I rarely saw Brad or Jane Culver, though I knew it was his money and not Patricia’s I was being handed in a crisp white envelope at the end of each week. Culver rode almost every day, but not often in the afternoons. When I saw him, he was at the fence observing Patricia with Reggie, or checking into some matter pertaining to equipment or supplies. He treated me cordially enough—asking after my father or mentioning some little anecdote from one of their golfing ventures. Nevertheless, in his presence, I always worked with my head down, hoping he wouldn’t speak to me.
Maybe a week or two after I started working at the Culvers’ stable, I finally met Charles Culver. I was in the midst of running a Weedwacker over the grass beneath the fence surrounding the ring when I saw him walking down the path from the house, escorting Leigh to her afternoon ride with Patricia.
Charles seemed at once older and younger than his actual age. His dark hair was thinning on the top. In contrast with his father—who, even in his sixties, had the lean, compact build of a middleweight boxer and the ruddy complexion of a cowboy—Charles was pale and soft, almost pear-shaped. He wore glasses with cat-eye frames that appeared overly large on his head. He was considerably shorter than Leigh in her riding boots. The thought of him on top of her, naked, struck me as comically absurd.
“Charles, you must meet Rocky,” Patricia said. “Mr. Askew’s son.”
Charles shook my hand and smiled.
“I’ve met your father,” Charles said.
“I know,” I said.
“Charles,” Patricia said, “did you know Rocky’s brother was Leigh’s high school sweetheart?”
Still holding my hand, Charles turned and offered Leigh a half-smiling, curious glance.
“The same brother Dad shot in the leg?” he asked.
“That’s right,” I said.
“My God,” Patricia said. “I never heard that story.”
Leigh’s eyes moved back and forth between Patricia and me, as if to accuse us of some sort of conspiracy.
“That was years ago,” I said.
“You were in England, Patricia,” said Charles.
He turned his soft face back to me and released my hand from his moist grip.
“Pop told me about it ages ago. Your brother was playing some sort of prank, right?”
“Something like that,” I said. “The house was empty for a long time before your parents bought it. It was kind of a dare to go inside. Like touching Boo Radley’s porch. Your dad surprised him, I think.”
“I should say,” Charles remarked.
“Hard to imagine Twin Oaks like that now,” Patricia said. “It’s so cozy.”
“I remember Pop saying it was a rather uncomfortable way to get to know the neighbors,” Charles said. “But it seems like he and your father have mended fences.”
“There was no fence at all before,” I said. “Your pop built it.”
“Oh, yes. He did, didn’t he,” Charles said, chuckling dryly while Leigh looked on in agony.
“And what’s become of your brother?” Charles asked. “What does he do?”
“He died,” Leigh said.
A wave of panic passed over me like an electrical charge.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Charles said.
I stared at Leigh pleadingly, but she refused to look at me.
Could Paul really be dead? In a sense, he had already been dead to us for years—as much a ghost as Frank Cherry or Annie Elizabeth. But really dead? I was completely unprepared to be faced with such a possibility.
At last, Leigh tilted her eyes toward mine. What I saw was not sadness or sympathy or even nostalgia, but fear. Just drop it, her face seemed to say.
In an instant, the dread I had felt gave way to something else—a rancid bitterness I could never have imagined feeling toward Leigh, whom I had always so adored. Why would she say such a thing? It was like Peter denying Jesus. I wanted to slap her face and call her names. I felt as if all the heartsick love I’d nursed for her since the first time I held her and breathed in the smell of strawberries and smoke had vanished like the butt of a cigarette flung out the open window of a speeding car.
“We better get on, then,” Patricia said.
They mounted up and cantered out toward the field. After he waved them off, Charles turned and offered his hand to me once more.
“I’ve enjoyed getting to know your father, Richard,” he said. “I’m just in town for a quick visit, but I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.”
“I hope so,” I said.
I was quite certain that should Paul materialize at any moment before or even after Charles and Leigh’s wedding, Leigh would bolt from Charles Culver’s side just like Katharine Ross abandoned that sneering frat boy for Dustin Hoffman at the end of The Graduate. I might even be waiting outside behind the wheel of the getaway car—the old purple Nova, rumbling on the curb, ready to blast some triumphant rock anthem like “We Are the Champions” or “Won’t Get Fooled Again” out the windows as we sped off toward the horizon.
I was still there mucking out the stalls when the two of them returned to the barn. I dropped my shovel and walked out to meet them as they dismounted.
“Here,” Patricia said, reaching for Velma’s halter. “I’ll take her in.”
Leigh was left to face my wounded wrath. I had no intention of making it easy on her.
“I’m sorry, Rocky,” she said. “It just came out.”
“But it’s not true,” I said, refusing to look at her. “You just made it up, right? You were lying.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I mean, I don’t know what’s happened to him. I hope he’s alive, and that he’s happy, wherever he is.”
“But it would be easier for you if he was dead, wouldn’t it?”
“Honestly?” she said. “Yes.”
