Watermarks

by Jarvis, J. L.

  Andrew and Maggie wandered until they found an empty bench on the edge of the park. There they sat as strains of distant band music soothed their ears with their distorted blur. Neither Maggie nor Andrew listened or cared. They spoke of likes and dreams and things that didn't matter, and they thought of each other, which was all that did matter. Arm upon arm, shoulder against shoulder, they walked.

  As she spoke, Maggie's eyes flashed from the ignition of intellect and ideas. Watching her, Andrew became aware of something more than his initial fascination with women. Maggie's thoughts and mannerisms were so entirely unaffected by convention--so wholly original--so uniquely enchanting. Her plainness of dress was so perfect a canvas for her resplendent eyes and chestnut hair that he began to think of fashion as an impediment to such beauty. But most of all, Andrew was energized by Maggie's unabashed passion for life.

  Jake bellied up to the bar around the corner and set out to tranquilize his troubled heart with a beer or two or as many as it would take. He stared from his end of the bar to the other--or somewhere in between--at nothing in particular. From time to time, a friend would slap his shoulder or back, with a robust greeting. He would nod, and then continue to stare straight ahead until he was once again alone.

  Jake had always known that, when he got around to marrying, Maggie would be the one. They would live and love and have children and grow old with each other. He knew this as he knew the sun would rise each morning, as he knew that hard work was its own reward. There were things one should be able to count on in life, and not being alone was one of them.

  Yet here he sat facing a beer and stark loneliness. He looked across the old bar to the mirror, and within its mahogany frame he saw--not who he was--but what he was. In sharp contrast to which, was the image of what he was not and never would be. Andrew Adair had not been forced to quit school in the ninth grade to help support his family. Nor had Andrew had to watch his father die of a broken down body from work at the steel mill. He had not had thrust upon him the responsibility of a man before he had finished being a child. All Jake had needed was a little more time to work things out, that was all.

  "I waited too long," he lamented into his beer.

  Howling laughter erupted at the end of the bar. That anybody could be happy was an insult to Jake, and a mockery of his misery. The world was a cruel place, he thought. He contemplated other such profound philosophical depths from his stool at the bar, finding flashes of insight and unfathomable wisdom bursting from within the small bubbles of beer.

  The music ended and the people began to leave the park. The band members packed up their instruments and unpinched the wooden clothespins that held sheets of music to their stands. The gentle hum of subdued voices gave way to shuffling feet as tranquil town folk returned to their homes, some in unvoiced satisfaction, others murmuring opinions about this one or that one with whom they had visited earlier. In minutes, all that remained were reluctant twosomes on their way to parting.

  Andrew walked Maggie up the steps of the porch. From inside, a loud, dull noise, like something heavy falling, infringed on the moment. Maggie's eyes darted toward the door and away, then fixed upon a plant on the porch rail. Andrew watched her with some concern, more from her reaction than from the noise. She stood frozen for a moment or two. The silence wavered between them like sparks in dry air. He opened his mouth to speak, but Maggie interrupted with explosive relief.

  "I had a lovely time." She wanted him to detain her, to insulate her from what was on the other side of the door. "I--"

  "Maggie." He spoke it as a prelude to some inexpressible thought, as the hint of a smile formed on his lips. Apart from the world, they were speechless and static. And then, having run out of words, Andrew kissed her.

  Maggie's heart began to ache from love that was growing too fast. She had never lost control of her feelings before. It frightened her. Yet, at the same time, she craved more of this dizzying bliss.

  From inside the house, another noise--louder than before--intruded upon their moment.

  "I--think I'd better go in."

  Maggie turned toward the door. Andrew circled his arm around her waist and pulled her back to him. His eyes found hers, and then he kissed her again. His lips were on hers, full and warm with a visceral yearning. When he released her from his kiss, Maggie reached behind her for the doorknob, unable to grasp it. She turned to locate it with her trembling hand, and looked back to see Andrew grinning.

