Unforgivable Love

by Sophfronia Scott

  “I should burn this,” she said out loud. But Elizabeth folded the thick paper once again, replaced it in its envelope, and tucked it into the pocket of her dress. Then she turned her back on the sunshine and entered the house.

  The library desk, hewn from ancient oak, anchored the room with its size and gravity. Elizabeth circled it slowly, repeatedly, as though considering an adversary. The tips of her fingers strayed over the tray of stationery placed neatly at the top center of the writing surface, opposite the chair. She wondered if it would be all right to answer his letter. If she were to aid him, she thought, this might be the best way to do it—from a safe distance, with plenty of time to consider her words.

  Yes.

  And rules—there would have to be rules. If she kept matters clear, if she provided boundaries to help them both stand where they needed to stand, it could help. If she insisted he banish the subject of love from his talk and she was only a supportive friend for him and nothing more, then perhaps she could remain close enough to help him—and to learn what potential had taken root within her.

  She sat down at the desk and removed a sheet of paper from the tray. She took a pen from the center drawer and held it suspended over the page. Then she found the words she wanted.

  Dear Mr. Jackson,

  I wouldn’t be writing this, but so much of what you wrote to me was unfair. I have to defend myself. You made me sound small, unfeeling, and un-Christian. I am not mad at you. In fact I’m the one acting out of your best interest. I suspect you already know this. If you are to continue the path you began with Reverend Stiles you must see how I would only be a distraction and not the inspiration you seem to think. Please accept my decision—which you have honored well. Thank you.

  I must also ask, if you insist on continuing to write to me, that you honor this request too: please stop bringing up the subject of love. If you want to be friends, truly, then the word “love” can’t be involved. I’m sure you would want to say it is platonic love or Christian love or a chaste love, but I believe you would be trying to fool both of us. You wouldn’t accept that—even if this is what you intend you’d try to turn it into something else eventually. Why go down that road at all? Anyway, once you get some rest I’m sure you will see all this more clearly.

  God bless you,

  E. Townsend

  She was tempted to write more, to ask him directly what he meant by “other self” and so much else. But this was enough for now. She folded the paper, addressed an envelope. When she slid the letter into the envelope she found herself imagining him taking the letter out. She blinked to shake the vision from her mind but then a thought came in fast to replace it. She put the envelope in her pocket where his letter still rested and went out into the hall. Avery was carrying a tray of glasses toward the dining room.

  “Avery, I’d like to get my car if that’s all right.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He tilted his head to the right as though he wanted to ask her a question, but instead he nodded. “I’ll have it brought to the door.”

  She drove to the nearest town and parked next to the first postbox she saw. She got out and took the letter from her pocket. Once she dropped it into the box she felt a thump in her chest. She had released something and realized what would come next was already out there and out of her control. It also unleashed a time of waiting she was painfully aware of. Now she calculated the time it would take for the letter to be picked up and how long it would take to arrive in Harlem and then to his mailbox. How long would it take him to answer? How would he respond?

  These thoughts played like a jazz record in the background while her existence at Mercylands continued. She gardened with Rose, took their usual walks, and enjoyed meals. But all the time she thought about how far her letter had traveled and when it would arrive beneath his gaze.

  THREE DAYS LATER, on the first of July, she returned to her room after a walk with Rose and found a small stack of mail on the bedside table. There was a card from Gladys, a thin envelope from Kyle, and a few notes and invitations from friends from church. There was also a thick beige envelope covered in handwriting unmistakably Val’s, the lines sharp and jagged like lightning bolts. She dropped the rest of the mail on her bed and opened his letter. She sucked in breath and covered her mouth with her hand. What she read made her fingers and the tops of her ears burn.

  Mrs. Townsend,

  You know what I’m sick of? I’m sick to death of people insisting on distinctions when it comes to love. What kind of love is it? How stupid. What does it matter? Does anyone ask what part of God they honor most? Do you have to choose between Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost? No! It’s impossible because it’s one and the same.

  Any love, if it is real, will tear apart bonds and sever connections because such love sees how wrong it is to demand singularity in the first place. Christ even said so—He knew His brand of love would rend hearts and families. But what would be left? An openness so complete and so clear that it would mend even as it rends.

  I know you know this too. That’s why you’re torturing me with this junk about not using the word. You know how powerful it is—you know there’s only one love. So why are you messing with me about it? I can act like my love doesn’t exist. You want me to lie to you like that? Because I can do it, I can lie to you all day. My old self did it well. But I want to believe you want something better for me—something better for my soul.

  And since we’re talking about truth-telling let’s get one thing straight. You talk about my reputation and you have your friends warning you about me. But you seduced me. I’m the one to be pitied. I didn’t have anybody to protect me from your radiance and your kindness. Nobody reminded me to be careful because I’d never known such a woman before. I’m completely under your thumb. All I can say is I’ll do my best to please you. That’s just how I love you.

