Hawthorne & Heathcliff

by R. K. Ryals

  Heathcliff’s fingers suddenly brushed mine before moving away just as quickly. “Do you know what I see when I see you?” My lips parted, but he didn’t give me a chance to reply. “Strength,” he said, “loneliness, and confidence. That sounds contradictory, I know, but you are a contradiction.”

  He stood then, but I surprised myself by reaching out to grasp his wrist. We both froze. “You …” I inhaled. “When I see you, I see a disregard for things. Not for important things, but for things you should probably be interested in.” I should have released him then, but I didn’t.

  He didn’t pull away. “And what am I supposed to be interested in?”

  My gaze traced a streak of dirt down the side of his jeans, the soil sinking into the fabric. “Parties … girls.”

  My fingers released him, but he didn’t move. “Oh, I’m interested in girls. It just happens to be one girl.”

  After the statement he could have walked away, but he didn’t. In the end, it was me that left. Standing, I wedged my way past him, my head down, my wild halo of hair hiding my burning face as I moved from the room.

  In the hall, I paused, my back going against the wall next to the open door, my heart beating too quickly. Heathcliff moved inside of the library. The ladder snapped shut, his boots pounding over the scarred hardwood floor. There was no carpet in the house’s first story, and the wood made his boots yell, the thud,thud louder than it would be outside or upstairs. My lips curled.

  Something fell lightly against the wall behind me, but I didn’t startle because I knew it was Heathcliff, his back resting against the wall that I rested against, the only thing separating us an open door and wall panel.

  This time, I was the first to speak. “Why me?”

  Heathcliff chuckled. “Why not?”

  “You like to fix things?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “It’s better than breaking them.”

  I swallowed a laugh. “I like to cook.”

  It was such a corny thing to say, but I wasn’t a pretentious person. I was too blunt to be flirtatious, and the lack of wit just made my words sound silly.

  “I like to eat,” Heathcliff said after a minute.

  This time, I didn’t even try to hide my amusement. “Maybe you’d like to stay for supper then?”

  As soon as I asked, I wanted to take it back. The question took more from me than he probably realized.

  There was a momentary silence. “I’d like that.”

  “Okay, then.” Stepping away from the wall, I didn’t glance back as I walked away. If he stayed, he stayed. If he left, he left. It was enough I’d been able to invite him.

  My smile followed me through the day and into the kitchen, the room suddenly a hazard it never was before. I second guessed everything, the recipes in my slate blue index card holder, the ingredients, and the time it took to cook. Uncle Gregor came in a few times, his mouth twisting with hidden enjoyment.

  “Are you nervous about cooking?” Gregor asked.

  I threw him a look. We’d not discussed his illness since Friday afternoon, as if we’d made a silent pact to pretend it didn’t exist. He was tired, his eyes lined with weariness, but he played it off well, and my heart hurt with the deception. He didn’t need me reminding him that he was sick. I’d seen the papers, and I knew what they meant.

  “My fingers feel too big suddenly,” I admitted.

  His calloused hand picked up a Granny Smith apple. “Apple dumplings for dessert? You can’t go wrong there.”

  My gaze found his face. “What am I doing?”

  Smiling, he answered, “Flirting, I hope. I like him.”

  A lump formed in my throat, and I swallowed past it. “We don’t know him.”

  Uncle Gregor leaned close. “Then we get to know him. He comes from good people, Hawthorne. The Vincents are hard workers, kind, and stubborn as hell. I’d swear his grandmother was the hand of God. I felt her rod on my back quite a few times as a child.” He chuckled. “She’s a mean spirited witch with a heart of gold hidden under all that crass.”

  I frowned. “I guess I just don’t get it. Of all the girls at school—”

  “None of them are you. It’s that mysterious beauty.” He winked. “But it’s also just you. Men don’t always want simple. Some of them want complicated.”

  “I’m not—”

  Uncle Gregor winked again. “You are all kinds of complicated and that’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with emotional scars. Sometimes those are deeper than physical ones.”

