I’d smiled back, my lips closed, hovering above the scene in my imagination as I often did. Even though I’d left school, I couldn’t quite bring myself to think of myself as just another woman in cut-off shorts watching the parade in Carlisle, one whose future was written in the faces and bodies of all the other women around her. The light glinted on the great brass curves of the tubas, the cheerleaders’ pom-poms, the rows of children passing by, waving at people they knew in the crowd. Amos’s hand was solid and warm, anchoring me to the earth. I’d leaned against him, unsure how he would react, and to my relief, he’d put his arm around me. When the cheerleaders went by, I’d expected him to make some remark, but he didn’t, simply kissing me on the head. I’d felt myself relax. This was how I got through the days: by the hour, the minute, like a swimmer holding her breath. When viewed that way, things didn’t seem so bad. I could get by, I thought.
Then he lost his job.
Even though I hadn’t enjoyed being alone in the house all day, rattling from room to room, there had been a freedom that came with it, a freedom—at least within that small, closed sphere—to do what I pleased. With Amos home, sitting in the living room, staring out the window, I had to be careful all the time. I lost my moments of standing at the kitchen sink, looking at the fields. If I tried to do that, Amos would come up behind me, twisting my arm in a way he seemed to think was playful but hurt nonetheless. “What are you thinking about?” he would ask.
“Nothing,” I would say, and it was the truth. At those times, I was doing my best not to think, especially about the moment with the paring knife. It lay within me like a cold weight, like a certainty, but I never wanted to think about it again.
I’d had a friend in high school, a shy, heavy, soft-faced senior with long dyed-black curls that hung over the Led Zeppelin and Marilyn Manson T-shirts she always wore. She wasn’t my friend, really, although she might have been if things had turned out differently. She’d been in my gym class, and we’d always said hello to each other in the hallways; we must have sat together in the cafeteria a few times, too, because later I found that I could clearly remember her face, the way her eyes would crinkle as she listened to other people’s jokes and drank her chocolate milk. She wore rainbow-patterned bracelets made of string and had dimples when she smiled and was in the special-education classes, the ones for kids who didn’t exactly have anything wrong with them but were just slower than the others for whatever reason. We all knew she had a boyfriend, a stringy-looking guy in his thirties, and I must have met him at least once, at a party or something, because somehow I knew what he looked like even before they ran his picture in the newspaper. One night in the spring, he’d taken her into the woods, made her kneel by a creek, and shot her in the back of the head.
He had gone to jail—at least, I thought he must have gone to jail—and in the photos in the paper he’d had this look on his face, hollow-eyed and hunted and mean-looking, as if he couldn’t believe he were being persecuted this way. Maybe it was just the way the photo was taken, but looking into his eyes, his open mouth, was like gazing into some kind of horrible void.
I began to get the same sensation when I looked at Amos sometimes. Not always; until the very end, he had his days of kindness. But I began to think of my friend, to picture her sitting across from me in the cafeteria with her colorful bracelets and her chocolate milk, her elbows on the table, covering her face with her hand as she laughed.
He—her boyfriend—had shot her at the bottom of her skull, near the nape of her neck. The bullet had come out through the front. That’s what the newspaper had said.
Her face would have been gone when they buried her.
I tried not to think of this, but found that I couldn’t escape it. It often happened when I was looking in the bathroom mirror, lingering in the only place in the house where I could shut myself away and be alone. I would see her, and I would see myself seeing her, my eyes looking back at me from the glass. I would look away, but I could never quite escape it, that glimpse of myself that told me so much I would rather not have known.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Amos asked once. Not angry, exactly, or at least not yet.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. It’s sort of strange. You just look at me like I’m not even there.”
“I know you’re there.”
“Yeah?” To my surprise, he walked over to where I was sitting and leaned down to kiss me on the forehead. “You still love me?”
“Yes,” I said. “Of course I do.”
If he heard anything odd in my tone of voice, he didn’t let on.
One night not long after that, I had just pushed a casserole into the oven and was wiping my hands on a towel when Amos called to me from the living room.
“Come sit here,” he said.
I perched on the couch next to him, the TV murmuring in the background. Reaching for me, he began kissing me, sliding his hand inside my shirt. I let him do it, and, a few minutes later, I heard the sound of him unfastening his pants. I stayed where I was, knowing better than to move away, even though I was already beginning to worry about the food burning.
To my confusion, he then slid his belt free of its loops and, as I sat there, put it around my neck, looping the end with the holes through the end with the buckle. Then he sat back and pulled.
The leather tightened around my throat, and I moved toward him involuntarily. He moved farther off, sliding across the couch and pulling again, as if I were a dog on a leash. I slipped my fingers between the belt and my neck, trying to loosen it.
“Don’t,” he said. Then he stood up and tugged harder.
“Stop,” I said.
“Don’t you tell me to stop,” he replied, pulling again. I found myself on the floor, on my knees.
“It’s sexy,” he said. “I think it’s sexy.” Then he added, “You know I could kill you like this?”
I looked up at him, taken aback. Several long seconds passed while I knelt there, my hands at my throat, realizing for the first time—as if I had felt a tremor in the earth—what true fear was like.
