Sadie Stories

by Zachary Zilba

Rachel sat at her vanity. She examined her laceration on the left side of her face intensely. The uplifted skin around the scrape had already hardened. She wrapped a wet washcloth around her fingers and placed it upon her swollen cheekbone. The coldness worsened the aching that throbbed deep into her eye. She winced, reducing the pressure to a mere dabbing. She caught a glimpse of her reflection, now staring back at her. She looked haggard. Her hair was unruly, hanging like a dead sheep dog on her head. Her eyes were bright red and noticeably puffy. Her mascara had washed down her cheeks leaving blurred lines of charcoal. Her dress was torn beyond repair, ripped down from her shoulder, exposing the strap of her bra. The appall over her ragged appearance was not indelible. She quickly turned away, standing up from her chair unsettled. She ran her hand across her forehead over her hair. How could they do this to her? Leave her teetering on the balance of chaos and control. Her mother had just called from the hospital to let her know Corey would be okay. That he had been attacked by a gang of hoodlums. While relieved that Corey would pull through, the previous events of the evening ate at her. What was Gabe doing in the ambulance with Corey when he had so aggressively vanquished her proposal to meet him? Something very strange was going on. Something beyond her grasp.

  Her phone screamed, startling her. She rushed across the room, jerking the receiver from its cradle. “Hello?” She greeted anxiously. She barely gave time for an answer before she repeated herself, this time, more impatiently. “HELLO?!”

  “Hi,” Angie retorted loudly in an attempt to appease her, “It’s just me.”

  Rachel collapsed onto her bed exhausted, “God, Angie. I thought you were a prank call.”

  “I can’t sleep. Have you heard anything?”

  Rachel dreaded reiterating the facts again, “It was Corey. He’s in the hospital. My Mom called me. She say’s hell be okay. He has a couple of broken ribs and a concussion. He’ll be home in the morning.”

  “What happened?” “He was jumped by some guys while he was leaving. Mom said it was because he was gay.”

  Angie let out a concerned breath, long and drawn, “Oh my God,” she said gravely, her search for something to say unsuccessful.

  Rachel sniffled, “Did you see Gabe at the dance?”

  Angie didn’t answer for a moment, she searched for the first reply that wasn’t incriminating. Rachel was growing imaptient. She repeated herself again, more slowly and stiffly, “Did you see him?”

  “Yes.” Angie sighed, choosing her words explicitly, “I saw him.”

  “Something is not right here. He looked right at me, Angie. From the back of the ambulance... Gabe looked right in my eyes and then turned away.” She could still see his expression in her mind. The frenzy of the moment returned with vengeance.

  Angie was not responding. She had nothing to say. The silence hung heavy.

  “ARE YOU THERE?” Rachel asked shaken.

  “Yeah. I’m still here. I’m just really tired. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” Angie had to hang up. She could no longer be an ingredient in this formula. Her sympathy for Gabe did not obligate her to lie to her friend. She had already done enough of that. This was torment. She could hear the displacement in Rachel’s voice, the sadness, the anxiety. She was in limbo.

  Rachel didn’t want to be alone. The serenity of the atmosphere rejected her, for she was, unwittingly, in direct opposition. She needed absolution, freeing from this unwanted ignorance. Someone had to fill in the uncountable gaps. For reasons she didn’t quite understand, she felt she was losing control, that forces outside herself were working against here, and it frightened her.

  “I’ll call you later on, okay?” Angie added.

  The disruption in her voice troubled Rachel. The actuality of her instance on disconnecting sent a trickle of suspicion through her, raising more questions. Did Angie know something she did not? Angie wouldn’t keep anything from her. Rachel dismissed Angie’s sudden tiredness as innocuous. It had been an exhausting night for everyone.

  “Okay.” Rachel managed despondently. And then she hung up.

  The vanilla sent of Lola Collier’s air freshener that dangled from her rear view mirror was overpowering. Thomas could taste it every time he breathed. The many ornaments adorning her key chain; More ornaments than keys; clanged together violently with even the slightest bump. “I thought I would come back to the hospital to see if the boy was okay. The nurse at the station told me that you had been waiting awhile,” She explained, trying to make polite conversation. “Yeah,” Thomas said. They hadn’t been driving for very long, but he felt he had been in that seat forever. He kept his eyes to the window, looking for familiar landmarks, just in case he had to make a mad dash from the speeding car; And speed she did. She was going at least twenty miles above the residential neighborhood limit. Discreetly, Thomas slid his hand between the bucket seats and pulled the belt over his lap trying not to make his insecurities very apparent.

  Lola reached down into her huge purse, her fingers scavenging through the rattling contents vigorously. Thomas found his fist tightening around the handle of the door, knuckles white. His attention was focused on her rummaging hand, his eyes, full of intensity, glued to it. Her behavior, while completely unmotivated, branded Thomas’ mind with sinister impressions. Fear surged through his body like a thousand volts of electricity. She was searching for a knife, or maybe one of those high tech stunners used to immobilize her unsuspecting prey. Whatever weapon she pulled from that gaudy bag would be the one of his demise. It was prophetic. He could see it so clearly, as if suddenly given the gift of specific clairvoyance to compensate for his impending death. He knew. He knew she was going to kill him. Time seemed to slow down as she began to retract her hand from the purse. Sporadic visions, more fantasy than fact, derived from paranoia, filled his head.

  He saw Lola wearing a wide rimmed, black hat that came up to a high point, scraping the roof. Her skin was tinted a pale green and hairy warts sprouted from her clay flesh. Her nose grew about four inches from her face, nostrils flaring. She whipped out a double barrel shot gun, releasing the steering wheel to grasp the long handle. Her foot wedged down upon the gas pedal. The car swerved violently, tires squealing. Insanity burned in her glassy, dilated pupils as she looked at him, a wide grin plastered across her wrinkled face, showing her teeth discolored. She cackled wickedly. Her voice was brittle and high pitched. “I’VE GOT YOU!” She rejoiced dramatically, bouncing up and down ecstatically like a hyper child. “I’ve had my eye on you for awhile Tommy Boy!” Her eyeballs ejected from their sockets toward him, then sprung back into her head. “You look like you’ve got a lot of flavor. I bet chicken. Maybe Turkey!” She prodded him with the gun. “Got a big pot that you’ll fit nicely in.” She tossed back her head laughing, then snapped it forward. It began to rotate on her shoulders. “I think I’ll invite the neighbors over for dinner. Hate to have all that meat go to waste.” She began sucking loose saliva through her teeth.

  Lola pulled out a pack of long cigarettes and shook one loose, pulling it out with her lips, “You want a cigarette?” She asked, holding them toward him.

  Thomas shook his head declining her offer. He was recovering from the terrifying episode he so creatively conjured. Lola dropped the pack into her purse and pushed in the lighter, holding it in for several seconds and then lit her cigarette. “Strange how such ugly things can happen on such a beautiful evening.” Her cheeks sunk as she sucked on the butt of the cigarette, trying to get as much nicotine as she could. It expelled from her mouth as she spoke, “It’s never one or the other. Life has a delicate balance, and it’s thrown in our faces. With happiness there’s sorrow, with pleasure there’s always pain. With trust there’s betrayal. One element contrasts another. Life and death. Sound and silence. You cannot enjoy one without suffering the inevitable consequence of it’s counterpart. You learn that. It’s knowledge that comes with age when you realize your youth is gone.” She glanced Thomas’ direction and saw he
was listening earnestly. She smiled, “You know what you do in the meantime?”

  Thomas hesitated for a moment. He had no idea why she felt so compelled to invest in him. “What?”

  “Just dance.”

  Huh? Cuckoo, Cuckoo. She was completely off her rocker. A few sheets to the wind. Thomas pushed his eyes upward, making a noble attempt to understand. His expression, though hard as he may try, denoted his bewilderment. “You think I’m just a crazy old hag, don’t you?”