  I stared at my hands, at the scattered ingredients I’d begun collecting on the black marble bar. “I had you,” I whispered. “You were all I needed.”

  Uncle Gregor’s hand covered mine on the counter. “But that doesn’t erase the pain. It doesn’t erase the questions and the doubt being abandoned at six years old would cause.” I started to pull away, but he wouldn’t let go. “It’s okay to have wanted more. It doesn’t make you selfish. It doesn’t mean you loved me any less. It makes you human, Hawthorne. Human is good. It means you still have the capacity to care. Give the Vincent boy a chance.”

  My hand grew still. “Heathcliff,” I muttered. “In my mind I call him Heathcliff.”

  Uncle Gregor laughed. “That’s my daughter.”

  Those words made us both freeze, his hand on my hand. If my palm hadn’t been trapped, it would have trembled. Gregor wasn’t my biological father, but in many ways he’d become that.

  For a long time, there was silence, the only sound distant hammering outside as Heathcliff worked.

  Suddenly, I whispered, “Dad.”

  The word didn’t feel strange on my tongue. It felt right. It felt certain.

  Uncle Gregor’s hand tightened on mine and then lifted, his palm patting me awkwardly before his throat cleared. “Make your meat loaf. There ain’t a man alive who could leave that.”

  He left then, and my gaze followed him, my lips whispering, “Dad.”

  My heart had never felt so full and so broken at the same time. The feeling remained with me while I worked, and I poured love into the meal, the kind of love you have for someone that hurts so much that not having loved them would be worse than never having them in the first place. What a strange kind of love that is. I had that with my Uncle Gregor. There were so many people who didn’t have that with anyone, and I counted myself lucky. Yet my uncle was right, too. It was okay to still hurt, to be afraid to trust more than just him with my heart.

  I was setting the table in the small dining room to the side of the kitchen when Heathcliff came in, his boots resting awkwardly near the door. The dining area was more of a nook. A small wooden table rested in a corner alcove surrounded by windows on three sides, its view a part of the yard badly in need of weeding. We had a formal dining room, but it was covered in dust and never used.

  “It smells good,” Heathcliff murmured.

  My uncle’s voice answered his. “It always does with Hawthorne. She’s been playing with food since I first let her use a stove. Even before that, she’d spend hours flipping through food magazines.”

  My cheeks burned as they entered the small space. My uncle took the seat at the head of the table nearest the windows, as it was his custom to do so, and I took the seat next to him. Heathcliff sat across from me.

  I stared at my plate, at the food so carefully laid out on it. I’d taken Gregor’s suggestion and made meat loaf, roasted potatoes, and butter beans slow cooked with bacon. Apple dumplings sat in a chipped china bowl in the center of the table. It wasn’t a fancy meal, but it was well made.

  Heathcliff took Uncle Gregor’s lead, waiting until he’d taken a bite before following suit. After a moment, he sighed, and I fought not to grin at his mumbled, “Wow.”

  “So,” Heathcliff said aloud, “is this what you want to do after school? Cook?”

  I pushed at the food on my plate, my gaze sliding to his hand as it lifted and lowered. “Sort of,” I answered. “I’m also really into history.”

/>   Silence fell, and I felt Heathcliff’s boot sliding toward mine under the table.

  “What about you, son?” my uncle asked. “What kind of plans do you have after graduation?”

  Heathcliff coughed, his foot tapping before resting. “Well … I like to piece things together. Especially machinery. So, I’m thinking something in engineering. Maybe welding.”

  “No plans to go into the family business?” Gregor asked.

  “Not really. It’s always an option for me, a fallback plan, but I’ve got a brother who’d do better with that than me, sir.”

  “True,” Uncle Gregor chuckled. “It isn’t very good business for one to work on someone’s house for free.”

  I could feel Heathcliff’s gaze on me, and I squirmed. “Not necessarily for free, sir. Sometimes keepin’ busy and doing things can be as much for pleasure as for money.”

  “Right then,” Gregor murmured. “You know I don’t think I caught your first name, son. You’re a Vincent, so are you the eldest or the youngest of the boys?”