“How can you say that?”
“Time passes,” she said. “People outgrow each other and go on with their lives. Don’t you see, Rocky? I’m ready to get on with my life.”
“It seems a little unfair that Paul has to be dead in order for you to move on,” I said.
She paused for a moment before continuing.
“There are some things I just don’t want to discuss,” she said. “With anyone. Even Charles. What I said—it was just the easiest way to end the conversation.”
My throat ached with sorrow and anger. I felt like I was going to cry.
“I know this is hard for you,” Leigh said. “But can’t you just try to be happy for me?”
I jammed my hands into the pockets of my jeans and kicked at the dirt, fighting back the tears.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll try.”
“OK then,” she said. “Thank you.”
I lingered in the doorway as Leigh walked up the path toward the house. Patricia came up beside me.
“What happened to your brother, Rocky?”
I was afraid if I tried to answer, my voice would break and I’d end up a blubbering mess.
“He isn’t dead, is he?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked. “You look like you could use one.”
Patricia was almost thirty—not much older than Paul and Leigh—but given the way she spoke and her generally dour demeanor, I had always thought of her as being much older, like a teacher. When she walked out toward me, however, her face seemed somehow softer. The usual air of indifference appeared to have been replaced by something approaching compassion. A drink? I thought. Why not? Leigh had definitely put me in the mood to rebel against something.
On one side of the tack room was an old aluminum desk flanked by a pair of captain’s chairs, an old filing cabinet, and a minifridge. On the opposite wall hung the saddles and bridles, a length of braided rope, and a shelf for helmets and gloves.
“Have a seat,” Patricia said, reaching into the cabinet for a bottle of scotch.
“How do you take it?” she asked.
I tho
ught of what the Old Man usually ordered.
“Old-fashioned,” I said.
She laughed.
“We’ve got a bit of sugar for the horses,” she said. “But I left the muddler and the bitters up at the house.”
She pulled a tray of ice cubes from the minifridge and a pair of coffee mugs from atop the file cabinet.
“On the rocks, then,” she said.
She poured the drinks and handed one of the mugs to me.
“Cheers,” she said.
I quickly discovered why people said they “needed” a drink. Almost instantly my anger and confusion were replaced with a mellow calm and a not unpleasant thrumming in the extremities.
The scotch seemed to have the same ameliorative effect on Patricia. A bit of color came into her face. Her lips curled into a crooked smile. In the small, dry room, I could smell the sweat from her back and her nape and the scent of the horsehide from between her thighs where they had clutched the horse’s flanks in the saddle.
“Would you like to talk about it?” she asked.
“There’s not much to talk about,” I said. “Leigh was my brother’s girl a long time ago. I had a bit of a crush on her, but I’m over it.”
“I don’t think we ever get over first love,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically soft and wistful.
“It wasn’t love,” I said. “Just a crush.”
“But your brother was her first,” Patricia said.
“Yes,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether she meant to confirm that Paul was Leigh’s first love or her “first,” but I presumed the answer to both questions was the same.
I drew in a deep breath of the hot, dry air. On the other side of the wall, the horses stirred in their stalls. A gentle breeze lifted the flimsy curtains. The sweat on my nape cooled. I raised the mug and drank until the ice cubes clicked against my teeth.
“Would you like another drink?” Patricia asked.
“Yes,” I said.
She took the bottle and filled the mug to the brim.
“So,” she asked. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No,” I said.
“Why not?” she asked. “I bet the girls think you’re cute.”
“I go to a boys’ school.”
“I see,” she said. “Are you gay?”
I was too startled by the question to take offense.
“Why would you think that?” I stammered.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not gay,” I said.
“It wouldn’t bother me at all if you were,” Patricia said. “Americans are awfully uptight about that sort of thing, especially in the South.”
Patricia was always going on about how Americans were this or that, as if she weren’t one herself.
“Well,” I said, “I’m not.”
“I just thought—you know. Since you don’t have any girlfriends.”
“Just because I don’t have a girlfriend doesn’t mean I lie around dreaming about guys.”
This wasn’t completely true. I did daydream about guys—the ones on the walls of Paul’s room: Neil Young; the Beatles; Mick Jagger in skintight pants, doing his rooster act, preening, his gleaming chest stuck out, hand perched on his ass; Jim Morrison, shirtless, glowering at the camera. What did that say about me?
Patricia leaned forward, her elbow propped on the desk in front of her. I could hear the ice in her drink tinkle against the edges of the coffee mug as she shifted her weight.
“What do you . . . dream about?” she asked.
She didn’t appear to be teasing me. Still, it seemed clear what she meant by dreaming. How on earth did she expect me to respond to that?
I took another sip from my mug.
I had drunk liquor only once before, the time I slurped scotch off the top of Anne’s glass on that awful night she spent with us when I was seven. As I considered how best to answer Patricia’s question, I began to notice the numbness in my lips and tongue.
