Season Of Passion (1980)

by Steel, Danielle

  When Felicia arrived at the apartment, Kate was incoherent, but dressed. The cab was still waiting downstairs.

  Come on, put your shoes on.

  My shoes. Kate looked blank. My shoes? Tears filled her eyes again and she looked grayish green. Felicia found the closet and a pair of black flats.

  Here. Kate slid her feet into them and left the apartment without handbag or coat, but Felicia slipped her own coat over the girl's shoulders. She didn't need a bag, anyway, because she was in no condition to go anywhere alone. And she didn't have to. Felicia stayed with her day and night for four days, and at the end of that time Tom was still alive. He was in a coma, and the prognosis was poor, but he was alive. He had done a fairly thorough job when he fired, though. He would never walk again, and there was no way to tell yet how extensive the brain damage was.

  When Felicia went back to work, Kate carried on like a machine, moving from Tom's bed to the corridor to his bed to the corridor, to cry alone. It was a treadmill which Felicia joined her on when she could, but there was no getting Kate away from the hospital. She was mourning for Tom. She just sat there, staring, or crying, or smoking, but she wasn't really there, and the doctor was afraid to give her anything, in case the medication hurt the baby. Felicia was amazed that she hadn't lost it.

  While the newspapers tore Tom apart, Kate tore herself apart. Why hadn't she seen some sign? Why hadn't she known? Could she have helped? Did she take his worries about the future followed by those spending binges seriously enough? It was all her fault. It had to be. With the egotism of grief, she tormented herself day after day. Football. It had been his whole life, and now it had killed him. The thought that he'd almost killed two other men was even more terrifying, but she didn't believe he could have done that. Not Tom. But what he had done was bad enough. He had destroyed himself. Poor gentle Tom, driven berserk at the idea of losing that last year of security he wanted for his son. Kate didn't let herself think about the baby though. Only about Tom. It was a nightmare that went on for seven weeks, while Kate paced and cried and was constantly haunted by reporters. And then he came to.

  He was weak, broken, and tired, but little by little he grew stronger. He would live now what was left of him they were sure of it. He would never walk again, but he could move. He could talk. And he could think. Just like a child. The long weeks of coma had moved him backward in time and left him there, with all his sweetness and tenderness and love intact. He was a little boy again. He remembered nothing of the shooting, but he recognized Kate. He cried in her arms as she stifled silent sobs which shook her tall, terrifyingly thin frame. The only thing he truly understood was that he belonged to her. But he wasn't sure how. Sometimes he thought she was his mother, sometimes his friend. He called her Katie. He would never call her Princess again' Katie ' that's who she was now.

  You won't leave me?

  Gravely, she shook her head. No, Tom.

  Never?

  Never. I love you too much ever to leave you. Her eyes filled with tears again, and she had to force ordinary thoughts into her head. She couldn't let herself really think of him when she said the words, or it would kill her. She couldn't let herself cry. She couldn't do that to him.

  I love you too. And you're pretty. He looked at her with the bright, shiny eyes of a seven-year-old boy, and the wan, tired face of an unshaven, desperately sick man.

  After a few weeks, he looked better again, healthy and whole. It was strange to see him, the ersatz Tom. It was as though Tom had left, and sent in his stead a small boy who looked like him. It would be that way forever. But Tom's condition settled the legal aspects of the case permanently. There was no case. Tom Harper was no more.

  Three months after what Kate and Felicia called the accident, Tom was moved to a sanatarium in Carmel. Photographers had lunged at the ambulance as he was being wheeled inside. Tom had wanted to wave at them, and Kate had distracted him while he held tightly to her hand. She was used to them now. Some of the faces were even familiar. For three months they had torn her apart in story after story, exploded flashbulbs in her face, and crawled over the roof of their house to get a better view into the apartment. She had no one to turn to, to defend her. No family, no man. And they knew it. They even ran stories about how her family had disowned her years before because of Tom, and how they thought of her as dead. And she had lain in bed at night, sobbing, praying that the press would go away and leave her alone. But they didn't. Not for one day. Until he was moved to Carmel. And then, magically, it was as though they forgot. As though Tom no longer existed, or Kate, his wife. The two of them had left the magic circle. At last.

