Live (The Burnside Series): The Burnside Series

by Rivers, Mary Ann

  He held her tighter. For a moment, remembered the high of hours spent with edits on drafts back from engineers. Perfecting and thinking. Making. He wondered if he would have something like that again.

  “I haven’t done what I do for some time,” he said. Surprised he said it.

  “I guess I was thinking more of your carving.” She unfolded herself and slid off his lap. “You know how amazing it is, right?”

  He thought about the first month of the project. Every time he removed a panel, he was overcome with the sense he was vandalizing something and would be discovered and punished. Bidding for the work had been something of a lark, in a way, and at least half of the carving samples he’d submitted for the job were those he’d completed years ago and had his father send from home.

  It had felt good. All of it. Amazing, even, once they had gotten going on the restoration. He’d had days deep into carving, methodical and creative, and there had even been a few moments where he had thought that he wasn’t sure that his dad could have done better. He’d never made something that would outlive him, and when he took down a panel, he got a thrill looking for a signature of the carver. The last thing he did before putting up one of his own carvings was make his own mark.

  He wondered if this was the important thing he would take with him from Ohio, back home to Wales, rough hands that had made marks for an unimaginable generation to find. He all at once felt another little anchor drop, thinking of all he would leave behind here. Jessica. His carvings. The hopeful and untried portion of his youth.

  He looked into Destiny’s gray eyes.

  That too.

  Much heavier anchor.

  “I’m stupid,” he said and kissed her.

  “So, so stupid,” she said against his mouth.

  He kissed down to her neck, found the places there he hadn’t explored yet. Moved his hands over her, thought about how she was put together, how her legs bent in his lap, her arms around his shoulders. How they fit together.

  “I don’t think you’re one fucked-up decision after another.”

  “No?”

  “No. I do think this limousine is a Master Fucking Symbol, as you said, but not in the way you think.”

  She put her forehead against his. “Tell me.”

  “Well. What does a limousine represent?”

  She shook her head against his.

  “Weddings. Fancy-dress parties. Specials dates and dances. And an elaborate way to start an anticipated trip.”

  “Funerals,” she whispered.

  He squeezed her. “Yes, that too. A car the whole family can be inside together. Behind the hearse. To say good-bye and I love you one last time. Do you see?”

  “Not really.”

  “You drive around, well. A symbol of love, to be a bit dramatic. People smile when they see a limousine. They wonder who’s in it. They wish they’d had a chance to ride in one, or if they have, they remember the time precisely—pulling up to the church to get married. Watching the taillights on a hearse. A limousine is, more than anything else, going places. Not always places you expect.”

  Destiny reached up and pushed the tears away with the heels of her hands. “The thing is”—her voice was thick, and he swallowed in sympathy—“Dad used to say that, or something like it.”

  “Is that right?”

  “He used to have some running tally of how many brides he’d seen on their wedding days. How many champagne engagements he’d witnessed, and he’d do everything, everything in his power to help the asker hear a yes. He’d drive the limo anywhere they’d want to pop the question—even if it meant parking on a bridge, driving to the middle of a snowy field. His favorite was when this guy had planned it where he gave some big speech and knocked on Dad’s privacy window, which then Dad dramatically rolled down and handed the man a bouquet and a diamond ring to present to his girlfriend. He talked about that one forever.

  “Every spring, for prom at the local high school, he passed around a sign-up list to all the seniors in the neighborhood. They would all sign up for their time slot, and Dad would drive each couple to the prom, for free. I used to think all those high-school couples were the most glamorous people I’d ever seen.”

  She huffed in a shuddering breath. Smiled at him, somehow, through all the tears and downward pull of her eyes. “When he took me and my date to prom, he took the longest way, even though I had been in that limo more than anybody else but him. And when we pulled up, he came around and opened the door, and he had a corsage for me. He had worked it so my date got me a wrist corsage, and he got me a pin-on kind. Then he told me he wished my mom could have been there to see me, to help me get ready, but he hoped the corsage would do, and that in his prayers he would tell Mom all about how pretty I looked, and how grown-up.”

