Unforgivable Love

by Sophfronia Scott

“What am I supposed to do?” Every muscle in her body felt thick and heavy. She wanted to sink into bed and stay there, unseen.

  “Woman, I don’t know! What did you do all summer? Go back to doing that.”

  “I can’t.”

  She heard the telephone shift in his hands. His voice sounded clipped, impatient.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s finished.”

  “Well, it’s done. Good. You’re done. Elizabeth, you gotta move on to something else. Figure out what makes sense to you. I know you can do that.”

  She pushed her forehead into the pillow so Gladys couldn’t see her face.

  “All right.” She handed the receiver back to Gladys. Her friend turned around and murmured a few more words into it before hanging up. Elizabeth reached for her hand again.

  “Gladys, I can’t see. It’s like I’ve been in the light too long and now there are spots and shadows in front of my eyes. I tell you, he’s here. He walks through my mind like you just walked across this room.”

  “Who, Kyle?” Gladys looked around and patted her hand. “There’s no one here but us. The doctor was here, but he left a little while ago. He’s said you’re going to be just fine. You do need to eat something, he said that too. Let me go in here and find something to cook for you.”

  Elizabeth watched her friend step quietly out of the room. She wanted to call her back, but Elizabeth saw Gladys would never have a clue in God’s heaven what she was talking about. Elizabeth would never be able to make her understand—she had lost the beauty of language and began to see how she was now exiled and living on foreign soil, separated forever from her family and friends because she could never relate the deep-down hurt now woven so tightly throughout her being. Had he known it would be this way? Did he intend her to suffer so?

  For days when these questions came she would go back again to his letters, his precious letters, and read them in search of the words that showed his cruelty lying dormant. But she figured he must control the words as he controlled the lie because she could find nothing that would have warned her. She went over each word that had the possibility of indicating endearment—“dearest,” “cherish,” “thank you,” “love”—and the phrase that always sent her to the floor on her knees when she read it, “other self,” because that had been the most right, the most true. It explained how she suffered, torn in two, never to be whole because a full side of her had been ripped away.

  Strangely enough, this was also her slight comfort—they were indeed exactly the same, two parts of a whole, and she held to the belief that some aspect of him grieved as she did. She thought this most in times when it seemed she felt better, but then a heaviness would come over her, silent and dark. For such a feeling to come unbidden she could only think this: He is hurting right now too. He must be thinking of her and she, his other self, picked up on his pain as clearly as any radio signal. She would go to bed then, even if it was broad daylight. She would curl her body into herself like a conch shell and huddle there under stacks of blankets, cradling the hurt like a living product of their failed love.

  Then she would get up and rummage madly through the clothing on the floor to find where she had last thrown down her pocketbook. She would pull from it the picture he’d given her and study it again under lamplight. In the photograph Val had thrown his arm around her, but looking at it now she was surprised to see how close they were. She fit perfectly under his arm and could have laid her head on his shoulder or buried her face right into his neck. The framing of the picture made it feel like the borders had conspired to push them even closer together, hunched into this small space of intimacy that was theirs alone.

  Elizabeth had thought to burn the picture but couldn’t manage to hold it near the stove. There was something about Val’s eyes that made her stare at it for hours. The Val in the picture didn’t echo false bravado or a pained effort to be cheerful—she had seen such pictures in Rose’s library and in the newspapers. There was something about this Val that was like looking at a Christmas tree—something shining, no, glowing with hope and possibility. She felt his life popping out of the picture so much that Val Jackson became more alive than anyone else she knew. Everything and everyone else felt dead by comparison.

  And what about herself in the photograph? She held something in her hands and Elizabeth remembered it was a glove—Val’s baseball glove. He had shoved it into her hands when he called the photographer over and she had held it against her stomach like a small bundle. She peered at her face—did she always smile like that? Her past pictures—even her wedding photograph—sat grounded in a formality that seemed to preclude smiling. But the smile wasn’t the only thing. She too looked full of light and lightness, like she could float off at any moment and Val held her so she wouldn’t fly away.