  "Good evening, Mr. Adair," she said a little too properly.

  Andrew stepped toward her and pressed himself gently against her. His lips brushed her cheek and hair as he whispered into her ear, "Please call me Andrew."

  The color rose in her cheeks. He was too close to see it. She tried to speak, but it came out in halting rasps.

  "Good night, Andrew."

  He held onto her shoulders and looked in her eyes. His hand stroked her cheek, which was burning. She would have let him kiss her again, but he took a step backward.

  "Sweet dreams, Maggie." And he turned and walked away.

  Maggie closed the door and leaned back against it with her eyes shut. A moment--that's all she wanted--one moment to tuck her new memories away in a safe place.

  She walked into the kitchen. Cooking pots and pieces of a broken plate were strewn about. "Beth." It came out as more sigh than speech. She was sitting at the table. Her face was blank. Maggie put a sweater over Beth's shoulders and sat down beside her. "Are you okay?"

  Beth nodded. "Would you go check on Robin?" Beth asked.

  Maggie nodded and placed a reassuring hand on Beth's shoulder, then slipped off her shoes and walked toward the stairs. As she ascended to the second floor, she heard Hank's steady snoring. He would sleep soundly till morning.

  She tiptoed down the hallway to Robin's room. She lay peacefully on top of her bed, asleep. She was still dressed for the picnic. Her hair ribbon had come undone. Maggie laid her palm on the child's head and kissed her forehead. She pulled a quilt over Robin, patted her shoulder, and then stole out of the room.

  She returned to the kitchen and whispered, "She's sleeping like a little angel." She picked up the coffeepot from the floor and set about making some coffee. "What was it this time?"

  Beth shook her head. Weary from squelching bitterness, her eyes were dim. "I can't really remember."

  Maggie focused her attention on the activity of making coffee. It helped to hide true feelings about Hank. Intently, she listened to her sister.

  "I don't ever remember what sets him off; or maybe I just don't ever know."

  Maggie sat down with Beth while the coffee began to percolate on the stove. Beth continued, "He came home with that look in his eyes." Beth did not see Maggie roll her eyes and steel herself to hold in her anger. Beth's own eyes were vacant as she recalled the scene.

  Hank walked in through the back door, unlaced and kicked off his boots, and left the door to slam shut behind him. He dropped his lunch pail on the counter and walked past Beth to clean up and change clothes. As he walked by, Beth reminded him, "Hank? Tonight is the band concert. We need to hurry. We're late."

  He stopped in his tracks and stood with his back to Beth. He slowly turned and scowled at Beth through the days' sweat and grime, which he wore like a mask on his face. Hank's low voice cut through the static air, "I've been hard at work all day. Now all I want to do is sit down and put my feet up."

  "I promised Robin--"

  "Damn it, woman? Is it too much to ask--after working my tail off to sit down and relax in my own home?"

  "No, Hank." A part of Beth left the room.

  Robin inched her way along the periphery, then up the stairs to her room. She sat holding her doll with an expressionless face, while the noise escalated below. When it became too loud to will it away, she curled up on her bed. With dry eyes and numb heart she lay, walking through the park in her mind as echoes of band music lulled her to sleep.

  Maggie set a cup of coffee down in front of Beth, wh
o looked down, unable to meet Maggie's gaze.

  Maggie looked away and said softly, "We've got to talk about this." Then turning to Beth, she spoke with a firm, but loving, voice. "You can't live this way. I can't live this way."

  Beth nodded. The flames in the fireplace etched a pattern through the log, until it broke apart and fell amid a spray of red embers. Little fallen pieces kept their shape until a breath of air dissolved them to ash. In silence, the sisters watched the fire burn itself out. Beth was the first to speak.

  "We should leave. It's not fair to you--for us to stay."

