by Teri Harman
Henry had looked her in the eyes, her dark brown eyes, and what he’d seen and felt scared him.
I can’t fall for this girl. I can’t.
He’d come here to turn his back on the words, to hide from his unknown trauma. For some mysterious reason, all she did was force the words out, spike his cravings. And he certainly hadn’t come here to date or … or anything else.
He’d have to avoid her. Though it wouldn’t be easy working in the same place. But it was necessary. Matilda, the librarian, would not be part of his life. No more breathless encounters, no more thinking about her, and certainly no more letters.
Starting now.
n
“How was your first official day? Everything go all right?”
“Yeah. Fine. Ronnie showed me everything in about a half hour and then ran out like he’d been sprung from prison.”
Abby laughed heartily. “Sounds about right. You saved his life. What’s left of it anyway.”
Henry smiled as he eased down onto his new brown leather couch. “It looks like nothing has been updated in about twenty years. So I think I’ll look into brining the process into the present day; there’s got to be a good software out there for layout and such. Do you think that’d be okay?”
“Of course. The town council would be the people to ask for the money. I’m sure they’d be open to it.”
“Good.”
There was a pause on the line. “Sure is quiet around here,” Abby said softly.
Henry frowned. He missed her company too, though he’d never imagined that would be the case. His apartment was so quiet. “Why don’t we have lunch tomorrow?” he offered.
“I’d love that.” Abby’s voice brightened.
“See you then.”
“Good night, son.”
Henry smiled as he hung up the phone. But the smile faded as his eyes came to rest on the typewriter. He stood and crossed to the desk with the intention of shoving it under his bed. But instead, as if moving of their own accord, his hands picked up a fresh sheet of paper, rolled it into place.
He sat, hands trembling above the keys.
Don’t do it. Don’t!
His eyes moved to a stack of books he’d unpacked the night before. On top, A Thousand Sleepless Nights. He still hadn’t read it. Not one word. It terrified him to even touch it. He looked back and forth between the typewriter and the book. Two things he could not explain, but that felt as connected to him as his own hands.
Now, in his dark apartment, his hands begging to write, Henry groaned. He’d been unable to think of anything but Matilda all day. His earlier convictions seemed foolish now. How could he turn his back on feelings like this? Feelings he’d read about, dreamed about his whole life, but never felt. Was it some kind of betrayal to deny them?
His fingers landed on the keys and ran away with his words.
Matilda
The doorbell rang. Matilda was finishing up her dinner of fried chicken and mashed potatoes, with lots of gravy. Something about tossing the chicken in Jetty’s special flour and spice mix in a big paper bag and standing over the stove frying it in coconut oil (another of Jetty’s unique cooking tricks) soothed her. Not to mention the actual consumption.
She wiped grease from her fingers and answered the door.
“Parker!” Her stomach dropped. She hadn’t seen him much in the last two weeks. She wasn’t sure how to feel around him.
With his shoulders slumped forward, hands in pockets, he gave her a pleading look. “Hey, Matilda. Can I come in?”
“Uh …” No. Go away. “Sure. Come in. Are you hungry? I have fried chicken.”
“I can’t pass that up. You know how much I love your fried chicken.”
The statement tugged harshly on her emotions. She shut the door and took a breath before turning. He said, “The house looks really nice. You’ve done a good job getting it back how it used to be.”
“Thanks,” she said, leading the way to the kitchen. Matilda made him a plate and set it in front of a stool at the island. He sat. She stayed behind the island, leaning against the sink. The reverse of their last encounter.
“Why are you here?” she asked kindly, wanting to get this over with.
Parker took a bite of chicken and chewed thoughtfully. “That’s so good,” he said and swallowed. Then to answer her question, “Thea fell asleep watching TV.”
Matilda caught his eyes and looked away. “That’s not really a good reason. Your pregnant wife falls asleep and you sneak out to your ex-finance’s house?” It sounded harsher than she had intended.
Parker frowned, pushed at his potatoes. “I didn’t sneak. It’s not like that. I told you—”
“I know. Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” Matilda’s throat tightened. She swallowed.
Parker wiped his chin with the cloth napkin Matilda had set by his plate. He said, “I can’t stop worrying about you. Thea said you looked bad today and wouldn’t talk about what was bothering you. Believe me, I’d like to stop worrying about you, but I still care. Is that wrong?”
Something about this made Matilda both heavily sad and deeply comforted. “No, no I don’t think it’s wrong. I appreciate that. I just don’t want Thea to worry. And I don’t want you mixed up in all the gossip and speculation.”
“I don’t care about that.” He put his elbows on the sides of his plate and leaned toward her, his expression intent and receptive. “Thea told me you’re not sleeping.”
Matilda closed her eyes and exhaled. She shifted her weight, folding her arms. “Just some nightmares.”
“Want to talk about them?”
Yes. “No, it’s okay. I’m sure it will pass.”
Parker’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists. “Did someone hurt you, Tilly?” His eyes moved down to her left leg, to the scar exposed since she wore only cotton shorts and a t-shirt. She wanted to cross her legs and hide it, but resisted.
