Lost (32 page)

The gun shuddered in her rigid grip. From the kitchen, she heard the door open and close, the double squeak of that dry hinge. Eyes wild, studying the uncertain dark, Leona finally sank back, sitting upright on the bed. She had been poised for abrupt, explosive violence. Now she was unable to grasp what had happened. On the corner of her pillow slip was a matchbox still warm from the hand that had held it. To put the gun down, she had to force her fingers to relax. She lifted the small oblong box, turned it, and slid it open. She was still so panicked it took a moment to comprehend what it contained: a small blossom carved from wood, about the size of a half-dollar. What …
Oh, my God!

Still trembling, she raised the nearest window shade and saw Hardesty headed home through the trees, his white breath trailing over his shoulder like a ghostly scarf.

My God! My God!
It was Hardesty!
I almost shot him! I could've killed him. I came so close!
Tears stung her eyes.

Overwhelmed with relief, long after he had passed from sight she went on staring at the place among the trees where he had gone. Again and again, she examined the carved blossom in her open palm. It looked so strange and small, so innocent. Even with the proof of it in her hand, what had taken place didn't seem quite real or possible. It was completely unexpected, seemed so unlikely.

I've got to stop this, she thought. I can't live like this! I must just stop it! I've got to, before I do something horrible! She wiped her eyes with her forefingers. I'm not like this, she thought, still shocked at herself. Nobody's going to hurt us here.

She could hardly bear to look at the gun. Quickly she returned it to the briefcase, snapped the latches, and slid the case down under the foot of the bed. Away, out of reach. The decisiveness of her act gave her an immediate, almost tangible sense of liberation.

Bed-weary and stiff-jointed, she stood upright under her own power for the second time in as many days. Her legs still trembled with fright. Holding on to the bedpost, then to the window frame, she quietly raised the other blinds, and the winter light opened the room in merging sections. Soon the new light would awaken Vee and the day would begin. On tiptoe, Leona made her way to the long mirror in the wardrobe.

The image of herself in the mirror was disconcerting. She looked pale, exhausted, not at all as well as she felt. The muslin bandage binding her head seemed uncannily out of place; it was unnerving to look so weak and undone. Yet, except for a faint shading under one eye, her face bore hardly a trace of the disaster she had endured.

Why did he do it? she wondered. In the tilt of the mirror she could see the matchbox and the carved flower still on the pillow where she'd left them. What if he comes back? Immediately she wanted to make herself look presentable. She found the strip of adhesive tape that held the bandage and undid the layers of wrappings. Behind her, Vivian sat up and wiped her face. “You shouldn't do that. These things take time.”

“Yes,” Leona said, oddly elated. “I know.” She laughed softly to herself as she collected the band of muslin. “But have you looked at me lately? I can't lie about looking like this and do nothing. It's time I started taking care of myself.”

Hearing the self-mockery in Leona's voice, Vivian smiled. “Well, it's your head. Fool with it if you want to.” She shivered and yawned again. “Next you'll be wantin' to wash up,” she said, opening the stove to add firewood. “I know I would. Feel lots better.”

Leona turned and said yes, she would, if it wasn't too much trouble. “More than anything, I'd like to wash my hair.” She removed the final compress of bandages. High on her forehead, near the hairline, was a cut about two inches long. Five tight black stitches held it shut and it looked bruised and gruesome, but most of the swelling was gone. The wound felt tight and tender beneath her cautious fingers. If she moved her hair just so, it would cover it.

Vee hurried in and out, tying on her apron, listening to her weatherman, then switching stations when Arthur Godfrey came on, and the morning was under way. For a moment, Leona allowed herself to be frivolous: she was thinking quite deliberately about Hardesty—that she would need some color in her cheeks. Leaving a towel and washcloth, soap and shampoo on the nightstand, Vivian filled a basin with water and put it on the stove near Leona's bed. “Here's that bath we talked about,” she said, and grinned. “Let it warm before you try to use it.” Returning to the kitchen, she brought in a smaller pail of water. “Rinse water for your hair.” She pulled the blinds and wiped her hands on her hip pockets. “There,” she said. “Nobody'll bother you. Mama's in her room and I promised them kids they could go with me to feed the chickens. I'll keep 'em with me for a while. So take your time.”