  "To me? What about Robin? What about you?" Maggie tried to contain her anger, but it was rising beyond her control. "Beth, you've got to leave him. No, he's got to leave." Maggie hesitated. Carefully, she spoke in soft, measured tones. "You must know Mother left this house to me because she didn't want it to end up with Hank."

  It was clear from the look on Beth's face that she had suspected as much.

  "Beth, this will always--always--be home to you and Robin--"

  "He's my husband. I chose to marry him. I must live with that choice." Beth's eyes were watery. Her voice was soft and gentle. "I made a commitment for life--before God."

  Maggie shook her head, slowly at first.

  Beth went on, "It's God's will that we stay together."

  Maggie's words, like her anger, began slowly, and then accelerated beyond control. "I will not believe it is God's will that you be treated this way!"

  "Marriage is a covenant."

  Maggie leaned over the table toward Beth. "It is wrong. You're wrong!"

  Beth stiffened. Maggie's anger melted into despair as she reached out to touch Beth's folded hands. She looked through thickening tears and pleaded. "Don't do this to yourself, Beth. Don't do this to Robin."

  Beth looked at her sister with steely resolve. "He's my husband. Perhaps I chose poorly..."

  Maggie's head swung away from Beth as she barely refrained from bitter laughter.

  Beth continued, "But we must live with our choices."

  Maggie said nothing more. What more was there to say? Of course Beth would stay here with Robin. If Beth insisted, then Hank would stay, too. If she threw Hank out, her sister and niece would go with him. She could not inflict such a sentence. No, Maggie loved her sister. She could not understand her, or her unfailing commitment to a husband who mistreated her so. How did people like Hank go from burning passion to burning rage? Maggie was certain she did not want to learn the answer.

  In the nighttime the walls were too thin. Maggie lay in her bed unable to ignore the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings in the room across the hall. She covered her ears to the stifled and stifling moaning, the sickening guttural exhalations, and the muffled cry of exhausted climax. How could Beth yield her body to the urges of this man?

  Hank was leaving for work when Maggie rounded the top of the stairs. She stopped and waited while Hank looked into Beth's eyes with brutish smugness. He placed his work-battered hand on Beth's cheek and kissed her long and hard. Beth watched him walk through the door and down the steps. The oppression lifted from the house as Hank stepped off the threshold. Beth lingered for a moment, and then walked into the kitchen. She opened the windows and breathed in the first fresh air of the day. When the last of Hank's dishes was cleared from the table, Beth sat down.

  Love and affection were not what Beth had once imagined them to be. She had learned to accept passion when offered, to find solace in quiet times. She tried not to wish for more. This moment of peace was as close as she got to fulfillment. Sipping her coffee, she bathed in morning light as it shone through the kitchen window. It was a good day for the park. How she loved to take Robin to Johnstown Central Park. They would go to the fountain in the middle. Robin would look into the water and pretend it was a wishing well. She would close her eyes and make a wish. Sometimes Beth would join her in a wish of her own. Wishes were best left unspoken.

  Maggie walked into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. "Robin's still asleep."

  "She needs it," said Beth, trying not of think of what the arguing must be like for a child. She looked at Maggie, who was gazing out the window and far beyond. Something was different. "How was your date?"

  Maggie looked at Beth. Her eyes shone until she had to look away from embarrassment. She hesitated to put her feelings to words.

  "Oh, Maggie!" Beth leaned back against her chair and beamed. "You're--"

  "Don't say it? It's too soon to think it."

  Beth remembered the beginnings of love: the inexpressible hopes, the unconquerable nerves. "What's he like?"

  "He's so different from the men here." Maggie stopped herself and thought more carefully before voicing her disdain for men like her sister's choice for a husband. "He's been places, Beth. His family is involved in important things."

  "Important things?"

  "They know people--rich and powerful people. Imagine going to parties with the Carnegies, Fricks and Mellons. And his house? Beth--it's so beautiful!"

  "You've been to his house on the lake?"

