by Lily Velez
Noah lay in bed and tried to find comfort in the familiar sounds, hoping they might serve as anchors lest his frantic thoughts drag him downstream into perilous waters.
The moon spilled into his room, painting Noah and the walls in its pearly light. He remembered Jeremie’s story about the sun and his beloved. The moon waned now, which meant the tomb among the stars was fading away, and somewhere in the distance, the sun wept at the sight of the diminishing light, a light that made Noah’s flesh appear ghostly now, as if he should occupy a tomb of his own.
After considerable hesitation, he lifted his hand—the one Jeremie had grasped—and stared at it as if it were a foreign entity. What had possessed Jeremie to do what he’d done? He’d been largely out of character all day, but this? Noah didn’t know what it could mean, what he should think.
He only knew how his chest seemed to hold the weight of the entire farm. He only knew how his heart knocked against his ribs like a desperate fist at the door. He only knew how his stomach fluttered in a riot as if he were falling from some great height.
He only knew that his hand, at this very moment, felt like the most alive part of him.
An explosion of laughter came from his family, and Noah forced his hand down onto the bed, as if he were storing away a dangerous secret.
17
A week passed without a word or visit from Jeremie.
It wasn’t without notice. Noah’s family regularly asked after him, none as adamant in their line of questioning as Camilla, who refused to swallow Noah’s excuses that Jeremie had most likely become too busy with the bookshop’s affairs now that it was open.
“How busy could one possibly be when it comes to selling books?” she demanded one afternoon as Noah mucked out the horse stables. She’d stationed herself in the doorway of the stall he occupied, effectively blocking any possibility of escape.
With a pitchfork in hand and a kerchief tied over his nose and mouth to block out the overpowering stench of urine, he began to remove the wet and soiled straw bedding. He tossed the first bunch into the waiting wheelbarrow beside Camilla only a little haphazardly, hoping errant straws and billows of dust would deter her.
She shrieked and hurried back a number of steps, waving at the air in front of her as she bunched up her face. “You truly are the rudest boy,” she accused. “I only hope you haven’t scared Jeremie off. Don’t you understand anything? Marrying him wouldn’t just change my position. It would change yours, too, and everyone else’s. Do you really want to be ankles-deep in horse manure for the rest of your life?”
She shook out the ends of her skirt to rid it of any debris. “I tried to tell the others that Jeremie couldn’t possibly gain anything from a friendship with you. Clearly I was right. He’s no doubt grown bored with our life here and has moved on. I suppose you can be proud of ruining that for us all.”
Noah continued working long after Camilla had stalked off. This was the hardest and most time-consuming chore he bore, and the number of horses his family kept only added to it, as did the misfortune that a good number of those horses were slovenly creatures. He spent hours every morning cleaning up after them while they were at pasture. It was work not suited for the faint of heart.
As it were, he welcomed it. Especially now. Ever since the last time he’d seen Jeremie, he’d forced himself to become lost in work like this more so than ever, attempting to put what had transpired between them out of his mind.
It wasn’t always easy. There were times, quite of their own volition, while Noah was hammering away at the anvil or brushing straw from his arm or reaching for a tool, when his eyes would fall upon his hand, the one Jeremie had touched, and it was as if he’d suddenly been conveyed to the bookshop’s back room and was in the orange glow of the Carcel burner once more. He would remember how warm Jeremie’s palm had been, how soft, the weight of it, his fingers curling in to capture Noah’s hand, to hold it there for just a moment, to pin it in place. In those moments, it was as if Noah’s hand was in want of something, as if it were a half-finished work at the end of a sculptor’s mallet and chisel, still trying to come to form, still finding its way, still missing some sort of vital detail or essence.
Jeremie’s touch?
No. The very thought sent his heart into a riot. That couldn’t be it at all, and when his mind dared think it, he felt as if he didn’t even know this hand of his anymore, as if it were a strange facet of himself that existed apart from his body, as if it were leprous even while the rest of him was clean.
