Duet for Three Hands

by Tess Thompson

  Frances made a series of sounds like she was suffocating before looking over at Nathaniel. “Make her leave.”

  Lydia was on her feet, pulling Jeselle up with her and heading for the door. “No need.” Whitmore followed.

  “Whitmore, you stay where you are. I’m calling Daddy right now,” said Frances.

  Nathaniel put up his hand. “Frances, that’s not a good idea.”

  Frances tossed her head, her blonde curls bouncing. “You can’t stop me.”

  “Call him if you want,” said Whitmore. “It doesn’t matter because we’re leaving town together, and nothing you or Father do or say will make a difference.”

  Frances’s face went from white to purple, and her eyes darted to each and every one in the room and then rested on Nathaniel. “How could you do this?”

  Lydia motioned to Whitmore as she pulled Jeselle out the door. “Whit, let’s go.”

  After they were gone, Frances collapsed into the couch. “How could you be involved in this and not tell me?”

  “Because I knew you would try to stop it.”

  “If decency won’t dictate to you, think of Whitmore. This will ruin his life. Moving to France with a … I mean, it’s simply too awful to think of.”

  “This is what he wants. There’s no stopping him. When did you become so concerned for Whitmore, anyway? You’ve always acted like he doesn’t exist.”

  “What kind of person do you think I am?”

  He poured himself a drink. “It’s Whit’s life.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” She paused, motioning for him to give her his drink. “I won’t call Daddy if you agree to something I want.”

  He handed her the drink. “What is it?”

  “I want some money to go out to California.”

  “Frances, not this again.”

  “Don’t dismiss me. You want to help Whitmore—this is the price. I want all the money you have in savings to take out there with me. I have a few ideas of how to get started, but I need money.”

  “You cannot go to California without me. And I have my work here. It’s not safe for a woman out there alone.”

  Her eyes glistened. “That’s what I want. Is Whitmore’s freedom worth it to you?”

  “Frances, you are not well enough for this sort of endeavor. These people, these Los Angeles people who run movie studios, they don’t know you. You don’t just arrive in town, and they immediately put you in front of the camera.”

  Her cheeks flamed pink. “You don’t know everything.” Her eyes turned hard as she rose from the couch. “Just remember that I gave you a chance to help me, and you refused.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Her demeanor changed suddenly, the steely look replaced by her usual airy and delicate way of moving and talking. “Nothing, darlin’.” She waved her hand in the air. “I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to. I suppose you know more than little ole me. I’m awful tired. I think I’ll go rest in my room.”

  Chapter 45

  Whitmore

  * * *

  After they left the house, Lydia, Nathaniel, Whit, and Jeselle agreed that Jeselle would walk back to Bess’s and await word from Nathaniel while Whit and Lydia did the same in their respective rooms. After Lydia left them, Whit and Jeselle lingered for a moment in the privacy of Nathaniel’s backyard near a rosebush with pink buds reaching toward the sun like young ballerinas.

  “Do you remember the fireflies you caught for me on my birthday all those years ago?” Jeselle placed a hand on her belly.

  Whit nodded, putting his hand over hers, imagining the baby growing under their clasped flesh, inside his Jes like a bulb buried in rich soil.

  Of course, he remembered, each capture of brilliant light between jar and lid a token of his unspoken love. He gathered them for her, one by one, grinning with delight, knowing how they would please her, the anticipation of giving them to her was better than anything he could receive himself. But the fireflies, his gift, fluttered and shone in the enclosed glass world he’d created for them, and he became remorseful standing next to this girl, so like the fireflies themselves, full of life and light and beauty. They sparked to attract a mate, to attract love, he remembered, suddenly. His heart constricted, and the tightness came to his throat, the kind that made it seem as if he could not breathe. Nothing this beautiful should be locked away when the dark night awaited their spark, their love.

  “We let them go. Do you remember why?” she asked, bringing him back to the garden and the smell of rosebuds and the unheard heartbeat of his child.

  “Because they deserved to be free—to search for love.” The answer came without a thought, and yet there was no need to say it out loud, this shared memory between them conjured in a second.

  “Free to attract a mate.”

  “Free to attract the love they deserved. That every living thing deserves,” he added.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. When he took the lid off the jar, the fireflies immediately fluttered up and out, hovering for an instant before drifting into the night with the others. Nothing had seemed as lovely as that moment, knowing he’d restored them to their rightful place in the night. Once again, her words brought him back to the moment.

  “Whit, their spark also attracts predators. Did you know that?” Tears tumbled from her eyes.

  He wiped her wet cheeks with his thumbs. “Hatred is not the same as nature’s predators. No matter how they try and defend it.”

  “They’re winning, Whit. Hatred, bigotry, fear. They’re all winning.”

  “They’ll never win.” He tapped his chest above his heart. “They can’t touch us inside here. No amount of hatred can smother love, no matter how they try.”

  “You’ll love me no matter how they try?”

  “Until the end of time, no matter how they try.”

