Unforgivable Love

by Sophfronia Scott

  She stopped and looked past him as though the answer were somewhere behind him just over his left shoulder. He loved this struggle, loved watching her try so hard to put a yes or no to something that too many women before her had decided to make easy and inevitable. The tension vibrated between them and Val’s blood rushed like an ancient river through to his extremities. If he could have suspended her and himself in that space, in that moment, he would have done so gladly. He awaited her next words, and it was like watching a spark about to kiss the edge of a match.

  He didn’t expect to be burned.

  She tilted her head so she could face him directly. She opened and closed her fists at her sides but the rest of her stood still. “I think you should leave. And if you won’t, I will.”

  “Damn.”

  Val said the word softly, mostly to himself. She had taken advantage of him! He thought the question he asked was generous—he’d left plenty of room for them to talk in a comfortable way. But she used it against him. She had bunted when he was waiting for a full swing and now he was scrambling in the dirt to recover the ball. He decided right then and there that when this was all over and he bragged about her to his friends, he wouldn’t stand for anyone feeling sorry for the little hellcat. He would tell them about this moment and how she gave even better than what she got. This, of course, had always been a danger, that she or even his aunt might make him go home. Last night had been a risk, yes, but he hadn’t expected it to turn bad on him so fast. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and took a step or two back from her. He began to rethink his plans. He even surprised himself when he started to feel better quite quickly. Retreat wasn’t always bad—in fact he might have an interesting choice of tactics that would work better at a distance.

  “Fine.” He measured out his words and gave each the proper weight. He nodded at her slowly. “I’ll go. But I’m not taking back anything I said. You’re not going to make me sorry for loving you. My love is a fact. It’s gonna stay that way. Goodbye, Mrs. Townsend.”

  He turned and walked away from her—not too fast because he didn’t want to seem agitated, and slow enough to give her time to take in what he’d said, then follow with her protest. It took her only a few seconds.

  “But you can’t love me! You have to stop!”

  When she said the word “stop” he took it as a command. He halted his steps, faced her squarely, and shook his head. He even laughed a little.

  “You are so mean.”

  Her eyes widened. “What? I’m mean?”

  Val shook his head again and shaped his features into what he hoped would read as a mix of helplessness and frustration. Then he took what he thought was an inspired risk: his index finger shot out, full of accusation, and touched Elizabeth on the hard flat bone right above her chest.

  “Loving you is the one good thing that has ever happened to me, and you want me to give it up. That ain’t right. And I’m not gonna do it. It’s my love, it’s my business, it’s none of yours. Leave me alone.”

  She pushed away his hand. “Please! I’m trying to be a friend.”

  “Friend? You’re saying we’re gonna be friends? I wonder what that would look like.” He scanned the grounds around them as though a picture might pop up and give him the answer. “I’ll go back to the city, maybe write to you so we can stay friends.”

  “You can’t write to me!”

  “Oh, now you’re gonna dictate terms!” Val laughed fully now and planted his fists on his hips. “I’m sorry, lady, but the mail is the mail! I can put a letter in an envelope with your name and address and a stamp on it and it gets delivered. Now, once it gets to you, you can do what you like. Read it or throw it away. You can’t stop me from having that when you won’t give a guy anything else.”

  Her chin dipped down to her chest and for a moment she looked like a scolded child. “Now you’re making fun of me.”

  Val decided to dare again to touch her, this time on the shoulder, with his index finger. He liked how the motion seemed to lend a serious but not threatening tone to what he would say next.

  “Look, I will go. I will write. And we’ll see just how friendly this can be.”

  He disconnected himself from her and strode into the house. He thought he heard a muffled, exasperated sound squeak from Elizabeth’s throat, but he didn’t look back. He was done. She’d made her request, and he’d told her what to expect because of it. That was that.

  He felt a tinge of anger that his leaving was so necessary, but what he sensed beneath his anger disturbed him more—it was a sourness in the core of his stomach and it made his insides churn when he realized he would not see Elizabeth the next day or for some time after. He knew it wasn’t right to be feeling like that; it would be giving her too much control. But the fact that he had no control over it made him want to spit. He decided to focus on leaving and deal with how he felt later.

  When Val returned to his room he found Sebastian bent over what looked like a large teapot on an electric hot plate. He wore white gloves and held, by its edges, a blue envelope. He suspended the back of the envelope over the wisps of white steam rising from the pot.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Sir, I think this letter contains the information about Mrs. Townsend you’ve been waiting for.”

  Val watched the operation. “How did you get it?”

  “I got Annie to look the other way while I borrowed the mail. It has to be back on the hall table in thirty minutes.”

  “How much did she set you back?”

  “Ten dollars, sir.”

  “Worth it,” Val said, taking the envelope and throwing himself onto the sofa to read its contents.

  He scanned past the sentences about church and volunteers and how hot the weather was until he came across his name and read the lines attached to it:

  Honey, I hope for your sake Val Jackson is, as you say, minding his own business because you don’t want him in yours! That man poisons everything he touches and he’s usually touching other women.

  Val winced at the signature.

  “Gladys Vaughn. Son of a bitch!”

