by R. K. Ryals
It should have been strange, I suppose, that he crept after me—his feet following my feet, his silence as comforting outside as it was in the classroom—but it wasn’t. Hunter Green had a history of anger issues, and Heathcliff had goaded him. For me no less.
The crackle of leaves, the feel of the frigid air on my face, and the faint sounds of cars driving away echoed around us. Rays of light filtered through the bare tree limbs above us, leaving glowing dust-filled streaks across the air like magic fingerprints. Birds called to each other, but we didn’t speak.
Heathcliff kept his distance, as if staying far enough behind would keep that strange, silent world we’d lived in alive. Even as cold as I was, my back was suddenly full of life, his presence causing my skin to tingle. Every swallow, every breath, every step was too loud. My feet were clumsy, my brain working hard to concentrate on each footfall. I was seeing the woods, my woods, in a whole new light.
My uncle’s house was a few miles away from the school, the acreage he owned separated from the woods by a rusted barbed wire fence. I’d been walking the distance for years now, but I’d never been so disappointed to see the fence.
With less grace than usual, I threw my bag over the barbed wire before climbing over the barrier, the rust coming off on my sweaty palms. His shoes followed me, his larger feet landing on the other side easily. He should have turned back by now, but he hadn’t. He remained behind me, our feet shuffling through knee-length, brown grass toward a long drive shrouded by crepe myrtle trees and overhanging gray clouds, the sun dimming with the threat of rain. The looming house beyond looked more haunted than majestic, and maybe it was. Not by ghosts but by memories.
We traversed the lane, the soil beneath our feet clinging to our shoes, the dwelling now a monster in front of us, not because it looked dangerous but because it was the end of our trek.
The door to the house swung open, and my uncle’s unkempt figure came stumbling into view; his reading glasses perched sideways on his nose, his hair tousled, and his loose white shirt hanging over a pair of too short, wrinkled khakis.
“That you, Hawthorne?” he called, his absent-minded gaze on a stack of papers in his hand. “I’ve got something I’ve got to show you …” His gaze slid up, his loafers stopping short when his eyes met the figure loitering behind me. With a quick sweeping glance between us, he straightened, his brows arching. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
Shifting the papers to one hand, he swiped his palm down the side of his leg, his gaze sliding over my face as he moved past me to meet Heathcliff. “Welcome, son. You belong to the Vincent bunch, I bet. No mistaking that height and build. Would you like to come in?”
There was an uncomfortable pause, a lengthy silence, before he replied, “No, sir. Just wanted to make sure your niece made it home okay.” He grew quiet, and then, “I noticed you’ve got a lot of untended work on the property. You wouldn’t be needing any help out here would you?”
Even with my back to them, my pulse sped up. The papers in Uncle Gregor’s hand rustled. “You noticed the mess then,” he laughed. “I’m not much for home repairs, I’m afraid. The house could use new paint, and with the temperatures still down, we always need wood, but I couldn’t pay you, son.”
“I don’t need the pay, sir. Just the work.”
Another long pause before my uncle answered, “Well, then. I wouldn’t want to turn down free labor. You’re welcome whenever you have the time.”
There was shuffling, the sound of hands meeting and then shoes hitting the lane as Heathcliff left us.
Uncle Gregor stepped back, his lined but kind face suddenly gazing down into mine, his glasses making his eyes appear bigger than they normally were. “That was strange, Hawthorne,” he mumbled. “Tell me I didn’t just invite a criminal to fiddle around our house.”
I stared, my cheeks heating. Uncle Gregor could read me like a book. “You know you didn’t,” I answered.
For a moment, he watched my face, his throat clearing. “Okay, then. Want to see what I found?” He grinned, and I knew he’d been tinkering in his lab. It wasn’t a typical lab, just a room full of used equipment, most of it useless, and shelves of overused books.
My grin met his. “Bigfoot doesn’t exist, Uncle.”
“There’s no proof of that,” his smile grew, “but this is better. I found new slime.”
Following him, I swallowed back a laugh. “I didn’t know there was old slime.”