“That’s just a stupid rumor.”
“Is it really?”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“Why does everyone need to know what happened so badly?”
“Why won’t you tell anyone? They’d stop gossiping if they knew the truth. You don’t have to be so stubbornly mysterious about everything.”
Matilda pressed her lips together. They stared at each other for several tense moments. If she told him, he and Thea would just worry more. She’d never hear the end of it; they’d never leave her alone. She had enough attention already. She didn’t want her only friends looking at her like she’d lost her mind.
The house ticked and settled.
Parker exhaled forcibly and looked back down at his plate. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” He stood. “Thanks for the chicken.”
When he started to walk away Matilda felt a flash of panic. “Parker?” She ran after him.
He turned, eyes wide with surprise.
“I can’t talk about it.” Tears burned her eyes. She felt stupidly embarrassed.
Empathetic pain crossed Parker’s face. He reached out and pulled her into his arms. Sobs rose in her chest. A few escaped. Parker held her tighter. “Shh. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Matilda clung to him, desperate for the comfort. Not the comfort of a lover, but that of a friend. For several silent minutes, they stood there in the kitchen, the sun setting and Parker stroking her hair. Outside, some kids shouted happily to each other. Cars drove by.
Finally, he pulled back a little and took her face in his hands. “You don’t have to. Okay?”
“Okay.” She nodded. “Thanks.” She sniffed. Parker smiled a little.
“Do you want to come stay with Thea and me? Instead of being alone in this old house.”
“No, that’s okay. Really. I love this place. I want to be here.”
“Okay. Do you want me to stay for a bit? We could watch a movie or something. We were good at that back in the day.”
“We were. We were really good as frie
nds, weren’t we?”
Parker smiled broadly, that Hollywood smile. He pushed her hair back from her wet face. “Yeah. You were my best friend. It’d be nice to do that again.”
Matilda returned his smile. “I found an old copy of Barefoot in the Park in Jetty’s room.”
“Who doesn’t like Robert Redford? You know, people tell me I look like him.”
Matilda laughed, “No way. He’s much better looking.”
Parker laughed heartily as he put his arm around her shoulders. They went to the couch and sat close together. His expression sobered slightly. “When you are ready—to talk, I mean—I’m here. You can tell me anything, and I’ll try to help.”
Matilda’s chest tightened with gratitude. She nodded. “Thanks for that.”
n
Clack. Clack. ClackClackClackClackClack. DING.
With a strangled gasp, Matilda opened her eyes. She’d fallen asleep on the couch. Parker was gone; he’d put a blanket over her. And right in front of her, the typewriter was alive, typing more words.
She griped the edge of the cushion, not moving, her heart beating so fast it hurt. She watched, breath trapped in her lungs, as the keys did their dance.
If I called to you from the prison of the night, would you answer? Would you save me from myself? I don’t know what to do with the beating of my heart, each pump of hot blood begging that I go to you.
I can’t find the courage to go.
I’m frightened of what you will say. I’m terrified of the texture of the skin on your neck, the depth in your eyes. I could loose myself, fall forever, and never know where I began and you ended.
Doesn’t that sound entirely blissful?
Yet there is something terrifying about reaching out for bliss because what if it’s not real? What if it’s impossible? What if I reach for you and my hand grasps nothing?
Please …
Come to me.
Seduce me.
Rescue me.
Henry
The room smelled of burning paper.
Henry pushed back from the desk and threw open the window to suck in long breaths of cool evening air. Instead of a catharsis, the words he’d put to paper only made his feelings boil. If he knew where Matilda lived, it was quite possible he’d be pounding on her door right now. If only to see her before she slammed it in his face.
You are pathetic. Perhaps the accident damaged your head after all.
He hadn’t acted like himself since his car rolled in the rain. He’d let an old woman take him in, nurse him, and become a friend. He was attached to Abby. And now, this librarian. A woman surrounded by words he shouldn’t think, let alone write, his desire to know her swelling in his chest.
Go back to Michigan. Right now. Go.
I can’t.
Henry stared out at the quiet night.
n
By some miracle, Henry managed to get through the rest of the week without running into Matilda. He took the rear fire exit stairs and kept his office door shut. Abby drove in every day for lunch, and Henry spent the entire hour scanning for Matilda, begging the universe that she wouldn’t show up at The Mad Hash or Estelle’s. Abby pestered him about being distracted, but he brushed off her inquiries.
He couldn’t remember a less productive week. Hours passed painfully slow but also vanished into the abyss of distracted thought. He would force himself to focus on a task and soon find that an hour had passed where all he’d done was stare out the window thinking of Matilda. Immediately, he’d assign himself something different with high hopes of an appropriate, productive distraction. But it never worked for more than a few moments. This was not the best way to go about a new job.
He could feel her, her presence in the building, like a fog seeping into his office, clouding his vision. A few times he caught himself swatting at the air around his face, trying to rid himself of it.
Saturday was salvation. He didn’t have to go anywhere near the library. But he did have to fill a whole day to avoid thinking of her, or going out looking for her. First thing in the morning he dialed Abby’s number.
“Morning, son!”