  Heathcliff set his silverware down, the fork clattering against his plate. “It’s Max. I’m the youngest.”

  Gregor gestured at me, a piece of meatloaf speared to the end of his utensil. “Did you know my niece calls you Heathcliff?”

  My head shot up, my startled gaze flying to my uncle’s face.

  “Heathcliff?” Max asked.

  I refused to glance in his direction, my gaze remaining on Gregor. His eyes twinkled, his cheeks rosier than I’d seen them in days, and I knew this conversation was filling him with life. It made being angry at him hard.

  “Heathcliff?” our guest repeated.

  I cleared my throat, my hands falling to a cheap paper towel I’d draped over my legs. “It’s silly.”

  “It’s romantic,” Gregor argued.

  Heathcliff’s boot slid even closer to mine. “The Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights?”

  “You read?” my uncle asked.

  “It was for school junior year.” Heathcliff’s throat cleared, the weight of his gaze heavy as it found me again. “Wasn’t Heathcliff cruel and sadistic?”

  My eyes slid to his chest. His work shirt was no longer clean, the fabric marred by dust, rust, and oil. “It’s not his character that reminds me of you,” I mumbled. “It’s his ability to defy being understood. No reader comes away from that book feeling the same way about him. It’s always different.”

  “And so I’m a brooding, romantic yet sadistic hero?” he asked.

  “No,” my eyes found his chin and stopped, “you’re misunderstood.”

  Silence reigned, and Heathcliff’s shoe met mine under the table. Boot against boot.

  “There’s apple dumplings,” Gregor pointed out, his words breaking through the tension. It was such a relief, I almost laughed.

  Eating replaced silence, the rest of the meal moving quickly before Heathcliff stood. He thanked me for the food, thanked Gregor for the hospitality, and then promised he’d return. After the declaration he left, his boots charging out into the clear and darkening Saturday evening. Burgeoning stars winked in the crisp sky, and I watched as his shoes disappeared down the lane.

  I’d been sure he wouldn’t return.

  I was wrong.

  His hammer woke me the next morning, the sound filling the day and the afternoon, replaced occasionally by the whack of an ax or rustling as he pulled up wilted, brown weeds. I kept busy as he worked, my heart wanting to see him, but my mind wanting me to avoid all contact. It seemed wrong to be so conflicted, but isn’t that what romance was? Conflict?

  He found me at the end of the day, his shoes stopping just beyond the wooden swing where I sat on the back porch, a food magazine next to me, and an empty notebook in my hand.

  “Is Hawthorne really your name?” he asked.

  Laying the notebook aside, I pulled my legs up onto the swing and hugged them. I wasn’t very tall, 5’1 exactly, and I rested my chin on my knees. “It’s not my real name, no.”

  Heathcliff pushed aside my things and sat, his body causing the swing to shift. “And your real name?”

  When I didn’t answer, he used his boots to propel the swing slowly backward and then forward again, the swaying motion creating a strange sense of comfort, as if we were moving in and out of reality.

  “Is it like my face?” he asked. “Do I have to earn your name, too?”

  My arms tightened on my legs. “It’s Clare.”

  He scooted closer to me, his warmth chasing away the encroaching chill as night fought day. “Clare,” he repeated. “I like it.”

  “I prefer Hawthorne.”

  My hand fell to the swing between us, and one of his hands fell next to mine. Not quite touching but close enough the electricity the proximity created caused my entire body to tingle.

  “Because your uncle calls you that?” Heathcliff asked.

  His fingers brushed mine, and I swallowed hard, my body squirming with the discomfort. It wasn’t an awful discomfort. It was needy somehow, even desperate.

  “It’s the name that defines me, the one that matters,” I whispered.

  His palm was covering my hand now, his fingers slowly stroking my fingers. “Clare … Hawthorne … they both suit you.”

  Heat erupted from his hand to mine, and the wonderful discomfort grew. Fingers against fingers. Stroke after stroke. The darkening sky was suddenly aflame with color, with bright purple and pinks, the sporadic star breaking through streaks of violet and fuschia. In my head, I heard music.