And then he'll be here, Leona thought.

Nearly a half hour passed before she heard them go out. Still unsteady on her feet, Leona lifted the edge of the window shade and watched the warmly dressed children scatter ahead of Aunt Vee. Turning back, she put the rough cloth in the basin of water and held it, wet and steaming, against her face. A blissful warmth spread through her. The pink bar of soap was so old its edges had turned white; with it she washed her face and throat and the back of her sore neck. She imagined a box of tissue-wrapped bars given to Vivian long ago as a gift; for her uninvited guest, she had broken the set. It was touching and sweet, but sad too.

She heard shouts outside and went back to the window, peeking out on a furious snowball fight. Mamie and Patsy and Aunt Vee, stooped down behind a woodpile, were hurling snowballs at Walter and Mark Hardesty, who were crouched behind an old broken wagon. So he had come back. Now she tried to look at him carefully, but the sun had come out and the morning was so bright, reflecting from the snow, that she had to squint to see through it. Hardesty was quickly packing together an arsenal of snowballs while talking to Walter. Vee ran out, heaving snowballs, and suddenly one from Hardesty disintegrated at the side of her head. Her old cap sailed off; the wind caught it and blew it into the fray. She slunk back, laughing, shaking her fist.

More snowballs flew back and forth. Then Mamie darted for the cap. The snow was deep and she plunged through it. Watch out, Leona thought; watch out, hurry. Under a barrage of snowballs, Mamie grabbed the cap just as Hardesty ran from his shelter and caught her, swinging her up in his arms, both of them laughing. There was such a directness about him, Leona thought; nothing confused or false.

She let go of the shade and took a deep breath. Mamie's long silence was finally over. Thank God. That smile, she thought; how she smiled at me. Who would've guessed such a cheap little ring could do so much? “Walter, duck! They're gonna get you,” she heard Hardesty shout. And then laughter. What am I doing just standing here? She shrugged off the cotton gown Vivian had provided her with, caught it, and cinched it with a loose knot at her waist. She washed her shoulders and arms and wiped her breasts clean, her nipples growing hard against the rough chafing.

From time to time as she bathed, she caught glimpses of herself in the long mirror, and finally she stepped to the glass, loosened the gown on her waist, and let it slide down her legs in a soft bunch. The scratches and bruises on her abdomen and thighs were receding in yellow and gray smudges. It was not often that she looked at herself completely naked, never before in a room so unfamiliar. Outlined against the cozy backdrop, she appraised herself and decided she was still fairly willowy and well-shaped. You look naughty, she thought, and you're enjoying it. At least, she hadn't completely wasted away. She heard them laughing outside again.

Leaning over the basin, she wet her hair with handfuls of water and washed it with the shampoo; then, stooping over the bucket, she lifted the dipper and rinsed the suds from her hair. A trickle of soap burned her eyes. Dripping water, she reached for the towel and heard the children coming in with Hardesty. She grabbed the towel and wiped her eyes, then dried her body and wrapped her hair in the towel. Sunlight transformed the window shades into rich, bronze panels. Opening the suitcase on the floor, she took clothes from it and quickly dressed. When she stood up straight, all at once she felt clean and attractive and new.

She wanted to see Hardesty up close, yet wanted her curiosity to go unnoticed. With her hair still wrapped in the towel, she went to the door, opened it quietly, and paused there, looking for an excuse to enter the kitchen. She glanced at him surreptitiously, but he was turned from her, talking with the children, and she saw only his shoulder and the back of his head, his dark wavy hair—darker than hers—just touching the edge of his collar.