  When she came to that thought, delight filled her heart and she smiled again much as she smiled in that photo. She would place it carefully back into its thick envelope and put it in her purse. She didn’t know if this was the right thing to do, but she liked having the picture on her person.

  In the worst moments she abused herself for her stupidity. She would remember her life before him—even just the day before she first saw him—and stare longingly into that memory to see herself with a peaceful, untroubled mind. She smacked herself on the side of the face, thinking how horrible she had been to let herself lose her calm soul.

  But almost in the same moment disgust flooded her being, because the woman she was seemed like such a simpleton. Then Elizabeth hit herself for being that person in the first place.

  This was terrible because her former self should have been a key. There was a way of living before Val. Why couldn’t she find her way back to it again? Perhaps she didn’t want to. Perhaps this ruinous ache was the child she couldn’t starve because it told her in sad and haunting whispers: You have loved—you have lived. This thought held tiny pieces of light but she feared it as though the lights were really warning flares.

  She thought about her mother then. How did she know when she had done what she was meant on this earth to do? A warmth flooded Elizabeth’s body. She relaxed and remembered her mother’s face, so placid and clear. She had been fearless, Elizabeth realized, because she had loved. She had felt complete. She could release her life fearlessly, like a feather on the wind. Elizabeth felt as though she herself had been walking a very long road, one that was meant to arrive at this one sweet point—she had loved. She had lived. And if she had lived this meant she was done. If she was done, all that was left was darkness.

  WHEN ELIZABETH AWOKE the next morning she realized she had done so because of the light—a gorgeous bright sun shone through the window. Though she had shunned it for days, the sun seemed willing to forgive her, and it reached out with arms of blazing gentle warmth. She had been so cold and so empty for so long that she couldn’t help but respond, rising from the bed and going to the light-filled window. Now she saw it, the possibility, the hope Val had always talked about, surrounding her in glorious rays and making her feel the misery of the past weeks would be burned off and she reborn.

  She would not ignore this invitation; she knew that immediately as she threw open the window. In doing so it seemed the sun smiled and she knew with perfect, utter clarity it was ready to receive her. She presented herself on the windowsill and smiled back, raising her arms like a child expecting to be hugged, and leapt out into the light’s comforting, infinite embrace.

  CHAPTER 50

  Mae

  Harlem, October 1947

  When the huge gold box of yellow roses arrived, Mae instructed Justice to take it into the dining room. She followed Justice in and watched her place the box on the table.

  “Bring me a vase with water and a pair of scissors.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mae pulled the box over to the other side of the table so she could face the doorway. She opened the box, removed the two dozen stems, and laid them out. She had ordered the flowers for herse
lf because she had an important scene to play with Sam, and she needed to prevent him from impulsively lifting her again. If her hands were occupied, and she kept the table between them, she could execute more effectively.

  She turned around and peered into the gold-framed mirror that stretched the length of the table. She adjusted the neckline of her white collared shirt and unbuttoned another button. Then she untied and retied the large bow on the left hip of her straight navy skirt. She didn’t want to entice Sam, but she did want to look fresh and untroubled. She was done with seducing him. The possibility of his love that had seemed to exist for a few shining days in Paris was now smashed, and she had Val to thank for it. But Sam had betrayed her too. He’d tricked her into thinking he had gone past the point of seeing her only as his consoling friend. Perhaps she mistook his constant flattery and expressions of gratitude, but that was unlikely. Whatever the case, Sam was in the unfortunate position of being able to deliver her revenge on Val. She’d long ago accepted that when she played at lining up dominoes, all would have to fall eventually.

  The doorbell rang. Justice brought in a vase of fine blue-and-white porcelain and placed it in front of Mae, then handed her the scissors.

  “Mr. Delany is here, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Justice. You can send him in.”

