by Terri Kraus
For a moment, Leslie was dumbfounded.
Why would he be calling me? Couldn’t he call a taxi?
As if hearing her thoughts, Jack said, “No money for a taxi. I looked. I have three dollars.”
He sounds lost and like he really needs my help. Ava’s next door. I could slip out for a half hour.
“Where are you?”
Jack’s command of precise English began to break down and he slurred the name of the tire repair place.
“On the west side. Not too far. Be here in ten minutes, I bet.”
Leslie stood up, grabbed her purse, and a jacket since it was now spattering rain, and said into the cell phone, “Wait there, Jack. I’ll be there in ten minutes. You just wait there.”
And with that, she hurried down the steps and tried to be as quiet as possible as she started her minivan and headed south along Main Street, then south on Route 8.
Leslie snapped on the lights, tossed her jacket onto the sofa, grabbed the electric kettle, filled it with water, grabbed two cups and the canister half-filled with instant coffee. In the time it took her to do that, Jack had removed his coat, let it drop where he stood, then had slumped, heavily, into a kitchen chair.
“Thanks again, Mrs. Leslie,” he said, repeating himself in his thanks. He had not said much during the ride back to Butler. Leslie made the impetuous decision to bring him upstairs and attempt to sober him up—at least a little—before she took him home. She knew that people who drank too much often hurt themselves or caused fires trying to make coffee.
He seems harmless enough now, she assured herself. Just too much alcohol. That’s all. He is still a decent person.
“Thanks. I was in a real pickle, you know. Saved my life, you know.”
Leslie had not spoken much. She set the hot cup on the table, retrieved the cream from the refrigerator and the sugar bowl from the counter.
She sat a distance away from him. She didn’t like the smell of alcohol as it worked its way out of a person. That sickly aroma brought bad memories.
“Jack …”
“You saved my life.”
“What happened, Jack? What were you doing out there? Why did you try to drive home in your condition?”
Jack looked up at her, and despite his haggard look, despite suffering the ravages of too much drink, he was still a very striking man: face cut just so, his chin, his eyes, his mouth, all formed in that perfect way that looked both gentle and dangerous at the same time. Leslie knew, in another time or place, those looks really would be really hazardous.
“Wasn’t that bad. Didn’t drink that much. Not nearly as much as I used to. I guess I’m out of practice. A couple of years and … you get weak, I guess. You lose concentration,” he said, grinning at his own words, then hiding the grin as he saw Leslie’s stern expression.
Leslie was intuitive, at least when it came to reading others. He had a problem with drinking, I bet. That’s why he’s starting over here. Maybe he’s running from something. Maybe his past.
She watched him drink his coffee. She watched him hold the mug with both hands. Just like Ava and me. Running from something.
“More?”
Jack nodded and pushed the mug closer to her.
She made him another cup, knowing it would not bring him sobriety but would at least keep him awake, allowing nature and time to do their work. Already, he seemed a bit more in control than when she’d found him, standing alone, in the rain, lit by the garish glare of the security floodlight.
He poured in cream and added three spoonfuls of sugar.
“Jack …”
He looked up, and directly at her.
“Jack, you have to get help if this is a problem. You could have killed yourself, or someone else.”
He nodded. She watched his eyes. He had heard the same speech many times before, she knew. She knew how ineffectual repeated speeches were. Her ex-husband could have taped his speeches. It would have saved him a lot of energy. He could simply have referred to them by number: #1—The Unfit Mother; #2—The Unfit Wife; #3—The Crazy Woman; #4—The Woman Who Was Beyond Help; #5—The Loser Who Had No Business Thinking She Was Worth Anything. She knew the speeches all right.
“I know. I know,” he finally said. “I should go back to the meetings.”
“Meetings?”
“AA Meetings. I used to go. I was better.”
“You should. It would help. Wouldn’t it help?”
He shrugged. A wave of … sadness passed over his eyes. “Since my wife … since my little girl … I don’t know. Nothing matters. If I got killed, it wouldn’t matter. No one would care. Nothing matters.”
She could tell from his voice, from the teary warble in his words, that he was near the edge.
“Jack, it can’t be all that bad. There is always hope. You have to stay well. For them. Stay well for them.”
He put his head in his hands and choked back an anguished cry. “You don’t know …”
She pulled her chair closer to his, almost right next to his. “Jack, you have to try to get better for them.”
He kept his face hidden. His shoulders shook silently. Leslie couldn’t help herself. She reached out and put her arm around him. A moment later, she put both of her arms around him.
“It’s okay, Jack. It will be all right.”
And despite all the red flags and all the warning bells and all the signs—yes, she could see and hear every single one of them—she found herself intensely drawn to this man, drawn to help him—to ease his pain, to make it all better, to bring some light to his darkness.
I can make this better for him. I want to.
After a few minutes of holding Jack in her arms, she released him and he sat straight in his chair, not looking at anything, trying not to look at her. But, for an instant, her eyes found his. She could tell he felt better. It had felt so good to hold him, to feel him in her arms. Protective, secure.