  “No! Not at all.”

  She took another drag off her cigarette, “Well, I am. According to most anyway. Everyone believes me to be aloof. I am simply more willing to accept the truths than others. I’ve lived a life that most only read about in story books. I’ve been through it all and I’m still here to tell about it. I’m to proud to keep my mouth shut so I say what I think. I’m too old to worry about being proper. I had cancer once, you know that?” She asked as if he should have.

  “No.”

  “Sure did... one of the worst kinds too. Had it in my blood. Doctors gave six months to live... that was fifteen years ago. You know what the secret to life is?”

  Thomas waited.

  “Not conforming to certain death. I’m to God Damn stubborn to die. I refuse. I’ll go when I’m good and ready. I won’t allow any disease to or doctor to dictate my death. Never done anything else I was told. Why should I start? Look at my hands.” She stretched out her arm. Thomas studied her presented hand. It was grotesquely disfigured. Her fingers pressed against each other, bent to the side. Her joints were swollen and lumpy.

  “What happened?” Thomas inquired.

  “Arthur Ritus happened. He’s the harbinger of debilitation. Got him in my hands and in my feet. That son of a bitch.” She looked at her own mutilated stubs as if seeing them for the first time, “They used to be so pretty. People used to say how pretty my hands were.” She laid it against the steering wheel, disowning her burden, “But, as Edgar Allen Poe once said, ‘Nevermore’.” Thomas was ashamed of himself. To think that he feared this woman. She wasn’t a killer. She couldn’t even hold a weapon, much less utilize it. He felt guilty for being so judgmental. He knew better than to listen to flippant rumors, especially with him having been run through the rumor mill himself. He resigned himself to more considerate thinking. He folded his hands and watched his thumbs wrestle back and forth. “Thank you Ms. Collier... for bringing me home.” He found it more difficult to look at her now than when he had been afraid of her. Perhaps because he suddenly felt undeserving of her kind deeds of which he so grossly misinterpreted as a diabolical plot.

  They pulled into her driveway and she shut off the engine, collecting her purse, “Think nothing of it. It was my pleasure.” She opened her car door and secured the lock.

  Thomas stepped out of the car and followed suit, locking his door. He watched her walk up to the narrow sidewalk that led to her porch stairs. He took a small step backward, his hands deep in his pant pockets, then turned and began away. He heard her feet clunking up her wooden steps, then across her porch. As he reached the curb, he paused. He thought Corey would have liked her. He would have appreciated her opinionated conversation, her forward eccentricities. He did a full turn and began stepping back toward her porch, calling to her. “Ms. Collier?”

  She barely glanced over her shoulder, still wrestling with her house key, “Yes, Dear?”

  Thomas pushed the hair from his eyes, he leaned back on his feet on the balls of his heels and then planted them firmly on the ground again. He noticed her lawn was well overgrown, ravaged with thorny weeds that peeked through the cracks in her porch steps. After a bit of self prompting, he found his voice, “I want to thank you... for stopping I mean. If Corey would have been able to, he would have thanked you for stopping. No one else would.”

  Lola twisted at the waist to see him more clearly. She seemed surprised by this young man. He seemed like a tender little boy, shy and awkward, the way he stared downward, grinding his foot into a thick clump of grass. Almost sad. No, not exactly sad. Perhaps nervous. No. That wasn’t it either. Lonely. Most likely, she deduced, it was a mixture of the three. “Would you like to escort me inside? I always hate walking into a dark home by myself.” She said as she continued to watch him from above.

  Thomas glared back at his house, darkened by the looming shadows of the great pines that sheltered it. His father must have been in bed by now. There were no lights on. He unintentionally caught sight of the moon and his eyes fixed on it. It was full and bright. It had been so long since he noticed the moon, and tonight, even to the naked eye, he could make out her bluish shapes, ancient craters, scars. Was it possible for a moon this majestic to go ignored? A sight such as this deserved to be seen, even if just once in a lifetime, for such unearthly magic could never be forgotten. A thin, wispy cloud was just getting ready to cross it’s path, like a boat into a bay of light. He was looking at infinity... forever. Amazing how, in the time it takes to draw a single breath, you find yourself on the brink of the universe. And all of her secrets suddenly unveil themselves. Thomas knew that, in this place of no known boundaries, no visible limits, he was a solitary being that only existed only because something greater had allowed him to. Is this what Corey saw? Is this same force the one that brought them together in this tiny seaside village? In a place so vast that most are separated by immense oceans and mountain ranges, where hundreds, even thousands of miles keep us apart. Something had brought him here. Something was responsible for bringing this all together, everything to this very point. This moon, these thoughts, and Corey. Everything had a place, nothing was without reason. All Thomas was, all he had been, had brought him here to this new plain. His mother’s abandonment. His Father’s beatings. His decision to be a better man. And just when he needed him most, Corey waltzed into his life. This was the end to the first chapter in the book of Thomas. It was now he could put away all his childhood insecurities, his regretful past, and all the sadness that created him. His entire life was led by the belief that those were lessons of days to come, that living could only allow more torment. It was here that saw that they were not lessons of days to come, but of days gone by. The only true lesson was in what to leave behind and what to carry ahead, and the only worthy baggage was that of experience. He would lay them to rest here, on this spot where he stood in this unkept grass.

  And so he did, freeing himself from all of that which held him captive. The shackles of sorrow, fear and confusion broke from his soul, and he let it go. So concluded his entry into a grown up world, a place where others do not make up who one is, for we already are. It’s what we do with that which matters most. It was a graceful and accepted transition. And as his last story ended with Corey, Thomas would step into this new world with him at his side. Strengthened by all that has been, finding hope in all that will be. All of this in the time it takes to draw a breath.

  Lola held her hand down to him for the taking, “Thomas?” She called. The gentleness in her voice a welcome invitation to this life which he now held as his own. “Shall we go inside?” Thomas slowly reached out to her, taking her crippled hand into his more virile one. She twisted the key in the lock, this time with more ease, and pushed open the door. She stepped into the black room beyond then issued him inward. He complied with her gesture and she closed the door behind them.

  He stood in the foyer, his eyes unseeing of his surroundings. His ears deaf to any sound. His senses searched for appeasement, some release from this numbness. Just then, as if a demand obliged, his nose found the waving scents of dried lavender and peppermint candy. He imagined them in a bowl at the center of a grand oak table. The weight of the quiet suggested he was in a large, uncluttered room, high ceiling. His feet stood on an uncarpeted floor, and the sound of his shoes against it echoed from far walls, collaborating with the soft shuffling movements of Lola from behind.

  And then... there was light. It cascaded around him from above like a waterfall, ig
niting like a swarm of fireflies all around him. Thousands of strands of dim, white, miniature christmas bulbs, draped from the towering walls. The lofty ceiling had been carved and painted with detailed impressions of Ancient Greece. Women with their long, lustrous hair flowing over their nude bodies, a faraway look on their pale faces. The men had been portrayed as mighty, with thick mustaches and beards that hung below the neck and exposed broad chests, rippled with muscle. Each figure had their arms reaching toward another, fingers touching. And from the union came a fountain of light pouring down in dangling streams, like a hanging garden of shining icicles.

  Thomas stared at the vision directly above. They sparkled in his eyes and off the mirror finish of the newly waxed, white marble floor, encasing him in a lavish glow between the loose hanging wires above, and the sea of shimmering reflections below. He held up his hand and touched one of the burning bulbs that hovered just above his head.

  Lola appeared at his side, taking pride in the light show she had displayed. She surveyed his expression of awe and took it as a silent compliment. “They remind me of a starlit sky. I had them fixed so they wouldn’t shine very bright since there are so many of them. I don’t need to light the whole neighborhood,” she joked.