Whenever such heinous contemplations flitted about in his mind, he shoved them away, determined to conquer their plague. As he did so, he would try to ignore the way his heart trembled at the thoughts, the way his lungs forgot to inhale.
It was near the end of July when Jeremie finally showed his face again.
Noah had been sitting on the porch steps with his brothers, enjoying canoed-out baguettes their mother had prepared filled with salty, pulled meat. Noah had tried to follow his brothers’ conversation, but his mind eventually wandered as he tossed small chunks of baguette to the flock of ducks congregating at the bottom of the steps, quacking for attention. He was thinking about how he’d dreamt of Jeremie the night before.
It’d been an odd dream. In it, Noah stood at the lake where his ducks swam. One moment, he was watching them. Then, in the next, he was underwater. Stranger still was that he found he could breathe just fine.
It was serene in the lake. Quiet. As he remained in place, he noticed a small, rectangular-shaped object slip through the surface. Upon closer inspection, he saw it was the book of poems Jeremie had given him. As soon as he realized this, the book began to sink until it disappeared into the dark abyss below.
“Noah.”
Suddenly he was back on land, standing before the lake the way he’d been at the dream’s opening. He turned around at the sound of his name, and there was Jeremie, with a look in his eyes Noah couldn’t understand.
Then he’d woken up.
All morning, the dream had taunted him as he tried to decode its meaning. He turned the sequence of events over and over again in his mind, like trying key after key in a lock until the teeth finally clicked.
Eventually, he deserted his brothers and retreated inside to escape the humidity. The air was so thick, it smothered a person. Noah would be in the barn all afternoon today, so the little relief he could accord himself now was relief of which he’d take advantage.
In the kitchen, he found his mother and sisters. His mother was pouring a new mixture into the molds she used for her soaps, and his sisters were engaged in any number of tasks: Genevieve was repairing torn clothing, Camilla was scrubbing linen against a washboard, and Margaux was carefully slicing vegetables over a scarred cutting board for a broth gurgling over the fire.
Upon seeing Noah, Camilla narrowed her eyes. “I’m going to dump out the dirty water,” she said, grabbing the small tub of water she’d been working over and pushing past Noah on her way out, the water sloshing from side to side so that some of it spilled onto the floor, creating dark patches like birthmarks.
Margaux permitted herself a small giggle. “Goodness. She’s like a bear with a sore head lately.”
“You mustn’t speak that way about your sister,” their mother said, but she didn’t disagree.
Noah dunked a nearby washcloth into a water basin before pressing it against his face, cold rivulets snaking down his jawline and neck like vines. He thought about his dream again but for a different reason this time. He thought about how refreshing it would be to sink to the bottom of the lake and escape the sun’s unrelenting glare.
It was while the cloth was still against his face that he heard the commotion from outside followed by Camilla practically screeching into the house.
“Jeremie’s here!”
Noah’s mother gasped. “Oh, what a happy surprise!” She quickly wiped her hands on her apron and looked to Noah and his sisters. “Shall we greet him then?” They abandon
ed their half-finished tasks and hurried outside.
Noah didn’t follow. Instead he moved through the house until he found the window with a full view of the porch. From a distance, Jeremie advanced, his face red from the heat and glistening with slight perspiration. Noah’s mother and sisters gleefully assembled themselves on the porch in wait, and Noah’s father, drawn in by the curious sight of their behavior, approached from the sheep pastures with the dog attached to his side. Only Noah’s brothers remained sitting, trading comments about how their returns from town were never welcomed with such pageantry.
Noah’s stomach twisted unpredictably. He had expected Jeremie to stay away. He hadn’t, and so what were they to do now? Make eye contact? No? Speak normally? How? Were they to pretend their hands had never met that evening? Noah gripped the window ledge before him, his heart beating double-time, so hard it was like a drummer boy’s mallet against his chest.