  When Tom left San Francisco, so did Kate. The house was already waiting. Felicia had seen the ad, and the place turned out to be perfect. The owner lived in the East; his mother had died, leaving him a house he didn't need and didn't want to sell. One day he would retire there, and in the meantime it was Kate's hideaway, nestled in the mountains north of Santa Barbara. It was a three-hour drive from Tom's sanatarium in Carmel, but Felicia assumed that Kate would be back in San Francisco as soon as things calmed down, right after the baby was born. It was a pretty house, surrounded by fields and trees, with a little brook just down the hill from the house. It would be a good place to recover. It would have been a wonderful place to share with Tom. Kate tried not to think of that as she signed the lease.

  After four months she was used to it; it was home. She awoke at dawn when the baby kicked and stirred, hungry for more space than she had to give him. She lay quietly, feeling him pound inside her, wondering what she would tell him one day. She had thought of changing her name, but decided not to. She was Kate Harper. No one else. She didn't want her father's name anymore. And Tom's baby would be a Harper. Tom didn't understand now about the swollen belly, or maybe he just didn't care. Children didn't, Kate reminded herself, as long as nothing changed for them. Nothing had. She went on visiting him, often at first, and only slightly less frequently as the pregnancy progressed. Nowadays it was twice a week. She was always there. She always would be, as he had been for her. There was no question of it. This was her life now. She had accepted it. She understood, as much as one can. Always, whatever that meant. Forever, whatever that was. It meant that each time she saw him, he was the same, always would be. Until one day, when he would quietly die. There was no way to say when. The doctor said he might live to be considerably older, though not what was normally thought of as old. Or it might all end in a year or less. At some point, Tom's body would simply fade and die. He would just let go. Unconsciously, but he would. And Kate would be there, for all the time in between, loving him. He still looked like Tom, and now and then there was still that magical light in his eyes. It allowed her to pretend that ' but it was a futile game. Now she held him as he once had held her. She didn't even cry anymore.

  Kate stood up after her call from Felicia, pushed open the window, and took a deep breath of summer air. She smiled to herself. There were new flowers in the garden. She would take him some. She could still love him. She could always love him. Nothing would change that.

  The clock on the bedside table said six twenty-five. She had half an hour to get on the road if she wanted to be there before ten. It was a hell of a drive. A hell of a way to grow up but she had. Kate Harper was no longer any kind of child. And the baby stirred in her belly as she slipped off her nightgown and stepped into the shower. She had a long day ahead.

  Chapter 2

  The dark blue station wagon shifted easily into gear and Kate turned swiftly out of the gravel driveway. The little Mercedes Tom had given her was gone. She didn't need it anymore. This car suited her life now. The hills rolled away toward the horizon; they were still lush even this late in the summer. Here and there she noticed a brown patch, but there had been enough rain through the summer to counteract the heat. And there was a majesty to the scene that always took her breath away as she stood with the mountains at her back and the hills rolling ahead, blanketed with wild flowers a
nd dotted with clumps of trees. She could see livestock grazing in the distance. It was the kind of scene you read about in storybooks, and it would be a beautiful place to bring up her child. He would grow strong here, he would feel free, he would play with the children of ranchers and farmers. He would be healthy and alive, not twisted like her parents, or tormented like Tom. He would run barefoot in the meadow near the house, and sit dangling his toes in the brook. She would make him a swing, would buy him a few animals, maybe one day a horse. It was what Tom would have wanted for his son. And if the child was a girl, she would benefit from the same life. And when she was older, she could go back to the world if she chose, but Kate wasn't going back. Let them forget. They would never touch her again. Not the press, not her parents, no one. This was her home now. She had carved out a place for herself, she had chosen her role. The Widow Harper. It sounded like something in a bad Western, and it made her laugh as she flicked on the radio and reached for a cigarette.' It was a rich summer morning, and she felt surprisingly good. Pregnancy wasn't as hard as she had expected it to be, but then, she'd had so many other things on her mind, so many decisions to make, changes to think out. Who had time to worry about heartburn and leg cramps and pains? But still, she had had surprisingly few of those. Maybe it was the easy life she led now in the country. And it was easy, except for the long drives to see Tom. And the way she felt afterward.