  “Why do you believe I’m misunderstood?” he asked suddenly.

  I glanced at our entwined hands. “Because you’ve let yourself become as much a mystery as I have, your silence lighting people’s curiosity. So many girls want you, and so many guys hate you because they want to be wanted the same way you are. They assume things. And then you come here ...”

  My words trailed off, but he jumped on them. “To the wild girl’s house,” he finished.

  “I’m not wild,” I pointed out crossly.

  “Your hair is,” he returned.

  My lips twitched. “It’s a curse.”

  “It’s sexy as hell.”

  His words startled me. “That’s a new way of putting it.”

  “It’s the truth,” he replied. He scooted closer, his hand tightening on mine. “Tell me, girl with the wild hair, what would you do if this Heathcliff wanted to know things about you?”

  My chest rose and fell, my heart thudding. “Depends on what you want to know.”

  He leaned so close, his mouth brushed my ear. “Everything.”

  I gasped, the sound lost to the creaking swing chains. “You can’t come back!”

  Startled, he leaned away. “Give me a good reason why.”

  “Because this isn’t a good time.”

  “Is there ever a good time for anything?”

  I tugged my hand away from his. “My uncle—”

  “Is dying,” Heathcliff said abruptly.

  I froze, my throat constricting. “H-how do you know that?”

  “Because he’s been going to the same treatment center as my grandmother,” he answered. “They’ve been talking ...”

  My head filled with noise, my heart a puddle in my chest. My uncle, my father, was dying. He was dying, and I couldn’t take the pain.

  “Hawthorne,” Heathcliff whispered, “you need a friend.”

  I stared at the night’s first stars, as if their twilight-dimmed glow would reveal something to me, give me answers to the universe I didn’t understand. My world had been so small up until now, so small and yet so painfully safe, too.

  “Did you only come here because you think I need a shoulder to cry on?” I breathed.

  Heathcliff sat back against the swing, the accompanying creak loud. “I only found out about your uncle last night from Mams, my grandmother. I came here because I’m interested. I’m staying because I’m interested. I’m offering you comfort because I care, because it wouldn’
t hurt to have a friend of my own who’s going through it, too.”

  My gaze traveled to his profile, not quite reaching his face but coming close. “What’s she ...” Swallowing, I left the question unasked, but he knew.

  “Cirrhosis,” he answered, and then he laughed, as if the amusement would chase away the grief. “Too much of her homemade tonic, the doctor says.”

  Maybe I should have laughed the same way he had, but I didn’t. Instead, I reached once more for his hand, my fingers entwining with his, and I said the scariest words I’d ever uttered. “I could use a friend.”

  There’d been no conversation after that, only creaking swing chains and wild splashes of color amongst leafless trees as the sun set. Shoes and fingers skirted each other.

  The sky was clear. There was no rain.

  Chapter 4

  It’s odd how life works, how when we tell our story, its told in large, dramatic pieces. There are no small moments because there doesn’t seem enough time for the small moments. We don’t use our last breaths telling people about the food we ate or the clothes we wore, we talk about what it was like to love, to lose, and to succeed. We talk about the highs and sometimes we talk about the lows. We don’t talk about the between moments.

  I fell in love during the between.

  The Monday after Heathcliff’s weekend visit, our feet met in last period English class. As soon as his backpack hit the floor, his body sagging into his chair, his tennis shoe slid across the aisle, his foot resting against mine. No one had to step over them. That was the beauty of sitting at the back of the class.

  I stared at his shoe, a small laugh escaping when I realized there were words written on it, my gaze darting to his desk to find an orange washable marker dangling from his fingers before returning to his foot. There on the side of his shoe was Got meatloaf?

  There was a light clunk on the worn, tile floor, and a blue marker rolled against my desk. Leaning down, I snatched it, my fingers gripping it so hard my knuckles whitened. This was it. Heathcliff had not only found a new way to talk to me, he’d found a way to talk to my fear, my fear of walking away.