  When he arrived back at the boarding house, Whitmore paced the rickety porch, fighting a sense of dread and despair. Frances would be trouble. And unlike the escapades of their youth, this time her ill will toward him could have serious consequences. He’d had to send Jeselle back to Bess’s instead of keeping her near where he could protect her and their baby. A man should not be asked to make such a choice, he thought as he went down the porch steps and wandered over to the abandoned wooden swing. Once held in place with a rope on each side, it hung now by only one end, the once flat slab warped into the shape of a child’s sled. He held the decaying swing in his hands. Idle, helpless hands, he thought, brushing dirt from the swing.

  He dropped the swing and went inside to his room. What to do in these futile, helpless hours while he waited to hear from Nathaniel? Without thinking, he went to his bag and reached inside for his Bible. Abandoned most days, he had remembered to tuck it in his bag before he left Princeton. A gift from his mother on his tenth birthday, which had surprised him because she did not speak much of God and attended church with more resignation than zeal. Yet, she’d insisted he have a Bible and reminded him to take it with him to Princeton. What would she say now, during this desperate moment?

  Sitting on the bed, he opened it to somewhere in the middle, then placed his helpless palm on the soft page. His eyes, unfocused, did not read the words. Instead he prayed, silently. Please God, let us be free to love.

  Chapter 46

  Nathaniel

  * * *

  The early evening sun glinted through the window of Nathaniel’s office as he stood behind his desk telling Lydia of his conversation with Frances, including her asking for money for California. He came around the desk. “She wants to go to California, see about this actress thing.”

  “Really?” Lydia bit her bottom lip, her eyes scrunched up as if she were contemplating the idea.

  “Of course I told her no.”

  “Why?”

  He looked at her in disbelief. “She’s not well enough.”

  “She isn’t? Are you sure about that?” She sounded a little like a schoolteacher expla
ining the concepts of algebra to a student she thought capable but lazy.

  “I can see you have an opinion. Why don’t you tell me?” He watched her play with the collar of her dress. Outside the window he heard the buzz of bees drinking nectar from flowers. He spoke quietly, “Really, Lydia, what would you have me do with Frances?”

  She shifted her feet, and he could see she was agitated. It almost amused him to see her struggling to keep her opinion to herself. “It’s really none of my business,” she said, clamping her mouth shut.

  “No, say what you think. I’m asking you.”

  She stared back at him, moving her hands to her hips. “You might consider letting her go. You could hire a companion for her—a woman to look after her out there. Like you would for a child, like a governess.”

  “She’s not a child.”

  “Nathaniel!” She threw her hands in the air. “You’re impossible.” She marched to his office door, as if to leave.

  How dare she criticize his decisions about Frances? She hadn’t been here, hadn’t lived with her for all these years. His voice rose louder than he meant it to when he said, “She’s ill. I have to look after her.”

  She swung back to look at him, her voice tight. “Of course you’re right.”

  “A woman does not travel alone to a strange place.”

  She turned to face him. “I have.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How is it different?” Her voice raised an octave, full of sarcasm. “I’m an old, dried-up widow, and your wife is young and beautiful? No harm could come to someone like me. Is that it?”

  “It’s not the same. Frances is fragile.”

  It surprised him to see the rims of her eyes turn pink, as if she might cry. But her voice was even when she spoke, “I’m sure you’re correct.”

  “I know how to handle my own wife,” he sputtered. “And perhaps you’re right, it is none of your business.”

  She flinched. Her eyes flashed and then glazed over with a coldness that changed her entire face. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “We didn’t ask for your help.”

  She stepped back from him like he’d moved to strike her. “Do whatever you think is best.”

  “My wife suffers, has suffered.”

  “We all suffer.” Her voice was loud now as she gripped the back of the chair with both hands. “You have suffered, and I’m beginning to see it’s of your own making. When is it exactly, Professor, that you say, ‘Enough. I’ve had enough.’”

  “It would be nice to have that luxury, wouldn’t it? To denounce God and country and family whenever they inconvenience us. But that’s not my way.” He felt his words choke at the back of his throat and put his fingers to his forehead, suddenly weary. “The truth is, I’m being punished.”

  “Being punished? By whom?” Her face changed as the understanding of what he meant came to her. “You think God’s punishing you?”

  He nodded. “I wanted to divorce her. I wanted nothing more than to go off on my own, pursue my career once again without the constraints of this woman I’d grown to despise. And God took my fingers away because of it. So, as you can see, I am quite clear about what God wants from me. He wants me to take care of Frances.”

  She bit her bottom lip. “This is what you think of God?”

  “It’s what I know, Lydia.” He closed his eyes and pressed at them with his fingers until he felt Lydia’s hand on his shoulder, her skirt brushing against his thigh. When he opened his eyes, her face had rearranged itself into something kind and tender.

  “This is not the same God I know, Nathaniel.”

  He breathed in her scent: lemons and violets. “Lydia, this can’t work.”

  “What can’t work?” she whispered.

  “I spoke with Howard Hanson. He runs the program up at Rochester.”

  “I know who he is.”

  “He’s agreed to take you as a student. Lydia, it’s the chance of a lifetime.”