  The radio throbbed with the soft beat of ballads alternating with rock and roll, and the early morning announcer purred comments and snippets of news. It was summertime. Everyone was on vacation, taking trips, visiting, going to the beach. It was hard to remember that life now. Kate's life consisted of visiting Tom, then going home and writing. Sometimes she went into the nursery and sat in the rocking chair, wondering what it would feel like to hold the baby in her arms. Would it feel strange, or would she instantly love it? Being a mother was hard to imagine, even with the baby packed so tightly inside her. That she understood, but seeing it would be different' holding it' she wondered if it would look like Tom. She wanted it to. His name would be Tygue if a boy, and Blaire if a girl. She wanted an unusual name. She had wanted to pick something pretty, something special. Tom would have ' a small sigh escaped as she put out the cigarette and turned the radio up louder. She'd had enough of her own thoughts. She rolled down the window and let the early morning wind play with her hair. She hadn't bothered with the braids today. Tom had always liked her hair loose. And the denim jumper was too tight now, but he wouldn't notice. The seams seemed to beg for release the way her own skin did now. But there was no give left in either her or the dress. She patted her stomach softly with one hand, as she turned onto the freeway and stepped on the gas. The baby was moving again, almost like a puppydog squirming in her lap. It made her smile as she edged the station wagon up to eighty-five. She wanted the drive to go faster. She wanted to see him now.

  After another two and a half hours on the freeway, she knew the turnoff was near. All the signals were familiar now. A big green billboard advertising the restaurant another ten miles down the road. A white clapboard house with blue shutters. A sad-looking little motel, and then the turnoff. She automatically slid into the right lane and eased down her speed. Nervously she flicked off the radio, lit another cigarette, and waited at the first crossroads for the traffic to pass. Another fifteen miles and she'd have been in Carmel. This area was more rustic, but prettier in its own way. It was inland from Carmel, but you could see the gulls overhead, endlessly looking for food.

  Kate stepped on the gas again, and turned onto the first narrow road on her right. It led her onto another smaller road, more like a lane, overgrown with bushes and small trees. Here and there she could see berries ripe on the bushes, and she longed to get out of the car and pick some; she had done that as a child. But she didn't have time, she had to get there. She looked at her watch. It was already nine-thirty. He would be sitting outside now, or maybe just, lying in his hammock, thinking. He did that a lot She wondered what he thought. He never said. He just laughed when she asked, and sometimes he would look like Tom again, as it he still had things to think about. It was strange to see him that way, as though he were teasing, as though any minute he would stop the game. It made her love him even more; there was such sunlight in his eyes, such joy in his face. He was a beautiful boy.

  The main building looked like any large well-kept house. It was painted a crisp white with freshly tended yellow trim, there were flower boxes at almost all the windows, and beautiful flowers planted at the edge of the lawns. A narrow, winding walk led to the front door of the main house, which bore a small brass plaque, carefully engraved. Mead Home. Only two words. They didn't need to say more; anyone who came there knew what the place was. There were several smaller houses visible nearby, all painted in the same yellow and white, and farther from the main cluster were a dozen small, cozy-looking yellow cottages, surrounded by flowers and adorned with white trim. The cottages were the more exclusive accommodations. Some were fitted for two residents, others for only one. And each cottage had its own resident attendant to care for his or her charge. Tom lived in one of the cottages, with a quiet older man in attendance-Mr. Erhard, who discreetly disappeared when Kate visited. The enormous insurance Tom had had as a member of the team miraculously covered his stay at Mead, and would continue to do so for ten or twelve years. After that, Kate was going to have to make other arrangements, but by then ' who knew ' the doctors said he could go on for years the way he was.