  Her tears were more than she could keep up with, so he pushed her to his chest so they could be absorbed in his shirt. He traced over the part in her hair, the one dividing those two ginger braids. “See there? It’s surely all glamour ahead for you, Destiny Burnside.”

  She laughed, with a sob mixed in.

  “You know, the first time I’ve ever been in a limousine is when you picked me up to go to the ball fields.”

  “Oh yeah? I should’ve made more of an occasion of it, I guess.”

  “I believe the occasion was very well managed.” He rearranged her in his lap, thinking of that particular occasion.

  He hoped, after he left Ohio, he never saw a limousine ever again.

  She shifted, too. Reached up and surprised him with a slow, wet kiss on his neck, which felt amazing. “True.”

  “Come here,” he said. Hiked her up, kissed her properly, which wasn’t very proper at all.

  She pulled away first, after a long time, after long enough that he could hear the rain but couldn’t see it against the windows anymore because they’d fogged them up.

  “We should get inside. I totally shouldn’t have asked you, but you really don’t mind? She probably will be very grumpy, not herself. And we’ll be there for a while, I want to make some food. If you want, I could take you …”

  “Yes. I’d like to meet her. If she’s not up to it, I’ll catch on and see myself out.”

  She looked at him for a minute. Like she was deciding something. “Okay. Thanks. I don’t know what got in my head about your meeting her, but for some reason I’d like you to.”

  “I’m honored.”

  She still looked at him like she couldn’t quite decide, so he decided for her and got out of the limousine and grabbed their groceries.

  He followed her up a set of open metalwork steps to a red-painted fire door set deep into the brick as a nod to an entryway. Destiny flipped around to a key on her keychain; hers was the biggest he’d ever seen and each key was color-coordinated with a little plastic tag.

  She knocked twice while opening the door. And they stepped into what was known locally as a “one-bedroom studio” which was very much a studio with a sliver walled off on one end big enough for a narrow bed and a dresser.

  It was dark, carpeted darker, and smelled a bit like overripe laundry. When his eyes adjusted, he could see a hump under an afghan on the sofa, which was positioned in the middle of the room.

  “Sare?”

  The hump moved a little.

  Destiny started walking around the room and turning on lights, which consisted of a lot of mismatched lamps that were quite beautiful actually. The room was passably tidy. There was a dark head poked out of the end of the afghan.

  “Desbaby?” The hump spoke. Destiny went over to talk to her sister, and he took that as his cue to bring the groceries to the little kitchenette. He unloaded them carefully, taking a long time, organizing everything on the counter according to size. He could hear soft voices behind him.

  Sisters whispering. About him, probably. Which, he discovered, bothered him not at all. Let them whisper. While he was here he would do what he could to make Destiny’s burden a bit lighter. She’d left their lov
emaking to be here, the burden was so heavy. He was well motivated.

  He looked for a kettle and finally found one in the deep cabinet by the narrow two-hob stove. He carefully washed it, as it was dusty with disuse, and put water on. He found mugs and lined three up with tea bags. Found the tin of sugar on top of the fridge. He opened the fridge and didn’t find cream or milk, but there was an unopened box of soy milk.

  Tea sorted, then.

  He was glad to meet her sister. But he did wonder if it had to be now. As in, tonight. Destiny had come right from Sarah’s side to his doorstep, had obviously cared for her. Had obviously been disturbed. Obviously, had called her brother, this Sam, to help her with it though she seemed to think that was a mistake.

  He looked at the row of groceries.

  Where was Sam? She had another brother. The one with the blue nob. PJ. She said everyone lived in the same neighborhood. Where was this PJ?

  It wasn’t just selfish, wanting her for himself, though he did wonder what it would be like to let the dust settle over their lovemaking, for once.

  The kettle started to whistle, and he took it off the hob, made three sugared teas. Piled chocolate biscuits on a plate. Hooked his fingers through the three handles, ignoring the burning on his knuckles and took the plate with the other.