“Good morning. Does Silent Fields have a bookstore?”
Abby sighed forlornly. “Sadly, no, not anymore. We did. Booker’s Bookshop, owned by Mr. Riley Booker. Great guy, great shop, but Riley liked to sneak out back and smoke ten cigarettes a day. He died of lung cancer two years ago. He didn’t have any family and no one wanted to take on the shop. So it closed.”
Henry’s heart sank. “That’s really too bad.” How did I move to a place without a bookstore? One of so many offenses piling up around his rash decision to come to Silent Fields.
“Yes, it is.”
“Are there any others close?”
“Let’s see … I think there’s one in El Dorado. About an hour’s drive. You want to go?”
“I’d love to, but I don’t want to put you out.” Henry’s rented Buick had been towed back to the rental company, a total loss. He hadn’t thought he’d need to purchase a car, but with no bookstore in town, he’d have to get one.
“It’s no trouble, you know that. I was just going to work on my quilt today, but I’d much rather go to the bookstore with you.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay. You are too good to me.” Abby laughed, and then Henry added, “Let’s also stop and buy me a car. Then you won’t have to shuttle me, I can shuttle you.”
“Deal. See you in a half hour.”
n
Henry parked his used Toyota Tacoma in the reserved spot outside the Mayor House. It was a major improvement on the old Buick, though still about ten years old with over eighty thousand miles on it. But the black paint looked good, and the interior wasn’t bad. So it would do. He imagined filling the entire bed with boxes of books.
He and Abby had spent a pleasant few hours in the little bookshop in El Dorado. Henry found solace in the shelves and steady comfort in the weight of each book in his arms. They’d had lunch and then found a place to buy his truck. Now, getting out of the truck, he balanced his twelve new books in his arms up to his apartment and set them on his desk.
The euphoric spell of book buying was broken the moment he saw the two letters he’d written to Matilda laying face down next to the typewriter. Hidden sins. It’d taken everything in him not to write another one every night that week. He moved his hands from the new books to the typewriter, feeling his restraint wavering. With a long, lonely evening yawning out in front of him, he knew he’d give in to the temptation if he didn’t find something else to do. He could sit and read one of his new books, but that kept him close to the typewriter. His ankle was doing much better this week, so maybe a walk. It’d be good to do something somewhat physical. If he walked long enough, maybe he’d be too tired to want to write when he returned.
Henry grabbed his jacket and left, ignoring the dark clouds on the horizon.
Matilda
Baby plants all in a row, ready for planting. Matilda turned the rich soil of Jetty’s large garden plot with a shovel. Her hair was tied into a messy knot on top of her head and her running shorts and faded Silent Fields Library T-shirt were spotted with dirt. Her feet were bare, mud filling the spaces between her toes.
The evening was cool and mild, a sweet spring breeze rolling through the tops of the large oaks and maples bordering the big yard. Birds gossiped and kids were laughing and yelling in nearby backyards.
For the first time all week, Matilda took a full breath and forgot for a moment about the typewriter. She’d been anxious every moment of every day, sleeping poorly, waiting for another letter. Every small noise sounded like the bounce of a key. In her dreams, the words came to life and pulled her into their warm, seductive arms. And then they devoured her whole.
With a grunt, Matilda tossed the shovel aside. She planted the two tomatoes, one basil, one parsley, one eggplant, one cabbage, one zucchini, and two pumpkins. The soft cold dirt in her hands
, the breeze on her neck. Therapy, she thought. Then another thought: This is the first garden I’ve ever planted without Jetty.
As Matilda patted down the dirt around the last pumpkin vine, thunder growled. She turned to look at the graying sky and frowned. A small storm would be great for the new plants—soak the soil for a big drink—but any bad wind or hard rain might kill them all.
Matilda stood and stretched her back, watching the sky. The wind picked up bringing with it the smell of coming rain. She hurried to put away her tools in the tiny, sagging garage. As she finished, the rain started. Hard and fast.
She ran to the cover of the back porch. Already, her infant plants were sagging under the assault of the rain. “Oh, no. No. Stop. They don’t deserve a watery grave.” The garden was solid tradition. She and Jetty had planted it together every year. Something about it being ruined the first year Matilda had to plant it alone made her want to yell. Also, it felt like a bad omen. The garden had to survive.
After a breath, she dashed out into the downpour. The rain pelted her skin, sharp and cold. She ran back to the garage and threw up the creaky old wooden door. She gathered two shovels, a hoe, and a rake. Hurrying back to the garden, she drove the handles of the tools into the earth in the four corners of the plot, praying they stayed upright in the softening soil. Glancing down at her plants, sodden and pathetic looking, she yelled, “Don’t die!”
Back in the garage she rummaged through the shelves and bins. “Tarp, tarp—there’s gotta be a tarp of some kind!”
“Matilda?”
She spun around, pushing the hair out of her eyes, her heart suddenly in her throat. “Henry? What are you doing here?!”
Henry bent his tall frame and stepped into the shelter of the garage. He was soaking wet, his messy blondish hair dark with water and plastered to his face. “I was walking. I saw you running into the garage. It looked like something was wrong.”