  Thomas was still captured by the heavenly spectacle. He looked at the floor and admired how the deliberate architecture made it appear as if he were floating high above a city.

  Lola walked over to a small bar in the corner and poured herself a glass of wine, “My husband always dreamed of being an astronaut. He knew the names of every star in every solar system. Of course, him being fifty pounds overweight and having his heart problems, it was all too far from his reach. Just a dream.” She took a rapid swallow, downing the entire glass, keeping the bottle handy to refill. “Everywhere we lived, New York, Paris, London, Germany, in every house we had, the first thing he did was wax the floor and the find the tallest ladder to start hanging his stars. I used to despise it,” She leaned against a high sitting swivel chair and rested her elbow beside her bottle of booze. She gazed up at the vibrant beauty, as if recalling something she kept sacred. “But now... They comfort me. They welcome me home.” She turned away again, the alcohol summoning her, “Some people have a German Shepard; I have Christmas lights in the summer.”

  Thomas waited for her to laugh, but she did not. She took a gulp of her wine and smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, relishing the bittersweet taste. Since being introduced to the room, it was the first time he noted the more casual atmosphere. It seemed odd that everything was back against the walls. The red, velvet chaise lounge, a decrepit desk from the early nineteenth century, a window size mirror just above it. There were eight foot tall bookcases stuffed with ratted old novels from around the world in every language. Life sized statues of Grecian men and women stood like actual people, taken hostage from their time and frozen in their positions, their faces so real. Thomas did recognize one statue, that of a man with no arms, he couldn’t remember where he had seen it before. His eyes continued to explore. There was no Television; no signs of modern day technology existed here. However, sitting alone in the corner, as if in exile for it unattractiveness, an old fashioned phonograph stood on a stone Greecian pillar. Though he stood directly in the center of the room, he was far from everything. A winding staircase led up from another corner to the upstairs. From where he stood, he could see the intricate figures of human forms chiseled into the banister that bowed inward as it went up to the open hallway above. Thomas had never see a place like this before. It had a museum-like quality. Everything looked well aged, neatly preserved in its time. She was collector of elegant objects. Obviously filthy rich. “How can one be so forthcoming with their excesses and not have a T.V.?” He wondered to himself, well aware that it sounded incredibly shallow and gave away the technological dependency of his generation. Just being amongst these pieces of history made him feel more cultured, and for a moment, the child in him pretended it was all common to him. He was a Prince visiting Lola Collier’s kingdom, and this was an ordinary sight to the likes of royalty. Thomas restrained an embarrassed giggle and swept the fantasy from his mind.

  A portrait on the far wall, just above the armless man, demanded Thomas’ attention. It was faded and took on a yellowish tone, maybe because of the lights, but as he came closer, he found it to be a military man. A young man. He estimated his age at maybe Twenty or so when the photo was taken.

  “Who’s this?” Thomas inquired, tossing a backward glance at Lola, who was placing her cigarette in a long filter, holding it between her two deformed fingers.

  After lighting it, she swayed over to Thomas, her sheer cloak coasting on waves of air. “That’s my first husband Charles. We were married back in 1940. World War II was in full swing and he rushed off to save our country. Quite the nobleman, one would imagine. A good man... till he came home.” She paused, visiting the deeds of a time long past, barely recalling a life that had scattered on the winds, bits and pieces. In reality, she remembered everything, yet the moments she tried hardest to forget imposed themselves most fervently. Her eyes closed halfway, like she was trying to ward off another unwanted memory, “He was never the same,” she added, perhaps more freely than she’d like to have.

  Lola puffed on her cigarette and didn’t inhale. She blew it out into swirling cloud of smoke, a symbolic liberation from those ghosts. With that, she swooped around and marched over to the phonograph. “It’s to quiet in here! I simply loathe a soundless room. Silence is reserved for those who are mute, or those six feet underground.” She roared loudly, like some Grand Dame lodging a complaint to her servants.

  Thomas enjoyed her flamboyant mannerisms; to an extent they amused him. The way she carried herself, so full of unreserved sophistication. He felt he could say anything to her and it would have no shock value, for she had heard it all, no doubt. “You say the man of the portrait, he’s your first husband?” Thomas asked as he moved across the room to meet her beside the machine.

  Lola didn’t acknowledge him with her eyes, she was busy flipping through a stack of old records, “My very first marriage, but my second love. You always marry your second love. It’s standard. The first love is always remembered as real thing. The rest of your life is spent trying to replicate that. I’ve been married seven times, and I wasn’t in love with them all. Some might say I’m in competition with Elizabeth Taylor, but you’re probably to young to know who she is.” Thomas watched her pull out a tattered old folder, “I know who she is. She’s a legend.”

  Lola lifted her eyes, “She’s legendary for her personal indiscretions, not for her films. I’ve been married seven times, Liz has been married eight. She has one over on me. The bitch has more arrows in her back from a dim-witted cupid than John Kennedy had knives in his from enemies.” She stated matter-of-factly as she slid the record from its cover and blew the dust off of it. “Do you like music?” She asked, shooting him a blank look as if to ask for his approval.

  “Yes.” He nodded, trying to make out the writing on the label, but the letters had nearly worn off.

  “My last husband hated music. I was married to him for nearly twenty-five years and in all that time, not a single note was allowed to enter our home. It was miserable, as I love the sound of a symphony, and yet to please him I renounced music. Strange isn’t it? What you find yourself agreeing to simply to please another? I eventually began to resent him for denying me the sounds of which I cherished so dearly. I would sneak into the attic on cold winter nights and play these old records at a low volume so he wouldn’t hear them. Now I play them loud. I don’t care if the entire world can hear. I will not hide them ever again.”

  “You must live alone.”

  Lola placed the record over the spindle carefully. Her hands shook from the disease and she in vain, tried to steady them, “I do, but I have not resigned myself to the lifestyle of a wealthy retiree. I keep busy. I do my own thing and find it quite relieving that ther
e’s no one to tell me otherwise, as I have always been a woman of independent means.”

  “Do you have any children?”

  The record dropped into position, “No children. No family. I am the last of my breed, and with that comes the privilege of being removed from responsibility. I live only for myself and I wouldn’t have it any other way!” She announced emphatically as she flipped a switch on the beastly contraption. The music began. Schubert’s rendition of ‘Ava Maria’ came forth like a falling weightless feather from the shell shaped speaker above. A sonnet composed of five repetitive notes brought to life by an orchestra of Violins and Cellos, soft and harmonic... soothing.

  Lola held out her arms gracefully from her body and began drifting across the floor with certain ease, engrossed in melancholy piece. Her head was tilted to her shoulder, her eyes shut. She was in another place, a place so enchanting that if one should submit to its wonder they may never return. Her feet caressed the floor, and her garments swirled out around her like a glorious cyclone. At this moment, Lola possessed unrecognized power. A woman unaware of her own sorcery, for such an enigmatic expression could be considered nothing less. To Thomas, it appeared as though she were performing some secret ritual. She moved with the music, making it visible as it undulated on an invisible current through her.

  She danced back over to Thomas, grabbing his hands, lifting them above her, spinning beneath them. She stopped and gazed into his face, smiling. “You’re a good dancer,” Thomas praised politely.

  “Do you dance?” Lola asked.

  Thomas bite his bottom lip, “No.”

  “Oh.” Lola replied, disappointment drawing her withered face downward. “Have you ever tried?”

  Thomas shook his head, “No. Not really.” He admitted coyly.

