by Teri Harman
Matilda shut the door and collapsed to the floor, sobbing into the filthy wooden planks.
Henry
Henry spent the entire day researching himself, the book, and the typewriter. Nothing gave him answers. The young man living in his apartment had no idea who Henry was and could offer no clues. The university could only tell him when he’d graduated and when he’d stopped teaching. Nothing about what came after. An ER doctor told him his head was fine, no signs of trauma or malfunction. He didn’t have any friends, and coworkers only shrugged, saying he never mentioned anything to them. And this is what comes from being a loner, he thought as he checked into a cheap motel. At least he had some money in his wallet. Not much, but enough for a few days.
The room was sparse, and not incredibly clean. Henry put his things on the bathroom counter and stood to stare at the bed. It looked hard, uncomfortable, and empty. Instead of sleeping, he went to the small desk by the one window over looking the parking lot. He was tried and hungry. On the desk, he found a stack of random old newspapers. He snatched the top one off the pile and started to flip pages. A distraction, a simple task.
When he came to the classified ads, his eyes snagged on a small listing at the bottom of the page. Wanted: Editor/Writer for Weekly Newspaper. Silent Fields, Kansas. Writing experience preferred. A jolt of energy went through him. Before he realized it, he had the phone in his hand, and was dialing the listed number. As the phone rang, Henry checked the date on the paper—almost six months ago. He swore and nearly hung up, but the line answered.
“Silent Fields Post. This is Ronnie.”
“Uh … hello. I’m sorry. I just came across an ad for the editor position and didn’t realize it was so old. I’m sure you’ve filled it.”
“I haven’t. Are you interested?” Ronnie’s voice had the dusty sound of an older gentleman.
Am I? What am I doing? “Yes, very.”
“Your experience?” The old man sounded excited.
“I have a PhD in creative writing from the University of Michigan. But I haven’t done much with newspapers.”
“When can you start?” Even more excited.
“Really?”
“Yes. I’ve been running this paper for almost fifty years now. I’m ready to retire.” A raspy laugh. “Heck, I was ready ten years ago. If you want the position it’s yours. The pay is good, the hours not too bad. It’s a good job. And our town is a great place to live.”
Henry blinked, sat up straighter. He looked around the room. “I’ll be there tomorrow night. I can start Tuesday.”
“Excellent. Oh—guess I ought to ask your name?”
“Henry Craig.” What am I doing?
“All right, Mr. Craig. Let me give you directions to our little town.”
Matilda
After an hour of sobbing and hating whatever it was that had happened to her, Matilda found the strength to get up off the dirty floor. She desperately craved sleep, a way to avoid this nightmare, but a sense of survival took her to the bathroom instead.
Fighting more tears, she set to cleaning it. She lit the pilot light on the water heater and let the taps run to clear the pipes. She put a load of crusty towels in the washer, grateful that Greg Flounder, Jetty’s lawyer, had all the utilities still working. He must have kept paying the bills out of Jetty’s estate. She’d saved a great deal of money, the house was paid for, and he was the kind of man who wouldn’t let things go completely to waste, as Dr. Wells had said. Of course, he shouldn’t have had to do all that. I should have arranged the upkeep and care. Why didn’t I?
Once the bugs and dust were gone, and the towels dry, she took off her nightgown, threw it in the trash, and got in the shower. Standing under the warm water, she thought many things. And thought some more. But still nothing came. Digging frantically into her head, she found not a single memory after the night she and Parker chose their wedding cake.
What she did find was a sucking sense of being lost. A blackness in her head that told her she’d lived those six years and now they were gone. Six years didn’t just pass in a blink. They happened, things happened. A lot of things.
It had all been taken.
But why? And how?
Rinsed clean, Matilda took a fresh pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt from the dryer. She switched the laundry and stood with her hands on her hips in Jetty’s beautiful gourmet kitchen. Jetty would have died of shock to see it like this, grimy and smelling strongly of decay. Matilda opened the large French doors of the fridge and immediately stumbled away, choking and coughing on the rank smell of rotten food.
