Unforgivable Love

by Sophfronia Scott

  Next she would read once more, starting with the psalms by her bed. But what else would she read? Not poetry, not novels—both would only serve to keep her suspended in a dream world. She went over to the table by the front door and thumbed through the copies of the New York Clarion that had piled up while she was away. If she read the newspaper it would draw her out of herself and back into the world where people were working at jobs, passing laws, committing crimes, selling furniture, and renting apartments. She would be reminded of the problems of others and this might inspire her to go back to church and maybe even take on more volunteer work. She would be back in the mix of life then—active, functioning, and alive.

  The beginning of this journey would start tomorrow, she thought. She liked the plan for its simplicity and was proud of managing to think of it in the depths of her distress. It allowed her to go to bed on a hopeful note, and gratefully she crawled between the cool sheets and fell asleep.

  BUT IN THE morning she found her grief refreshed, as was her desire to hold on to its exquisite pain. She liked how her world was pared down to this six-room apartment that held all of her needs and memories. If she wanted to dip a toe into the city all she had to do was look out the window and see all the people harmlessly walking back and forth. She could always start her journey back tomorrow. That thought became her litany and her journey was always slated for tomorrow, but she didn’t take one step in that direction. She did read some psalms but after a few she always put the book down and sat on the couch staring at the pattern on the rug at her feet.

  One day, just as she managed to finish some broth for lunch, she heard a knock at the door. The noise startled her and caused her to drop the bowl into the sink. It shattered. Would Val come to her? She hadn’t considered the possibility and now that a meeting could be imminent she trembled. She moved toward the door slowly, leaning on a chair and then the couch as she went. Her heart pumped like a freight train engine.

  “Mrs. Townsend? Are you all right in there?”

  She stopped, and a tear fell down her cheek. The doorman. She shook her head at her silliness and opened up to greet him. Jack stood there looking smart in his green uniform with yellow braid. He tipped his hat.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. The mailman said your box was full so I thought I’d take the liberty of bringing your letters up to you.”

  “Oh, thank you, Jack!” She took the stack of letters and went to her pocketbook to get a dollar for him.

  “Thank you! You let me know if you need anything else.” Jack smiled, tipped his hat again, and left.

  She began to flip through the letters but the thickness of one of the envelopes drew her attention. She recognized the shape immediately and when she saw the familiar handwriting she let the rest of the mail fall to the floor. It was a letter from Val. She smiled as another tear fell and she marveled over the handwriting and how the little packet of paper felt like the arrival of an old friend. She turned it over and over in her hands, her fingers rubbing the texture of the fancy envelope and the way its fibers absorbed the ink that displayed her name and address. Her heart seemed to be humming in a happy way and she knew it to be the anticipation of opening the envelope and hearing his voice again through his words. She held the letter to her nose but it carried no scent of him.

  She put the envelope down on the table near her pocketbook and sighed. This tiny bit of joy made her realize she couldn’t open it. As sad as she was, she knew it meant something that she was now a week old without Val. Each day she endured was precious. Though she still loved him, every day she didn’t see him was a day in which she had learned something, even if it was just a minuscule thing, about living without him.

  She thought again about the steps she could take to get her through the ensuing days: eating a simple breakfast, going for a walk, reading her father’s newspaper. But despite the simplicity of the plan it suddenly seemed too much, too ambitious for her. And yet she could be feeling this way because she was tired. She decided to take a nap. As she settled herself on top of the bed coverings she thought about the next day.

  Tomorrow—her journey back would begin tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 40

  Val

  Harlem, Mid-August 1947

  Two days later Val slid a fifty-dollar bill into the doorman’s left hand just as he was about to lift the receiver with his right, and whispered, “Don’t announce me.”

  The man immediately replaced the receiver and removed his green hat decorated with gold braiding and tucked the money into a seam inside the cap’s lining.

  In the elevator Val ran his fingers back and forth over the small folder he held in his hands but his eyes remained straight and steady. He stared hard at the door in front of him. The timing of this visit had to be right on target. Two days earlier would have been too soon. Two days later would have been too late. He figured right about now Elizabeth would be reaching the lowest depths. Now she would make the critical decision of whether or not she would ever see him again and he had to be there to push the point. It was all a cycle, just like anything in life. These past two weeks she’d been on the downturn, hiding out in her apartment, according to his information, and rarely eating.

  He’d interrupted her process by sending the letters from Mercylands. He knew she wouldn’t read them. In fact he was so sure of it he even copied one of the letters and resent it a few days after he’d sent it the first time. He enjoyed that joke for himself. But the letters would serve to nudge her, to remind her he was still seeking a response, an explanation for her sudden departure. He also liked the idea of his letters in her hands and how she probably worried over them every day because she didn’t know what to do with them. Her slide would continue until she got to the bottom, at which point, Val was certain, she would have the strength to climb up again. Then she would realize how long she had already gone without seeing him and gain courage that she could continue to exist in his absence. He couldn’t let that happen.