  Lola let go of his hands and pressed her cigarette into an ashtray on the table beside her. “That’s a shame... Music and dance is medicine for the soul. Helps put things into perspective, clears your head, helps you grow. It takes you an a spiritual journey, refreshes your mind and makes you stronger. It makes me sick the way these people dance today! It’s not even dancing, it’s like a seizure. They flop around like a fish out of water. Dancing should be slow and therapeutic. Not something that causes you to throw out your back.” She scoffed as she turned off the phonograph and stepped over to the chaise lounge where she proceeded to push her silk cloak outward, it cascaded around her like angel wings, and she sat down draped in all of her magnificence. She patted the empty spot beside her, wanting Thomas to join her. “Come, come. Sit down,” She insisted as she put another cigarette between her painted lips, striking a match.

  Thomas complied with her request. “If you’d like to dance I can teach you. Unfortunately my days are busy with other clients, so evening will have to do,” She explained, as though it had been he who suggested the service.

  “You teach people to dance?”

  Lola pushed a stray curl from her eye, “Certainly! Haven’t you seen the cars parked outside my house? I presume that with you living directly across the street you should have noticed all the comings and goings.” She crossed her legs and picked up a small, antique, handheld mirror. She studied her mask of make-up, and although the foundation had caked, prominently defining every wrinkle, she seemed rather proud of her artwork. “I have mostly young clients. Men who are getting married and don’t want to look foolish at their reception. Some wish to learn just to impress their significant others. Some just have a need to culture themselves.” She spoke quietly and carefully as she glanced over to the table beside her and lifted up a tube of liquid eyeliner between her knuckles, for to grasp it would mean to extend her fingers, and given the advanced stage of her disease, that was now impossible. She wedged the bottle between her bent fingers and the palm of her hand that they were imbedded against, and she struggled to loosen the cap.

  Thomas tried not to stare. He felt guilty for having such capable hands. That this bottle should present itself as an insubordinate obstacle, when Thomas- being right there- had large, strong hands. He questioned his instinctive tendency to offer help. Would she be insulted, feeling her pride had been compromised? He couldn’t just sit there while she strained to dislodge the cap. That was cruel.

  “Do you want me to get that for you?” He asked, wisely choosing the tone of his eventual delivery as not to lead her to believe he had deemed her helpless.

  “I can do it, dear. The second I give up is the second they’ve beaten me. I never go out without a fight.” She announced, still heavy in concentration.

  Thomas noted her every movement. They seemed choreographed as if she knew exactly how to negotiate that cap without asking for help. Two stubborn stumps refusing to accept their debility. A woman so accustomed to a life of hardships that she had somehow grown immune, and would allow herself no other option than to make those betraying hands work. Then, with a final twist, the cap began to move. Without any regard to her battle won, she began applying a black line above her eyelids.

  Obviously she was used to being confronted with, and defeating small hurdles. “Now... Tell me,” Lola began, her mouth held in a frozen shape as she examined her image in the mirror, making sure her liner had been drawn evenly. She squinted and doused the tiny brush into the bottle again, saturating it with the muddy liquid, “How much do you love this boy?”

  The informal, nonchalant way she proposed the question prevented it from registering as anything but a common topic. He began to answer, “I really, really love-“ It hit him like a slap across the face- “What? What?!”

  Lola held the mirror at arm’s length and batted her lashes, admiring herself. She giggled aloud, “Oh, don’t get your feathers all ruffled. It was an innocent question requiring only an innocent answer. And don’t lie to me. I will not tolerate lies, especially when they disempower the liar.”

  “I wasn’t going to lie,” Thomas testified, still a bit bewildered.

  “Well, you weren’t forthcoming with the truth. You were about to say what was in your heart but you let your mind get in the way. Don’t stop to think, Sweetie. It lessens the credibility of the testimony.”

  “You just took me by surprise, that all.” Thomas stammered.

  “Life is full of surprises, get used to it. Now, answer my question. How much do you love him?” She reiterated, not giving him the time to reply before she began provoking a straight answer. “DON’T THINK! DON’T THINK. SAY IT! SAY WHAT YOU FEEL! DON’T THINK ABOUT IT!”

  “I’m not thinking.” Thomas argued, outweighed by her Lola’s continuous ranting.

  “YOU ARE! YOU’RE THINKING! DON’T DENY IT! IF YOU WEREN’T THINKING YOU WOULDN’T HESITATE!” She hollered, her voice carrying far across the room.

  Thomas tried to intervene but she was constant in her claim. Lola would not let him speak, “I’m not hesitating! I’M NOT HESITATING!”

  “ANSWER THE QUESTION THEN. TELL ME.” Thomas found himself yelling above her to be heard. “I LOVE HIM! I LOVE HIM MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE MY LIFE HAS GIVEN ME. I LOVE HIM FOR MAKING ME FEEL THIS WAY!”

  It fell silent. A contented smile grew on Lola’s face. She moved her elbow up on the armrest and held it to her limp wrist to her forehead, “Good boy.” Her persistence and accepting demeanor comforted the young man. A part of him admired the fact that she would not let him evade the purity of his feelings. He knew she would listen with unbiased ears. “I love him... more than I ever imagined I could love someone.”

  “I know you do... I just wanted to hear you say it.” She said tenderly. “It makes my heart smile to hear of such a love. Like a song without music.”

  “How did you know?” Thomas asked, still reeling from his confession. His adrenaline was still rushing through him. It felt so good to have admitted it aloud for the first time.

  Lola took a deep, audible breath through her nose, glancing upward at the lights, “The way you held him in your arms. So close to you. I could see that you were so a
fraid. Afraid that you would lose him. I knew that had you had a choice you would have traded places with him just to take away his pain... and you sat beside him, holding his hand, consoling him though he could not hear. The look in your eyes, even when you speak of him now, it betrays you. A love such like that should never go unspoken.” Lola looked directly at him, her bright eyes much like her mind, refusing to conform to age, “I remember being in love. I also remember being very disappointed after he was gone. Even as I got older and married a few more times, I was still haunted by my love for him. Everyone else seemed to pale in comparison. No one could captured his smile, or the soft way he spoke to me in moments of passion, or how he cradled me during times of sorrow. No matter how many men I married, though they all had some quality I loved, none of them possessed all the qualities of Jonathan. I searched for someone who could fill his shoes for many, many years... and no one ever could... He was my first love, Thomas. Had I married him, I would have never married again. I would have spared myself a lifetime of searching and seven sad marriages.”

  “Why didn’t you marry him?” Thomas’ voice sank to a whisper, his interest peaking.

  Lola’s grin remained etched on her face. She turned her head slowly in his direction, “It was not acceptable. I was seventeen and he was twenty. My father was a man of respect and authority. Jonathan was a simple peasant as far as anyone was concerned. Back in those days it was forbidden for a socialite to mix with anyone considered to be of lesser stature. You see, Jonathan was a man of color.”

  “Why didn’t you run away? Surely you two could have found some way to be together,” Thomas exclaimed, wishing he could take back the hands of time and change history.

  Lola sat upright. His concern, as if it her history were not engraved in stone and he could do something about it, pleased her. She appreciated this, almost embraced it, but recoiled. “I wanted to run away, Thomas. That would have provided me with my happy ending. As I recall we were going to run out of the state and set up our own farm in Louisiana. We were to meet at the gates of my family’s estate at midnight. I packed as much as I could and watched the time drift by me. It was nearly time for me to go when my father came into my room. He sat down beside me and kissed me on my cheek. You see, my daddy knew of my love for Jonathan and dared me to ever speak his name. He knew I was going to run. Don’t know how, maybe because that’s what he would’ve done if he had been me. I’ll never forget what he said to me. I can hear him as if he were sitting right here with us today. ‘Lola,’ he said, ‘the world is a dangerous place. If any white man were to see you with a colored he would most definitely see to it he never laid hands on one of our breed again. There’s nowhere to go. You will live a life of despair. Should you go, and the men in sheets find you, he’ll parish. Do you want him to parish for you?’ I didn’t answer him. He got up and left the room, and I sat there and I cried, and I damned the world we lived in, I cursed my father and I renounced my faith in the almighty for I had lost all that mattered to me. And I knew he was right. If I truly loved my Jonathan, why would I willing go and seal his fate? I loved him to much to let him die just for the sake of loving me. So I went to my window, and by this time midnight had come and gone. I could still see his lantern through the gates at the end of the old dirt road. He waited for hours before he knew I wasn’t coming. He left just before daybreak... and I was never to see him again.” Lola took Thomas’s hand and held it softly beneath her own. She didn’t cry for those tears had been shed ages ago, “Thomas, that first love... the first time you feel that magic inside of you... nothing, not age or seven husbands, not even time can take away that feeling. You only have one true love in all your life. One. If you sacrifice that, sure others will come and go, you’ll have moments of happiness and pleasure, but there will never be another first. Never. Don’t let it go. Not for anything in the world. Savor this. Keep it and cherish the fact that you have found each other, for this will be with you for the rest of eternity. This one love. Don’t spend your life dancing in the arms of somebody you wish was someone else. Don’t be like me. Don’t dance alone...”