  Destiny had Sarah sitting up, the afghan over her legs. Her short dark hair was sticking up all over like a little boy’s, her eyes huge in her face as she watched him set down the biscuits and tea. Impossibly tiny. Destiny was skinny, but tall enough she easily tipped up to kiss him without tiptoes. Destiny kept her shoulders square, her back straight, her chin up—she seemed bigger somehow for it.

  Sarah was leaning against Destiny, barely a shadow. Hefin felt his stomach swoop to look at her, so obviously ill she was.

  He didn’t like the look in Destiny’s face either. Like she was holding Sarah together by the sheer force of her concentration on her. Her watchfulness. He knew firsthand that such a vigilance on your hopes for another person was magical thinking and never produced true ease.

  “You’re The Woodcarver,” Sarah said. He guessed her voice was husky naturally, though it was cracked and broken in her drowsiness, or pain.

  He gave Destiny her tea with a firm look to her to drink it, and that produced the smallest smile. He was worried that Sarah’s fragile arms couldn’t hold the mug but she took it from him, still watching him. He pushed the biscuits toward the women.

  “I do carve wood, lately.”

  “I’m an artist, too.”

  “Letterpress, Destiny said.”

  “Destiny?” Sarah looked at Destiny and grinned; it made Hefin sort of able to see why Sarah was considered the beautiful one of the sisters. Sort of. If it hadn’t been the case that Destiny was gray-eyed and ginger-haired and decorated with an entire galaxy of the sexiest freckles possible.

  “He’s Welsh. They’re more formal than Americans,” said Destiny. He realized Destiny was talking about what he called her. Good, he thought of her little lie.

  Destiny and the why of it was just theirs, then.

  Sarah looked back at him. “Yes. Letterpress. I want to partner with my friend Marnie, once I’m back on my feet for longer than a couple of hours at a time. After this next surgery. Have you ever carved type?”

  “No. Not type. My dad’s made hand-carved illustration blocks for a letterpress.”

  Sarah sat up, her eyes so bright suddenly, he noticed they were two different colors. One gray, like Destiny’s, one a bright blue. It made it hard to keep his gaze steady in hers, but it suited her, somehow. It made him think she was really something, somewhere down under whatever made her skin so wan and drawn with pain. “Can you make illustration blocks?”

  “I guess I’ve never taken my hand to one. But it’s just relief carving, reversed for parts that matter. The tricky bit’s making the case perfect, finishing it so it prints true, over and over.”

  Destiny gave him a long look. “What is this?”

  He nudged the plate closer to Sarah, and answered Destiny. “Most letterpress artists, when they design illustrations to print, have the illustration laser cut into the printing block, the case. Some printers still work with wood type and wood illustration blocks. Those can be laser cut, too, but have another quality if they’re hand-carved. Hand-carved printing blocks with type and illustrations have survived hundreds of years, actually.”

  “Do you think you could?” She sipped her tea, and almost as if she didn’t realize it, she leaned forward and took a biscuit. Took a big bite. Destiny looked at Hefin as if he had precipitated a miracle akin to parting seas.

  Looking right at Destiny, he said, “I think I could. If you’d like me to try.”

  “Yeah, of course. That would be amazing. Marnie would just die. Do you think you’d rather design one yourself or carve one of our designs?”

  He looked back at Sarah, her eyes a little overbright. “First time out, I’d perhaps do up something myself, see if I could even make something printable.”

  “Yeah, of course. You draw?”

  “He’s an amazing artist, Sarah.”

  Hefin looked at Destiny, sitting straight, her forehead a bit wrinkled.

  “Yeah? Can I see some of your stuff? Or …” Sarah pushed an envelope and a pen in his direction.

  He looked back at Destiny. Sarah hadn’t looked over at her once, and he wondered what the sisters had talked about while he had made tea. Sarah seemed to be in some strange land of denial. Denying her pain, denying the tension between her and Destiny. Denying the darkness and mustiness of the apartment all around her.