As Jeremie dismounted his horse, Camilla put on airs of being unfazed. At the last moment, she spotted a broom in a corner and grabbed it to begin sweeping delicately at the porch floor, as if nothing of consequence was occurring at that very moment. With all her pretending not to care, it was easy to see the earthquake under her skin.
Noah’s mother and father were the first to greet Jeremie. “We’re so happy to see you. It’s been some time.”
“Forgive me my absence,” Jeremie said. “I certainly meant no disrespect.” He wasn’t smiling, but then Noah thought that could’ve been due to the heat. Summer had a way of draining a person. Sometimes, one might feel as if he were burning alive, and then all he wished to do was lay in the shade all day, lethargic and mentally spent.
“Of course not,” Noah’s mother said. “We could never think that of you. Won’t you come in and refresh yourself? Noah’s right inside. I’m sure you’d love to speak with him.”
At the mention of his name, Noah’s body became as hollow as an empty wineskin. He was momentarily weightless, as if he could evaporate into thin air, so insubstantial as to dissolve through the very floorboards beneath his feet.
“That’s quite all right,” Jeremie said. “I’m sure he must be held up by something. I rather not trouble him.” He was keeping his distance as well then.
Jeremie traded pleasantries with the others a few moments more, asking Genevieve about her needlework, Margaux about the bummer lamb. He tugged at the ascot about his throat more than once, and more than once, too, did he glance toward the farmhouse. Noah always quickly stepped out of view.
Finally, Noah’s mother asked, “Are you certain you won’t come in? Surely you haven’t traveled all this way to stand in the sun all afternoon.”
“Actually,” Jeremie said, “I’ve come on important business of a sort.” He paused for a moment, gathering himself. His Adam’s apple dipped once as he swallowed. Then, “I came in hopes that I might call upon Camilla. If you would allow it, of course, monsieur.”
Noah nearly fell forward, nearly smacked his face right into the windowpane. He blinked as if to clear his vision, certain he was hallucinating even as a burning chill struck his core. He didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until his lungs strained, didn’t breathe even then. He only stared.
Camilla started but just as quickly checked herself. She tried to mask that knowing smile of hers under the façade of a shy, unsuspecting maiden as all eyes swung to Noah’s father for an answer.
Noah didn’t hear the answer. Judging by the way Camilla gripped Genevieve’s hands with a grin and by the way his brothers eyed Jeremie the way they would a new enemy, he supposed his father had granted his consent.
He hadn’t heard it, though, and he didn’t hear much of anything else. He only continued to stare, his eyes impaling Jeremie like harpoons, his mind crowded with a disarray of thoughts.
But still, no sound. It was as if he’d sunk to the bottom of the lake after all.
18
Noah and Jeremie acted like perfect strangers in the weeks that followed.
Jeremie especially. He was different. Strange. Over supper, he no longer spoke as unreservedly as he once had. He presented a reined-in version of himself instead. It was not unlike throwing a lampshade over an otherwise resplendent light.
In those days, whenever Jeremie called on Camilla, they’d go for walks about the farmland, Genevieve and Margaux in tow to chaperone. Noah watched on as he helped his father erect a new fence around one of the pastures. He would drive nails into a few pickets and then let his eyes drift toward Jeremie’s direction, all the while wondering if this was how Camilla had felt all summer, observing from a distance as Jeremie’s attentions laid elsewhere.
One afternoon, Noah stood at the water pump behind the farmhouse, filling buckets for the horse stalls, swatting away relentless flies that pestered him in the heat as if he had anything to offer them. When the water level in the present pail nearly brimmed over the edge, he moved it aside, catching his muted reflection in the water, noting the way it wobbled. What an apt depiction, he thought. He set the pail to rest, relieved of its brick-like weight, and set a new bucket under the water pump. Before resuming with the task, he leaned against the structure and mopped the sweat from his brow with a sleeve.