  Rachel stared down into the bowl of mush that had once been oat bran. No matter how much she tried to stir some hunger, the food had absolutely no appeal. The very thought of it nauseated her. She was still exhausted from the happenings of the night before and, although sleep had evaded her, she was not tired. One could tell by the dark circles underneath her eyes and her gaunt appearance that she had little rest. She hadn’t said more than two words to her mother, who sat across from her.

  Carol had already finished her breakfast and washed her bowl. Now she was flipping through the morning paper. The rustling of the pages met Rachel’s ears with the fury of thunder. Carol peered over the top of the classified section at her weary daughter. The large scrape on the side of her face had scabbed over during the night but the flesh around it had bruised severely. “You should put something on that. We have some antibiotic cream in the medicine cabinet,” she suggested. She had hoped for more than a one syllable reply from Rachel. Some sign that she was still coherent.

  “I’m fine,” was her only offering. She propped her elbow up on the table and rested her head against it as if she were just reacting to some detrimental news.

  Carol was an educated woman. Book smart. She had recently come to the difficult conclusion that her common sense regarding the emotions of others was nonetheless dull. But, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that something more profound than the obvious was wrong with Rachel.

  “I’m going over to Tim’s house later. Corey should be home from the hospital by now. I bet he’d love to see you.” She said, trying to stimulate a willingness to admit the reasons for her withdrawn actions. Carol didn’t want to pry. She wanted to believe that if Rachel was troubled, she would trust her enough to confide in her. That had always been the process before, ever since Rachel was a little girl. She had always come to her mother. They had come so far over the summer. Their relationship had transpired the formality of the obligatory mother-daughter bond. They were friends now.

  “Rachel, what’s wrong? Talk to me.” Carol insisted, almost perturbed that Rachel wasn’t more talkative. She sat her newspaper aside, opening the eye-line between them. Now she was completely accessible.

  With her head down, Rachel clutched her hair in her fist. “How did you end up at Corey’s house last night?”

  That wasn’t necessarily what Carol expected to hear. “What do you mean?” She retorted, suddenly feeling incriminated despite the fact that she had done nothing wrong.

  Rachel lifted her head. Her eyes, red and swollen, met Carol’s with a vacant chill. “You were at the Evans’ house when Thomas came and told you what happened. You said so yourself last night on the telephone when you called me from the hospital. What were you doing there?” Rachel questioned, her tone was steady and controlled.

  “You were at the dance. This house is a lonely place when it’s empty. I just went over to visit. What’s wrong with that?” Carol defended.

  “Since when did you and Corey’s dad become best friends?” Rachel interrogated calmly, so calm that it disturbed Carol. It was like Rachel was bottled up and the pressure was building slowly.

  Carol forced a half laugh, “I don’t know what you’re talking about Rachel. You know he’s helped me through a lot. Is that what you’re so upset about?”

  Rachel leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms across her bosom. “No mother. What upsets me is that I don’t know what’s going on anymore. I’m sick and tired of being dismissed like a little child. I’m sick of being taken for granted. I’m sick of being looked over and expected to accommodate everyone else in my life when I don’t even get the respect of an explanation. I’m tired of putting on a fake smile and pretending everything’s okay when it’s not. I’m not like you Mother. I won’t be a welcome mat for everyone to wipe their feet on and then thank them for the fucking privilege.”

 
; Carol was infuriated by Rachel’s stone cold cruelty. She leapt from her chair, causing it to tip backwards and crash to the floor. She planted one hand on the table and pointed the other at Rachel, “Don’t you ever speak to me like that. Everything I have ever done has been for you. Don’t hold your father over my head. Don’t ever throw him in my face like that again! Do you understand me? If you’re angry at someone else don’t come here and take it out on me. I was your Father’s welcome mat for far to long and I will not let anyone treat me like that again, so don’t try to make me yours.”

  Rachel stood up exasperated. She hated what she said. She wished she had never said it. Her mother was right to be angry. Rachel had no business using her as an emotional punching bag. She was just tired of being ignored. She stood and walked to the doorway leading into the living room and stopped, “I’m sorry. I don’t want to argue. Just tell Corey I hope he’s feeling better.” And she walked from Carols view.

  Guilt churned inside her stomach as Rachel pushed open her bedroom door and quickly stepped inside. Without any disruption in her movements, she pulled down the shade over her window to dim the morning light, then turned and started toward her closet doors. She yanked a few sweaters from their wire hangers, and spun around to throw open the lid of her suitcase that sat on the foot of her bed. She thought that if she kept herself busy, she wouldn’t have time to think too much. The issues that gnawed at the insides of her brain wouldn’t have the opportunity to be addressed or pondered. Perhaps she initiated the clash with her Mother on purpose, a way of diverting her thoughts from the limbo in which she was thrown to a more logical area. A place where she had some control and was able to understand the actions of herself and her mother. A preoccupation was necessary. If she thought about Gabe- the way he looked at her from the back of that ambulance- Angie’s distant behavior- she would certainly go berserk. She could not tolerate being lost. She had to know what role she had been assigned. What instances had caused her to be placed there. She would not be the willing fool any more. And no matter how she struggled, she could not make sense of anything. Her need to reach some understanding only pulled her deeper into the chasm of confusion. Questions... so many questions. The old Rachel would have just accepted her position in hopes that someone would take her by the hand and explain to her the workings of a seemingly undecipherable paradox. She always relied on someone more informed to sort out the inconsistencies that left her perplexed. Not anymore.

  She debated on whether to call Gabe or not. Then she came to the conclusion that he should be the one to call her. He knew she was upset. It would have been common decency to call her and explain himself. It was almost like he knew... but didn’t care. Or, maybe he was avoiding her. There were a million maybe’s. A million contradictions.

  She sat down on the edge of her bed and held her head between her legs. The only consolation that lent itself was in knowing that she would soon be gone. There were to many big things laying ahead to spend the remains of her time worrying about all of these people. The only way to alleviate the stress was to lessen the relevance. “Nothing here matters. None of these people matter.” She told herself. It sounded ever so convincing in her head, but some defiant part of her awareness wouldn’t let her forget that, despite the numerous times she repeated it, it was still a lie.

  Timothy Evans shoved open Corey’s bedroom door with his broad shoulder. His left arm was wrapped around a gorgeous basket of silk Daisies and wiry vines. A thin ribbon stating the all too common phrase ‘Get Well Soon,’ was draped across the stems. Three red, helium filled balloons drifted in his face, aggravating him. In his other hand, he held Corey’s small duffel bag.

  He hurried inside the room and dropped the bag on the floor, then placed the arrangement of flowers on the dresser. Corey hovered in the doorway behind him, watching him make the arduous decision as to where the bouquet looked best. On the right side of the dresser, or the left... Maybe in the center. Corey took a few steps and knelt down to pick up the bag his Father had dropped on the floor. He slung it down on the bed and unzipped it. He pulled out his robe and walked over to the closet to hang it up.

