by Teri Harman
Her mind didn’t want to function. Henry—here in her garage, in the rain. “Uh … I’m just trying to save my poor garden. I just planted it. The rain …”
Henry looked out the small grimy window on the side of the garage that faced the backyard. He squinted through the darkness. “You need a tarp. Two actually.”
“That’s what I’m looking for!” Matilda said as she turned back to the sparse piles of junk. Henry started looking too. Matilda wanted to tell him to leave. She was uncomfortable with him this close to her, but there wasn’t time if she was going to save her little plants.
“Got ’em!” he yelled a moment later, already heading to the backyard, his boot cast squishing in the wet grass. Matilda followed with a length of twine. Thunder shook the ground.
“Does it always rain like it’s the end of the world here?” Henry called out.
Matilda smiled. “Only sometimes.”
Henry nodded, smiling back. “We need to tent the plants. One here and one here.” He pointed, dividing the garden in two. Matilda nodded, seeing how that would be more effective than just a canopy. Quickly, they adjusted the garden tools to act as tent poles. Henry held out the corner of a tarp to her, their fingers bumping on the exchange; a little charge shot up her arm. She hurried to spread the tarp over the garden. Henry tugged back a little. “Do you have any stakes or big rocks?” he asked.
Matilda ran to the garage and came back with wooden stakes marked with the names of plants. She and Jetty had painted them when she was in elementary school. “These?”
“That’ll work.”
They cut lengths of twine, tying one end to the tarp corners, the others to the stakes. Henry urged the stakes deep into the soil. Soon the two tents were in place. The wind flapped the blue plastic, but so far they were doing the job.
A skeleton of lightning flashed overhead, close enough that Matilda felt the charge in her stomach. “Inside!” she yelled. Running fast, she bolted into the small mudroom off the kitchen, Henry only a step behind her. He closed the door behind them. Matilda hurried to the kitchen, ignoring the sound of muddy water dripping from her shorts and T-shirt onto the floor as she went. She leaned over the sink and peered out the window. The plants appeared protected, the makeshift shelter holding.
She turned. Henry stood in the doorway to the kitchen watching her, his eyes intense. She suddenly felt shy and exposed. When she ran, her limp was exaggerated. He must have seen it. His eyes moved down her body and back up. Was he looking for a deformity like many did when they noticed the limp? She pulled at the bottoms of her shorts. “Umm … thank you.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
Awkwardness had her circling the kitchen. “Sit. I’ll make hot chocolate. Or coffee. Is it too late for coffee? Hot chocolate seems more appropriate with the weather and all. Or maybe there’s tea. No, I didn’t buy any tea. Or coffee, come to think of it. Jetty never drank it.” Flustered and rambling, she didn’t notice Henry approach. When she turned around, can of cocoa in her hands, he was right behind her, his body nearly touching hers. She lifted her chin to look up at him and felt her heart stutter at how good it felt to do it. As if that were the only movement her neck had been designed for.
Henry’s breathing came in rapid pulls. And was he shivering? Or was she? He lifted a hand to her hair, pulled something. “A leaf,” he said, his voice so quiet. He held the leaf awkwardly in his hand. She felt compelled to take it. Her wet fingers met his and she didn’t pull away. Her eyes studied his face, the puzzle of freckles. Her breath caught. Heaven help me, there are freckles on his lips! A few dark and a few light marks embedded into his pale plump lips, like chocolate shavings on mounds of sorbet. She took her hand from his and touched the largest one on his upper lip. He closed his eyes, sighed, his warm breath moving onto her cold fingertips. A flash of heat moved down her body and a thousand emotions rocked her backward. She bumped into the counter, still gripping the cocoa tin. “Get out,” she breathed.
“Matilda …” Henry looked at her with those sharp eyes, more brown than green in the dark kitchen. He stepped closer, hand lifted.
“Get out!” she yelled, the loudness of her voice startling them both.
