I could hear Marshall as though from deeper within the cave, frantically shouting my name. I felt a smothering pressure on my face, and tried to breathe, tried to claw my way back to Marshall…
Tish was screaming.
Please, I begged with every ounce of my strength. Not yet. Please not yet…
And a soundless shrieking filled my ears as I was returned.
***
“We have to burn them,” Marshall said, low and with venom in his voice. “Case, burn those goddamn fucking things. I never want to see them again.”
He meant the letters.
I was cushioned tightly between my sister and Marshall, the three of us on the couch. Tish’s hands were cupped on my head and her belly was firm against my ribs. The baby was active, as though sensing her mother’s agitation. The familiar scent of Marshall’s neck was the only thing keeping me sane right now. I held to his sweatshirt with both fists. I didn’t have the strength to open my eyes.
“What just happened?” Case asked for the third time. He was restless, pacing the living room, stopping only to put his hands on Tish time and again, certainly fearful that she too might disappear into the air, completely out of his control.
The helplessness was the worst part.
“It was too close,” Marshall said. His heartbeat had not yet slowed, his blood still flowing hard. A tremor passed through him and I clung even more tightly.
“Ruthie, you weren’t here,” Tish whispered, her voice thick with tears. “Where did you go?”
I shook my head weakly.
“Now isn’t the time,” Marshall snapped.
“I’m scared, too,” Tish bitched right back at him. She pressed, “Ruthie, do you remember?”
I didn’t answer, even though the scent of the cave was still in my nostrils.
“It’s the letters that trigger it,” Tish said, and I knew she was simply trying to make sense of something that defied all logic.
“That’s why I want them destroyed!” Marshall insisted, and the edge of his fury was growing stronger.
“Don’t fight,” I whispered. Still I hadn’t opened my eyes. I promised, “I won’t touch them ever again.”
“We’re not fighting,” Tish assured me.
“I want to go home,” I said. “Tish, I’m sorry…”
“Don’t be sorry,” my sister said. “Ruthie, you’re so pale…”
“C’mon, angel, I’ll bring you home,” Marshall said, kissing my cheek. I opened my eyes to his and my heart jolted with love. I knew, without a doubt, that his presence was what allowed me to return to this winter’s night in 2014, to return from wherever it was that I had gone. It had been so sickeningly close. I knew I could never touch those letters again.
But Malcolm Carter’s words were burned into my brain.
Marshall’s eyes were red-rimmed, wet with unshed tears, though he was calm as he helped me into my coat and I hugged both Case and Tish good-bye. Outside, the sky was thick with a layer of clouds, dark as the inside of a coat pocket. Marshall lifted me into the truck.
“You rest, I’ll get us home,” he said as he started the truck. He whispered, as though against his will, but needing to tell me, “It was a cave, wasn’t it? I could smell it…”
I didn’t question how he knew this, only reached and clung to his hand.
Chapter Nineteen
February, 2014
The Monday after Valentine’s Day dawned lead-gray and overcast, not exactly a cheerful prediction of how the day would play out; Clark and Case were scheduled to appear before a judge in roughly five minutes, at the courthouse in Forsyth. Though all of us wanted to be in attendance, Al explained that it would be in our best interest to remain in Jalesville.
“What we don’t want is a maelstrom of emotion,” Al said before they left this morning. “Judge Hall is unmoved by displays of feeling. If anything moves him, it’s empirical evidence.”
Al had accompanied them, of course, as their counsel. Clark and Case were both armed with as much hard evidence as possible, proving the land in question was indeed lawfully theirs, and perhaps something even more important, in the long run – their conviction. We had not seen Derrick Yancy in Jalesville since just before Christmas. Unfortunately, I was certain Derrick’s own conviction was as strong. The only hope we had was that his proof of claim was lacking.
Marshall had left for Billings hours ago, to attend his Monday classes, all of us attempting to keep the day as otherwise normal as possible; outside, the atmosphere was dense and still, as though holding an angry breath, and a snow cloud was massing on the western horizon. I felt restless and unable to sit quietly, fighting the urge to text him, even knowing his phone would be off at present.
Being left to wait for news was unimaginably difficult. I wandered to the radio propped on the window ledge by my desk and cranked the volume, earning an irritated look from my sister, who was wearing her glasses and reading through a stack of papers. She was more on edge than ever; on top of the sickening worry over today’s hearing, Robbie had sent her a strange text on Friday afternoon, written in his coded language: Big deal. Hot Shot in potentially major hot water. Think I found the burner to light the pan. Fancy is smarter than I thought.
Hot Shot was their name for Ron Turnbull. Tish had called Robbie right away after receiving this message. He’d still been at work and promised to call her back. It was Monday now and she hadn’t heard from him yet, but that wasn’t unusual, as they rarely communicated on the weekends anyway.
I made myself sit in front of my computer to avoid annoying Tish any further; there were numerous little things I could have occupied myself with, but I sat idle, staring at the screen saver. When my phone flashed with an incoming call, I startled and almost knocked it to the floor, seeing that Mom was calling. Probably she was wondering if we’d had any news.