My heart had begun to race, and I could feel my pulse echoing in my skull. My gaze drifted down from Patricia’s face to the damp spot where her dark green V-neck T-shirt had slipped to reveal a sliver of creamy flesh between where her tan line ended and the bra cup covering her left breast began. Patricia shifted in her chair, prompting me to notice that I was quite guilelessly staring at her breasts. As my eyes darted back up to meet hers, I realized, to my dismay, that I had become aroused.
Patricia stared back at me, a coy smile on her lips, waiting—waiting for what?
“I don’t know,” I stammered.
If I had been a bit more worldly, I might have noticed that I was in the midst of what most people would think of as an opportune moment. But I was a child, still naive and, for the most part, innocent. I couldn’t yet conceive the possibility of anything happening between me and Patricia Culver, regardless of the circumstances.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. You’re very mature for your age. I forget you’re still so young.”
To my relief, my erection began to fade.
“I’m not embarrassed,” I lied.
“I hope not,” she said. “I’d like to be your friend.”
“Me too,” I said. “I really don’t have anyone I can talk to about this kind of stuff.”
“We all need someone to confide in.”
“You’ve got your brother,” I said. “And Leigh.”
“My brother?” Patricia said, leaning back and rolling her eyes in contempt. “Please. If I told him I needed to go to the bathroom, he’d run straight to Daddy and whisper what I’d said in his ear.”
“That’s what my mother says about Spencerville.”
“What?”
“That you can’t go to the bathroom without someone telling the whole town whether you went number one or number two.”
Patricia laughed into her coffee mug.
“Charles fits right in, then,” she said. “Besides, he’s ten years older than me. By the time I was old enough to talk, he was off to university, and by the time he came home, I was off at school in England. Since then, we’ve never been under the same roof for more than three weeks at a time. He’s more like a young uncle than a brother.”
“We’ve got that in common, then,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Older half brothers. You barely know yours. I don’t even know if mine’s alive or dead.”
“Tell me about him,” she said.
I thought about Paul. What would he think of Patricia? What would she think of him?
“You should ask Leigh,” I replied. “The last time I saw him I was nine years old.”
“I don’t get the sense she wants to discuss it. We’re not the closest of friends.”
“You’ve sure been spending a lot of time with her.”
“We’ve been thrown together by the whirlwind courtship,” Patricia said.
“How did that happen, anyway?” I asked.
“Our parents. Charles was always too busy traveling to settle down with anyone. He’s very driven. Mummy’s been after him to find a wife for years. When the Honorable Prentiss Bowman found out about my brother, he practically flung poor Leigh at him. One thing led to another, and here we are. My parents couldn’t be more delighted. Mummy and Daddy want grandchildren. I think they’ve given up on me. Daddy says I’d rather marry a horse than a man.”
“That’s kind of a mean thing to say.”
“Oh, he was just having a laugh,” she said. “But it’s true I’m in no hurry to start breeding.”
“And what do you think of Leigh?” I asked.
“She seems awfully—how should I say it?—anxious. She’s quite a bit younger than Charles, and much better looking, as I’m sure you observed. But he can offer her security, if that’s what she’s after.”
“Is that what you think?” I asked.
“It’s an important thing to think about,” she said. “Even more so
if you’re accustomed to a certain lifestyle.”
“I thought people married for love,” I said.
“Only in novels and plays,” she said. “That’s why they call it romance, no?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“That’s where the word comes from. A romance, by definition, is a fictional story.”
She was starting to resume her dictatorial air. I was already beginning to gather that Patricia enjoyed delivering lectures.
“Is that how you feel?” I asked. “That love is fictional?”
“That depends on your definition of love. There are different ways of loving someone, Rocky. Try to see it from Leigh’s perspective. Around here, it seems, a girl’s an old maid if she turns twenty-five without a ring on her finger.”
I could see what she was getting at. She’d met my parents. Patricia Culver was not the first to conclude that in marrying the Old Man, my mother had made precisely the sort of compromise Patricia was accusing Leigh of making.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” she said, her voice softening. “I’m not cynical. I expect the love you remember between Leigh and your brother was like Romeo and Juliet’s.”
“They both die in the end,” I said.
“If they hadn’t, it wouldn’t have been a tragedy. There are similar stories with happier endings. They just don’t make for good entertainment.”
She splashed a finger of scotch into her mug and offered me the bottle. I shook my head. I had just considered the fact that I’d soon have to go home and face my parents.
“One thing I am certain of,” she said. “You only get one great love. If Leigh’s was your brother, then she’ll never have another. And anyhow, I can tell you from experience that Spencerville isn’t exactly crawling with eligible bachelors who are up to Prentiss Bowman’s standards.”
“My old man says Prentiss Bowman acts as if his shit smells like a bouquet of roses.”
We both laughed. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed gossiping with Patricia Culver. We were thick as thieves now, I thought. In cahoots.
“You’re a clever boy, Richard,” she said. “I’m glad we’re going to be friends.”
Only Love Can Break Your Heart Page 8