He was still holding the papers in his hands, and my gaze fell to them, the words medical and urgent jumping out at me.
My feet froze, my smile slipping. “You don’t want to show me slime, do you, Uncle?”
He paused, too, his fingers gripping the papers. “You don’t know that,” he whispered.
“But I do,” I whispered back. “You don’t ever show me your experiments unless it has something to do with food and recipes.”
His shoulders slumped. “I’ve got news.”
Outside, it began to rain, the hard sound loud on the roof.
It was like being a little girl again, only this time it wasn’t my parents leaving. This was worse. My gaze slid once more to the papers. “There’s something wrong with you, isn’t there?”
He glanced back at me. “Hawthorne—”
There were no pearls to pull from my neck or a fancy hairdo to mess up. There were only tears, slow and hot down my cheeks. “How long?” I asked.
I knew in my heart he was leaving me. Uncle Gregor never talked to me about sickness. He wouldn’t be talking to me now if it wasn’t serious.
The rain on the roof was louder, harder. “They’re not sure,” he answered.
My gaze traveled to his, to his bright, reddening eyes. This was different from my parents. Unlike them, this wasn’t his choice.
My cheek suddenly met his soft chest, my feet moving faster than my brain, my tears sinking into Uncle Gregor’s shirt. His hand cupped the back of my head. “We’ve got this, Hawthorne,” he said. “I promise to make it until you graduate if you promise to stay strong. For my sake.”
The tears came harder. “I want to stay with you,” I sobbed. “School doesn’t matter.”
The papers fell to the floor, his hands coming up to grip my shoulders. “It matters. It really matters. You can do anything. Be anything! I’m going to take care of you, Hawthorne. The house is yours—”
“Stop!” I cried, my nose running, my eyes dripping as I tried pulling away. “Just stop!”
Uncle Gregor refused to release me. “It’s been in this family for generations and has long since been paid off. I have enough put back for your—”
I wrenched myself away, my red eyes and swollen face staring up into his. “I don’t care.” I meant to yell it, but it came out as a jarbled murmur.
For a long time we stared at each other, tears falling; his lined face and my young one. Uncle Gregor and his Hawthorne. He was my love story, the man who’d made sure I’d eaten and dressed and loved after my parents left. He was the only person I felt comfortable talking to. This house was home, the four walls a place I could breathe. He wasn’t just my uncle anymore.
“For my sake,” he said suddenly, and my chest throbbed.
“For your sake,” I replied.
I was back in his arms again, my cheek against his safe shirt, the world beyond his embrace suddenly too big and too scary.
Outside, it rained.
Chapter 2
The following Saturday morning brought no rain, only sunshine and glittering frost-covered bark. Light spilled into my room, the beams playing over a sun-bleached brown carpet before climbing up chocolate striped wallpaper. In a weird way, the room should have felt like a prison, the stripes bars holding me in. Instead, they were inviting, the window seat built in front of my large second story window complementing it, the seat covered in faded cocoa-colored cushions. Brown was such a simple color, unexciting and plain, but it felt stable and reliable. I treasured reliability.
; Sleep hadn’t come easy the night before, and I’d spent a good amount of time in the shower, the cascading water like my own personal rain cloud, before falling into bed with wet strawberry-blonde hair I knew would frizz by morning. For hours, I’d stared at the ceiling, the faintly glowing moon and creeping shadows replaced by the sun’s inching fingers.
For my sake.
My eyes misted, my heart so heavy in my chest that it felt like it would fall through me and the bed to the floor below. Life shouldn’t be about good-byes, but I felt like mine was. I was a revolving door. There was no way to enter my existence without exiting. In and out. Like breathing. Only it was the kind of breathing that hurt.
For my sake.
Those three words wouldn’t let me quit, but they couldn’t stop me from grieving either.
Throwing my legs over the side of my bed, I stepped toward a golden framed mirror I kept propped up on top of my dresser, the small rectangular-looking glass angled so that it faced the window. My fingers wrapped around the frame, and I lifted it, my face wavering as I fell back onto my bed, the mirror held above me. Mrs. Callahan’s assignment suddenly seemed more important than it should, as if the dead poet who’d written the poem had known I’d be holding this mirror the same way she’d probably grasped hers.
