"Because it's true."
"I don't know..."
"I think, perhaps, when you go from wanting a person, to wanting to give to that person--maybe that's love. But, if the other person doesn't want to give back, then what you've fallen in isn't love; it's loneliness."
"Is that how it was with Edmund?"
Her resigned look spoke volumes.
Andrew was at a loss for words. He had known so little about his sister's marriage.
Allison turned to happier thoughts. "So. You're falling in love?"
Andrew shook his head. "Maybe." He looked at Allison with a bashful grin. "Possibly. In the future."
The two smiled and soaked in the evening stillness. A pair of approaching footsteps interrupted their two separate reveries. Allison's eyes widened,
Andrew said, "Samuel, come join your fellow insomniacs!"
Samuel fixed his attention on Andrew. "I'd love to."
He took a seat that happened to be next to Allison. "What are you two up to?"
Allison answered, "Nothing too ambitious. We're just defining love."
Andrew looked out at the night sky. "Samuel? Have you ever been in love?"
Samuel was silent for a moment. "Yes."
"How did you know? When did you know that you were in love?"
Allison interrupted, "You don't have to answer that, Samuel. Andrew's just being--"
"One day," Samuel interrupted, "I looked at her--and really saw her--and I knew."
"With no doubt?" asked Andrew.
"Not one."
"Really?" Andrew was intrigued. "So why haven't we met her?"
Ignoring the question, Samuel said, more to himself than to Andrew, "She's a rose among thorns."
Andrew thought for a moment, and then said, "I don't quite see Maggie as a flower. She's too strong for a flower--maybe a tree..."
I wouldn't share that with--" Allison lifted an eyebrow. "Maggie?"
"Dammit," Andrew muttered to himself. He hadn't meant to name names. Not yet.
"Who's Maggie?" asked Allison.
"You don't know her."
"Maggie, the tree...," said Samuel, grinning.
"Well, she could be...a maple tree--all sugary and sweet," offered Allison on Andrew's behalf. "You do seem a bit syrupy," teased Allison.
"Sappy," said Samuel, agreeing.
"Here I've bared my soul--"
"You can unbare it, now," said Samuel.
"--And all you two can do is to make fun of me." Andrew said, suppressing his own laughter.
Just as in childhood, the three laughed and talked into the morning hours, steeped in the stillness of a clear mountain night.
Jake tried to stop going to the library. Seeing Maggie did him no good, but the library was his only way to make up what he'd missed. After his father's death, he did no more than others had done before him; he quit school and went to work. But he had such a mind--a fine mind. His teacher had told him so. His grades had told him so. Listening to library lectures by visiting so-called scholars had convinced him so. But his mind was not enough. He had forced himself to accept quitting school, but he would not deny himself learning. If he could not go to school, he would make it up by reading and learning more than any of them. All he would lack was a teacher's help, but he could figure it out by himself. The information was right there in the books. He would make it his own.
But the books were in the library, and so was Maggie. He cut down his library visits to one a week, during which he would load up with enough books to get him by until the following week. Busy times were best, for then Maggie was forced to stamp his books and move on to the next person without taking the time to converse. His plan worked well, for the most part. At first, he would catch himself looking forward to seeing Maggie, without any thought for the books. It was agony the first few times he saw her--not being able to talk to her, or look into her eyes when she smiled, or to be within reach without touching. But Jake was nothing, if not willful. With concentrated effort, he trained himself to ignore his feelings and to go through the motions without revealing the truth within him.
It became a test, of sorts, to hand the books to her, sometimes brush his fingers against hers, feel the softness of her hands, yet not succumb. He would look at her with a cordial, yet distant smile and perhaps say a word about his family. Then he would watch for her reaction. The slightest flush in her cheek or crinkled brow would suffice. Then he would nod and leave, just like that. He took pride in being able to quash the pangs his heart tried to feel. The smallest show of emotion from Maggie brought him solace. With clenched jaw, he would walk home feeling certain he was now a little less in love with Maggie MacLaren.