  Sebastian’s gloved hands swiped the letter from Val’s fingers just before they clenched. A moment later and the paper would have been crushed.

  “I’ll return this now, sir.”

  “When you’re done with that, Sebastian, order the car.” Val rose and unbuttoned his shirt. He walked into the bathroom for a shower. “Pack everything. We’re going back to the apartment.” He paused. “And call Louise. Have her drop by later this week. Maybe Friday.”

  THE WHISKEY MADE the tip of Val’s tongue feel like it glowed. He lay back on the pillow and enjoyed the view of Louise’s naked loveliness draped across the bed. He reached for his glass and sipped again. The Louis Jordan song on the record player drifted through the room.

  Early in the morning

  And I ain’t got nothing but the blues.

  He was glad he had sent for Louise. Being able to release his pent-up energy into her willing arms made it easier for him to focus.

  “Why haven’t you called me, Val?” Louise’s thick black curls crushed against the mattress as she turned over and propped herself up on her arm.

  He put his glass back on the bedside table. “I told you, I’ve been out of town.”

  She laughed, her head lolling back against the pillow. “But you didn’t write.”

  He kissed her. “That’s because you can’t read.”

  “Oh you!” She pinched the lobe of his ear between her fingertips. “I can read!”

  He stared at her. “You know, I need to write a letter right now. Here, you can help.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m right here.”

  “The letter isn’t for you.” The idea felt sweet as it came to Val’s lips. “Just a minute.” He slipped out from under the sheets and walked naked across the room to his desk. When he came back with the paper and pen he made Louise lie on her stomach. He placed the sheet of stat
ionery on her back and sat next to her, his knees drawn up beneath him. He leaned into her ear. “Hold still,” he whispered.

  The paper was thick enough and Val found that if he angled the pen carefully it wouldn’t poke through. As he wrote he thought how he liked the feel of the words, like he was talking to himself. Louise giggled.

  “I said hold still.”

  “But it tickles!”

  He filled out the page and found himself expressing what on the surface looked like a bit of hope. How would Elizabeth read it?

  Dear Mrs. Townsend,

  I hope you’re sleeping well. I know I’m not. Ever since I left you I’ve been riding on love and it has taken me on a journey so satisfying that I can see and feel it all around me. Everything seems alive and soaked in love; even the desk I’m writing on now moves like waves beneath my hands. I wish you could see the world like this. You’re probably mad at me just for thinking you could. I still don’t understand why you made me leave my aunt’s house, but see how well I can obey? This is what love does to people—it makes them better than what they are. I know you don’t see that right now and I’m sorry, really sorry, you have me sitting on the bad side of your mind. I haven’t done anything other than admit the truth, that I love you. And now I’m being punished for it. Just when I was feeling whole, like I’d been given a part of myself back, you cruelly took it away again. Of course this part is you. If I didn’t know it before, I know it now because I’m writing this and feeling like I’m talking to you just as I would talk to myself. Are you my other self? I’ll spend all night not sleeping and thinking about the answer. I will say this: it makes me feel good knowing morning will come soon. The light will open my windows and when I go to them I’ll look into that rising sun and do you know what I’ll see, Elizabeth? I’ll see the possibility of redeeming myself in your eyes.

  Yours,

  Valiant Jackson

  Louise laughed and nearly spilled bourbon in the bed when she read the part about being soaked in love. “My Lord, Val, is she going to get any of this?”

  “Yes and no,” Val replied. He carefully took the letter from Louise and folded it. This was in fact his exact hope.

  CHAPTER 24

  Elizabeth

  Mercylands, Late June 1947

  Elizabeth Townsend felt peaceful in the house after Val was gone. She watched from the library when his car rolled down the drive and out through the gates. As he drew farther away, a calm settled over everything. She sighed and allowed a bit of satisfaction to permeate her being. She was, after all, the victor left in possession of the field.

  As that day passed, though, and then the next, she was uneasy to find the peace of the house was not reflected within her. She slept badly. One night she dreamed she sat in a museum exhibition staring at a massive baroque painting teeming with huge naked men and women. The people seemed overblown with flesh and their corpulent bodies crawled, caressed, and toppled over each other. But the canvas, enormous as it was, could not contain all the voluptuousness and Elizabeth was horrified to watch the figures spill from the frame. Heaps of skin, a sea of humanity, rolled and bubbled at her feet. Suddenly a swarm of thick fat fingers grasped her ankle and Elizabeth could only suck in breath—she couldn’t even scream—before the hands pulled her into the void. She awoke feeling sick and filthy.

  Elizabeth was walking up and down the length of Rose’s library considering this dream when the mail arrived and Annie placed an envelope in her hands. Elizabeth recognized his handwriting at once. She said, “Thank you,” and immediately took the letter to the terrace to read. Somehow she knew she needed to be outdoors with space to breathe just in case something did come out of the envelope that would consume all the air in a room.

  She thought the words had a perplexing strangeness to them and suspected Val was making fun of her. She noticed he addressed her in the beginning as “Mrs. Townsend,” but by the end she was “Elizabeth.” Had he ever spoken her name before? She began to walk through all their past encounters in her mind before she stopped herself. She didn’t need to do that. Why should it matter whether or not he’d ever called her by name?