Yes, I know this would be crazy. Get involved with this person? It would be crazy … foolish.
He did not look at her as he finished his second cup of coffee.
Crazy. Yes. And what would my ex-husband say about it?
She sat up straight as well.
And he is married. Isn’t he? Or is he divorced too?
“Do you want any more?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. I’ll be okay now. I’ll be fine.”
He has to be divorced.
“Do you want me to drive you to your apartment?”
Jack stood, perhaps still a bit unsteady, but steady enough.
“No, I can walk. I think it’s stopped raining. The air will do me good.”
“What about your truck?”
He waved his hand in polite dismissal.
“My landlord can take me out there. He owes me a favor. No one is going to steal it between then and now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. And thanks. I don’t know what I would have done without your help tonight. I’m sorry for bothering you like this.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He stood by the front door. He just stood there, holding the doorknob, and he looked back at Leslie. She stood a few feet away in her running sweats, her hair held back by a headband, feeling anything but feminine or attractive. He stood and stared, hard. She didn’t move and met his gaze head-on.
He let his hand drop, then walked the two steps to her, and put his arms around her. He held her, not tight, but neither was his embrace loose and unfeeling; it was tight enough that she could feel the firm muscles of his arms. She only hesitated a moment, then wrapped her arms around him, despite the scent of alcohol, despite all the warning bells that had gone off and all the red flags she saw, and embraced him back, her head on his shou
lder.
After they held each other for a long time, she released him. Looking straight into his eyes, she said, “You get better, Jack Kenyon. You have to get better.”
He nodded, reached over to her, and put a single finger softly on her lips. Then he opened the door. Before he slipped out, he said quietly, but with conviction, as if he had not said the words recently, “I will. I promise.”
The door closed, and Leslie listened to his footsteps on the stairs and the opening and closing of the downstairs door. She hurried to the french doors and saw him walk—with purpose, she decided—toward downtown and toward his apartment.
He meant it. I could tell. God, I pray he meant it.
And then Leslie wondered to herself why she mentioned this to God, after so long of a silence between them.
Amelia Westland, age eighteen years
Butler, Pennsylvania
July 5, 1880
Such serendipities! I could scarce have imagined this day when I first became acquainted with Dr. Barry. Despite my fears and paralyzing nervousness, which still visit me from time to time, the good and gentle doctor has surprised me with an action that goes far beyond the realm of any woman’s expectations. For payment of our services, he has given each of his servants a coin every week to hold in saving, a substantial amount to me, who has never seen that sort of money. Other than purchasing necessities and a few frocks and items of accessory, I have retained all the extra monies I have received.
I have discovered that God has other plans for my life. Dr. Barry, on the date of my birthday, summoned me into his office and presented me with a paper. He spoke as I read: “You are too skilled a young woman to remain here and without benefit of further education. I have made inquiries and procured you a position in the fall class at the Indiana Normal School where you shall be trained as a schoolteacher.” Even before I could ask, he added, “And I have secured a scholarship for your tuition and board.” I later discovered that Dr. Barry has done this twice prior, yet I have not heard him breathe a word of this generosity toward those in his previous employ before this very day.
I threw my arms around him with abandon and embraced him fiercely (forward, I know, yet he is as a father to me) until he became embarrassed by my gratitude. I will depart in a month’s time. Me … an orphan without resource or advantage … to become a schoolteacher! Such a dream come true! What protection God has given me. How He looked upon me, so undeserving of His grace, with His glorious favor, for I know it is because of nothing I have done that such blessing has come to me.
During my time thus far in the good Dr. Barry’s employ, I have had but a half dozen opportunities to enjoy a visit with Mr. Julian Beck. Neither of us stated our romantic inclinations toward each other, but I have dreamed that such inclinations simply went unsaid but, nonetheless, are present in both him and me … and will soon be made evident. From my countenance when we are together, it is difficult to imagine that he could be ignorant that this girlish heart is beating for him alone. Dr. and Mrs. Barry have not encouraged our society; however, they have been kind to allow Julian chaperoned calls. I shall dearly miss his calls when I am away.
With men it is impossible, but not with God:
for with God all things are possible.
—Mark 10:27
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE RAIN HAD STOPPED. It was well before dawn and Jack was walking. His landlord didn’t owe him any favors. He wasn’t even sure if the man even owned a vehicle. He had lied to Leslie and he remained unsure why.
It just seemed appropriate.
The truck was not that far from town. If he walked fast, an hour or two, he’d be there. The walk would give him a chance to think, to burn off the alcohol that was left in his system, a chance to be by himself. He seldom felt alone, even in his solitude.
Ghosts. Too many ghosts.
He strode with purpose along Route 8, nearly oblivious to the passing traffic. He recounted his steps last evening; he recounted the actions that led him to where he was this morning. He knew what Leslie said was true. He could have killed himself. Or worse yet, he could have killed someone else. The vision of that—of him careening into a car filled with innocent victims—so terrified him that he had to stop and breathe deeply. The vision caused him to nearly become sick—not just spiritually sick, but physically sick. He saw images swirling of him plowing into a family car. He saw faces of small children, their eyes lit in terror at the galloping headlights aimed at them, their little hands held up in an attempt to protect themselves from the carnage.