Even so, he would sometimes run into her on the street as she returned home and he headed to work for the night shift. Caught unprepared, his heart would race, words would not come easily. It infuriated him--these feelings, and his inability to control them. On one such occasion, he was flatly rude, walking away an abrupt greeting, and then leaving Maggie to stand in the street looking bewildered.
There were lapses. One Sunday morning, Jake forsook St. John's Catholic Church for the Presbyterian Church Maggie attended, sin enough in itself. He slipped into the last pew and sat unobserved. From there, he watched her. Every feature and mannerism enchanted and tortured him. Each unruly strand of hair, the way her head tilted a bit when she disagreed with something in the sermon, the faraway look in her eyes as she sang a hymn, or just her mere presence seared his wounded heart. But the blistering pain at least made him feel alive again.
Like all such small towns, the young ladies and mothers of Johnstown were quick to detect an eligible bachelor. When Maggie turned to Andrew, observant young women turned to Jake. Some would drop by with fresh batches of baked goods and preserves they just happened to have whipped up. Maeve O'Neill enjoyed a sudden popularity with mothers whose daughters were of courting age. Of course, she was a willing conspirator, herself, on occasion arranging a few chance meetings of her own.
Jake would walk through the door to find nervous young women with saucer eyes studying his every move as he walked past with barely a nod. Tall, plump, pretty or plain none of them was Maggie. Jake tried to be nice, but he had the patience of a wounded beast. So he took to sneaking into the house through the back door, rather than suffer the frustration of hiding his impatience from some girl who, along with her mother, came calling. If he paid his young siblings a penny, they would wait outside and warn him to hide in the woodshed, where he kept a stack of old newspapers to pass the time until the feminine guests had departed.
Sometimes he sat on the front porch and loathed himself for watching the street, watching her house, looking and wishing for her just in case she went out. There came a night when the pain was too great. He sought refuge in the dark corner of a saloon, where he dulled his senses with drink. But as the night wore on, the drink turned on him. His rankled emotions gnawed at his mind so he drank more to squelch it. The evening wore on and the boisterous crowd thinned to a murmuring lot of disillusioned souls and last call lingerers.
Jake went to the bar and pulled some coins from his pocket and tried to count them, but his eyes would not focus, so he slapped the whole handful of coins on the bar. As he set down the emptied glass, something caught his eye across the room. At a dimly lit corner table, he thought he saw Maggie. A lascivious drunkard let go of her waist when he caught sight of Jake bounding across the room toward him. But there was nothing to stop Jake from venting his rage with his fists on the man's jaw. He was preparing to land the next blow when she grabbed hold of his arm. Jake yanked his arm away then lost his balance. She caught him again by the arm, this time to keep him from falling. He regained his balance in time to see the other man's head bob a bit, then fall forward onto the table. She tugged at his arm. Jake tried to look closely at her, but his balance shifted and he caught himself on a chair, scraping it against the floor.
"We'd better get out of here," said the young woman.
Once outside, he stopped. "Maggie?" He looked at the girl with his cavernous eyes. Her hair was the color and texture of Maggie's, but there the resemblance ended. Still, there was something endearing about her disconsolate face.
She looked back at him with a wan smile. "The way you say it, I wish I was, but my name's Sophie." Sophie put her arm around Jake's waist and pulled him away from the door. He followed her, uncomprehending.
"Sophie," he slurred, as they walked toward the intersection of two streets long since deserted by respectable folk. The cool night air did little to sober Jake as he stumbled and fell, pulling them both to the ground. As he pulled himself to his knees, he looked beside him and saw something in this young woman's eyes. Her lonely expression touched a chord in him. They both understood loneliness that could not be assuaged, and the longing to try. Inexpressible yearning gripped him. His dark eyes flashed with the fire. She touched his cheek with her callused hand and he grasped it and pulled her against him. He kissed her and, in a few frenzied steps, backed her against the side of a building and leaned the length of his body against her. Both vented their clashing emotions with hungry kisses. Desperate to fill the emptiness, they grasped at what they could have, each other. For now. Groping in the shadows.