  V. Jackson

  She had done too much. It had been a mistake to write him, she saw it immediately. She felt a kind of wildness wanting to spring from her chest and argue with him on every point of the letter. And once again he would respond in kind. It would never stop. They would bounce their words back and forth like red rubber balls until one of them gave up and she didn’t see that happening. She had to end this. She sat down and wrote:

  Mr. Jackson,

  You’ve already made me regret writing to you. Your irrational answer tells me I can’t talk to you. I’m sorry I even tried. You don’t want to see how impossible this is for me, how my whole life could be rent in two, to use your words. But I suppose it doesn’t matter. For all your talk about redemption, you still act like a selfish man and you don’t even see it.

  As I said before, I write in defense of myself. I won’t respond anymore.

  E. Townsend

  But as the ink flowed from her pen she sensed a futility about the words it formed. She knew she was the one tightening the string. With every thought of him, with every pen stroke, he drew closer to her, and she pulled the ties in such a way she could see them becoming hopelessly knotted. This was already the point where she needed to drop the strings altogether—the point where it would be easy to do so. She could go back to seeing Val Jackson as an interesting stranger and give him no more or less notice than civility required. This was the safest, most sensible plan. If he wanted to repent and live a Christian life she could be satisfied to watch it happen from a distance. If her mere example had been enough to put him on the path, she surely wasn’t needed as an active agent to help him complete the journey, if that was indeed what was going on with him.

  And yet the strings remained in her hands and Val Jackson in her thoughts and she had to think seriously about why she chose to allow him to remain. Something must be missing for her, something he could provide in abundance. She wanted to know what it was, but feared it at the same time. She finished scrawling the note and folded it. She decided it must be worth it—why else would she stand so close to the flame?

  CHAPTER 25
/>   Mae

  Harlem, July 1947

  Val got up again, the third time since the maid poured the coffee. He didn’t seem to be capable of keeping his seat while relating to Mae the contents of Gladys’s letters. She considered his story an interesting development, unexpected and delicious. She savored the energy that forced her wayward friend to pace up and down her living room. So much potential. Mae picked up her cup and blew gently into it. She knew she only had to move carefully, minutely, to channel Val’s disappointment to where she wanted it to go.

  “Your cousin messed me up good with Elizabeth Townsend and now she’s gonna pay the price. That bitch will be one sorry mama when I’m done with her.”

  Mae said nothing and sipped her black coffee. She wouldn’t make it easy for him. He had thrown away the opportunity that would have compelled her to do so. And he’d done it for another woman no less. He had to know he would have to make his offer up front and at the same time admit to his failure and his need to partner with her.

  “Who is she to you, Val? Isn’t she married to that lawyer, the one who’s a deacon at the church?”

  “That’s her.”

  “I see.” Mae put her cup down, folded her hands in her lap, and nodded her approval.

  “Yes!” Val turned and smiled. “I knew you would. Elizabeth Townsend, pure as the driven snow, known for her rock-solid marriage, and so Christian they’d probably make her a saint if she died tomorrow.”

  Mae nodded again. “And how is it going? Not well I’m assuming.” She picked up her cup and looked out the window. “She made you stay long enough to lie to me.”

  He went very still. She could sense it without seeing him. Then he took two slow, deliberate steps and stood behind her. He placed a hand on her left shoulder.

  “It’s not like that,” he said.

  She tipped her head to the side, enough to allow her cheek to brush against the back of his hand. “Where is Kyle Townsend anyway?”

  “Handling a civil rights case in Alabama.”

  She turned and looked him up and down slowly as though she were a surgeon, knife in hand, considering where to cut first. She laughed. “She’s stupid. She’s married. You only have to step over some idiot husband to get to her. There’s nothing special about that even if you did succeed.”

  He sat down and leaned toward her, his elbows braced on top of his thighs. “Okay. Yeah. I’d say the same if this were any other woman. But like I said, Mrs. Townsend is practically a saint. And I want her to stay that way. I want her to hold on to her goody-two-shoes beliefs and still hand her heart over to me. You can appreciate that, can’t you, Mae? Betrayal—you’re down for that, right?”

  She put her cup on the table and leaned toward him. She put a hand on his knee and smiled. “Actually I find being cruel much more becoming. And so much more satisfying.”

  He took up her hand and held her fingers to his lips. “But for the time being I’m here and available.”

  “You’ll help me?” His mouth felt warm and she suppressed the urge to devour him.

  “I’m at your service, Mae.” A slow smile spread across his face. “Always.”

  She pulled her hand away and sat up. He took the cue and made his tone more businesslike. “How is it going?”

  She crossed her arms and frowned. “Slowly.”

  “That’s what happens when you send in a rookie. Time for you to switch pitchers.”

  She looked at him with widened eyes. “Indeed? Well, that’s convenient because I told Sam you would help him keep in touch with Cecily. Deliver his letters, that sort of thing.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m not gonna be his messenger boy!” He got up and went over to the cocktail cart. He pulled the top off the bourbon, poured a splash into the glass, and drank it all at once. “Besides, why does he need someone to do that for him? It seems to me he’s been keeping his hand in the pot all on his own.”