Henry’s gaze lingered for a moment. Matilda couldn’t stand the hurt she saw there, the hurt she’d put there. She looked away. She listened as his shoe and cast squeaked on the tile. The back door slammed shut.
Matilda sunk to the floor, unable to stand any longer. A sickening blackness raged up inside her, turning her blood to poison. Her body shook from cold, from the broiling emotions, and from the withdrawal of Henry. She wanted him back, wanted him to hold her; she wanted to never see him again. Mostly, she didn’t want to feel this way, scared and uncertain and other things she couldn’t define. Being around him made her feel too many things.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
Tears came; she fought them as long as she could. Then she was sobbing loudly, the boisterous rain ensuring the breakdown didn’t reach the ears of her neighbors.
Lightning flashed. Once. Twice.
She lay down on the frigid, wet floor, hugging the cocoa and hoping it never stopped raining like the world was ending.
Henry
Henry plowed out into the rain and broke into a run, difficult in his cast, and painful. His muscles defied him, stiff and unresponsive. His heart refused to cooperate, too busy beating for Matilda. He stopped under a tree and leaned forward. Her fingers on his lips. Good grief. It hurt to think of it, doubling him over for several minutes before he recovered. He forced himself to run again. All the way to his lonely apartment.
Pushing open the door, Henry went straight to the shower. He turned it to cold. The heat of her touch threatened to burn him from the inside out. The cold rain should have helped, but the farther he ran from her, the hotter and more uncomfortable he felt. He stripped off his wet clothes and stepped into the freezing stream. Pressing his teeth together, he took the punishment. After nearly fifteen minutes, stiff and skin tinged blue, he shut off the water.
He hurried to put on some clothes, just boxers and cotton pajama pants, and dropped into his desk chair. The words. Oh, the words. They wouldn’t shut up.
Henry glared at the typewriter.
Waiting. Expecting. Demanding.
Rubbing at his cold, rigid hands, he looked at the keys. M-A-T-I-L-D-A. His eyes jumped from letter to letter. What had possessed him to stand so close to her? To touch her? And why had anger replaced the passion he’d seen in her eyes?
What was this unyielding hold she had on him? He’d said barely twenty words to her, and seen her for mere moments. It wasn’t normal; it wasn’t sane. Yet denying the feelings didn’t feel rational either.
He touched his own lips, feeling the echo of Matilda’s fingers, the impression of her eyes. Eyes the color of wet tree bark, dark brown, but speckled with light. Round and alert, they reminded him of owl eyes. Sharp and intelligent, her eyes reminded him of only her.
And looking down at her, her body a magnetic breath away. Good grief, was she short! Barefooted, the top of her head barely reached the bottom of his sternum. But the way she tilted her confident chin to look up at him—it somehow closed the distance, made him feel small.
Henry shook his head. Not that any of it mattered. He’d moved in too quickly, frightened her. She must think him an absolute jerk. Why did I step so close, touch her hair? He thought back to the dark kitchen. It had smelled of rain and cinnamon. He could hear her breaths as if in his ear. He’d been pulled to her, unable to keep his distance, unable to listen to normal social conventions.
He just wanted to touch her.
You’re a complete freak! Who does that to a woman he barely knows? She’ll never even look at you again.
Presumptuously, his hands shot forward and grabbed the edges of the typewriter. The metal was so smooth, like polished stone. Like Matilda’s wet hair. He pulled it to the edge of the desk, knocking over the stack of new books. He rolled f
resh paper into place. His hands hovered over the keys, hummingbirds looking for nectar, trembling.
A new letter poured out, easy, fresh as dew.
When it was finished, Henry lifted his hands from the keys, his fingertips red and tender, like new blisters. He looked at the words, feeling every letter. Go back to her. Go back. Apologize. Make it right. But he couldn’t find the will to lift himself from the creaky desk chair.
Matilda
Matilda couldn’t stop shaking. In touching Henry, she’d rattled something loose inside her. Go back in. Go back! she scolded. She couldn’t account for the crippling fear the encounter with Henry had flushed out, forming a swamp around her heart. She had never felt anything like this. She didn’t know what to do with it. It didn’t have a name.