  When Elizabeth opened the door, Val’s heart felt like it wanted to leap right out of his chest and into her hands. He’d seen the dress before—the blue one printed with flowers—but it hung a little bit looser on her frame. Translucent shapes lay on the surface of her skin, traces of where her tears had been. He wanted to hold her and let her sleep because she looked like she hadn’t done so in days. And yet these changes only made her seem more like an angel, more beautiful than he had ever remembered her.

  “What are you doing here?” Her voice scrambled out like a handful of gravel, as though she had to recall how to speak. “Who let you come up?”

  “Didn’t have a choice.” He walked past her quickly, finding his way down the short hall and into her living room, talking as he went. “You don’t take my calls, you don’t answer my letters.”

  She closed the door and stood with her forehead against it and her back to him. “How can I?”

  “Well, that’s why I wanted to see you.” He spoke over his shoulder and faced into the room. This, he hoped, would draw her away from the entrance. “I realize I must have offended you real bad. Why else would you run away like that and not even say goodbye?”

  She was silent a few moments. Then he heard her footsteps on the parquet wood floor. She walked all the way back into the room until she stood in front of him and raised her doleful brown eyes.

  “I’m not sure ‘offended’ is the right word.”

  “No? Then what is?”

  She lowered her gaze and said nothing. Val recognized the empty moment and quickly held out the object he’d brought specifically to fill it. He put the folder into her pale hands.

  “Anyway, that’s what I figured. So I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. And I wanted to give you that.” When she touched the cardboard he held on to it for a moment longer so it connected them. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “What is it?” She turned the folder over. The words “Marcus Nelson Photography” were printed in gold script on the cover.

 
He shrugged. “Let’s call it a memory of happier times.” He looked around her living room. It was full of shadow because of the late afternoon light. Remnants of tissues were scattered on the floor.

  She opened the folder and her right hand flew to her mouth. She moved over to a nearby table, turned on a lamp, and held the folder under it. Elizabeth examined the image closely. It was the photograph they had taken on the lawn at Aunt Rose’s house. Val saw by the way Elizabeth’s right index finger traced the border of the folder that he’d been right to bring it. The picture had turned out well. They both wore wide smiles, unaffected and innocent. Val thought anyone who didn’t know them might look at it and think he must have kissed her right after the shot had been taken. There was nothing in this image of them that suggested anything else. And he loved it for that—how it held so much possibility of what he and Elizabeth could be and perhaps already were to each other. But he didn’t let himself go too far down the road with those thoughts.

  He gestured toward the picture with his finger. “I’m glad you like it. It’s a goodbye present, really.”

  Elizabeth pulled her eyes away from the photograph and focused them back on him. “Where are you going?”

  Val held his hands up as though the answer were obvious. “California. I could open up a club or two on the West Coast. I’ll scout out some cities, live in Los Angeles for a while. Then maybe I’ll move on to San Diego or San Francisco. It’s a pretty big state.” He moved toward her and shrugged his shoulders. “And it’s far enough to run away from you. What do you think, Elizabeth? Would three thousand miles between us be enough?”

  She dropped the photograph on the table. “You can’t do that!”

  “Why not? There’s nothing left for me here.” He shook his head and put his hands in his pockets. “If I stay in Harlem all I’ll get is the misery of seeing you around all the time. I don’t want that.”

  She took a step toward him and stopped. She wrung her hands in front of her stomach, her fingers twisting about each other like little lost vines. “But your life is here. Your friends are here.”

  “And what? Look, my friends, the people who really care, will be able to find me wherever I am. Why do you care unless—” Val suddenly gleaned a different tactic and smiled. Then he nodded. “Oh, I see. This is an ego thing for you.”

  “What?”

  “I see it now. You like the idea of having some poor guy like me mooning over you and worshipping you like you’re some high-and-mighty goddess.”

  “That’s not true!”

  Val saw the blood flush into her cheeks and knew he’d hit a rich vein. He was so close. “It’s not? You said so yourself at my aunt’s house. It’s about God punishing you for being all vain and stuff.”

  “No, no! It’s not like that at all!”

  Val shrugged again. “Well, whatever. I don’t have time for guessing games. I came to tell you I was sorry and I did. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done out of love, which is more than I can say for you. Getting out of here is the last thing I can do to prove it, short of killing myself.”

  Val turned toward the hallway but Elizabeth’s hand, strangely strong and firm, grasped his arm.

  “No! Don’t go! You have to wait!” Fierce lines stamped across her forehead and her eyes flashed. Val felt a rush of heat surge up from where her hand touched his skin.

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” The feel of her touch made him bolder. He drew the next words out so each one thumped with its own steady pulse. “I am sick of being in love with you.” He knew then to pull hard away from her. He heard her nails scrape the cotton of his shirt as it came free of her hold.

  “Val, stop it! Don’t say that!” She threw her arms around his neck and her voice dropped into a whisper but the words were fast, urgent. “I do! I do care! Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.”