  Mae picked up a rose, cut the stem an inch from the bottom, and put it in the vase. She picked up another, held it aloft as though about to cut it, and waited for Sam to enter.

  “Hello, Mae!”

  He wore the new dark brown suit she’d bought for him in Paris and held the matching hat in his hands. He put it on the table, and started to come to her, but stopped when he saw what she was doing. She smiled and continued to cut the roses.

  “Good morning, Sam. I trust you had an enjoyable evening?”

  “Yes, I did! And I owe it all to you.”

  She looked up, held a rose to her cheek, then to her nose.

  “Really? How so?”

  “Because you helped keep me and Cecily together. If I didn’t have someone to talk to about her, I probably would have tried to move on and forget her. But getting to talk about her with you and hear about her from Mr. Jackson gave me hope.”

  “Interesting.”

  Sam touched the hat on the table, running his fingers along the brim. He shifted on his feet. “I want to thank you, Mae, for taking me to Paris. You don’t know how much it meant for me as a musician to be there. And to see it so soon after the war!”

  “I’m glad you appreciated it.”

  She slowed down. She wanted to make sure the flowers lasted their entire conversation. She chose another rose and used it to point at Sam.

  “But Sam, I was disappointed in how fast you ran out of here the other night. I know Cecily is important to you.” She shrugged. “I just thought I was becoming more important.”

  “You are important to me.” Sam put his hands on the table as though he wanted to vault over it and come to her. “You are! But you introduced me to Cecily so I just thought you were okay with it, that you thought it would be good for me to be with her.”

  She nodded. The man was insipid. She couldn’t believe she’d gone to so much trouble for him. It would make the rest of her plan easier to accomplish, but she couldn’t help but feel a deep disappointment. She would emerge from the fray with neither Sam nor Val. Sam could be replaced easily enough, but Val was another matter. She already accepted he would no longer be there as her comfort and safety in later years. At the present moment, in his upset state, he was a danger to her. He knew too much about her and had correspondence to back up any accusations he might make if he decided to destroy her in public.

  She smiled at Sam. “Tell me, how did Cecily seem when she was with you? Was it awkward? It can be that way sometimes for the very young.”

  “No, not at all. She was relaxed. It was quite wonderful actually.” Sam picked up his hat and turned it over and over in his hands. He looked around the room.

  “Ah, so she was experienced?” She cut another rose and put it in the vase.

  Sam cocked his head to one side as though he were trying to remember something.

  “Cecily . . .” he started.

  “Seemed to know quite a lot for a virgin, didn’t she?” She laughed.

  Sam’s hands were now crushing the hat’s brim. She kept a firm grip on her scissors.

  “What do you know, Mae?” He stood up straighter, bracing himself.

  She kept cutting the roses. “Where was Cecily for so long?”

  “At Mrs. Jarreau’s in Westchester.”

  “And where was Val Jackson?”

  “You already know—he was at Mrs. Jarreau’s too.”

  “Both of them at Mrs. Jarreau’s and then they come back and are so eager to find you. Why do you think that was?”

  “Because Cecily missed me. She wanted to see me.”

  Mae pointed the scissors at him.

  “She wanted to bed you. And fast.”

  Sam put his hands on his hips and stared at the floor, thinking. She could see the breath begin to move faster and higher in his chest.

  “Do you know what yellow roses represent, Sam? Friendship. I have always been your friend. And as your friend I simply can’t stand by and watch them make a fool of you.”

  Sam put the hat over his face and bent over as though he’d been hit in the stomach.

  “Cecily’s pregnant?” he asked. He dropped his hat and steadied himself with his hands on his knees.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. She cut another rose.

  “And Jackson did it?”

  She nodded. “Do you see how easy it would have been? All they had to do was arrange for you to sleep with Cecily. Then in a couple of weeks you’d get the news you were going to be a new daddy. Simple, right? How would you have felt about that, Sam?”