A raspy woman's voice cut into the darkness? "Hey, Sophie? Take it somewhere else."
Jake and Sophie looked up to see a rough looking woman leaning on the arm of a man with a leer that showed through his leathery stubble. The woman reached out and pulled Sophie by the hand. Sophie tugged and tottered to the sidewalk. By the time Jake followed, the others had gone.
After a few sobering breaths, Jake ran his fingers through his hair, then carefully sought to regain his balance. Sophie watched as he stood very tall and began to walk with acute attention to the task. Then some renegade muscle would give way and set him teetering.
"You okay?" she chuckled.
He grunted some sort of response.
"What's your name?"
He pulled her against him. "You know me, Maggie. No, wait. You're not Maggie," he said, disappointed.
"No. But you are--?"
"Jake." She studied him for a moment, and then said, "Come on, Jake." She took his arm and started to lead him along.
Jake took a few steps and stopped. He spent the next several seconds focusing on Sophie's face, which was no small task when combined with the challenge of maintaining a standing position. Her hair was a brown blur, while her facial features, though distinct, failed to settle into any set form.
"You look like Maggie."
"Yeah, I've been told that."
"Really?" He looked surprised.
"Yes, by you," she explained with impatient amusement.
"She'd like you."
"I'm sure she would," said Sophie, with a wry nod.
"And you'd like her, too." His face grew morose. "But I love her."
"You poor, miserable wretch," said Sophie with all the cynicism of one whose heart also had been broken. She looked at Jake's profile as he stared beyond the pitch colored trees to the shadowy hills. She recognized those eyes and what lay behind them. They were the eyes of one mired in pain, but still clinging to hope. He had yet to pass through sorrow, bitterness, and finally nothing. Oh, she knew that look from the inside out.
Jake touched her face and kissed her. "Excuse me," he said, pointing his finger upward to signal for her to wait where she was. He then turned and threw up.
Sophie turned away with a questioning glance toward the sky. She then folded her arms and then buried her face in one hand. When he was finished, she said, "Jake?"
"Huh?"
Sophie touched his cheek. "Go home."
It took Jake a moment to grin, comprehending. She gave him a nudge, then he turned to walk home, bumping into a streetlight, to which he politely said, "Excuse me."
Sophie watched him walk down the block. "You're excused," she whispered. He rounded the corner. She hesitated, and then turned and walked away.
Like a ship with three sheets to the wind, Jake toppled from one side of the road to the other until he found his way to his street, in front of Maggie's house. He grabbed hold of a lamppost and stared at her unlit home. "Maggie!" Hearing nothing, he called out loudly, "Maggie darlin'!"
A second story window scraped open. "Jake? What's the matter?"
"Maggie!"
"Be quiet!"
He lowered his voice to an exaggerated hush. "Maggie."
"Go home."
"C'mon down, darlin'!"
A minute later, Maggie closed the front door and came out to the edge of the porch. "Jake?"
"Look, Maggie. I dreamed you up." He smiled, pleased with himself.
"No. You woke me up." She frowned impatiently.
"Drowsy Maggie." He started humming the old Irish tune as he drew her to him and started to dance, but he soon lost his balance. She held onto him, barely keeping them both from falling.
He grinned and slurred, "Drowsy Maggie."
"Drunken Jake." She tightened her grip on the wrist over her shoulder, lodged her shoulder under his armpit, and guided him up the front steps. But his wobbling legs brought him only as far as the top step before he tripped. They fell down together. He landed on top of her, and appeared in no hurry to move. Catching a good whiff of liquor, bar smoke, and she didn't want to think of what else, she said, "You're not just drunk, you're stinkin' drunk." She rolled him over to land on the floor, and then she wriggled free and sat up.
