Chapter 10
catherine - present
Dear Chris,
Your letter came as a surprise. It’s wonderful to hear from you after all these years. How they’ve flown by!
I tapped my finger against the kitchen counter, reading the note. The black ballpoint handwriting was fine. Neat as a pin. The stationary was old Barrington family paper that I kept in the bottom of my underwear drawer because I had nowhere else to put it. Everything was fine with the note except the intent.
The soup for church was popping and boiling in the pot. The dishes were clean, and I had nothing to do but write this note. I wished I had something else to do.
Your letter came as a surprise. It’s wonderful to hear from you after all these years. How they’ve flown by!
I sounded like a stranger. Like someone who had never promised him a thing. Even the exclamation point at the end that was supposed to warm up the letter seemed like another line and dot of distance.
Pushing the paper’s corners together, I started to crumple it and stopped. I could use it as scrap. I could write everything I wanted to say then edit it neatly onto a new sheet.
I am so sorry to hear about Lance. I think burying him at home is the right thing. I know Galahad is on Wild Horse Hill. You should get a space nearby.
Was that all I was going to talk about? Lance? Was I going to let the subtext rule the conversation or was I going to be a grown-up?
I don’t know when I stopped waiting for you.
There. That was closer. At least it was true. A long time ago, I’d stopped waiting without even thinking about it.
I used to cry over you, but not for a long time. Now I just cry out of habit. I cry for a release, even if I don’t feel sad. It’s a valve I can open and I function fine. So, thanks for the tears, I guess.
The bedsprings squeaked upstairs, and my stream of rage snapped. This thing Harper had. This man she’d met on the internet and brought home. It was strange and unprecedented and I wanted it.
I didn’t even know what it was and I wanted it. I wanted it so badly I couldn’t think.
To add shame to sin, the doorbell rang.
I looked through the front sidelight. It was Reggie.
“Shoot.”
He worked in the distribution center off the interstate and painted small canvases of cities and spaceships in his spare time. He’d sold a few to people in Doverton, but mostly he covered them over with new ideas as they occurred.
When I was upset, my father gave me the master suite as a consolation prize. At twenty, Reggie was Barrington’s resident artistic talent. Dad had hired him to paint flowers on the ceiling to cheer me up. I didn’t sleep in that room anymore because of a roof leak, but knowing the ceiling was there was comforting. It was beautiful and it was mine.
My sister and every lady in town insisted Reggie held a candle for me ever since then. Even while I dated Frank Marshall and after that ended peacefully. The rumors alone put Reggie at the top of the list of people I didn’t want to come inside while Taylor and Harper were making a racket.
Pressing the pedal to open the kitchen garbage pail, I gathered the top of the plastic bag. It was only about a third full, but I took it to the front door anyway. When I opened it, Reggie had his hat in his hand.
“Hello,” I said.
He stuffed his baseball cap in his back pocket and took the bag. “I have that.”
“Thank you.” I pointed down the driveway.
The garbage pails were on the side of the house so they were easily accessed from the side door. Hopefully he’d think I came to the front to answer the doorbell, as opposed to using the garbage as an excuse to keep him out of the house and away from the sound of the bed squeaking.
He followed where I indicated without question, walking around the side with me.
“What brings you here on Sunday morning?”
“I just found out from Johnny that old Chris Carmichael’s coming back.”
“Really?”
“So they say.”
We walked a few more steps.
“He might,” I said. “But who knows?”
“Did he tell you?”
“Why would he?”
“You guys had a thing.”
“That was a long time ago.” I opened the garbage pail lid. “Why?”
He put the bag inside. “I was wondering how you were about it? Happy?”
“It’s complicated.” I let the lid slap shut. “A lot’s changed. I mean, look around here. When he left, the burger place was packed every night, the factory was open, my family? We… we were big shots.”
“You’re still a big shot to me.” He was being completely earnest. He was a trash-talking guy’s guy when he thought I wasn’t looking, but around me, he was warm and sincere.
“Thank you, Reg.”
He cleared his throat. “So what are you going to do with that thorn bush out back? Those roses were his pride and joy.”
“Hardly.”
“Aw, come on. He worked twelve hours at a time on them. Pruned and mulched. I remember.”
I wanted them to be nice for him, but I also didn’t want to see him. I wished I could be of a single mind about anything. “I should probably make them into proper bushes again.”
I walked Reggie to his car. It was the only subtle way I had of letting him know he couldn’t come inside.
“If you need any help, I’m pretty handy with clippers.”
“You’re good at too many things, Reggie.”
“I said I was handy.” He flipped his hat back on. “I make no other promises.”
“Will I see you at church?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m making the soup everyone likes.”
“I’ll come hungry then.”
He got into his car. We said our so longs and he drove off.
Back inside, I was glad I hadn’t invited Reggie in. They were still at it. Maybe they were trying to be quiet the same way I tried to be quiet when I cried at night.
The sounds were lower by the couch. The sewing kit was on the arm because I’d sold the end tables and coffee table. The kit’s lid had a hard inside surface. I opened it, put a blanket over my legs, and began my letter to Chris again.