How could I leave like that? Since apparently I did. How could I just abandon this place to this mess?
Feeling guilty and in need of more to do, Matilda emptied the putrid contents into a large garbage bag. She scrubbed the inside shelves with bleach from the laundry room. She emptied all the cupboards and the pantry until there was a mountain of black garbage bags on the back porch. Every surface was sterilized and all the dishes run through the dishwasher—twice.
Exhausted, Matilda collapsed onto one of the metal stools at the white marble island. Head in her hands, she closed her eyes and listened to her stomach growl ravenously. The normalcy of needing to feed herself gave her a strange feeling. I can’t remember six years, but I still need to eat. I’m here. Everything is normal, except what’s in my head.
But getting food would mean she’d have to leave the house. The idea of venturing out into town quickly swept her hunger aside to make room for nausea. How could she face the questions? The looks of amazement and confusion and accusation? She could very easily imagine what had been said about her after fleeing, leaving Parker with no word. Abandoning everything.
Matilda tried again to reach into the swatch of blackness in her memory. Chills rose on her forearms and her head started to pound. A horrible sense of dread filled her gut. This was not a happy place. Feeling like the blackness might consume her, Matilda quickly stood up and forced her mind into the present. If she couldn’t eat, she could sleep. But not before her room got a good cleaning.
n
Matilda was just remaking her bed with the now freshly laundered sheets and red quilt when the doorbell rang. She stopped, the quilt suspended in her hands. Briefly, she had an image of all her neighbors standing on the porch, arms folded, mouths hard, ready to throw rocks and run her back out of town. Nervous and dizzy from hunger, she went slowly down the stairs.
One lone figure stood behind the panel of fogged glass in the door.
Matilda almost decided to ignore whoever it was, but finally, curious, opened the door.
“Parker?”
Parker held up a casserole dish. “Thea sent me with this. She said you’d need some food.”
Matilda looked at the white dish. She smelled garlic and cheese; her stomach clenched uncomfortably. “Well, honestly, she’s right.”
Parker nodded, gave her a nervous half smile. “Can I come in?”
“Uh,” Matilda looked behind her. She hadn’t had a chance to clean the living room. “Sure. Yeah. I haven’t cleaned everything yet.”
Parker stepped passed her. He smelled of cologne, something deep and woodsy. He hadn’t worn cologne when she’d known him. He headed for the kitchen. She slowly shut the door, and then followed. Memories of Parker went with her. They had spent so much time together in this house: sitting on the couch talking with Jetty, lying together watching a fire die in the fireplace, laughing in the kitchen over cinnamon rolls or brownies.
“Thea’s good with pasta, and I know you like that,” he said as he set the dish on the island. “Wow. I’m not sure this kitchen was ever this clean.” He smiled and met her eyes, but quickly looked away. He took the foil off the dish and pulled a plate from the dishwasher.
Matilda stepped closer. “You don’t have to … I’m sorry about before …”
Parker scooped a generous portion onto a plate, pushed it to her. “Just eat. I can hear your stomach growling. It’s ki
nd of pathetic.” Another half smile.
Matilda tried to return the smile, but her face felt oddly stiff. She sat at the counter and forked slightly overcooked but well-flavored pasta into her mouth. She was happy to chew instead of try to talk to Parker, who didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. She wondered if he still liked to wear that old Royals baseball cap. She’d always liked the way the ends of his hair flipped up under it.
He leaned back against the sink. The late evening light poured in on his shoulders from the window. “The whole town knows.”
Matilda swallowed. “When’s the hanging?”
Parker laughed. “Dawn, I think. You’re expected to make a long, dramatic apology before they let you swing.”
Matilda smiled before filling her mouth with more food. A moment later, “So … how are things with you?” The question sounded stupid, but Parker relaxed a bit more.
He shrugged. “Really good, actually. The mill has steady work. More than we can take on, which is always good. We’ve done some high profile jobs in Kansas City and St. Louis. Thea’s still at the library. We live over on Kenwood, Rich Owen’s old place.”