  Timothy spun around and darted in Corey’s direction to rescue him from some unknown threat. He yelled frantically, “I can do that! I got it!”

  Corey gave him a blank look, an amused grin on his face. “Dad, I’m not crippled. I can hang up my clothes.” His Father’s imposing attempts to be of help were much appreciated but wearing very thin. Since Corey had woken up, he couldn’t so much as move without his father screaming in fear. Naturally it was expected, but a little exaggerated. It was a little embarrassing when the nurse wheeled Corey from his hospital room to the exit and, as he began to stand, his Father swooped him up off his feet swearing he was still to weak to walk. Despite Corey’s argument, Timothy carried him to the car like a newborn baby. It must have looked just a little strange. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, he took it upon himself to make sure Corey was feeling better by asking him... every two minutes. He insisted on carrying Corey’s belongings into the house, only after opening the car door for him, and unbuckling his seat belt for him. Once in the house, as they started up the staircase, Timothy walked ahead, then actually turned back- with his hands already full- to try and carry his son all the way up the steps. Corey finally drew the line. It was getting ridiculous. Corey knew his Dad loved him. He was grateful for his help, but he wasn’t an invalid and didn’t wish to be treated as one. He hadn’t said anything because he knew it made his Father feel good to be able to be of such assistance. Corey wanted to put the entire thing behind him and move on from it. He could still, at the very least, hang up his own clothes.

  Deaf to Corey’s opposition, Timothy took the robe from his hands and grabbed a coat hanger from the closet. “I think you should just rest. You have plenty of time to doll over simple chores. Just lay down and take it easy. A nap wouldn’t hurt.” He suggested heartedly, the turned to collect the remains of the bag.

  Corey crossed his arms across his chest and tried with all his might to refrain from stealing his Father’s thunder. He forced a grin, prying apart his clenched teeth to speak, “I’m not tired, Dad. I have things to do. I only have a couple of days to pack and get everything ready for school-“ Timothy halted in his tracks. His vacant stare settled on Corey’s face. He found the capability to smile, but only for a moment before it was lost. His words came with sporadic breaths, almost disoriented. It certainly came as a shock. “That’s crazy, Corey. You- You can’t leave here now. Not after everything that’s happened. You need time to recover.”

  “I’m going to be fine. The doctor said it himself. I have good stamina; I should be back to one hundred percent health in a couple of weeks.” Corey explained. He could see the earnestness draining from his father’s expression. It was as if Timothy had expected his son to return from his terrifying episode a puddle of weakness. How was it possible that Timothy himself could still harbor such fear when his Corey- the actual victim of such a crime- had the strength to continue on as if nothing ever happened. He had prepared himself for the absolute worst. He waited for Corey to cower into the corner of his room like a scared animal, or crawl beneath his blankets and sink into an immanent depression. Timothy had deliberately pulled every ounce of stability he had, just so he could provide Corey with the comfort and security he would need upon coming home. All this, along with the idea of losing him at a time when he felt he that could have done so much more to make Corey more content. They still had so many late night conversations to share, so many things to laugh at, that the idea of Corey being gone, and all of those opportunities lost, petrified him. Timothy was just thankful to have him home. Safe. Anything less was unthinkable. To care for someone, your only child, and then face having them torn from your life was something Timothy never thought he’d have to face. Luckily, by some grace of God, his child was given back to him. To push him back out into that careless world would be negligent. He could never li
ve with himself if anything were to happen to him. Corey’s defiance angered him. Did he not realize how much he meant to his Father?

  He spoke low and with sound authority. “I know what’s best for you. It is my job to protect you. As your parent, what I say is final wether you like it or not. Until I feel you are ready to go away to school you’ll stay right here in this house. If you want to hang up your own clothes, fine. Do it. If you want to run circles around the damn neighborhood, great. Do it. But I will not let you leave here knowing that what happened last night could happen again.” Timothy pressed the robe and hanger into Corey’s chest.

  Corey was enraged. He threw his belongings onto the floor, and protested, “Bad things happen, Dad! A bad thing happened, okay! That doesn’t mean you have to keep me here like this. You’re not even being reasonable. What are you going to do? Lock me up in my room for the rest of my life? I’m an adult now, I can handle this myself.” He yelled.

  Timothy started toward the door, “You’re not an adult! An adult would have the brains to use some caution after something like that. An adult would be responsible with his life. You want to run off to school where there is no one there to care for you. What if something happened, huh? San Francisco is two thousand miles away, Corey. You’re lucky to be alive! Show a little gratitude.”

  Corey followed him into the hallway hoping he would stop to face him, but Timothy kept walking. “How can you say I’m not grateful? I know I’m lucky to still have my life, but what kind of life will it be if I’m kept like a prisoner by my own father? I fought for everything I was worth to understand what was happening to me. I will not give the guys who hurt me the satisfaction of making me a coward. I will not let this one thing make me live the rest of my life being paranoid. I’m being logical here! Don’t you understand that I’m trying to bury this and forget it? Why do you want me to stay here? So you can convince me that I’m this helpless little victim? I’m not that, Dad!”

  They reached the bottom of the stairwell and continued on into the kitchen. Timothy resented his son’s rebelliousness. He did not want to hear any more. He turned on the faucet and began running hot water over his hands, rubbing them together violently. “I never said you were a victim! Don’t argue with me, Corey. I told you that school is out of the question, at least for right now.”

  Corey stood beside him. Timothy began filling the sink, busying himself with the dishes chore as not to pay to much attention to his son, who was staring at him through cursing eyes.

  “Hello?” Carol called meekly as she poked her head around the doorframe leading into the kitchen.

  Both Corey and Timothy turned immediately. Secretly, they both thanked her for the welcome disruption of tension. Neither of them had the presence of mind to appropriately greet her, they merely glared at her.

  Carol felt a swelling awkwardness. “I knocked...” She informed timidly, as if expecting to be reprimanded for her obvious intrusion. “The door wasn’t closed all the way. Is this a bad time?” She wanted to go back to the door and start all over, only this time she would knock louder. Timothy reclaimed is traditional proper disposition and dried his hands on a towel hanging over the handle of a drawer beneath the sink. “No, Carol!” Timothy stated gladly, tossing away his anger. “I’m glad you came. I was expecting you. Have a seat.” He hurried over to the table and pulled out a chair for her. Corey turned away from them, bracing himself against the counter top. He looked out the window that faced the back yard. He was hot. The air in the room seemed to be about ninety degrees, not unusual for late summer.

  Timothy sat down next to Carol, “Corey and I were just having a conversation.”

  “An argument,” Corey corrected coldly. Though he had attempted to remove himself from the situation by turning away, he couldn’t withhold his comments that were designed simply to provoke his dad.

  Timothy sneered in Corey’s direction, then quickly stood up to counteract Corey’s jab with a more sociable offer. “Would you like something to drink? A soda maybe?” He asked as he rushed over to the cupboard and pulled out two glasses.

  “A soda is fine,” Carol said. She felt it necessary to make some effort to eradicate the intensity. She crossed her legs, straightening her ankle length skirt accordingly over her knees, “Rachel wanted to come, Corey. She sends her best wishes. She has to pack for school. Two more days. Exciting, huh?”

  Timothy bit his bottom lip as he dropped some ice into the glass. His body stiffened. He knew his son to well to expect him to keep his mouth shut.

  Corey faced the woman; he tilted his head to one side and smiled facetiously. “I’m utterly thrilled. Or, rather, I would be anyhow. But my father decided that I’m not allowed to go to school now. I have to stay here in Sadie and rot like a month old gallon of milk, be denied my education, and become a useless ulcer in the stomach of society. But it’s because he cares.” Timothy slammed one of the glasses down of the counter. “That’s enough Corey.”

