by Ann Tatlock
He introduced her to his friends. She heard their names and promptly forgot. They smiled, said hello, eyed her warily. Or maybe she just imagined their guardedness. Maybe she just imagined they could see right through her, all the way to the VA hospital, all the way to Seth.
The blond girl turned her face away, said something to Ted that Jane couldn’t hear. Warning him? Be careful. She’s on the rebound.
You don’t give up your fiancé one minute and go meet another man the next. That’s not the way it’s done. Jane knew that. Then why was she here?
“So how you been?” He smiled at her, put a hand on her elbow.
She looked at him, tried to conjure up an answer, settled for the cliché. “Fine. I’m fine. How about you?”
“Busy,” he said. “I was called out of town this past week on some business, or I would have called you sooner.”
A broken heart was weak, became disconnected from the brain, had no rudder to steer it. A broken heart was prone to foolishness.
You should have said no. You shouldn’t have answered the phone.
“We thought we’d hang out here for a while,” he went on, “and then go catch dinner somewhere. Will that be all right?”
“Sure. Sure, that sounds good.”
And then what? Pretend there was no Seth? Pretend that all was well in her life?
She listened to their conversation as though from a distance, heard them laugh. She winced at the sound of it. She knew she ought to join in, she ought to say something. She tried, but every utterance sounded banal and insincere. So what do you teach at the U? Have you always lived in Asheville? I love your necklace. Is that a sapphire?
She scarcely heard what anyone said in response.
Maybe Ted knew she was floundering. Without asking, he tugged at her hand, led her out to the dance floor. She was a puppet, to be pulled by strings.
If she let herself be pulled into the dance she might find the pleasure in it, just like last time, when dancing to the drums had made her laugh. After all, it was supposed to make her one with the universe, with the cosmic consciousness, with the divine. There had to be some joy in that, didn’t there? Or peace. Or nirvana. The blowing out . . . the extinction.
Nothingness. That would be nice. Could one commit emotional suicide? Pry the emotion chip out of your heart and go on living?
The drumming went on and on. Hadn’t they been here for several years now?
“Want to sit down for a while?”
She felt herself nod.
As they moved through the crowd toward the concrete tiers, he motioned toward a street vendor selling hot dogs and sodas. “You thirsty? Want something to drink?”
“No thanks. I’m fine.”
They sat. The sun was low, the shadows long. Summer nights had always been her favorite slice of life, back in Troy, back in time, back in all the days before today.
He was there, too close, leaning toward her, his face near her hair. “Do you mind if I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
Yes, I mind.
But he didn’t understand. How could he? When he kissed her, she drew back, broke down in tears.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I have to go.” She jumped up.
“Wait a minute! Jane!”
She felt his hand on her arm, turning her around.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, I—”
“What’s wrong with you? Why are you crying?”
“I’m sorry, Ted. It’s not you. It’s me. I shouldn’t have come.”
“But what—”
“I’m sorry. Really, I’m sorry.”
Later, she wouldn’t remember driving home, though she must have somehow found her car and driven from downtown across I-240 to Montford Avenue. She didn’t recall the moments between Pritchard Park and the Penlands’ house, but she slowly became aware of herself standing in front of the liquor cabinet, staring at all the pretty bottles.
There was only one sure way not to feel anything anymore. One sure passage to the place of no pain.
Oh, Seth!
30
She stayed away from the hospital for five days. On the morning of the sixth, Truman called and asked her to come.
“What’s the matter?”
“Seth has pneumonia.”
“How bad is it?”
“I’m not sure. I think he’ll be all right, but why don’t you come on in. They’ve got him in ICU.”
Jane snapped her cell phone shut and steadied herself against the kitchen counter. At the thought of pneumonia, she felt all the strength drop out of her and gather in a puddle at her feet. She shut her eyes and took a few deep breaths. After a moment she pushed herself away from the counter and looked around the kitchen. She felt disgusted by what she saw. Piles of dirty dishes in the sink. A stack of unread newspapers on the table. Splashes of spaghetti sauce across the parquet flooring. And empty bottles everywhere. One on the table, one on the counter, one in the sink. Were there more in the den? She didn’t know, couldn’t remember.
For the past five days she had secluded herself in the Penlands’ home, slowly sipping away the sorrow while Seth was in the hospital succumbing to pneumonia. How could she have let this happen? She suddenly felt she was in the wrong place—no, in the wrong person, as though she had slipped into her mother’s skin and was consorting with a bottle while the one who needed her most was left alone.
Truman met her outside the doors of the intensive care unit. His eyes spoke before his mouth did, telling her he was worried.
“Thanks for coming, Jane,” he said when she reached him.
She shook her head. “Of course. How is he?”
“He’s one sick fellow, but the doctors are doing everything they should be doing.”
“Last time I saw him, he was fine.” But that was six days ago. A lot can happen in the span of a week.
“I believe it was Sunday he started getting sick. Cold symptoms, at first. The typical sneezing, watery eyes, sinus drainage. For most of us, just an annoyance.”