“That’s a nice house.”
Parker nodded. “Yeah, yeah it is. We’ve remodeled here and there. Thea likes doing that kind of stuff.”
Matilda’s plate was empty. Parker’s eyes were lowered and she took a moment to examine him. He was still as handsome as a 1940s film star, but a bit of his arrogance had deflated. There was maturity in the set of his shoulders. Something tugged at her. Not regret that she hadn’t married him. Even without remembering the last six years, she knew not marrying him had been right. Maybe just the regret of hurting him so badly.
Pushing her plate away, she said. “I know I said it earlier, but I really am sorry. You didn’t deserve what I did. I wasn’t in my right mind.”
Parker met her eyes. Emotions passed over his face. Sudden tension filled the room. “Are you in your right mind now?”
Her cheeks flushed and she had to drop her eyes to the grain in the marble. “I don’t …” A powerful urge to tell him everything cut off her words. “I’m a little lost at the moment.”
He pushed away from the sink to stand directly across from her, leaning over the island. “Did something bad happen to you? Did someone hurt you?”
She knew he referred to the scars on her face and arms, the limp. Matilda thought of the blackness in her mind. She shook her head. When Parker’s hand came to her arm, she froze. Lifting her eyes, she met his and felt embarrassed by the emotion she saw on his face.
“Matilda, seeing you again … like this … it brings back a lot. A lot of hurt and confusion, but also regret. I’m sorry about how I talked earlier; I didn’t mean to push all that on you. Just the shock, you know?” He met her eyes and she nodded slowly. He went on, “I think I’m partially to blame for how you left. You lost Jetty. You were hurting. And I wasn’t there for you like I should have been. I didn’t understand how much you needed me.”
Her eyes burned. “No, it wasn’t—”
“It was. I was immature. Stupid. I’d never lost someone. I didn’t understand how that can change you.”
Matilda saw the pain on his face. “Who did you lose?” she whispered.
“My dad. Six months ago. Heart attack. All that heavy food finally caught up with him.” Parker drew back his hand, looked away. Outside the sun slipped away, welcoming night.
Matilda’s stomach clenched. “I’m sorry. I know how close you were.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah.” A beat of weighted silence. “So anyway … I understand better now. How you felt and why you left.”
Matilda folded her arms, suddenly cold. “I’m not sure I understand it.”
“Where did you go?”
Where did I go? Do I lie? “Uh … I traveled around a bit.”
Parker nodded, his expression telling her he saw the lie.
Matilda stood, uncomfortable and exhausted. “Thanks so much for the food. Tell Thea she’s very sweet to think of me.”
Parker watched her too closely. “Yeah, of course. Do you need anything else?”
Matilda ground her teeth together, a rush of annoyance tightening her throat. “You don’t have to be nice to me.”
Parker looked hurt. “I’m just …”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean that how it sounded.” She looked at the now spotless wood planks of the floor and sighed. “I only mean I don’t deserve it, and you’re not obligated in any way.”
“Why not?” There was a demand in his tone.
Matilda put her hand to her forehead. Just go away. She opened her mouth to try to explain, but Parker rounded the island and stood right in front of her. His cologne filled her nose. For a moment they only looked at each other, a strange energy passing between them.
Parker touched her face. Matilda closed her eyes. “Parker …”
“I missed you.”
She didn’t want him to say that. His touch, though a small comfort, felt wrong. She reached up to pull his hand away. “Go home, Parker.”
He nodded, his jaw tense. His eyes moved once around the room and then he stepped back. “I’m not trying to … I love Thea,” he tried awkwardly.
“I know. I didn’t think …”
“I want to help. I couldn’t then; I can now.”
Matilda briefly closed her eyes. She knew she needed help, but still felt so uncomfortable and shy. “Okay” was all she said.
Parker looked at her for a moment. “Good night, Tilly.”
“Good night,” she whispered as he left the kitchen.