It was then that Jeremie materialized around the corner, his hands and forearms dripping with mud as if he’d slipped across one of the land’s bald spots made slick from the prior day’s rainfall. Upon noticing Noah, he punctuated his stride with a sudden stop.
Noah stiffened, heart slamming against his ribs.
“Oh,” Jeremie said. Oh, as if he’d uttered something embarrassing and had been corrected. Oh, as if he’d received disappointing news that couldn’t be helped. “I didn’t know anyone was here.” His gaze roamed over the pails as if counting them. “I suppose I’ll come back when you’re finished.” Then he was gone.
Another time, Noah was grooming his mother’s horse—an elegant mare the color of snow named Serenity—just outside the barn when he spotted Jeremie and Camilla a stone’s throw away, returning from one of their walks.
“Serenity’s out,” Camilla said. “Would you like to meet her, Jeremie? She’s such a sweet thing.”
Noah immediately looked away. His pulse tapped violently at his throat, so rapidly it might as well had been a woodpecker at his neck. He continued rubbing Serenity’s coat with the curry comb, his hand following the circular motions mechanically—the very hand, he realized, that Jeremie had touched. Did Jeremie notice? And if he did, did it torture him the way it did Noah?
“Actually,” Jeremie said. “It’s still so early. Why don’t we take another round about the farm?”
Noah looked over Serenity’s back at their retreating figures, feeling that with every step, they pulled the breath further out of his lungs.
He wouldn’t have thought much of it except that it happened again days later. Noah’s progress with the fence had taken him so far out across the farmland that he now neared the very territory where Jeremie and Camilla walked. He thought it strange, ridiculous even, how he felt like an intruder, but it only drove him to work as quickly as possible lest he cross paths with them.
His eyes followed them as they made their slow circle around the property, trailed by Genevieve and Margaux as always. He thought if he timed it just right, he could retreat for a break at the lake while they were still a ways off and never have to intersect their small party. He decided to finish with a few more pickets before implementing the plan, but while he was aligning the pickets with the fence rail, he saw that Jeremie and Camilla, now facing his direction from a distance, had slowed to a stop.
They were discussing something. Jeremie made a show of pointing up at the cloudless sky, using his other hand as a visor against the sun’s cruel brightness. Then he gestured to the path ahead of them, as if indicating they still had a long way to go. His lips continued moving, and then finally Camilla nodded. Instead of continuing forward, a route that would have caused them to pass by Noah, they decided to en
d their walk for the day and retraced their steps back to the farmhouse.
Noah’s thoughts splintered.
That evening, he endured supper miserably, wondering why he hadn’t played sick to escape close quarters with Jeremie. Certainly Jeremie would have preferred it, if his recent behaviors were any indication. Noah stared at his plate, moving the food around, prodding at the meat, waiting for someone to excuse themselves from the table so he wouldn’t have to be the first.
Jeremie was speaking of the bookshop now. As he’d hoped, the festival celebrating Saint Agricola had drawn floods of patrons into the store, and every day, more and more people learned of his presence in town.
“Soon, I hope to begin my trade as a bookbinder as well.”
Noah almost dropped his fork at that. No one present could understand the depth of Jeremie’s passion for bookbinding. Even if he’d confided in Camilla, Noah doubted she’d think much of it. She paid little mind to matters that didn’t directly affect her in some way.
In spite of himself, daring to hope, Noah lifted his eyes. He thought that in that moment, something—he didn’t know what—might change, that the strangeness of recent weeks would evaporate. If Jeremie would only look his way like he’d once done so often before during meals just like this, then it would represent a truce between them. All would be well.
Just once. That’s all. A simple reassurance; wordless but no less compelling.
If Jeremie looked his way but once…
But Jeremie never did.
19
In town, Noah’s father found it strange that Noah never wished to pause inside the bookshop to bid Jeremie hello.
“Surely you wish to see how things are coming along?”