  Corey grinned guilefully, “But I’m just being honest. Or is that prohibited now as well?”

  Carol tapped the tip of her fingers against the table and let her eyes wander aimlessly around the room. She felt terribly flustered suddenly. She decided to admire the oil painting on the wall. She studied its intricacies more closely than the artist intended. It was her only way to accommodate her growing discomfort.

  Timothy poured the cans of soda over the crackling ice cubes. “Don’t be sarcastic. We’ll continue this discussion later.”

  “What discussion? We weren’t having a discussion. You were dictating. Dictators don’t discuss, they dictate.” Corey blasted as he marched out of the kitchen.

  Timothy carried the beverages over to the table and once again took his seat. Carol thanked him unsteadily and began gulping. The less time she spent here the better. He smirked at her and sighed. “I’m sorry about this. He’s just angry right now,” Timothy explained, masking his grievances. Carol could see the preceding conflict had left him disturbed. He continued, “Obviously parents don’t do anything right. According to teenagers anyway.” He faked an inept laugh and took a drink. His polite attempt to somehow illustrate the harmlessness of the clash she witnessed made Carol feel at ease. He didn’t owe her an explanation, but his embarrassment placed them both on the same level.

  She smiled pleasantly, “I know what you mean. I have one of my own.” She approved, now more relaxed.

  “I’m doing the best I can. Someone has to look out for him,” Timothy announced candidly. “Why?” Carol inquired. “Corey’s not the type to go around looking for trouble.”

  “I know,” Timothy agreed. “But, most of the time you don’t have to go looking for trouble to find it. This is a frightening world we live in. No one is safe anymore.”

  “True. But I’ve found- mostly though my own experiences- that life is what we make of it. We have more options than we realize. Too often we’re too afraid to explore them. Change becomes a disturbing thought. We may not have control over life itself... but we do have some control over what we do with our own lives. Once we give that up, we become a nothing more than a dying fish beneath the current, pushed along by the tumultuous waters of a violent river. Just along for the ride.” She could see him carefully assimilating her dialogue. She quickly became self-conscious, realizing the depth of her speech probably had no meaning to him. It did. He relished in her gentleness. The way she painted such a comprehensible idea, making it more clear to the unaware.

  Carol rolled her eyes and looked away, grinning dismissively, “Now I’m starting to sound like Dear Abby. You can tell I’ve had a lot of time in introspect. You’ll have to pardon me.” She said coyly.

  Timothy was staring at her. She was sure he must think her a babbling moron. Carol coughed quietly then took a sip of her soda, trying to take the focus from her. “Please say something. Please say something,” she thought as she swallowed hard. It was like a spotlight was shining directly on her and a c
rowd was waiting for her to perform. His voice was music to her ears. It redeemed her.

  “I like the way you say things,” he endeared softly, leaning forward as to get closer to her.

  Carol waved her hand once in front of her, as if batting away the sincerity of his compliment before it had the chance to reach her, “I’m just neurotic. That’s what my husband always told me. I’m too flowery with my thoughts,” she giggled.

  “No. You just know the meaning of them. You have an understanding that most can only dream about. Your husband just couldn’t see that.”

  Carol didn’t reply. She was at a loss for words. The emotions that arose within took her by surprise. She felt giddy and shy. Like she was young again. It was a new feeling. Because it had been so painfully long since she felt that way, she’d forgotten the power of it. So invigorating and fresh. She never imagined she would have that again. Never expected to. She had basically grown so accustomed to living her dull life in black and white that she had lost the ability to remember the vibrant colors of the woman she once was. Now those same colors flushed over her, and the memories of her girlhood seemed not to terribly far. A bit more familiar was the girl she so fondly reminisced about secretly for so long. That part of her that had withered with age, it had been revitalized by Timothy’s touch. A reincarnation of herself.

  He laid his hand atop hers and caressed her tender skin. She turned her palm upward and wrapped her fingers around his, entwining them. His touch was so delicate and warm. Carol closed her eyes, absorbing every sensual movement of their unspoken intimacy. The way the underneath of his thumb slowly crossed over her wrist, traveling up to the center of her palm causing a slight tickling sensation. How she had missed this feeling. The feeling of desire, of being desired. She missed touch. Being touched, touching another. It replenished her soul. Carol pressed her slender fingers between his and held them outward then brought them down, holding it, inviting it.

  A tear crept over her lash and fell to the corner of her eye. She discreetly moved her hand back. She had to overcome all temptation to break their rapture, but until she was out of reach, their holding remained until finally it was just the very tips of their fingers adjoined, as if some spell had been cast over them and was passing through, and then contact was lost.

  Carol drew her hand into her lap and stared at it. The telephone screeched, defacing the heavy silence. Timothy didn’t move from his seat right away. He couldn’t. He wanted so much to take her hand again, just to feel some part of her together with him. Rejecting Timothy’s mental will to quiet the ringing, the phone repeated it’s annoying summoning. Begrudgingly, Timothy stood up and approached it. He collected himself from the poignancy of that moment, which left him shaken.

  He took the receiver from the base and spoke. “Evan’s Residence.” He greeted only slightly disparagingly. Carol listened to the silence as the caller on the other end of the line spoke to Timothy. For a brief period she felt a spear of guilt, like the anonymous solicitor had caught them in some questionable act, exposing them. As she wracked her brain to think of something bright to say when he returned to her, she heard the one sided conversation continue. “That’s not going to work out. I can’t leave home,” he told the caller in an apologetic tone of voice. Carol continued to listen, not because she wanted to pry, but because it was unavoidable. Timothy exhaled hard, pushing air through his lips in distress, “Yeah, that would be a great opportunity, but my son is not well right now, and my time is just not expendable. I have to be here. It’s not possible for me to jaunt off to New York, you’ll just have to make that clear to them,” he opposed firmly.

  Not more than a minute passed before he wound up the call and hung up the telephone. When he rejoined Carol at the table his manner had altered noticeably. In consideration of his depleted state, Carol retreated from her more informal stand and conformed to his sudden displacement. She inched to the edge of her seat, concerned, “Is everything okay?”

  Timothy scratched the spot just above his left eyebrow. “Yeah, everything is fine. That was my ex-partner from the law firm I was with back in San Francisco. He’s been trying to help me in forming my independent practice. Apparently, there’s this high profile client in New York and he referred him to me for further consultation. He knows that I’m in dire need of a big case to provide me with some stability. Unfortunately, that entails an overnight trip into the city, and I can’t do that. Not now.” He couldn’t mask his disappointment, though he made a valiant effort. Corey stepped from around the corner, having heard everything. He stood like a statue, his expression cold and telling. He spoke with quiet control, though his anger was stirring. “Why not?” He asked in a solemn way, almost secretly threatening. Carol and Timothy shot him and apprehensive glare.

  Tim stood fast and gave a nervous reply. “You know why. What kind of Father would I be if I leave you the very day you come home from the hospital? You are my son. That makes you my number one priority. More important than any client. Whether you like it or not, you need me here. I need to be here. I will be here. That’s not debatable.”

  Corey didn’t flinch, “I don’t need you, Dad.” He took a stealthy step forward, “I know you’re doing this because you care about me. I’m not disputing that. You don’t have to prove anything to me. I just don’t want things to change because of what happened. I have to go on with my life uninterrupted. I am fine. I feel fine. I don’t need you to patronize me. Just because some jerks hurt me doesn’t make me incompetent. If I resign myself to helplessness then what purpose will I serve? I will be serving myself a huge injustice. I shouldn’t have to negotiate my degree of competency with you. I can’t be reliant on you for the rest of my life-“

  Timothy interjected fervently, “Yes you can, Corey. That’s what I’m here for. You can rely on me.”