Jane nodded.
Truman went on, “By yesterday it was full-fledged pneumonia. He was moved into ICU where they started him on IV antibiotics. He seems to be responding well.”
“But I don’t understand, Truman,” Jane said. “He had a pneumonia vaccine.”
“Yes, but there are different kinds of pneumonia. And of course someone who’s a quad is particularly susceptible. Since the muscles around his lungs don’t work, it’s next to impossible for him to cough up the congestion in his chest. That’s the real danger.”
Jane looked away, down the long empty corridor. “Pneumonia is the number-one killer of quads, isn’t it?” She looked back at Truman.
“That doesn’t mean Seth won’t get over this, Jane,” he said. But his eyes, at least for the moment, spoke otherwise. He was having his doubts. “Why don’t you go on in and see him? You’re allowed ten minutes at a time. There are gowns, gloves, and masks outside his room. You’ll have to put them on before you go in.”
“All right.”
“Ten minutes. That’s all. Any longer and the nurse will ask you to leave.”
“Okay.”
Truman put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be in the waiting room when you come out. If you want to talk.”
She gave a small uncertain smile before pushing her way through the doors of the ICU.
His eyes were closed in sleep, though his face was far from peaceful. His brow was heavy and his eyelids twitched. His breathing was labored in spite of the oxygen mask that covered his nose and mouth. He looked as though he was listening to the lopsided battle going on inside his body, that of his compromised immune system against an invading army of microbes. The battle must have reached a fevered pitch, as fresh beads of perspiration broke out along his forehead.
“Seth?” Jane said.
He didn’t respond.
“Seth?” she said again.
She touched his arm, remembered he had no feeling there. She moved her hand to his forehead. Even through the glove she wore his skin felt warm.
His eyes fluttered open. They looked glassy and bright, like the eyes of a porcelain doll. It seemed a great effort for him to focus on her face. “Jane?”
“Hi, Seth.”
He tried to wet his lips with his tongue. His voice was muffled by the oxygen mask. “You look like a nurse.”
Jane laughed lightly behind the surgical mask. “Yeah. Truman said we have to wear all this stuff to come in and see you.”
Seth nodded. Then he asked, “You mad at me?”
“No. Of course not. Why would I be mad at you?”
“What I said. Last time.”
“No. No, I’m not mad, Seth.”
“You haven’t been here.”
“I just needed a little time away. But I’m here now. Truman called to tell me you have pneumonia. I wanted to see how you are.”
“Well,” he said, raising his brows, “I’ve been better.”
“Listen, you shouldn’t talk. Reserve your strength. I just wanted to let you know I’m here.”
He seemed to fall back to sleep then. But after a moment he opened his eyes and looked up at her. “You know . . .”
When he didn’t go on, she leaned closer and said, “What, Seth?”
“I won the game. I beat Jon-Paul.”
She smiled, surprised by the surge of pleasure and pride that coursed through her. “But of course,” she said, “I knew you would.” She leaned over and, through the mask, she kissed his moist brow. “I have to go now. You get some more sleep. I’ll be back soon.”
Truman was in the waiting room, along with several other people who had family members in the ICU. Before Jane could sit down beside him, Truman said, “Listen, there’s a small chapel right down the hall. The pews are kind of hard, but at least it’s someplace quiet to sit.”
“All right.”
She followed him slowly as he moved on stiff knees down the hall. He turned into a small windowless room and slipped into a pew. Jane slid in beside him. The door and the altar were separated by only half a dozen pews. The entire chapel was almost as small as Seth’s room on the fifth floor.
“It looks like they don’t exactly expect a crowd for services,” Jane noted.
Truman smiled. “There’s a larger chapel off the front lobby where they hold services. This one seems to be reserved for people who want to come and pray.”
The room was largely unadorned, save for a brass cross and a couple of matching candlesticks on the altar. Jane waited a moment, expecting Truman to ask her where she’d been this past week. But he didn’t ask. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak first.
“Truman?” she finally said.
“Uh-huh?”
“How did you let Maggie go?”
Truman frowned in thought. Then he said, “I didn’t have any choice.”
“But you said you tried to get her to go away with you.”
“Oh yes. I begged her to come. But I had very little time to convince her. Once we knew Tommy Lee Coleman was still alive, I had to get out of Travelers Rest. I had to disappear quickly.”
“I just can’t believe she’d give you up so easily.”
“Easily? She saw me refuse to help a man. She saw me leave him to die. That’s no small thing.”
“I suppose. But part of me thinks she should have understood. After all, Tommy Lee’s father left your brother to die.”
Truman chuckled quietly. “As Mamma always said, two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“But, Truman, even if what you did was wrong, Maggie should have forgiven you. She should have allowed you to be human.”
Truman shrugged. “I wish she had.”
“Why didn’t she?”
“Everything happened so fast. There was just no time.”
“Did you ever contact her again, once you left?”