  She kept repeating the words but Val held himself rigid. He knew not to return her embrace. He had to listen right now. He had to listen—and wait.

  He waited for a gesture, a look, a word, indicating permission. This permission would show she’d swept away all resistance, all barriers, and laid open the road to her conquered being. Then he could freely take possession of everything, as was his right as the victorious player. And he would set about proving why this was inevitable, how he had willed this moment into being. He saw himself as merciful, able to give her pleasure and at the same time release her from her struggles. He would reward her for giving in, and forgive her for holding him off so well for so long. He wanted to laugh at her desperate eyes, to tell her she could let go and she would soon feel better, all would be better, because he would make it that way. He wanted to lean his head back and preen in his confidence, to enjoy the sensation of being on the verge of fulfilling his brilliant plan. But he held himself still. He focused on her eager energy and waited for it to take its course.

  Then Elizabeth put her hands on his face and in that moment he felt as though he were being pulled up out of himself, his essence stripped bare until he was nothing but raw shining light pulsing between her palms. Her fingers, strangely, were cool and firm—the touch of someone snatching a gift she knew rightly to be her own. He disintegrated in the grip of her confidence and thought he would collapse at her feet. This confidence, this knowing, was so shocking in its clarity. No woman had ever held him like this, face-to-face, eye-to-eye, as though every pretense had been wiped away and they saw clear down into each other’s souls. He wondered how he had not seen it before: he was completely, utterly, hers. He’d been blind, stupidly blind. His whole life, which he finally saw with truth and transparency, had only been a long waiting—waiting for her to take possession of him. Tears welled up and stung his eyes. He forced himself to look down into her. He knew he had to go once more to the place that had unnerved him that night at Aunt Rose’s. As much as he sensed truth he couldn’t trust it until he saw the proof in the only place he knew to seek it. He dove into her brown eyes and this time, with relief, he saw himself mirrored there—and he saw love.

  “You’re the one who doesn’t understand,” she said. “Don’t you know I can’t live with you being miserable? The only way life makes sense to me is if I know you’re happy.”

  Before, with other women, Val would reach the threshold of her surrender and hear a word toll in his mind like a perfect single chime: now. But this time he didn’t need to hear the word and he didn’t wait for it. His mouth was on hers and he wanted to consume her whole, to cool his parched insides that he realized had been dying. This was not some needy pawn throwing arms like steel bonds around his neck and choking the life out of him because she wanted so badly to be loved, to have his life within her. Was that why Elizabeth had always seemed so different than the others, because of what she didn’t need? He had thought it was all about chipping away at her morality, her virtue, and demolishing the wall that made her inaccessible. But now he felt it. The thing that drew him to her took hold of him then and almost knocked him off his feet—she was free. And her freedom captured his spirit and showed him in one instant how he was the one enslaved to ego, flesh, society, and even his reputation. In her hands he wanted to renounce it all. Suddenly he was the one whispering fast, telling her as well as himself, “It’s okay, it’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

  He wanted to begin his journey anew. It started first with the touch of her hands and then the next one—the touch of his lips to hers. The third—her hands again, light and beautiful butterfly wings, floating down to his hands. He quickly relinquished them to her. She looked up at him and nodded and smiled like the sun. She pulled him farther into the apartment and toward another room. When he realized where they were going he took her up in his arms and carried her in.

  When he placed her gently on the bed she rose up on her knees. Again she put her hands on his face and her fingertips guided his lips up to hers. He undid the buttons of her dress and pulled it along with her beige silk slip down from her shoulders. Her hands remained where they were
. He removed his own clothing. Then she leaned back on her knees and his face drifted down to explore the mysterious space below her breasts and above her belly. The softness of this one sweet spot bewitched him. It rose and fell with her every breath, and he felt safe. He pushed his face into this softness and thought if he could engulf himself there then nothing harsh in the world could ever break against him and Elizabeth.

  Her left arm brushed his shoulder; her right hand rested against his head. She drifted backwards still, her thighs braced against his stomach. He could feel the strength of her muscles beneath him. He imagined she could lie all the way back, kick her legs out, and he could fly above her supported on those legs. But instead he wrapped his fingers around her torso and lifted her until she fully unfolded beneath him. He pushed her dress and undergarments all the way off.

  Then he met her there, body-to-body, chest-to-chest, lying there as though on the first bed of his being. Home—the word not spoken but singing, singing throughout his skin. It was all there—sun and earth and the waters of Gethsemane; the salt and warmth of her rose from her skin as some healing balm blessing them both.

  He was a navigator out of his element, beyond his carefully charted maps and courses. And yet he wasn’t lost or fearful. The contours of her body were as familiar as his own, as though he had been dreaming her into form long before she filled the void of his ever-seeking hands. He wanted to enjoy this voyage so he took his time and allowed it to be a long while before he entered her. He wanted to wander over every area, every scent of her and to remember, remember, because it seemed he knew her before and had only forgotten her, had been out of his mind for centuries until this moment when he recalled where he should be.