  The grass felt damp on her sandal-clad feet as she walked toward Tom's cottage. She didn't have to check in at the main house anymore. The residents were carefully protected, but she was familiar now. They saw her arrive from the ever-watchful windows of the main house, and she could come and go as she pleased. She simply arrived and went to find Tom. He was easy enough to find. But today when she reached the cottage, he wasn't there.

  Tom? There was no answer to her knock. Mr. Erhard? The attendant seemed to be gone too. Gingerly, she opened the door and looked around. The room was neatly kept and as bright and pretty as the rest of the facilities. It was why she had chosen Mead Home for Tom. She had been to see a number of places like it within driving distance of San Francisco, and all of them had looked bleak, full of despair. Mead had an aura of hope and sunshine about it. It was a place that time no longer touched, the way it no longer touched Tom. It was safe, tucked away. And it looked more like a school than a sanatorium; Kate always expected to hear children singing, or see them running off to play baseball.

  Tom? She wondered where he had gone, as she sank into a chair for a minute to catch her breath. She was breathless today, more than she had been. The baby was crowding her increasingly. And she had driven the three hours straight through without stopping, despite her doctor's orders. But stopping took too much time. She always figured she could get the kinks out when she got to Mead. She stretched her legs for a minute, enjoying the comfortable rocking chair. It was upholstered in a bright print with little red flowers, and the quilts on the two beds matched the chair. The curtains were airy white dotted Swiss, and there was a small jar crammed full of bright yellow flowers on the table near the window. She knew Tom had picked them. Some of his drawings were tacked to the walls, and his hand still had the maturity his head no longer had. There were delicate watercolors of flowers and birds. She had never known that he could draw until he had come to Mead. He had never done anything like it before. Only football. Now he didn't even remember he had played. It was as though he had had to go all the way back to childhood to get rid of it. But at last he had.

  Actually this was the perfect cottage for anyone, sick or well, adult or child, and Kate liked knowing he was happy there. And he could get around easily in his wheelchair. Outside there was a hammock Mr. Erhard helped him into when Tom was content just to lie and watch the birds. Sometimes he even let him lie there for a while at night, covered with blankets, looking up at the stars. Mr. Erhard was good to Tom. He had been one of
his fans for years, and he was pleased with the special assignment when Tom arrived at Mead.

  There was a rustle outside as Kate pushed herself out of the chair, and then she heard Mr. Erhard's rich baritone, telling Tom a story. There was a pause for a moment, when he must have noticed the door to the cottage was slightly ajar. She heard his step on the narrow flagstone path, and in a moment the white mane of her husband's attendant was visible in the doorway.

  Yes? It was a stern sound, and he looked like a man who brooked neither nonsense nor intrusions. But his face softened instantly when he saw Kate. Well, hello there. How are you feeling?

  Fine. Fat They both laughed. How's our friend?

  Mr. Erhard nodded, with a satisfied look. Doing fine. He did a whole batch of new drawings yesterday, and we picked some flowers this morning. He'll tell you all about

  Hey Andy! It was Tom's voice from outside. The chair was stuck in the grass. Hey!

  Coming, son. Erhard was quick to leave the cottage and Kate was right behind him. It was crazy, that smile bursting into her eyes and onto her lips. Why did she still feel like this? As though he ware still the old Tom, as though ' she always felt the same thrill, the same excitement, the same pleasure in just looking at him, touching him, holding him, just knowing he was all right and still hers.

  Katie! It was a burst of delight as Tom saw her coming toward him. His eyes danced, and his smile went on forever as he reached out his arms.