  She clearly needed help, but she was talking to Hefin like she had invited him over herself, to talk about their common interests.

  In fact, she was ignoring Destiny’s help, even while leaning on her, clutching Destiny’s thigh under the afghan when she needed to readjust and it was obviously hurting her.

  “He doesn’t have to draw on demand, just for you, Sarah,” Destiny said, rolling her eyes.

  “He doesn’t mind, does he?” Sarah looked at him and smiled. It was clear that her smile had moved her a long ways in life.

  “No, of course not. Only if Destiny doesn’t need help in the kitchen, however.” He caught and held her gaze, which he couldn’t read.

  “No. I’m good. I’m going to make you a veggie lasagna and put it in your fridge with the rest of the groceries. Okay, Sare?”

  Sarah picked up the envelope and pen and handed it directly to Hefin. “Great.”

  Destiny looked past Hefin’s shoulder for a moment, closed her eyes for a moment too long, then abruptly stood up and went to the kitchen.

  He couldn’t bear that moment that she was obviously gathering her last reserves. “I’ll help you, Destiny.”

  “No.” This from Sarah and Destiny at the same time.

  “I’m good. Keep Sarah company.”

  Sarah smiled again. “Keep me company. I have this idea for a block with sort of interlocking gears. Like bicycle gears. Can you draw something like that?”

  Hefin looked at Destiny, standing against Sarah’s kitchen counter. She ran her finger down the row of groceries he had arranged. “Let me see,” he said and took the pen from Sarah.

  Kept his eyes on Destiny.

  He looked back at Sarah, feeling frustration curl around him, slow and firm against his skin. “Do you always call Destiny?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you need assistance? Do you ever call your brothers, or a friend?”

  Sarah tipped her head and looked long at him. “Is this your business?”

  “Not mine,” Hefin admitted. He looked over at Destiny, opening packages, turning on the hob, her back so straight he could’ve measured lumber along the bumps of her spine “But it’s Destiny’s, and I care about her.”

  “Do you?” Sarah asked. “I thought you were a fling. You’re on your way out.”

  Hefin looked down and worried the lapel clip on
the cheap pen. He thought about what to say, feeling that he only had so many breaths for this conversation, for these questions, and couldn’t waste them. “It doesn’t mean that while I’m here, I won’t do everything I can to be good for her.”

  Sarah laughed. But it wasn’t the sort of laughter that encouraged him to join her.

  “Des takes good care of herself. Always. She helps because she’s Des. That’s Des. It’s how she is. She used to drag PJ around like she was his mother. She packed Sam lunches when he was in residency—she was in high school at the time. Her boyfriends refuse to break up with her because they get ass, a cheerleader, and a maid all in one.”

  The flame of heat at his neck was instant. “Don’t talk about her that way. Do not talk of Destiny like that. Don’t …” He reached for some vile and flame-laced way to burn her to cinders, and coughed instead, choked by anger.

  Helpless, though, because Sarah delivered her nastiness in such a flat and distracted tone he was forced to consider her pain.

  He was angry because where other people saw problems or drudgery or upset, Destiny had already seen solutions. A way in that would open up all the rest of the goddamned world.

  He had watched her for just a few weeks, it had been just barely two since he first kissed her. He saw this. Destiny watched the world and saw everything.

  Sarah was looking at him with a kind of smirk, waiting for him to finish. He could not defend Destiny against this. He didn’t have brothers or sisters, but he knew what it was to be in the middle of people who had made up their entire minds about you within hours of your birth.

  Hefin’s jus’ like his dad. Let him stew and he’ll get over it, soon enough.

  Stewing. Like he was fucking meat in a pot, getting softer. He was not.

  He drew on the envelope, making long straight lines. He couldn’t even look at Sarah.

  “If you want to help her, give her some fun. If she’s not getting something she needs, it’s that.” Sarah’s voice was softer, like she was trying to help. She had no idea how to help. She needed help, and she could help by accepting it. Eating. Telling all her siblings what was going on. Sarah had her hand on her hip, just barely, like she was gentling it.