“It’s honest,” I whispered.
Gray eyes stared back me, the unremarkable orbs framed by wild, curly hair that saw fingers more than it saw an actual brush. Pale skin flushed by tears highlighted high cheekbones and full, downcast lips. She wasn’t an ugly girl, the girl in the mirror, but she was too old for her age. She was tears and heartbreak and fear. She was full of dreams and a million lost opportunities.
“Who are you?” I asked her.
A loud whack, whack answered me, and I sat up, the mirror falling forgotten to the bed, my bare toes digging into the carpet below. Slowly, I made my way across the room to the window, my palm resting against the wall, my knee sinking into the brown cushions as I glanced out into the yard. My eyes fell on curling mist in the field beyond before sliding through the crepe myrtles to a small shed visible from my room. It was a dilapidated structure, the door’s hinges rusted so that it wouldn’t completely close. Two small windows flanking the entrance were busted, the jagged glass sparkling in the sun. It was home to outdated yard equipment, pests, and vermin.
Next to the shack was a cutting log, an ax, and Heathcliff, his old sneakers replaced by sturdy well-worn boots. His head was down, his plain gray work shirt unbuttoned at the wrists and rolled up to his elbows despite the chill. He was splitting wood, the whack, whack loud in the still morning. Across from him, his sleep-rimmed eyes full of curiosity, was my uncle. He was holding a thick black mug full of dark coffee, his assessing gaze on Heathcliff. They were speaking, albeit not much, each of their lips moving occasionally as Heathcliff worked and my uncle watched.
Hugging my knee-length, blue plaid sleep shirt, I sat hard on the cushions, my eyes on Heathcliff’s obviously repaired boots. Shoes, I was beginning to learn, could say a lot about a person. For one, Heathcliff rarely bought new ones, despite the fact that his family owned a fairly lucrative gas station slash hardware store in town. I deduced three things from his not so new footwear: he didn’t like change, once he had something he kept it, and he took care of his things. He was also patient. How I knew this, I had no idea, but I was sure of it all the same.
His head suddenly lifted, and I looked away, my gaze flying to my lap. Scooting to the edge of the window seat, I stood and edged behind the wall, my feet carrying me to my closet. There wasn’t a large array of things inside, just rows of durable jeans, sweatshirts, and loose button-down shirts I’d stolen from my uncle. It was one of those shirts—a light blue one—that I tugged on now with a pair of jeans and black work boots, my body tingling with anticipation. I didn’t understand why Heathcliff was here, why he’d taken it upon himself to enter my safe world, a plantation where only my uncle and I ruled.
My well-worn boots found the hallway beyond the room, moving carefully down the carpeted stairs, my feet both giddy and wary. It was as if my shoes knew that once I opened that door, they’d be stepping into something new, a different reality from the one we’d always known.
The door creaked, my fingers gripping the knob so hard my knuckles whitened. My uncle’s head swung toward me at the sound, his brows arching as I slunk into the yard. My gaze slid to Heathcliff’s boots and the growing pile of split wood beside him. There were three fireplaces in the house, and we used them often in winter to keep the residence warm in place of central heat.
Uncle Gregor cleared his throat. “I’ve got a new experiment I want to try,” he mumbled, his warm gaze meeting mine as he passed me.
Even in Gregor’s sudden absence, I didn’t speak. I simply walked to the newly chopped wood and filled my arms, carrying first one load into the house before returning for another. I’d made a third trip and was stacking what was left in a pile against the shed when he spoke.
“Who walked away from you?” he asked.
I froze, my back to him, my eyes on the shed. A small brown spider was climbing up the side of the paint stripped building, scurrying so quickly I was sure the arachnid was as afraid to hear me speak as I was to answer.
“In class,” Heathcliff began. He paused before inhaling, the exhaled words that followed coming rushed and low. “In class, you said mirrors couldn’t walk away.”
