feet in front of her and to the left.

  “Dawson?” she said quietly. “Did you say your shoulder hurts?”

  “Yeah. “ The word was clipped, and she could tell he had not turned at the sound of her voice.

  “I’m very good at massage. I’ve done it a lot for … other people.”

  “You mean Shane?”

  “Can I try? If it hurts too much, I’ll stop.”

  Dawson said nothing for a long moment, then finally, “Go ahead.”

  Shelby moved forward with her hand out until she reached the couch, a low-backed, Danish modern unit with three loose cushions forming the back. Dawson’s shoulders rose well above the cushions and the smooth warmth of his bare back was the first thing her fingers touched. Apparently he had taken off his shirt in anticipation of his mother returning with the Bengay.

  She felt his muscles flinch when she touched him. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.”

  She rested both hands on his bare shoulders – feeling their contours, wishing she could see the rich color of his skin – and an electric thrill ran through her to lodge sharply behind her navel. She pressed her thumbs into the hollows beneath the cords running from his shoulders to his neck and began to slowly rotate and press on the muscles there. “The one on the right is really tense,” she said. “Does this hurt?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No.”

  She stood behind him and leaned into it, working the muscles and tendons of his shoulders and upper back to release the tension and increase the blood flow. She felt his shoulders rise and fall as he took a deep breath, and then he began to relax under the pressure of her hands. She continued for several more minutes, then eased back on the pressure and finally stopped. His shoulders were considerably bulkier than Shane’s, and even though her hands and arms were strong, they had begun to tire.

  “Thanks,” he grunted.

  Her hands were still resting on his bare shoulders, and she was loathe to remove them. She wanted to run her hands up his neck and into his hair, to savor the feel of him, to stay in contact with him, but she feared his reaction if she didn’t ask first.

  “Do you mind if I feel your hair?” she asked.

  It took a moment before he finally said, “I guess not.”

  She ran the fingers of her left hand up the side of his neck, taking her time to feel the cords and muscles there, then slid her fingers into his damp hair. It was longer than she expected, straight, thick, and coarse.

  “What are you doing, Shelby?” he asked quietly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why are you doing this?” He jerked his head forward, away from her hand.

  She pulled both hands back so she was no longer touching him. “I can’t see you, Dawson. I don’t know if you have long hair or short hair, if it’s curly or straight …”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “I want to know.”

  “Look.” She could tell by the change in his voice that he had turned to face her. “Can we just cut this out?”

  Shelby frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “This is bullshit, Shelby! What’s it for? To make you feel better?”

  Shelby shook her head. “No. it’s to breach that thousand miles. You can see me, Dawson. I can’t see you. Except for that time we went out in the sleigh, I’ve barely ever touched you. But you know all about me. You know what I look like. You can see my expressions. You can watch me when I don’t even know you’re there. I can’t do any of those things. I don’t know how tall you are. Until a few minutes ago, I didn’t realize how full your shoulders are or that you wear your hair long. I don’t know if you’ve got a beer gut or a sixpack. I’ve never seen your face. You know so much more about me than I know about you just because you can see me.”

  Dawson made an abrupt movement away from her that caused the couch to thump on the wooden floor. Its frame bumped against her legs, and Shelby gasped in surprise.

  “Okay,” he said gruffly. He was beside her now. “Turn this way.”

  Shelby turned toward the sound of his voice. His fingers immediately encircled her wrists and pulled her hands upward to touch his face, then released them. Her heart was thumping wildly as she rested her hands on the fullness of his face, feeling his wide cheeks and pressing her fingertips against his cheekbones. They were not as prominent as Shane’s, and his face had none of the hollows Shane’s face had. His nose was long and flared out at the bottom; his lips were full and his mouth was wide. She ran her fingertips over the bony ridges behind his eyebrows and felt the height of his forehead and the strength of his chin. His skin was boyishly smooth without any indication of a beard.

  When she finished, his fingers closed on her wrists once more and moved her hands down to rest on the rounded contours of his bare chest. The smooth skin there felt hot, and another lightning streak of excitement tore through her at the feel of him. The muscles beneath the flats of her hands were much bulkier than Shane’s, and as her fingers met in the
space between his pectoral muscles she noted that his chest was completely hairless. Her hands moved slowly over small, taut nipples and downward to the tightness of his flat stomach, but when her fingertips settled into his navel he drew an involuntary breath and grabbed both of her wrists to keep her from going any further. She moved her hands upwards and outward to rest on the hard muscles of his upper arms, then slid them down the length of his sinewy forearms, again smooth and hairless.

  “Is your mother here?” she asked softly.

  “No. She came and left while you were giving me the massage.”