Nameless.
So she pushed it away.
After pulling herself from the kitchen floor, carefully returning the cocoa to its spot in the cupboard, she showered as fast as she could. Still trembling, she climbed into bed, pulling the covers around her. She rolled over to face the windows and stared unblinking at the rain on the glass. Her eyes filled with tears again, but she refused them. “Not allowed,” she whispered. “Cease and desist.”
She shut her eyes, begging sleep to come. But all she saw was Henry’s lips, his hand reaching out to her after she pushed him away. All she heard was the sad sound of the back door shutting echoing in her head. The initial slam and then the softer settling. Two beats. SLAM–bump. Stu–pid. Matilda forced the insulting sound from her head, focusing instead on the pound of the rain, the grumble of thunder, now farther away.
He helped me, and I yelled at him. Sent him out to get struck by lightning. Please don’t get struck by lightning, Henry. But having him so close, on the sacred ground of her kitchen … She’d wanted things she had never imagined before. She longed for him to sit in her kitchen and drink hot chocolate she made for him. So intensely had she wanted him to kiss her, to hold her. She wanted to watch him gather their wet clothes from the tile and put them in the washer. She wanted him to be there in the morning and every day until she took her last breath.
What is happening?
She’d never wanted those things with Parker. Things had always been pleasant between them, but she’d never felt the need for him constricting her chest. She’d never imagined her dying moment in his arms.
For a split second, she felt a thrill. She’d wanted more from love. Was she getting it now? Was Henry the answer to her desire? The thrill quickly dissipated. Something about Henry frightened her. Should I feel scared? It didn’t feel right to be so scared. But had anything since Jetty’s death felt right?
Then, cutting into her thoughts, that sound.
Matilda sucked in a breath, her body stiff as stone.
The typewriter.
No, no, no. Not again. Not now.
She didn’t want to go, but how could she stay away? The typewriter was working again, throwing out another letter. What would this one say? What gossamer words would it spin into existence tonight?
Matilda slipped from her bed, her feet treading softly down the stairs.
ClackClackClackClackClack. DING.
Her heart beat with an odd mixture of fear and excitement. The words the typewriter had already written had taken hold of her. She wanted more, but she knew she shouldn’t. These words were unnatural. Impossible. Such impossible words.
The white paper lay back over the platen, waiting. One last key depressed, the typebar slicing into the paper. Finished. Outside, the rain fell. Why does it keep raining? For a long, turbulent moment, Matilda listened to it and looked at the paper. The words hidden in the shadows.
Leave them there.
Hand trembling, Matilda reached for the letter. Her heart might beat through her ribs; her own breath was now louder than the pattering rain.
I tear you up, a million parchment pieces. I put you back together.
I blow you over, twist you into knots with my cruel winds. I unwind you.
I destroy you, hurricane to your luscious landscape. I regrow you.
But are you ever the same? Am I? What do we do to each other? Can it be stopped? Would this sucking wound in my chest close if I kissed you? If I touched you, hand along slick skin, would we find joy or sorrow?
The rain beats on the roof—it sounds like your frightened heart. Like mine. The thunder speaks too loudly. I can’t hear you anymore.
But I can’t let you go no matter how it rips, twists, or destroys. I want to believe we can fix it, smooth out our rough edges.
What do you believe?
Are you there?
Matilda dropped to the couch, a hand to her chest. I am here. Who are you? The room stilled, the sound of the rain lost to the rush in her ears. She saw Henry’s lips, his freckles, in her head.
Henry?
No, not possible.
I’m losing my mind.
Matilda lowered the paper. It hurt to breathe. Her skin felt cold. The letters had come after seeing him, after the times they had been together. Coincidence? Her eyes moved to the keys. Her fingers itched to type a response.
She wanted to ask one question: Is it you?
But what if she got an answer?
Matilda stood quickly, dropping the paper to the coffee table.
