by Mary Campisi
“Okay, just calm down. We’ll get you out. Just relax. Grab on to my arms, hold tight.”
She clutched his forearms, her grip biting through his jacket as he eased her from the seat. “I thought…I thought…”
“It’s okay.” Nate lifted her into his arms, tucked her against his chest as he made his way out of the car and up the ditch. He’d deal with the car later. She was shivering from cold, rain, fear—he didn’t know, but hell, who could blame her when she’d ended up in a ditch just like her old man?
He opened the truck door, helped her in, then ran to the other side. “Here.” He pulled a handful of McDonald’s napkins from the glove compartment. He turned on the ignition and cranked up the heat. Damn, he was roasting again, but she was shivering beside him. Nate unbuttoned his jacket and flicked the heat up another notch. “I’ll take you to my house first and get you cleaned up before we head to my mom’s, all right?”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
They drove in silence, and when they reached his cabin, Nate parked the truck at the top of the driveway and helped her out. The rain had eased to a slow drizzle. Christine leaned against him, almost into him, her shoulders sagging, her steps slow.
This was not the Christine Blacksworth who’d presented herself at his mother’s front door three months ago demanding to see Lily. This woman was tired and afraid...
In the brightness of his kitchen, she looked like a prizefighter who’d taken one too many punches to the face. Brilliant purples and blues seeped over her swollen eye; dried blood streaked her face in crusty patches.
He pushed back a lock of hair. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, his voice almost gentle. He fixed her a cup of hot tea with a splash of Jack Daniel’s and then set about working on her. She held an icepack to her swollen eye while he filled a pan of warm water and proceeded to swab each section of her face with a damp washcloth.
“It doesn’t look like you’ve got any huge gashes,” he said, studying a small cut above her right eyebrow. “Just this nick above your eyebrow is all. I think the blood came from your nose when you hit the steering wheel.”
“I don’t want to see my eye.”
He would have thought she’d ask for a mirror by now.
“Well—” He busied himself wringing out the washcloth, “It’s not a pretty sight right now, but give it a day or two.”
She shrugged. “It’s not the black eye that bothers me...”
He looked up. “So what is it?”
“The questions. Everyone will want to know what happened, you know, where, how, and I’ll have to relive it over and over.”
“So wear dark glasses.”
“In my office?”
“Take some time off.”
“That won’t get me away from my mother. She’ll find me.”
“So tell her to mind her own business.”
“Obviously, you’ve never met my mother.”
“Obviously.”
She was quiet then, pulling into herself, shutting down the outside world. He let her be, concentrating on a patch of dried blood on her left cheekbone. He knew all about being poked and prodded like a lab rat, pushed through a maze of questions for answers you didn’t know or didn’t want to admit you knew. It was a real pain in the ass. When Patrice moved out, the town couldn’t help but wonder. Where did she go? How long will she be gone? And then, later, as time passed and the Nissan Maxima she drove still hadn’t been seen around town, there was real concern in their voices. When did you say she was coming back? Where’d you say she was? And finally, when the mailman stopped delivering Patrice Desantro’s mail to Nate’s address, only the very bold ones ventured forward. Is she coming back, Nate?
It happened again when Charles died, all the questions, interrogations actually, wanting to know everything, trying to dig deep enough to understand what had happened, why, how? Why him, why Charlie Blacksworth? How could such a tragedy have happened? His mother had been oblivious to their motives, had answered them all, given them responses that were grief-filled, and still, it wasn’t enough.
The real question was not How could such a tragedy happen to a man like Charlie Blacksworth? The real question on the town’s mind pulsed just below the surface, frightening in its persistency, paralyzing in its randomness. How can we prevent a tragedy like that from happening to us?
Because no matter what the experts said or the church preached or logic dictated, deep down, everybody thinks they’re going to live a hell of a long life, maybe not forever, but damn close to it.
“Nate?”
“Yeah?” He dipped the washcloth in the pink water.
“Thank you,” she hesitated, “for everything.”
She studied him out of one eye, making him feel that she was seeing more than she usually did with two eyes. He shrugged, “No big deal.”
“It is, considering...everything.”
The blood on her face was almost gone. Her hair was gnarled and matted to her scalp and there was a bruise on her forehead, a small cut above her eyebrow, and, of course, the monster right eye.
Christine Blacksworth sat in front of him, bloodied and bruised, looking extremely vulnerable, and in some twisted, bizarre way, more beautiful than he’d ever seen her before. Was it the sheer helplessness that made her appear so attractive? Or maybe it was the two shots of Jack Daniel’s and the fever that was making him hallucinate?
He turned away, dropped the washcloth in the bowl. “I should get you back.”
“Can I just stay here tonight, please? I don’t think I can handle having Miriam see me like this.”
“It’s not going to be much better tomorrow. In fact, it’ll probably be worse.”
“I just need a little time.”
“Christine—”
“Just give me a blanket, Nate, and I’ll sleep right on the couch. I won’t bother you, I promise.”
He should take her back to his mother’s right now. She didn’t belong here; hell, he’d already gotten more involved than he’d intended.
“Nate? Please?”