“No, I never did. I know it must seem strange to you, but I couldn’t let my whereabouts be known. In the ’60s a white man didn’t need much of an excuse to lynch a black man. Well, the Colemans had an excuse, all right. I had to disappear, start all over again somewhere else.”
“And you’ve never been back to Travelers Rest since?”
“No, I never have. But then, I had no real reason to go back. My folks moved to Greenville and lived there till their deaths. My siblings scattered, most of them leaving the South. Only one of my sisters stayed there in Greenville.” He shrugged again. “I never had any reason to go back.”
“Well, then, how do you know about Maggie’s death?”
“Cecily—that was my sister in Greenville. She saw it in the paper, since by then Maggie too had been living in Greenville for many years. Cecily cut out Maggie’s obituary and sent it to me. Cecily herself died not long afterward. Sending me Maggie’s obit was just about the last time she was in touch with me.” He shook his head, then reached for his wallet and rummaged through it. “I used to carry it around with me . . . Now what’d I do with it?” He shrugged and tucked the wallet back in his pocket. “Oh yes, it was getting dog-eared so I put it in my dresser drawer for safekeeping. Anyway, that’s how I found out.”
Jane pressed her lips together. “That’s kind of a sad ending to the story, you know.”
Truman sniffed. “Kind of a sad story all the way around, I guess. But then again, nobody’s got it easy in this life.”
“I don’t understand why you didn’t marry someone else. Didn’t you want to?”
“I thought about it, of course. Even dated now and again, but”—he shrugged again—“it just never happened. Wasn’t meant to be, I guess.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“What? Of not marrying at all if you don’t marry Seth?”
Jane nodded.
“I think you will.”
“You didn’t.”
“That doesn’t mean you won’t. I was just a stubborn old coot, is all. Couldn’t find anyone who lived up to Maggie, and I wasn’t going to settle.”
Silence. Then Jane asked, “Did you ever get over it, Truman?”
“Yes and no. It finally stopped hurting quite so much. In fact, I finally came to the point where Maggie became a fond memory instead of a painful one. But at the same time, I spent a lifetime hoping to make amends somehow. I’d have given just about anything to hear her say she forgave me. But, as I said before, it’s too late for that now.”
“The one unanswered prayer.”
“The one unanswerable prayer, I suppose. There’s no way I can hear her say she forgives me now. But listen, Jane, I’m wondering about you. Are you all right? Did something happen?”
Jane shut her eyes, took a deep breath. She opened her eyes and looked at the cross. “Last Friday Seth told me it’d be better for him if we weren’t engaged.”
“Ah. I see.” Truman shifted on the pew, leaned forward with his arms resting on the pew in front of them. “I’m sorry, Jane.”
“I’m trying to understand how he feels, what he’s going through.”
“He’s got a long, tough fight ahead of him just to regain some sense of normalcy. That may be all he can handle right now.”
Jane nodded. “That’s kind of what he said. That he’s only got the strength for so much, as though the engagement was an added burden.”
“My guess is that he’s afraid of being a burden to you.”
“Yes. That too.”
“So you’re working on trying to let him go. At least for now.”
“I guess, l
ike you, I have no choice.”
“You’re going to be all right, you know. It may not feel that way at the moment, but later you’ll see. You’ll be all right.”
Jane thought of the empty bottles at home. She was going to have to be stronger. She was going to have to do better than that if she was going to be all right.
“After all, you survived, didn’t you, Truman?” she said.
Truman laughed lightly. “I guess I did.”
“Proving that the human heart can be broken into a thousand pieces and still go on beating.”
Truman nodded. He looked at his hands, at the cross, at Jane. He nodded again.
31
July first dawned hot and steamy. Jane spent the morning hours in the air-conditioned coolness of the Penlands’ house, cleaning up from her days of mourning. She dumped the contents of half a bottle of bourbon down the kitchen drain and promised herself that was it. No more. It hadn’t helped Meredith Morrow. It wasn’t going to help her.
She made a mental note to replace everything she’d taken from the liquor cabinet. That way Diana would never know. Nor would she know what happened with Ted, how Jane had been foolish enough to meet him again, and how she had run. She cringed at the thought. That was the behavior of a schoolgirl, not a grown woman. And the drinking—that was college fare. In the last week she’d been slipping backward when she needed to go forward. “Life’s gearshift’s got no reverse . . .” Yes, but even as you moved forward in years, you could evidently fall backward in emotion and behavior.
After cleaning the house, Jane showered and dressed. Then she sat at Diana’s computer to catch her up on the news about Seth’s pneumonia. For her own sake, not Diana’s, she tried to make it sound less serious than it was. She had always thought it bad practice to put her worst fears into words; to verbalize them was like giving them skin with which they could rise up and become real. He’s on powerful IV antibiotics, she wrote, and he should be fine, once he finishes this course.
She paused before signing off. She wanted to ask Diana to pray. Keep Seth in your prayers, will you? Something simple like that. After all, people said that all the time, didn’t they? Especially in times of tragedy or trial. We ask that you keep them in your thoughts and prayers.