After a moment, a strange expression came over his face, and he dropped the belt, walking away, shaking himself as if he too were disturbed by what he had done.
When I put the food on the table, we sat down and ate. Neither of us mentioned what had happened.
The next morning, something in me snapped. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did. Amos was out, and I was cleaning the house, turning on the radios as I moved from room to room so I wouldn’t be alone in the silence, not caring what was playing. Suddenly, the house was filled with a cacophony of voices from different stations, and I stood in the middle of it, a rag dangling from my fingers. Without quite knowing what I was doing, I moved down the stairs, putting one foot in front of the other. Then I was stepping into the sunlight and closing the front door behind me. I dropped the rag in the grass next to the house and began to walk, my hands still smelling of cleaning solution and my hair tied back in a bandanna. I didn’t bring money. I didn’t bring a change of clothes. I didn’t bring anything.
I just went.
My feet took me to the county road, then the state one. I passed the fields, the old oak trees, the spring that ran under the small bridge by the railroad tracks. The fire company slid by on my left, then Miller’s on my right, and then the mountain stood in front of me, imposing and green. I walked along the shoulder of the road, my eyes fixed ahead, my shoes leaving prints in the dust. My T-shirt began to cling to me, sticky with sweat, but I kept going, up the long ascent that flew by when you were driving. The sun was burning my forearms, my thighs—I was pale after so many months indoors—but I pushed on, into the shade of the trees. The cars and pickups would slow as they passed me, and finally one picked me up, carrying me to Gettysburg. I rolled down the window and let the breeze cool my face while the driver—an old man in suspenders, compact, with a face covered with white stubble—smoked a cigar. He did
n’t say anything, and neither did I.
When we got to Gettysburg, I stepped out, looking up at the other side of the mountain. The smoothly paved road, whose tar bubbled and fumed, took me through the canning towns, past the factories and the small knots of houses where, by and large, nobody lived. My knees ached, and I was thirsty, but the sun mysteriously seemed to have taken away my hunger, to have drawn it up out of me. I kept going, my canvas shoes beginning to fall apart, the left sole flapping when I took a step. For a little while, I stopped to rest outside an old schoolhouse, watching the clouds to the west begin to grow orange and red. When a car slowed in front of me, however, I waved it away and stood up, moving on.
It was long after dark by the time I reached Orrtanna. The light over the sign for the church was the only one for what seemed like miles; it shone by the side of the road, Father MacIntyre’s name and the mass times seeming to hover in the blackness. Around me, the crickets and frogs sang, a soft but impenetrable backdrop of noise. There was no sign of life in the ranch houses and trailers that dotted the road, nor in the rectory, whose steps I soon mounted. I knocked on the door, holding my breath. The night air was chilly, and I wrapped my arms around myself, allowing my mind to form a complete, coherent thought for the first time that day: I wished I’d brought a jacket. And I would have sold everything I owned for a glass of water.
I raised a hand to my throat, where the belt had been. There weren’t any marks there. Not that I had seen.
The priest opened the door in his undershirt, his hair—already white by then—drooping over his forehead and his eyes frightened and watery behind his glasses. He was stooped forward, his chin thrust out, but when he saw me he straightened in surprise and befuddlement. “Oh,” he said. “It’s Mrs.—Mrs.—”
“Kathleen,” I said. I hadn’t expected him to recognize me at all; I hadn’t been to mass since I’d gotten married. I rubbed my bare arms, shivering slightly.
“Come in,” he said, switching on a light in the hallway. “Come in, come in.” Turning around, he beckoned to me over his shoulder, and I followed him. The corridor was narrow, the wallpaper a fading red and gold, and as he led the way with unsteady steps, I felt as if I were being drawn into a cave. It was only a sitting room, however: the same as any sitting room in the valley, with a pair of old reclining chairs, a flowered loveseat, shag carpet. A boxy TV sat on a table, its antennae casting shadows on the wall. The priest turned on a lamp. “Sit down, sit down. What brings you here? Actually, if you’ll forgive me, I need to excuse myself for just a moment, but do have a seat.”
I perched on the edge of one of the reclining chairs, embarrassingly aware that he had excused himself to use the toilet. While he was gone, I looked around the room, fidgeting. For some reason, I expected that when he returned, he would be wearing the robes in which I’d always seen him, but when he sat down across from me he was still in the stretched white undershirt. He leaned toward me, clasping his arthritic hands together.
Amos would have been looking for me for hours by now, I realized dimly. He would be frantic.
“What can I do for you, Kathleen? What’s the matter?” The priest pushed his glasses up his nose, fixing me with a look that was sympathetic but wary. Before I could go on, he looked down. “Goodness gracious, you’ve hurt your feet.”
I glanced down, too, and saw that blood was soaking through the toe of one of my shoes. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly, pushing myself out of the chair. “I—”
“No, just stay there, it’s all right. Let me get you some bandages. Do you think you need a doctor?”