“All right,” he heard himself saying.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll take the couch; you can have my bed.”
“No.”
“You’re taking the bed or I’m taking you back.” He coughed, coughed again. “Your whole body’s going to be sore tomorrow and if you sleep on a couch it’ll be ten times worse.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
“The bathroom’s down the hall,” he said as he made his way to the bedroom. What the hell was he doing? He yanked open his dresser drawer, pulled out a maroon Black Dog T-shirt and a pair of old gray sweats that were too small for him and tossed them on the bed.
“Thank you.”
She stood in the doorway watching him, her face and body cast in shadow. For just a second she wasn’t Christine Blacksworth, she was merely a woman in his bedroom. There’d been a string of them since Patrice left, meaningless, brief encounters ending before they began. It was the way he wanted it—memories and faces blurred by Jack Daniel’s and darkness, a guarantee that no face would stand out, no touch, no voice...no woman.
The hacking started then and he turned away, tried to stop it. His chest ached, his head pounded, and he was burning up. He coughed again.
“You sound horrible.”
She was coming toward him, her face illuminated by the small bedside lamp. He shook his head, cleared his throat. He should have taken her home. Jesus, what a mistake.
“Nate?”
“I’m fine.”
“But you sound horrible.”
“I said I’m fine.” He yanked a pillow off the bed, grabbed an extra blanket. “Get some sleep.”
He left her standing there in the middle of his bedroom and made his way to the couch. He didn’t want her concern; he didn’t want anything from her. He stifled another cough, plunked down his pillow and blanket, and called his mother to tell her Christine’s car had slid into a ditch, a mino
r mishap, no big deal, she’d see her in the morning. He was careful to focus on the car, not the way he’d found her bloodied, with her right eye swollen shut. His mother would see for herself soon enough. When he’d assured her that Christine was fine, honest, Ma, he hung up the phone, coughed again, and fell into a restless sleep.
The screaming woke him, piercing, horrible cries. Nate bolted off the couch and ran to the bedroom. “Christine?”
She was sitting up in bed, head and arms thrashing like a wild woman. “No! No!”
“Christine!”
She stilled, opened her left eye, the right was little more than a slit. “Nate!” She scrambled across the bed, grabbed his waist. “Nate.” Her shoulders started heaving, she clung tighter.
“It’s okay.” He put his arms around her. “You must have had a bad dream.”
“I…” She gasped and sucked in air. “I dreamed I was going to…to…”
“No.” He stroked her hair.
“Like my dad. I was going to die just…like him.”
Nate eased her hands from around his waist, sat down on the edge of the bed. “Look at me, Christine.” He kept his voice soft and low, like he did when Lily was afraid of something. “It was a bad dream. That’s all.”
The tears started then, a great outpouring of grief and pain and fear. Her shoulders shook with the force of it and she fell into him, thrusting her arms around his middle. “I saw him in the car, Nate,” she sobbed. “Dead, in the car.”
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
More agony poured out. “I was covered in blood.”
He put his arms around her and pulled her close. “You’re safe now, do you hear me? Nothing’s going to happen. You’re safe.”
In the semidarkness of his bedroom with the wind and rain battering against the cabin walls, he held her until the whimpering faded into exhaustion and she drifted off to sleep. As he lay down beside her, he studied her swollen face, memorized it. Then he pulled the afghan around them and turned out the light.
Chapter 19
“You know, it’s probably a good idea Connor’s not coming tonight,” her mother said, gazing at Christine over her glass of Chardonnay. A pair of crutches with lamb’s wool covering the tops rested on the chair next to her, the only visible sign she’d endured surgery less than two weeks ago; the other indicator, aside from the bottle of Valium, was the compact air cast on her right ankle, well-hidden under the green and gold tablecloth. “At least until the unsightliness of the swelling goes down a bit.”
“I didn’t want him here.”
“Of course, you didn’t.” She leaned forward, lowered her voice. “A black eye is not something you want to parade around showing everyone, especially a prospective husband.”
“That’s not what—”
“Hello!” The front door slammed and Uncle Harry strode in carrying a vase filled with tulips. “How’s my black-eyed girl? Jesus!”
“Hello, Uncle Harry.”
“Good God, girl, you said you had a black eye; you didn’t say a train rolled over you.” He set the vase on the table and looked down at her. “Honey, are you all right?”
It was the tenderness in his voice that almost made her cry out, No, Uncle Harry, no, I’m not all right. I’m falling apart. Help me, help me. Instead, she forced herself to say, “I’m fine.”
“Shit.” He reached out and touched her cheek.
“I told Christine this is a warning; she should be done with the cabin. Back roads are treacherous,” her mother said. “They can be lethal; we all know that.”
Uncle Harry shot her a warning look but she merely shrugged and picked up her wine glass.
Was this how her father had felt every time he returned from Magdalena, disjointed, flushed with remembering, moving his mouth in conversation while his heart remained in the white house on Artisdale Street? Had her mother exhausted him the way she was exhausting Christine tonight, question after question, well planned, perhaps even rehearsed, to elicit what? An answer? Conversation? Guilt?