“Nothing yet,” I said upon answering, not even having to sigh my tone was so desolate. “They’re probably just getting in front of the judge right now.”
“Ruthie,” Mom said in response. Her voice was low and quiet. I knew instantly that she wasn’t calling about the hearing.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, sitting straight, and Tish’s eyes flashed at once to me.
Mom, I mouthed at Tish.
“I wasn’t sure if I should call you at first, but then I knew I should,” Mom said. “Oh Ruthie, Liam tried to kill himself last night. He’s all right, but he’s in the hospital in Bemidji right now.”
“What?” I whispered faintly, my stomach shriveling into a tight, horrible little ball. It was almost the last thing I had expected her to say.
“I want you to know right now that no one blames you for this,” Mom hurried on, but immediately I knew that was crap, that she was just pacifying me. Of course people would blame me, including probably Clint. I raced backward through my memories, trying to think if I had ever seen any indication that Liam would attempt to do such a dreadful thing. Mom was saying, “He was in his car with the exhaust running when Jeanne found him. In their garage.”
Jeanne was Liam’s mother.
“But he’s all right?” I whispered.
“He is,” Mom said quietly. She paused and I could nearly hear her thoughts, before she said, “Ruthann, I am not saying that I think you should have stayed with him, not at all. I know you’re happy, my little one, but I think it might be a good idea to make a trip home, to come and see Liam, and at least have a face-to-face conversation with him. You never did that. I think it might help him.”
“Stop,” I pleaded softly. I could not hear another word. I knew she was right.
Tish was standing right beside me and she demanded in a whisper, “What?!”
“I’ll call you back,” I told Mom. “I promise.”
I hung up before she could speak and put my head onto my forearms. Behind my eyelids I could see Liam smiling as he dove into Flickertail beneath a sun-drenched sky. I could not reconcile this image with one of him lying in a hospital
bed, depressed enough over me to do something this extreme.
Valentine’s Day, I realized. Last week had been Valentine’s Day, which had always been Liam’s favorite holiday. He’d always made a big deal for us.
“Ruthie!” Tish ordered.
I lifted my face to look at her and said tonelessly, “Liam tried to kill himself last night, in his parents’ garage.”
“Oh God,” Tish said, her tone changing at once. She sank to the chair adjacent to my desk and covered my hands with hers.
“Mom thinks I should come to Landon and talk with him,” I whispered.
Tish looked agonized. She said, “This is just what you need, on top of everything else.”
We hadn’t talked about what had happened at my birthday dinner since that night, but I could see that’s what she meant right now. She said quietly, “What do you think?”
I said, “Mom’s right. I should have broken up with him in person last summer. This is my fault, in its own way. I’m just so shocked, Tish…”
She was wordless, pressing her fingers to my knuckles. She finally said, “First of all, it’s not your fault. Ruthann, Jesus Crimeny. It’s not as though you have control over Liam’s actions.” She sighed and then added, “But I think maybe you should go see him. Maybe it would be better closure for him…”
I flinched. “I know. I do know this.” Abruptly angry, I snapped, “Dammit, how could he do such a thing?” Understanding dawned and I said, much more quietly, “He wanted to hurt me like I’d hurt him.”
“It’s not your fault,” Tish said intently.
I looked up at the ceiling of the law office and felt a horrible shifting in my gut, a sense of something terrible approaching that I could not control. It was keen enough that I couldn’t breathe for a few seconds. I suddenly heard that horrible old wives’ tale in my mind, as clearly as though it had been whispered into my ear – bad things come in threes. I jumped to my feet, struck with desperate urgency. I said, “I have to call Marshall…”
I tried and got his voicemail, but didn’t leave a message. I needed to see him so much that I felt ill with longing. I was tempted to call the college in Billings. Instead I texted him, Please call me right away.
Not a half an hour later, Tish’s phone buzzed with a call from Case. I think we already knew even then that it was not good news, though Tish answered with forced cheer in her tone as she said, “Hi, baby.”
Even one-sided as it was, I heard clearly through her conversation with Case that what we feared was happening: Derrick Yancy had ample enough documentation to allege that Thomas Yancy had been cheated out of his land in the nineteenth century, and that once a court date had been settled upon by all parties, the legal proceedings would begin in earnest.
***
The storm had not yet broken over Jalesville by the time Marshall and I got back to our apartment that afternoon. This may have contributed to the tension that was palpitating between us; we were both ready to crack apart with all of the strain that this day had wrought upon not only us, but our families. A small part of me felt that if the sky would just split open and release its burden of snow, I might be able to draw a deep breath. The back of my neck ached.
Inside, I shed my outer clothes and moved through the apartment clicking on lights. Finally I stopped my frenetic movement and simply leaned against the counter, lowering my head. I sensed Marshall come into the kitchen behind me; I could feel his eyes, intent as he studied me without a word.
“Just say what you’re thinking,” I said at last, low.
“You don’t want to hear it,” he said, just as low. In addition to the devastating news that his family may very well lose their land, the land upon which his beloved mother had been laid to rest and where we planned to build our future home, I’d been forced to tell him about Liam and how I had decided that I would drive to Minnesota for a few nights’ stay. I told Marshall that I wouldn’t leave until tomorrow, Tuesday the 18th, that I would call him every night I was away, and that I would be back before the end of the week.