  Sam straightened up and made a sound that seemed to be a cross between a roar and the howl of a wounded animal. He kicked over one of the chairs at the table and sent it smashing to the floor. He glared at her and stalked out.

  A moment later, Justice rushed in. Mae put up a hand.

  “It’s all right, Justice. Mr. Delany just left. Pick up that chair and put these flowers on the table in the hall. Then you can clean up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mae wiped her hands, went into the parlor, and pulled back one of the curtains. She didn’t see Sam on the street and surmised that he must have run away from the house. Why did men always want to run somewhere? she wondered. They’d get there soon enough. When you ran, you didn’t have the strength to do what you needed to do when you got there. She dropped the curtain and went upstairs. But perhaps Sam would have more than enough energy. He was young.

  CHAPTER 51

  Val

  Harlem, October 1947

  Val sat at the bar in the club drinking through his fill of bourbon. It had become his habit of the last several nights to exist unfed, unshaven, and unwell until the bar closed. Then he would go to Elizabeth’s apartment building and stand across the street, staring up at her windows until well past noon, when his legs threatened to unravel with exhaustion and Sebastian arrived to drive him home for a few hours of miserable sleep.

  He was stunned by how quickly his certainty of winning her back had turned to dust. She withdrew from the world so completely, even more than before, and he of course had assumed he could find some way of putting himself in front of her, of showing how wrecked he was in body and soul, and begging her for mercy. But he’d stopped trying to call when she took the phone off the hook. He could only hope to see her, to speak to her in person, but her doorman, who must know the state she was in, had become resolute and wouldn’t let Val past the threshold. He had to wait for her to come out and so far she had not.

  Instead she taught him a new lesson—this was what a broken heart felt like. This was what happened when love and faith took a backseat to vanity and foolishness. He couldn’t believe how well Mae had playe
d him but his reaction to this thought frustrated him because it so clearly delineated who he was before and after Elizabeth’s influence. Before he would have been hell bent on revenge, and looking for ways to burn that superior mask on Mae’s face. Mae didn’t matter, though. He saw that now. She had struck him like a tornado, but her storm would move on. His job was to repair what he could, salvage what he couldn’t, and find a way to rebuild from the pieces.

  When Gladys Vaughn showed up at Elizabeth’s building in all her lumpy-bodied glory, she went in and stayed and for once Val was actually grateful for her. He knew Gladys would care for Elizabeth, make her eat and bring her out into the world again.

  He missed Elizabeth like he would miss the sun. He’d wandered in darkness ever since he left her, but for the most part he found the darkness comforting because it hid from him the wretched state of his soul. He used to think he didn’t have a soul because of the way he went through the world, unable to feel anything or anyone really mattered to him. Always, though, there had been the glimmer of hope he glimpsed in the early morning sun. Elizabeth had fulfilled the promise of that hope. He couldn’t bear knowing how he’d waited for this precious hope for so long only to throw it away when she finally arrived.

  While he sat on the barstool or stood on the street, he played back in his mind each and every time he had made love to Elizabeth, cataloging the different smells of her skin and the delightful discovery of freckles or moles that looked like random chocolate dots on her body. In the summer, at Aunt Rose’s, Elizabeth had smelled like the sun, warm and familiar, when her skin seemed most like his own. Then, as autumn came on, she smelled of cinnamon and cocoa butter—the scents she smoothed over her skin to keep it soft and supple as the air grew dry.

  But it was only when he was back in bed, exhausted and on the verge of passing out, that Val allowed himself to remember exactly what it was like to be inside her. She was wet and blossoming, folding and unfolding as he pushed into her deeper, but there was always a point where he couldn’t tell if he had stopped because she seemed to be pulling him in more and he couldn’t resist. Val would fall asleep with these memories and in the morning, in the dredges of half sleep, he would grow hard and rub himself into the sheets trying to make the last notes of his dreaming as real as possible before he fully woke up to nothingness.