  “Rochester.” She jerked away, as if he’d just slapped her.

  “Lydia, there are so many reasons you should go.”

  “But I’m studying with you.”

  His face contorted in pain as he reached for her, but then he pulled his hand away. “Lydia, you’re all I think about.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut as if she were about to crash a speeding car into a tree. She said in a ragged breath, “Yes. Me too.” Her mouth trembled.

  “I can’t trust myself.” He took a deep breath and went to the window, looking out. “It’ll be better this way. Howard said you could come this week.”

  “So soon?”

  “It’s for the best.”

  “Yes, of course. For the best.”

  He heard her crying and moved swiftly across the room and grabbed her in his arms. “Lydia, please don’t cry,” he whispered.

  She drew in a long shaky breath as she gazed up at him, her hands on the top two buttons of his shirt. A strong warm current like swift water pulled him under. He leaned over and kissed her, hard and desperate. At first her breath caught, and he thought she might pull away, but instead she moved closer, pressing against him and parting her lips. Nothing else mattered, everything faded, except for the feel of her next to him.

  Finally, he pulled away, wanting to search her eyes, to see what was there. It was more tears, dampening her cheeks and making her eyes a bottomless blue. “I’m sorry.”

  She put her fingers to her mouth, shaking her head. “Please, don’t be. I’ve felt invisible for so many years. And then there was you, and suddenly I was alive.”

  “All I want is to have you by my side.” He reached for her, pulled her tight against him once more. She cried, with little sobs that heaved her chest. He felt sick to his stomach, ravaged with remorse and tenderness and guilt. “Do you see why you must go?” He loosened his arms from around her waist. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. And then she fled, her footsteps fading down the hallway until he was alone, wrung out from shame and desire.

  Later, Nathaniel trudged across campus. The grounds were the same as yesterday, same flower blossoms, same old oaks that dipped romantically over green rolling lawns. But now he saw the flaws in the landscape: the unevenly trimmed hedges and the patches of brown lawn. It was all ugly to him. The air suffocating.

  Somehow he made it to the front row pew of the empty Presbyterian church. With his eyes shut tight, he prayed as hard as he could to a God he doubted. After a time, he didn’t know how long, he smelled Pastor Ferguson’s scent of cinnamon and yeast and aftershave.

  “What’s happened?” He placed a hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder.

  Nathaniel leaned back in the pew, studying the cross on the wall behind the pulpit and raking a hand through his hair. “I’ve asked Lydia to go. To Rochester. To study there.”

  Pastor Ferguson didn’t react except to nod and tug on his ear. As if musing on a philosophical question, he asked, “And what prompted this decision?”

  “I can’t trust myself.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  Nathaniel studied him. “Have you ever lost your faith, Gillis? Has anything in your life ever caused you to think perhaps there is no God?”

  The pastor hesitated, looking upward for a moment and then back at Nathaniel. “I’ve never questioned His existence, but my faith, once, was shaken.”

  “When your daughter died?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid the pain of the circumstance was such that I was blinded to His wisdom, to His love for a short time. It seemed my crisis of faith came in the form of questions. Why her? Why me? As you know, I would advise any of my flock that, here on earth, we do not always understand His ways, and the glorious reunion in heaven will wipe away all questions, all fear. But when you’re in the midst of the pain sometimes it’s not possible to remember these things.” He went on, “Five years ago when I lost Rose, after watching her suffer so, I didn’t falter in my faith, but the pain of missing her was al
l consuming. But with God’s help one can go on, you see.”

  “When will it stop for me, Gillis? I’ve been without pity for myself. I began again. I’ve given to others through teaching. I’ve stayed married to a woman I do not love, all for the sake of pleasing Him. And now I’ve walked away from a woman with whom I might find some peace. I’ve been righteous, Gillis. And still I suffer. And I cannot help but ask why? Why did God turn away from me?”

  “He never turns away, Nathaniel. It’s merely your perception.”

  Just then they heard the sound of the red-bellied woodpecker pecking against the building. Both men were quiet, the only sound between them the rhythmic drumming of the woodpecker’s beak. After a moment, Gillis smiled in his tender way and gazed at the cross that hung on the wall behind the pulpit. “I’ve been wondering about that bird all these months, thinking of it merely as an irritant or interruption during my daily conversations with God. I imagined this bird was a sign the building was eroding with termites and that it would need repair with money we cannot raise from the downtrodden people of this congregation. Yesterday I did research on this bird, and do you know they eat mostly berries? They make their nests where sawdust already gathers, which means the hole he has slowly chipped away at was already there. He just made it bigger. I went up there last night to see this hole for myself. And inside were all these dried berries and acorns, food he’s storing for later, I suppose, when hard times come for him.” He stopped, smiling and scratching his temple. “It’s made me understand something. Something important. Sometimes what we think we know is not so at all.” He sat beside Nathaniel in the pew. “I have something I want to say to you. I’ve prayed on it for several weeks now, and I feel I can no longer be silent.” Gillis looked him straight in the eyes. “Son, sometimes we need to know when to let go.”