  Corey, in turn, raised his voice objectively, “I know I can rely on you. That’s not the issue here. I have to be able to rely on my own instincts as well. Why do you insist on punishing me for something I had no control over? That’s what you’re doing and you don’t even know it. You’re holding me accountable for their deeds. I didn’t ask for that to happen, Dad. It’s not my best interests you’re advocating. This is for your own benefit. Otherwise you would be supporting me in my effort to retain my pride and confidence. Instead you’re inhibiting that. If you really, honestly love me, why do you want to force me to behave as a common victim? And don’t tell me that it’s because it’s your job.” Corey was steadfast in his claim. A part of him felt a painful feeling of guilt, as if he were invoking the loss of his Father’s love to gain emancipation. To him, it was an unthinkable exchange. But it was an unreasonable request by his father to ask him to sacrifice one for the other. That’s where he found his basis for argument. In their past, Timothy and Corey had many disagreements, trifling ones that paled in comparison to the current. Back then, he always knew his Father was right, yet he persisted in vein. No Corey, you can’t go out and play after dark. No Corey, you cannot call someone in Scotland just to hear their accent. No Corey, you may not paint your bedroom black.

  Looking back, they were comical components of Corey’s childhood immaturity. Corey had believed his father to be strict and cruel, even vilified him for not giving him his way. Of course, now he was able to see the reasoning. Only this was resoundingly different.

  For once, Corey felt truly grounded in his stand. He was no longer a child making unpretentious requests. He didn’t want to call Scotland just to hear the funny accents, or paint his bedroom black, or go outside and play at midnight. He was petitioning for his independence, and that didn’t seem to be such an outlandish act.

  Timothy and Corey shared a trepid stare. Relenting, Timothy sat down and finished off his drink, “I’ll think about it,” he remitted quietly, not surrendering, but withdrawing peacefully to contemplate.

  Corey dropped his shoulders, expelling a short, aggravated breath, disapproving of his vagueness. Unsatisfied
, he turned and left the kitchen. Timothy tried to maintain some reservation. Certainly this wasn’t an accurate depiction of a normal day in the Evans’s household. He hoped his clash with his son hadn’t left Carol with a negative impression. All he could think to do was apologize for the episode she had just witnessed. “I’m sorry,” he said placing his hand on his forehead, sparring with an oncoming ache. Then he remembered that he’d already apologized once before, during the last altercation.

  Carol shifted, trying to appear as innocent as possible, as if she hadn’t noticed the fight. “Don’t be.”

  “You think I’m a bad parent?” He asked, needing some affirmation as if uncertain in his own position.

  “No.” She ascertained in a compassionate voice. No matter what she said, the softness of her tones, the distinctive care she used with choosing her words, and the genial manner in which she gazed at him, She would have made even the most frigid heart melt. She had a natural sensitivity toward others, not beseeching any more than offered, not judging. When he looked at her, wanting her to say more just to have the pleasure of hearing her speak, he saw that her mere presence beautified the room, filled him with profound joy.

  “Well, what do you think?” He pressed. Since he had no command over the battling that had taken place before her, he figured he may as well include her.

  Carol lifted her eyebrows, “You really want to know what I think?” She inquired cautiously, wondering herself if she should impart her opinion.

  “You’re a logical woman. I respect your ideas, and you’re impartial to the circumstance. If the same thing had happened to Rachel, hypothetically, what would you do?” Timothy questioned. Carol pursed her lips together, refreshing her clear gloss. She placed her hands on the table, folding them. “I would go to New York. I would let him go to school.” She paused, watching for some change in his expression, then continued, “That’s not what you wanted to hear but it’s what I think.”

  “You believe I’m inhibiting him.” Timothy concluded plainly, on her behalf.

  Carol winced in dread. Similar to the timid squeak of a mouse, she replied quick and sympathetically, “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  Carol jumped to her own defense, “I mean, I can see why you want to keep him home. It’s parental intuition to want to protect your child, but there’s a fine line between protecting and overwhelming. Corey sounds like he just wants to go away from this, and that’s commendable. He doesn’t want to make the issue the centerpiece of his existence. Corey needs to know that he hasn’t lost anything. Despite being violated in such a brutal way, he has retained the strength to press on and enjoy all that his future is going to offer him. You’re stopping him from that.” She hurriedly initiated a polite disclaimer, “And I’m just going to shut my mouth right now before I overstep my bounds because my husband always told me to mind my own business and I have probably already said to much as it is just remember that you asked,” she rattled in one, long, constant breath.

  Timothy’s thoughts were still too cyclonic to comprehend her words fully, but he found himself in awe of her long winded answer. It was like she tried to get it all out before he had a chance to offer a rejoinder. She had purposely attempted to diminish the sincerity in her voice, perhaps for fear of being scolded for poking her nose where it didn’t belong, by talking in fast forward. It reminded him of a clerk at a drive-thru window.

  He began to laugh, and nervously, Carol began to laugh with him. “Sometimes my mouth goes faster than my brain and I end up looking absolutely insane. I’m not though, I promise,” she giggled, dispelling any inaccurate impressions her outspokenness may had caused.

  Timothy collected himself, his smile fixed proudly on his face, “It’s good to be outspoken, Carol. Especially when you have something credible to say... and I appreciate your unbiased view. I just don’t feel that it’s a plausible option.” He switched moods suddenly, from boisterous laughter to a more bleek, conflicted tone. He could find no middle ground. “I know it looks rather extreme, but these measures are necessary. He could’ve died. When he was up there in that hospital, all I could think of was the things I could have done to prevent it. I’ve always been lenient with Corey. I’ve always supported him in his interests, in his issues, in everything. Maybe if I had been more Earthy about it instead of giving him the idea that, because I had no problem with it, no one else would, he would have been more careful.”

  “So, in all actuality, what you’re saying is that Corey should not be as content as he is about being gay.”

  “No! That’s not what I’m saying at all. It’s just that, had I instilled in him the true contempt that some people...” he exhaled forcefully, “It’s like I’ve provided him with false security.”

  “Tim, that not true. You behave as if Corey’s a sheltered kid or he’s oblivious to the ways of the world. I can guarantee you that he knows there are bad people out there, people that hate him just for the fact that he leads an alternative lifestyle. You’re not his only source of influence. He’s seen the news. He’s read the articles about bigots and murderers. He’s just proud enough to walk with his head up. If anything, you should be overjoyed. You have to stop looking at him as a child. He’s not a little boy anymore. He’s on the verge of adulthood. You have to start looking at him as a grown man with ideas and emotions separate of your own. That’s the hardest thing for a parent to do. To look at our child as an individual who no longer needs us to guide them by the hand. It’s a process. We spend their entire lives priming them for this moment, teaching right from wrong, good from bad. When they are able to leave the nest, use all they’ve learned from us, we have to let them go. We have to trust that we ourselves have been good enough parents to provide them with the skills they’ll need to make it alone. You’re a wonderful Dad. Just because he’s leaving doesn’t mean that your title is taken away. You’ve said it yourself, you’ve always made him proud to be your son, you’ve always supported him. You’ve been there when he’s needed you. Don’t stop now. Listen to him.” Carol felt familiar to the subject. Though it would have been unfair to compare their circumstances, the generality of it was the same. She had been forced to see Rachel as something more when she found herself unexpectedly relying on her for strength. “The time always comes when we have no choice but to see another in a new light. It certainly changes the dynamics of the relationship. One almost feels robbed of their authority, but after it happens, we understand that titles remain. Forever a mother, forever a father, forever a son, forever a daughter.”

  Timothy became completely immobile. The severity of her comment stung him, perhaps even more so with the realization that she was right. He could offer nothing in defense. If he thought in the frame of a Lawyer’s mind, he had lost this case. He stood up with a sullen stance and stepped slowly over to the telephone dialing a number. “This is Timothy Evans... I’ll be there tonight.”

  fifteen

  In The Storm Of A Secret