He hadn’t spoken a word to me since I’d made these pronouncements, until just now.
“Well I better hear it whether I want to or not,” I said, and my voice was acidic, though Marshall was the last person on earth I wanted to fight with. I hated this tension. I wanted him to understand that I had a responsibility I had never carried out; I wanted him to accept that I had made a decision and needed his support. Instead, I had to face his anger.
“You’re not going,” he said, and his tone was final, further spiking my ire. He said, “It’s winter, for Christ’s sake. Roads are shit. I won’t have it.”
“I’ve driven in winter plenty of times,” I said. I sounded petulant and changed tone with effort, adding, “I’ll drive straight through. It’s nothing but interstate the entire way there.”
“It’s dangerous,” he said, controlling his voice with tremendous effort.
“That’s not why you’re mad,” I challenged him, turning so that I could see his eyes. My heart panged hard at the sight of the man I loved, my man who was so jealous that it manifested as anger, I clearly understood.
Didn’t he trust me?
Marshall’s eyes flashed like iron-colored clouds about to unleash hail. I straightened my spine. He said, quietly, “You realize he’s doing this to hurt you, don’t you? It’s attention-seeking. It’s also spineless and fucking cowardly and here you are, going to him even so.”
I couldn’t breathe past the anger in my chest; a small part of me reflected that Marshall did have a point, but I couldn’t see beyond the fact that Liam had sunk low enough to consider taking his own life. Yes, I was resentful of this action, but I owed it to my former boyfriend to talk to him and explain in no uncertain terms that he had to move ahead – that killing himself was the wrong decision, that he had a future ahead of him – and he had to accept that this future did not include me.
And Marshall owed it to me to trust this decision.
When I didn’t immediately answer, Marshall went on, controlling his voice with effort, “I won’t have you going to him, not in winter, not in summer. Call him if you have to, but that’s where it ends.”
“Marshall!” I implored. “You’re spinning this purposely, to be mean. It’s not that way at all! I’m not going to him like you make it sound. I’m driving to my former hometown to talk face-to-face with him, which I should have had the courage to do from the start. I should have broken up with him in person. It was cowardly that I called back then. I have to make that right, don’t you understand?”
“‘To be mean’?” he repeated. The heat of his anger rippled like a living thing between us. “Mean? I am so worried about you, about everything that’s been happening, that I can hardly think straight, and you think I’m being mean?”
“Then try to understand what I’m saying,” I pleaded, wanting so badly to touch him, just angry enough that pride prevented me from reaching my hands towards him. I said, “I won’t be gone even three days. I’ll call you every night. I’m not going to stay there…how could you even think such a thing?”
“You won’t stay there, because you’re not leaving here,” he said, his throat tight with emotion. Our eyes clashed.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” I yelled. I would not cry right now, I would not.
Marshall drove both hands through his hair. His voice was agonized as he said, “You should have enough common sense to realize that it’s dangerous to drive that far this time of year.”
I softened a little, saying, “I’ll be all right. You don’t have class tomorrow and we can talk on the phone the entire way there. I have to do this. Please understand.”
“I can’t understand,” he said, his chest nearly heaving. Though I had witnessed him every bit as passionate many times, I had never seen it manifest as anger this extremely.
“You have to trust me,” I implored. “I trust you.”
“I do trust you!” he yelled.
; “Then show me!”
“This is not how I prove that I trust you!” he said heatedly, and his eyes were blazing with fiery sparks. “I will not have you throw that in my face this way! It’s not fair!”
“Just admit that you don’t trust me!” I fired right back, even though I didn’t truly believe this, my voice very close to a shriek. “I’m going and I will be back and you have to deal with that!”
I knew that he had a hair-trigger temper, but I still jumped a little when he absolutely raged, “You’re doing this despite what I think?! Despite me fucking begging you not to go?!”
“Don’t swear at me,” I cried, my throat swamped with tears. I tried to grasp his arms, to force him to calm down, but the extremes of his emotions got the better of him and he jerked away from my hands, instead leaning to direct his fierce words into my face.
“Oh so I can’t say it to you, only do it?! Is that it?! Since your fucking boyfriend could never give it to you that way, couldn’t fuck you like I can?!”
“Stop it,” I sobbed, shocked at the force of his anger, hurting so much that he might as well have been striking me with his fists. Then I realized he was striking me, just as brutally, with his words.
“I won’t!” he yelled and I could hear the husk in his voice. He turned away from me altogether and then directed his fury at the table, sweeping everything atop it to the floor, the papers, the fruit bowl, our coffee cups.
“Marshall,” I cried, reaching to stop him, but he moved immediately away from me, putting the now-empty table between us. There were tears in his eyes; I felt as though a knife was carving out the inside of my heart. Fruit seemed to be rolling all across the floor.
“Go then,” he said, and all the fight had left his voice. His throat was choked and his words low-pitched, rough and terrible, as he looked directly into my eyes and said, “Just go.”
Until Tomorrow Page 33