  But in thinking this she found herself wondering what her name would sound like coming from his mouth. She imagined he would smile, always smile, when he said it, and that brought her to thinking about his smile. He didn’t smile the way other men smiled at women—either out of politeness or from a rude absence of mind from being caught up in indecent thoughts. When Val smiled there seemed to be something of pleasure about him, that he was truly enjoying what he was doing or what he beheld. If this were true, what was she saying about herself? Was she blatantly assuming Val enjoyed looking at her, enjoyed her presence? If so, then she had to acknowledge, by her own thinking and observation, his actions toward her were authentic.

  Elizabeth sat down on the terrace. It was quiet. There were no men trimming shrubs, no servants dusting and cleaning. Birds chirped in the trees across the lawn. She sat in the silence and told herself in asking him to leave she’d done what was appropriate for a married woman to do. She even smiled and wondered what Kyle would say about her thinking—was it clear? Was it logical? Did she deserve to put herself on trial, which is what she seemed to be doing, sitting there arguing with herself?

  Herself.

  Other self.

  What did he mean by that?

  Elizabeth read Val’s letter again. He wasn’t sleeping well either, but for entirely different reasons. At least that’s what she wanted to believe. Why did he say she was his other self and what would it mean to be inexplicably bound to someone that way? She and Val were not the same, of course, but what if by some odd sort of miracle they were two parts of the same piece? What if she held his virtuous, faithful side while he possessed her darker aspects—parts of her she didn’t even know?

  Once more she tried to stop her train of thought. It was inappropriate, but it intrigued her. There was something about the letter that made her unable to dismiss it right away. He’d also used the word “redeem.” She believed in redemption, but could any be found for a soul that had already fallen so far and so hard? And could she, Elizabeth, truly be a vehicle for such rescue? Could she redeem him with an honest show of friendship? Would he accept only her friendship or know how to befriend a woman when he’d spent his life using women?

  But could this be her role, to teach him how to be a friend? It seemed to her Val’s view of the world was limited—black or white, win or lose, nothing in between. Such a view spoke to her of emptiness and lack, which she found sad because she knew the world overflowed with an abundance of spirit and love. If she offered Val just a little in the form of her friendship, would it be enough for him to sense abundance?

  Elizabeth laughed and fanned herself with the letter. How silly of her to think she could teach Val Jackson about abundance by offering him only a little affection. But it did make her see the true nature of her quandary—to get involved with Val Jackson did have an all-or-nothing quality. His needs and her way of faith would not have it any other way. She reminded herself, though, that Val was a man, not a soup kitchen project. And she was not a minister or a saint. So in an all-or-nothing proposition she could give him nothing. He was not her responsibility—her heart and allegiance belonged elsewhere.

  What she needed to pray over and confess was the bit of satisfaction feeding her ego. Val Jackson was known for his taste and reputation. Wasn’t it something that he noticed her, was impressed by her, just because of who she was? It reminded her of that day reading Scripture in church, and being surprised by how many people she could touch just by reading about God in the way she read to herself. Val Jackson, if he was being sincere, felt moved to change his life just from Elizabeth’s example. She felt some pride there, yes. She also recognized the need to tamp down that particular deadly sin.

  . . . see how well I can obey?

  Yes. He didn’t argue with her, didn’t try to stall a day or even a few hours with a manufactur
ed excuse. He dismissed himself quickly, dutifully. She had witnessed him saying goodbye to Rose. She even thought his face seemed shadowed in sadness, as though he were truly unhappy to be leaving his aunt. She felt bad for him but, she thought, he should admit some responsibility in making her feel uncomfortable in the first place. How could he say he didn’t understand? She refused to fall prey to this sleight of hand that would make his poor behavior disappear.

  I love you.

  Of course these words were part of his ruse. Even if he was trying to tell the truth she could only believe he was deceiving himself. She wondered if he ever thought about how long his love outlasted any of his conquests. Perhaps he honestly felt it at the time—she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt—but she was sure he just as honestly let the love go when he was done with it. Elizabeth would not conjure anger with him for this, though, only pity. If this was what he did, repeatedly throughout his life, he must be exhausted by the cycle now, and starving from the spiritual famine brought on by such behavior. But this line of thinking only brought her back to where she was before—that this all meant it was inevitable he should show up hungry on her doorstep. What right did she have to turn him away? And did she really have the sustenance he required?

  He’d signed the letter “Valiant”—a beautiful name. She wanted to believe somewhere within his heart there was the essence of something princely and noble. Maybe it was just a wish or a hope his parents had made for him in calling him that, just as her mother had made for her.

  “Uriah.”

  Elizabeth breathed her mother’s name and prayed for guidance. Then she wondered if it was necessary. Val was gone. Kyle would return and there would be no reason to be alone with Val Jackson again—she would never be in the same room with him other than at church. So everything would be just as it was before. To know this should have comforted her, but Elizabeth only saw a grayness descending like a fog on the horizon. Her tongue suddenly felt like sandpaper rolled up in her mouth. Her stomach contracted.