  "Well, no. I've seen it from--well, you know I go up to the lake sometimes on my bicycle."

  Beth regarded Maggie and measured her words. "It's a different world they live in. Those grand houses up there on the lake are just summer cottages to them. They might come here for light diversions, but they always go back to their mansions and money. They're society folks, and their sort don't mix with people like us."

  "He does. I don't understand why, but he likes me. And I like him--everything about him--not just his money or his fine clothes. He's smart and handsome. He likes the same books I do. He's serious about life. And I think he's serious about me."

  Beth watched Maggie sip her coffee and look out the window at the promising day. "Be careful, Maggie.”

  Chapter 7

  Allison discovered a note slipped inside one of her packages. She rushed to her bureau and took out her letter opener. Carefully, she slid it into the envelope and opened it neatly, then sank into her chair and began to read.

  A,

  Your heart is in no less peril than mine. I confess that I love you. There, I've said it.

  But love is two-edged. We live on the perimeter of each other's lives--lives which can never be shared. I will watch and admire you. I will ache to steal away with you and pull you into my arms. But I will not. I will stay near you and love you, and never be with you. There can be no other way.

  I ask you now to do as I, myself, will do. Hide this love in your heart like a tucked away treasure that time will forget. We cannot speak of it again.

  Your D

  Silently came the tears, which gave way to sobbing that threatened to shake her fragile heart loose from its moorings. When her tears were spent, she hid the letter in the back of her desk and crept out into the night.

  Her caped silhouette was only a shadow beneath the new moon as she glided along the boardwalk and circled around behind the cottages. She heard approaching footsteps and clutched the hood around her face while the wind caught her cape like a sailcloth. The force of the wind slowed her. The sound of his voice stopped her. It resonated deeply as though it came from within her.

  "Allison."

  She reached out in the darkness and found him, and clung to him fiercely.

  "We can't stay out here."

  "Hide me in your arms," she whispered.

  He led her into the shadowy woods. With gentle hands he held her face and looked at her with the full force of his sorrowful passion.

  Her voice was a broken whisper. "Say it. Please. I just want to hear it."

  He held her head against his shoulder. "I love you."

  "And I love you."

  "Allison." He shook his head as he tightened his arms about her.

  She lifted her chin as he smoothed her hair from her brow, and he was undone. Softly, he brushed his lips to hers, and then he pressed his mouth to hers.

  His love reached down into her soul. Sh
e relished each kiss and caress, fearful only of its ending. They let loose their longing and clung to each other, no longer alone.

  Through the town square they walked. Maggie seldom found pleasure in Sunday walks, but Andrew seemed so interested in becoming part of her world, that she indulged him. This was what her people did on a leisurely Sunday afternoon. She welcomed him into her world with pride, although she had yet to meet any of his family or friends.

  Maggie asked him, "If you weren't with me right now, what would you be doing?"

  Andrew looked at her quizzically. After a bit, he answered with a charming grin, "Wishing I were with you."

  Maggie smiled, yet was not so flattered that she fully accepted his answer. She merely chose to save her doubts for another time. As they walked she wondered. He had never tried to draw her into his world. She had never been to the lake with him. Were he to take her, she feared she would not fit in. Her lack of a proper wardrobe was the least of it, she imagined. Perhaps Andrew was sparing her such embarrassment. No, it was too early for questions. For now, Maggie was where she wanted to be: walking along on Andrew's arm, nodding to people on porches, and smiling at children she recognized from the library. She had never before noticed how the sound of voices and horses and child's play could blend into something reminiscent of happiness. Was this how she had felt as a child? The recollection was dim.

  "I got a letter from my mother yesterday--from Paris," Andrew told Maggie as they walked toward the park.

  "Paris, France?"

  "Yes," Andrew replied, grinning at Maggie's childlike enthusiasm. "My parents go to Europe every summer. One of Mother's friends lives near Paris. She's an artist. She helps Mother select paintings for her collection."