The prime rib would be superb, the potatoes au gratin exquisite, the green beans almandine perfect. And yet, she found herself longing for a simple white ceramic bowl filled with vegetable soup.
What kind of daughter would be thinking about her father’s mistress and her family when her own mother had gone to such measures to create a welcome-home dinner for her?
And yet she couldn’t help herself. The visions bombarded her brain, memories pouring into it, taking hold; Nate lifting her from the car, Nate wiping the blood from her face, Miriam turning away so Christine wouldn’t see her tears, Lily throwing her small arms around Christine’s waist, Nate lying beside her asleep.
Nate Desantro had shocked her almost as much as the accident had. She’d glimpsed a side of him she’d doubted he had, one that was tender, concerned. He could have ignored her wishes, taken her back to his mother’s, and yet he hadn’t. And when he’d found her screaming in his bed, he could have pulled the afghan around her and told her to go back to sleep, or worse, ignored the screaming altogether. And yet, he’d held her until she fell asleep and then stayed with her.
She’d tried to thank him the next day, feeling awkward and self-conscious to have revealed such weakness to him, but he’d brushed it off and then disappeared as soon as he dropped her at his mother’s. She hadn’t seen him the rest of the day and today, she’d headed for the airport and still there’d been no word from him. Something had happened between them the other night, she knew it, and she knew that he knew it, too.
“If you don’t feel up to going to the office for a few days, take a break,” Uncle Harry said. “I’ll cover for you.”
Uncle Harry believed in taking as many breaks as he could in one week of work. And his idea of covering would be to tell everyone who asked that it was “None of your goddamn business.”
“Thanks, Uncle Harry. But I’m okay, really. I need to get back to work.”
“I’ll be there bright and early then, in case you need me to run interference for you.”
“Thanks.”
“Why can’t you just tell them the truth?” This from her mother.
The truth?
Uncle Harry spoke first. “Of course, we’ll tell them the truth,” he said. “What the hell else would we tell them?”
She lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. She wore a pale blue silk pantsuit tonight and three strands of pearls. “You made it sound as though you were considering some kind of,” she paused and her gaze traveled over both of them, “subterfuge.”
“You watch too much television, Gloria,” Uncle Harry said and laughed. “We’re not spies, for chrissake.”
“A lie then.”
“Hell, we’re not going to lie. We’ll tell them exactly what happened.” He met Christine’s gaze, held it. “Won’t we, Chrissie? You slid off the road and bumped your head on the steering wheel. End of story.”
“This road,” her mother’s voice grew weak, “it’s the one leading to the cabin?”
“Right.”
“The same one that Charles...” her voice faded.
“The same one,” Uncle Harry said.
“Dear God.” She closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose. Her long coral nails sparkled under the chandelier light.
“Please, Mother, I’m fine, everything’s fine.”
“This time.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Everything’s fine this time, but what about the next or the one after that? Your father, now you...don’t go back, Christine. Please don’t go back.”
***
Harry slipped into the kitchen looking for a slice of Greta’s lemon meringue pie, actually, looking for Greta, too. The granite countertops were wiped clean. Hell, he might have caught her if he hadn’t gotten stuck with Gloria and her theatrics. She’d made herself teary-eyed and near-hysterical, going on and on about omens and begging Chrissie not to go back to the cabin. He’d wanted to tell her not to worry about i
t because Chrissie wasn’t going to the cabin, hadn’t been there in months.
Gloria knew how to play people, he’d give her that; a sniff here, a teardrop there, never enough to screw up her makeup, of course, and she had them all swarming over her, forgetting what they’d wanted to do that disagreed with her. Even her ankle, for chrissake! Was that a setup or what? He was still pissed that he couldn’t go to The Presidio any more without somebody running up to him and asking about her.
He opened the refrigerator, pulled out two slices of prime rib, and stuffed them in his mouth. Maybe he should think about making Mi Hermana’s Ristorante his regular spot from now on; at least he wouldn’t be bombarded with questions about Gloria every time he walked in. He grabbed another slice of prime rib and headed out the back door.
He missed the mussels and linguine at The Presidio. Maybe Mi Hermana’s Ristorante would make them for him. But he preferred Italian to Mexican. So couldn’t they change the spices? He was so involved with his restaurant dilemma that he almost ran into Greta rounding the corner of the sidewalk leading to the driveway.
“Jesus, Greta! You scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Blacksworth.”
“Harry, remember?”
She hesitated. “Harry. I’m sorry, but it’s my car; it won’t start.”
“Oh.” He knew something about cars, had considered racing them several years back, but the 5:00 A.M. practice runs had killed the notion.
She fiddled with her purse. “I was going back inside to call a taxi.”
“I’ll take you home.”
“No—”
“I’ll take you home.” Was she like the rest of them, thinking he wasn’t capable of performing even the most menial of tasks?
“It’s all the way across town, twenty minutes away.”
“Then we’d better get moving.” He started walking toward his car.
“I have to pick up my children at the sitter’s. It’s another ten minutes past me; that’s a thirty-minute drive from here.”
Harry shoved his hands in his pockets, sighed. “I can do the math.” Why did women have to be so difficult, so damned hell-bent on figuring out every nuance?