He smiled broadly. "That schooling's not wasted on you, drowsy Maggie."
She tore off some mint leaves from the flower bed. "Here. Open your mouth."
He misunderstood and moved in closer to kiss her. She could not help but smile as she tenderly pushed him away. As though feeding a child, she put the mint leaves into his mouth with instructions to suck on them. Then she gave him a pat on the cheek. It was moist. "Now what have you done here? Let me see." She pushed his hand aside and held his face toward the streetlight. "Jake, you've cut yourself!"
He looked at her, his eyes full of trust.
Maggie could not be angry with him, or even annoyed, when he looked at her like that. "Wait right here. I'm going to get something for that." She leaned Jake against a post and instructed, "Don't move."
The tiny cut had stopped bleeding by the time Maggie finished cleaning it. "I've known you to have a few beers, but I don't think I've ever seen you like this." She held his chin in her hand as she examined his wound. Jake looked at her with eyes opened wide and filled of unguarded affection.
"What's the matter?"
He said nothing.
She looked into his eyes. "Something's bothering you."
"You."
"Oh, I made you get drunk, did I?"
"It's you, Maggie. It's always been you."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she whispered, dismissing his words and yet knowing she shouldn't.
"Neither do I. Like you said, I'm just drunk." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the street. His eyes misted, so he hid his face in his hands to conceal it.
Mistaking the move, she said, "You think your head hurts now, just wait till the morning."
He lifted his face and glanced toward her, and then he stared at the street for the longest time. Maggie watched him. His eyes had a faraway aspect, and hair hung over his brow in sections. Maggie reached out and brushed his hair back with her fingers. Jake caught them and held them against his face and she sharply inhaled. He heard her and suddenly turned. Their eyes met and he held her gaze as he brought her fingers to his lips. Her lips parted. His arms were around her. He buried his face in her neck, and his lips brushed her earlobe. He held on.
Maggie's arms awkwardly returned the embrace for a moment, and then feebly, she tried to extricate herself until she no longer wished to be free. There they remained, long enough for Maggie to turn her face timorously toward his cheek. She loved Andrew, not Jake. But then why was she
warmed by the touch of his lips on her neck?
"What are we doing?" she whispered, and then she stopped thinking and turned toward Jake, her lips parting.
A jarring snore broke through the stillness and startled her. Jerking her head back, she looked and saw Jake peacefully sleeping on her shoulder. She glared at him and whispered through clenched teeth. "Jake O'Neill!" Her ire was short-lived as she looked at his tousled hair and full lips, so endearing--asleep with his mouth open--unaware and untroubled. Feelings rushed to the surface, unexpected and unwanted. Her mind had been settled. Why couldn't he just leave her alone? Resting her head against his, Maggie looked into the night sky and tried to make sense of what lay beneath it.
Jake awoke in the morning to find himself stretched across the porch swing. He sat up and looked about, sensing some familiarity, yet not fully oriented. As the haze began to clear from his head, he recognized Maggie's porch. Fragments of recent memories began to collect out of sequence. He got up and headed for home, hoping he could do so without Maggie knowing he had ever been there.
Allison knelt on her closet floor and ran her fingers across the floorboards. Lifting a loose board, she pulled a small bundle from beneath it. She untied the corners of a silk scarf to reveal a small stack of letters.
To this she began to add the most recent missive, but hesitated. She opened the letter and began to read it once more.
A,
Today you smiled, and I saw that you were happy. I had to turn away so no one would see how I love you.
Your joy gave me hope. I will hold fast to that hope that my love will one day erase all the pain that it surely will cause. If it only were possible, I would shield you from what lies ahead.
"Allison!" With a start, Allison turned her ear toward the voice. It was Andrew, calling from below.
Allison stood and walked over to the mirror.
"Allison!"
She smoothed her hair and wiped a tear from her eye, then looked at the letter still clutched in her hand. She tucked it into her desk drawer then hastened on her way.
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