“No, I’m sure they’re just blisters.” I looked around, more embarrassed than ever. The only thing in the room that would reveal this to be a priest’s house was a painting of the Virgin that hung in a corner. There were some dusty spider plants, an ashtray with a coating of gray on it. The priest hurried off again, and I heard the clicking of a light switch, followed by a rustling and clinking in what I assumed was the kitchen.
I leaned back in the chair, gazing up at the painting. It was ordinary, just the Virgin by herself, blue-robed, modest, grieving for the world. I looked away and closed my eyes. The smell of stale cigarette smoke that clung to the chair was vaguely comforting, and I rested my head against the upholstery, breathing deeply, listening to the indistinct murmuring that came from the kitchen.
When I opened my eyes again, there was a glass of water on the table beside me, along with a dusty box of Band-Aids. The priest was seated across from me, reading a book. He had put on a sweater.
“Thank you,” I said, reaching gratefully for the water and draining the glass. “How long was I asleep?”
“Not long. Just a short nap. You’ve obviously had a bit of a walk.” He rose to fetch another glass of water and settled in again. “Now, tell me how I can be of help.”
The day came back to me.
“My husband,” I said.
“Yes?”
“I just—” I didn’t know what to say, and I found myself stumbling into the truth before stumbling back out again. “I ran away. Not really. I just needed to get out for a day.”
“I see.” He adjusted his glasses, crossing his legs and wrapping his hands around his knee. “And what brought you here?”
“I don’t know.” Then I said the thing I had never admitted to myself before. “I—I’m afraid. Sometimes.”
Picturing Amos behind the wheel of his truck, furious, worried, searching for me, I felt a quickening of guilt—of panic—but pushed it aside.
“What are you afraid of?” He squinted at me with a look of concern. “Does he hit you?”
“No, it’s—well. Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?”
“He does other things. It’s hard to explain.”
“What kinds of things?”
I shook my head. My feet hurt, and I stretched them in front of me, looking down at them.
The priest peered at me, his head seeming to bob slightly. The skin of his neck hung in folds over his Adam’s apple, as if it, too, were tired. He steepled his fingers in front of him.
“You’re Howard’s granddaughter,” he said.
I looked up, unsure if this was a question. “Howard and Lydia. Yes.”
“I see.”
I didn’t see, but I stayed quiet, watching him watch his fingertips.
“Is your husband happy?” he asked finally.
“No. Yes. Sometimes.” I toyed with the box of Band-Aids. “He lost his job.”
“Ah,” he said, as if he’d discovered something. “Yes, yes. Of course.”
“But I don’t think that’s it,” I hastened to add. “Not really.”
“Men are at their weakest at times like that. Most prone to err.” He nodded, as if he were agreeing with me.
“Well—yes. But even before—”
“He must be very unhappy,” he went on, as if he hadn’t heard. “Very unhappy indeed. You know, as Christians, it’s our duty to love those who are suffering, and help them see the right path.”
He paused.
“Um,” I said.
“Just think of Christ on the cross,” he continued. “The pain he bore in order to redeem us. He’s an example to us all. There are times when we all have to endure certain things in order to remain true to God’s will. That’s what love means.”
I found myself watching his face, something within me slowly seeming to break off and fall away, a cliff sliding into the ocean.
“Be patient,” he continued, his tone growing easier. “Many marriages go through difficult periods. But with time, and love, we can all grow and change.” He coughed into his palm and shifted in his seat, sitting up straighter. “Just be patient and have faith. God united you with your husband, and if you obey him”—I blinked, unsure whether he meant Amos or God—“if you obey him, you’ll find that you grow and learn together. I’ve seen it happen with many couples in my time. Go home, forgive your husband, and ask for his forgiveness. That’s t
he only thing to do.”
The lamp made a pool of light on the floor. I looked at him, his face that was half in shadow, my mind searching for words and finding none. It was warm in the room, and I suddenly realized a smell hung over the place, something artificially floral, sickening and heavy.
There was a sound outside, the unmistakable crunch of tires in a driveway, someone pulling in and hitting the brakes hard. My head jerked up, and I shot a stunned look at him, the shriveled old man in the chair across from me, my eyes asking a question he didn’t answer.
“Everyone is capable of change,” he said. “Everyone can be redeemed. That’s the very premise of our faith, isn’t it? What can we believe, if we can’t believe that?”
There was a second crunching, the sound of motors, car doors. I pushed myself to my feet, staring down at him, terrified.
“Wait,” I said. “Let me stay. Don’t send me back. I’ll go tomorrow, I’ll—”
There was a knock on the door, knuckles against the glass, loud and sharp.
“That must be your father,” the priest said, pushing himself to his feet. “I called him while you were resting. I do hope I haven’t—”
The door opened, and Amos strode in, enormous, seeming to fill the hallway. His head lowered, he looked at me from under his brows. His breathing was uneven, as if he were trying to keep himself from shouting, or weeping.
“Let’s go,” he said to me, not acknowledging Father MacIntyre.
Paralyzed, I glanced from him to the old man, gripping the arm of the chair. The priest was standing uncertainly, looking from one of us to the other.
Ways to Hide in Winter Page 17