Maybe she was so alone, so sad, that she’d conjured this whole letter thing to comfort herself. Her mind was so broken she not only didn’t remember a huge chunk of time, but now she’d created magical, romantic letters from a mysterious stranger. Before all this, Jetty, on her deathbed, had spoken of passionate love. Matilda had been willing to leave everything in the middle of the night to find it.
Now six years missing and these letters.
But perhaps none of it was real. Had the want to find love forced her mind into madness?
I’ve gone crazy chasing things that don’t exist.
What other explanation was there?
There was no way to consider romance when her life was such a junkyard. Romance meant opening your life, your heart, your mind. What would she say when he asked about her past or her plans for the future? There was no room for passion and love when each day was a scrappy battle of survival.
Matilda gathered the three letters. She should burn them, but couldn’t bring herself to destroy the stunning words, real or imagined. Folding the papers in half, she pulled one of her favorite childhood books from the shelves. A Second Treasury of the World’s Greatest Fairy Tales. An old, large volume with vibrant illustrations that instantly reminded her of nights snuggled next to Jetty while she read the enchanted tales. Matilda opened the book, placed the letters inside, and closed it with a resolved snap.
“No more craziness,” she whispered to herself. “This ends now. Get a grip. Be normal. Jetty is gone. Six years are missing. You’re alone. Move on. It’s okay.” She looked at the picture of Cinderella running down the stairs of a grand castle, her carriage waiting. “Henry is not your prince charming. It’s not real.”
Matilda slid the book back into its spot.
It’s not real.
Henry
So …” Abby said, looking sideways at Henry as they walked, a curious tone in her voice. “What’s gotten into you? You’ve got bags under your eyes and you’ve barely said a word. Not that you’re much of a talker anyway, but today you are … reserved.”
“I’m fine,” Henry said absently.
“Uh huh.” A few steps of silence. “I stopped at the library earlier. Matilda set me up with a great new stack of books.”
Henry’s feet stuttered, his face contorting. He lifted his head to Abby. “That’s nice,” he mumbled as normally as possible.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes. She’s fabulous. Had on the prettiest skirt—full and long and lots of colors, like a gypsy or something. And that hair! Gorgeous. I’ve always thought she was the prettiest girl in town.”
Henry only nodded as visions of Matilda moved through his mind. The silky wet text
ure of her hair. The citrus smell of her shampoo. Her fingers on his lips.
Abby pressed on. Henry wished he could stop her. “Smart too. Have you two talked at all?”
Henry stopped. “Why? Did she say something?”
Abby stopped too, facing him. She crossed her arms. “I knew something was going on. What happened?”
Henry shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the sidewalk pavers. “Nothing.”
“Hmm. Sure.” Abby took a step closer. “She’s had it rough.”
Henry didn’t look up. He thought of the scar on Matilda’s leg, the ones on her arms and faint ones on her cheek. Her limp. He’d seen the embarrassment when he noticed them last night. Seeing her scars felt like an accidental privilege. A secret she’d shared unwittingly, a confidence he couldn’t breech. He thought of the fear in her eyes when he’d gotten too close.
Lifting his head, he looked toward the library. “Wonder what happened to her.”
“You’ve had it rough too,” Abby said quietly.
Henry finally looked at her. Abby’s eyes were soft and understanding.
“I can see it,” she said. “You both have that look. And you have scars too, old and new.”
Suddenly, it smelled of rain and cocoa. We both have scars.
Abby tugged on his arm. “What is it with you and Tilly?”
“Nothing,” he said and turned on a false smile. “I’m starving. Let’s eat, huh?”
Abby lowered her hand, obviously not buying a word of his evasion. “Sometimes it takes someone else to heal our pain. Sometimes we can’t do it alone.”
The words smacked him hard. A knot of emotions formed in his gut. He looked over her head at the street. A few cars passed by slowly. Everything seemed to move slowly in Silent Fields. Except when he was around Matilda. Then time seemed to disappear completely. He wanted to turn and look back at the library, but didn’t. To Abby, he said nothing.