Long after the front door clicked closed, Matilda stood in the kitchen looking out the window at the darkening sky and gathering clouds.
Henry
It was senseless, but what else was he supposed to do. He had to have a job, a place to live, something to do other than wonder. Maybe if he slept in a new place, had a new job, a new town, a new life—then maybe those six years wouldn’t matter anyway. Much of his life had been years he wished to forget. What were six more? Or maybe they’d come back to him. He had no idea; he only knew he couldn’t stay in Detroit.
He’d rented an old beat-up Buick and headed south to take the job as the editor of the Silent Fields Post. A nothing newspaper in a small town he’d never heard of. Perfect. He’d been driving for nearly twelve hours, with only a few quick breaks. He didn’t want to stop until he was there. It was important that he just get there. A little after two in the morning on Tuesday, he was only thirty miles out of Silent Fields.
And it was raining like it would never stop.
Henry felt the bald tires of the wasted old Buick slosh and slip on the wet road. He managed to keep the car under control for a while, but then the backend swung out badly. He turned into the skid, but nothing happened. Hands fumbling on the wheel. Heart pounding hard in his chest. Slow down, slow down, he begged. But the heavy car only gained momentum.
The car spun. Once and then twice, whipping around like a carnival ride. Henry could hardly keep his eyes open—mostly from the panic—but also from the bizarre feeling that he’d done this before.
I shouldn’t have come here. This is what I get for running away.
Another spin and then the tires caught the lip of the shoulder. Before Henry could cry out, the car slipped down an embankment, falling fast for several terrifying seconds, and then slamming hard into the ground. The sound of crunching metal and smashing glass. And pain. Hot, razor-edged pain in his head, arms, chest, and legs as he was jerked with the momentum of the impact.
The sudden silence pressed down on Henry’s throbbing chest. For a moment, he could only breathe against it, shock numbing his reactions.
I’ve been in a car accident.
What do I do?
The question broke the surface of his shock. He was miles from Silent Fields. It was the late hours of the night. Another car hadn’t passed him for a good half hour before the accident. Had he seen a house? Any mailboxes? He clo
sed his eyes. His right leg twitched with lightning pain. Please don’t be broken.
Henry opened his eyes. Fierce rain fell on the shattered windshield, illuminated by the one headlight left working. It was oddly peaceful. Which scared him. Get out of the car. No one is coming for you. Resolved to walking out of the ditch and dragging himself to the nearest house—if there was one—Henry tried to move.
He screamed, something between a bellow and a moan.
A wave of pain rocked him back in the seat. Glass crunched under his thighs. He tasted blood in his mouth. He sucked down cold air, trying to breathe and fighting the dizziness in his head. A sound made him still.
Is that a child crying?
The thick rain took all sound and deadened it, pulling it down into swampy puddles. Perhaps he hadn’t heard crying at all.
Just try the door.
Henry slowly lifted his left arm, which didn’t seem to be injured. He found the door handle. After a steadying breath, he pushed. The door creaked, but didn’t open. Leaning into the door, he held his breath and gave a heaving thrust with his shoulder. The door flew open forcibly; Henry yelled out in pain as his body flopped to the side.
Maybe someone heard that.
Doubtful.
Henry looked out his open door at the wet landscape, black beyond the small circle of light where his car rested. Get out. Good grief, it’s cold. A biting cold that went straight through his wool coat and jeans, along with the icy water.
A wave of dizziness forced him to close his eyes and breathe. He lifted a hand to his forehead; his fingers came back with bright-red blood. More scars … He didn’t look at it very long. He moved his hand down his right leg, praying he didn’t meet exposed bone. No bone, but more sticky blood.
After unclipping his seatbelt, which amazingly hadn’t become stuck, Henry took a long breath. He tried to move his right leg. It hurt like mad, but it moved. Assisting with his hands, he pulled the leg toward the door. Left leg out, boot in snow. Right leg … gritting his teeth, Henry yanked on the leg. His boot hit the snow with an unnatural drop and a punch of pain.