  A twitch of Mae’s lower eyelid betrayed her annoyance but she recovered well, she thought, by dabbing her mouth with her linen napkin. “Well, yes, but that’s all he’s been doing. He’s ridiculously inept. It’s about to get a lot more difficult for him, though, and I’m hoping that will move things along.”

  Val shrugged. “Then what do you need me for?”

  Mae sighed and stood. She joined him at the cart and took the glass from his hand. “I see I’m going to have to make this more interesting for you.” She poured her own splash of liquor into the glass and drank it down.

  “What are you talking about?”

  She ran her fingers over the front of his shirt. “What if I made it possible for you to take care of my business and finish your own little project at the same time?”

  “How are you gonna do that?”

  She let her hand drop down to his belt buckle. She tapped on the metal with her fingernail. “Never mind what I’ll do. Can you perform?”

  He put a hand over hers. “You know I can.”

  She looked up at him. “All right then.”

  “All right, what?”

  “Take care of this business. Then come back and get your prize.”

  Val’s mouth split into a big grin. “You don’t mean?”

  “I do mean it. For us. Yes.” She slid a hand behind his head and pulled him toward her so she could plant a tiny kiss just below his right ear. She felt his breath, a deep exhale fragrant with bourbon, against her skin.

  “Now you’re talking.” He moved closer but she pressed a hand, firm and resolute, into his chest.

  “I’ll want proof, Val.”

  “Of course.”

  She smiled, pulled away from him, and moved back to the table.

  “You still haven’t told me how this is going to work,” he said.

  “Just wait.”

  The doorbell rang and she picked up Val’s cup and saucer. When Justice came in to announce the visitor, Mae handed the items to her.

  “Mrs. Vaughn is here,” Justice said.

  Mae pointed toward the set of French doors at the other end of the room and flicked her hands toward Val to shoo him away. “You’ll see,” Mae said to him. Then, turning to her maid, she said, “Send her in, Justice, but get rid of these dishes first.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Val

  Harlem, July 1947

  Val slipped through the doors separating the parlor from Mae’s library. He stood back just enough to see without being seen. Mae turned to him and smiled. Her glowing face sent a kind of fire to Val’s knees and they nearly buckled. He gripped the edge of a large mahogany table behind him.

  It had been two or three years after their first encounter at the World’s Fair. Mae’s husband, Brantwell Davis, had dropped dead of a heart attack right there next to Mae in their front pew at church. From his perch in the balcony Val had noticed Davis’s head tip gently to the right. He’d thought the guy had been about to fall asleep and he’d prepared himself for a good laugh. But Davis had slumped over, his head landing heavy like a stone in Mae’s lap. The shock had been sufficient enough to earn Mae the never-ending sympathy of every soul in the parish. And she repaid it a few weeks later by hosting a party open to the community to celebrate Davis’s life. All of Harlem, it seemed, had shown up to pay their respects. Val had attended the party and watched and listened. He thought soon he and Mae might get together, maybe even be a public couple. When he first saw her glide into the room, looking less than mournful with the generous curves of her body swathed in a forest green gown that draped around her shoulders and showcased the round tops of her breasts, his thought started to feel more like a hope. He even toyed with the idea of asking Mae to marry him.

  He skirted the perimeter of the room, his ears tuned to the sound of her voice. When he finally decided to make his move and cross over to where she stood, he saw it—her face, staring straight at him with a luminescence like a beam that could have knocked him off his feet.

  She smiled and he nearly dropped his drink. He had wanted to run to h
er then and fall to his knees and stay there, happy to follow her like a dog for the rest of his life. But before he could take a step, her look changed. It didn’t last long—a few seconds at most—then a mask formed over her features, hardening her face into a warning sign Val clearly read as: Don’t you dare come near me.

  Val paused, his feet adhered to the rug. He was so stunned he didn’t notice the man behind him, the one who stole up to him and whispered, “Sir?”

  Val turned but before he got a look at the speaker, the man pressed a small card into Val’s hand and disappeared, edging out and down the stairs toward the kitchen entrance. He looked at the card: a magnificent black swirl of ink formed the initials “M.M.” An even bolder swoosh of handwritten ink added the word “Later.”

  But he didn’t see Mae later that night despite waiting for hours in his car down the street for further instructions. A few days later she sent a note:

  Don’t worry, my love. Nothing will change.

  They’d continued as they had before, enjoying separate pursuits and sharing the details in midnight sessions over drinks at her house. He hadn’t cared, though, because it had been enough. It was who they were.

  But as he stood in Mae’s parlor Val saw that luminescence in her again, for just a moment, and he wondered if “later” would finally arrive. Would he have her in the only way he’d never had her before? The idea excited and scared him all at the same time. The scared feeling deepened when he saw how quickly Mae’s smile disappeared. In an instant a deep furrow formed on her brow and she looked sad, even concerned. She turned this face to greet her loving cousin and right away took Gladys’s hands into her own.

  “Mae! What’s happened? What’s wrong? And why couldn’t you tell me over the phone?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do. I thought that Cecily . . .”

  “What about Cecily?”

  “I was worried she’d overhear. And I knew you’d be so upset . . . I was afraid of what you might do when you heard.”