I straightened, my back stiff when I murmured, “My parents.”
There was a moment of silence. My parents weren’t a secret. The whole town knew my parents’ story, but it was nice of him to ask, nice of him to want to know more.
My hands returned to the work. Stacking wood wasn’t a science, but I was suddenly obsessed with the need to make it perfect, to make sure the split logs lined up a certain way.
There was a single whack behind me as the ax was returned to the chopping block and left there.
“You don’t talk much,” he said.
Six months of silence, of resting shoes and swift glances, and now …
“Why are you here?” I asked.
Boots moved behind me, stomping over dew-covered grass before resting next to mine. “Maybe I like quiet people,” he replied. I felt his eyes fall to my untamed hair. “You sort of intrigue me.”
My stomach clenched, my insides filling with crawling insects, and I was suddenly at a loss for words. Or maybe, I didn’t say anything because there wasn’t anything that could be said. There was nothing worth saying.
“And that’s why,” Heathcliff murmured, “your silence now. It’s as if you don’t feel the need to fill space with noise. But the one time you did speak, it meant something.” He leaned close. “What’s going on inside your head?”
My breathing grew harsh, my pulse quickening. “Are you one of those I find wounded animals to heal kind of people. I can promise you, I’m not wounded.”
My words surprised me, and for a moment, I think it did him, too.
“Maybe not,” he said finally, “but you do need a friend.”
My gaze shot to his chest, my eyes wide. “I don’t!”
He leaned against the shed, the muscles in his arms pushing against his rolled up sleeves. “Why won’t you look at me?”
I swallowed. “I know what you look like.”
“And yet you won’t look at me. Why?”
My lips curled, the smile as much a surprise as my words. “Because I don’t commit to faces.”
Heathcliff chuckled. “You only commit to shoes?”
My smile slipped. “Faces leave,” I mumbled. “Shoes walk away. You learn a lot about people by what they wear on their feet. I’d rather see what’s going to leave than what I’d miss if it left.”
There was a long silence, and my gaze found his shoes. I was waiting for him to leave, for his boots to stride past me and my odd words. But they didn’t.
“And if the shoes don’t walk away?” he asked.
My heart jum
ped. “Then the face matters … once it’s earned.”
His boots remained. There was rustling as his torso shifted, another long pause, and then, “I think there’s some paint at my father’s store that would look good on this house. For now, I can start with the yard. It needs a lot of work before spring comes.”
His words registered, but they didn’t matter as much as his frozen boots.
Chapter 3
There was something wrong with Heathcliff. Maybe it was his persistence, his dogged determination to fix whatever little problem he could find on our property, but he found a reason to stay all of Saturday and most of Sunday. An ax, a hammer, garden gloves, and rotted pieces of wood all lay haphazardly around the lawn, and when he wasn’t working, he was talking. Somehow his boots found me. The first time was in the house, in a corner of my uncle’s bizarre library. He was fixing a leak in the ceiling, and I was attempting, unsuccessfully, to write Mrs. Callahan’s paper.
“You made any progress with it?” he asked.
He was standing on a ladder, and I stared at his jeans. “Not much,” I admitted.
He hammered away at something, the sound driving out the need to converse, before remarking, “I haven’t written a word. You have any idea what you’re going to write about?”
My gaze went to the notebook in my hands, at the glaringly empty pages.
More hammering, and Heathcliff climbed off of the ladder, the tool in one hand, the other slapping the side of his leg. “I’m betting most of the papers will be exaggerated descriptions of appearances.” He stooped and attempted to meet my gaze, but I avoided him. “What do you see when you look in a mirror?” he asked.
My fingers pressed against the paper’s blue lines. They were like veins, those lines. Straight, perfect veins waiting for the words that would breathe oxygen into them. “I … devotion.”
Speaking to Heathcliff was constantly surprising me, as if by talking I was learning new things about myself. Maybe I’d been too quiet in the past, too shut away, and the things I was saying now were things Uncle Gregor and I had never thought to discuss.