He began to run, began to run from the image, running fast for a mile, maybe two, then slowing to a jog, then a quick walk, his sides hurting, his shins burning, his lungs tight. But he had escaped the visions, he had outrun the terrifying images and thoughts and the might-have-beens and the there-but-for-the-grace-of-God scenarios.
Now he was just a tired, hungover man on the way to rescue his truck, stuck lightly in the mud.
He crested a small hill, and there it was, his battered truck, parked well off the side of the road, as if parked there on purpose. He squinted, hoping to determine if the police had placed a ticket on the windshield. He squinted and walked with a quicker step.
There was no ticket.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
He looked again at the damage. It was not severe at all. The mirror was gone, but the door was only slightly scratched. It would be no problem to get a replacement mirror and the scratch buffed out. Or he could leave them as they were.
He unlocked his door and climbed in. The cab stunk of liquor, a sour, decaying smell, tinted with an acrid cigarette odor. He didn’t think he had smoked last night, but he might have, in an effort to drive sober. It had never worked in the past, but the past was so difficult to outrun.
He turned the key. The engine started right up. He put it into reverse gear and gingerly applied the gas. The truck lurched a bit; the tires scrabbled to catch purchase in the moist dirt and gravel. A spray of stones splattered the undercarriage, then the truck bumped and rose up and backward. He was not as stuck as he’d feared. He stopped the truck on a piece of drier ground, still well off the road, and put the transmission in neutral.
He took his cell phone from the holster on his belt. He knew the number. He’d known it all the time. He was good with numbers. And this one, he remembered.
He dialed it and waited.
“Yes … when is the next meeting? In Butler. Downtown is best.”
He listened and heard a page being turned.
“Grace at Calvary? Grace Street at Calvary Street? I don’t know where that is at.”
He listened a long moment, his eyes watching the morning traffic speed by.
“Oh … a church. The big old stone one on the square? That’s Grace at Calvary?”
He nodded.
“An ‘at’ sign. Yeah. I know where the church is. What time? Okay. Good. It’s not a closed meeting, is it? That’s good. Great.”
He closed the phone, slipped it back into the holster.
He put on his seat belt, looked over his shoulder behind him, and pulled out, a thin spray of stones shooting off his rear tires. He settled down as he drove, making plans for this morning, making plans to stop at McDonald’s for breakfast, then on to work, then tonight, at six, he knew where he must go.
And maybe, during the day, he might see Leslie.
He had absolutely no idea of what he might say to her, other than assuring her that her faith in him was not unfounded.
Even if such faith in him, by and from others, always had been unfounded and undeserved in the past.
Leslie had fallen asleep late, well after 1:00, maybe closer to 2:00 a.m. She rose early and forced herself to be wide awake before Ava was up. Then she remembered. Ava was at the Stickles’. She would not be home until lunch.
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It felt strange to have a morning by herself, without her daughter. She padded into the kitchen in her pajamas, walked to the french doors, and looked outside. She walked back to the kitchen. Then she went into the living room, where the smell of last night’s fire still lingered, and sat on the sofa, switched on the television, switched it off, and went back into the kitchen.
The buzzer rang, making her jump and turn as if being attacked. It buzzed again, and she ran to the french doors, peering down, hoping to see who was ringing her bell that early in the morning. Outside, double-parked, was a white-paneled truck with The Bloomery painted in fancy scrolled letters. She opened the french door and shouted down, “Who is the delivery for?”
The deliveryman, holding a wrapped package, stepped backward toward the curb and then looked up. “Leslie Ruskin.”
“That’s me. You can leave them on the stoop. Or wait. I’ll be right down.”
She ran to her bedroom, found the nice robe that she rarely wore, and hurried downstairs, with two dollars to tip the driver. Wrapped in gossamer paper was a lovely bouquet of flowers. She could tell that the arrangement had been selected from the florist’s autumn collection.
Back upstairs, she unwrapped it carefully and breathed deeply. The scents were wonderful. She took the small envelope attached to the bouquet and opened it slowly, not sure why she was hesitant.
Thanks for last night. Sorry for moving too fast, but I liked the end of the evening the best. You are wonderful. Mike
His handwriting grew smaller and smaller and tighter and tighter as he got to the end of his message. She could barely make out the “Mike.”
Who else could it be—really?
She took the artificial flowers out of the glass vase on the kitchen table and primped at the fragrant flowers and the ferns as she placed them just so in the vase, turning it one way, then the other, and stepping back to admire them. It had been a long time since anyone had sent her flowers.
And as she looked at them, standing in the kitchen in her robe and pajamas, she felt it. The tight bands. The constriction. The sense of dread and doom. The panic slowly rising. She tightened her hands into fists, her knuckles turning white.