Walter looked toward her, and she gestured for him to come. “Your shoe's untied,” she said to him. “Let me help you.” And she stooped and drew the lace tight. Lapping the ends, she lifted her head to look at Hardesty. He turned, and their eyes met and disengaged like dragonflies darting across water. His eyes were even darker in clear daylight. Near her ear, Walter said, “You've tied it enough,” and moved his foot, and she hid her smile, seeing the clumsy knot she'd made in his shoelace. She stood and withdrew from the doorway, feeling real excitement, and her first resistance to it. This can't be, she thought.

Morning and evening, he came to the Turner farmhouse. Often from her window she saw him cross under the spindly walnut trees beyond the fenced yard and heard him enter through the kitchen door, a room away. When she missed seeing him pass, she heard the children welcoming him and his gruff, cheerful salutations. Time after time, he wore the same slouch hat of an indeterminate brown felt, a khaki-colored mackinaw, and green rubber mudboots that came nearly to his knees. His shirts were always clean and pressed, his hair neatly combed, and every morning he was freshly shaven, carrying a hint of some lime tonic. Invariably he looked comfortable and very much at ease. After she was moving around the house more routinely, she glimpsed him seated at the old kitchen table, stirring his coffee and teasing the children with another elaborate story, watched him one afternoon trying to show the three of them how to shoot marbles across the white tablecloth.

Once, some years ago, she had nearly been married—nearly, she had thought, to the point of buying a wedding dress and talking to a minister. It was long after the time she had loved Alfred; she had been with the Merchassens five years when she met him, and in many respects she had truly entered her womanhood with him—at least, she thought of it in those terms. His name was Jack Wilkinson and he had come to the doctor's office selling pharmaceuticals. He usually arrived in the evening, and she began to go out with him to the picture show or to dinner. He had money to spend and, as he said, time on his hands.

From the beginning, she thought he was married—so much so that one night she had gone through his wallet while he slept, looking for some telltale scrap of evidence, but found nothing. He had never really acted married, was never in a hurry to leave, never had to be somewhere at a particular time. After the movie, they would drive to another town, where he invariably wanted to stop for a drink, and what she had admired about him most was that he would listen to anyone. Drunks who could hardly stay on their stools found a listener in him. When she asked him why he did it, he said, “They all have their stories. I always learn something.” But it was more than that; he liked those down-and-out people, cared about them in some unspoken way. She wondered sometimes if perhaps he had come from people like them and it was his way of touching home base. She never knew.

But she had loved him for that; now, from this time and distance, she thought perhaps she loved him for that only. And then they would find a room, or if he already had one, go to it. She must have known that he was lying and yet she couldn't deny herself to him. And, of course, it ended as she thought it might. He stopped coming around. He disappeared. And she waited a long time with the need to confront him, knowing quite well that if he should reappear, she might not be able to, might once again ride with him through the night in his open car to look for a room. But she never had the chance to find out.

Nothing had prepared her for the subtle effect Mark Hardesty began to have on her; so thoroughly had she, years ago, renounced her dreams of finding happiness with a man that his charm and attention caught her completely by surprise. To her, his presence was like a warm and flickering fire in the midst of a very long, very dark night. Every glance, every word, every half-hidden smile resounded with layers of importance, as if the moments themselves contained the sparks of something larger. And yet as inviting as it all was, she was afraid of rushing toward it.

All day she waited for evening to come when she would see him again. He always spoke to her then, asking how she was, telling her about the quirks in the weather, usually with the children clustered about, Vivian coming in red-cheeked from the cold and Funny Grandma babbling some nonsense. But it wasn't what he said or the pleasing sound of his voice that she dwelled on most. He was watching her. Even when they were in different rooms, Leona knew he was as aware of her as she was of him. And the way he looked at her with that slight tilt of his head and the dark softening in his eyes was like enchantment. At night, after he was gone and the children had been put to bed, while Vee pottered about, adding wood to the stove, preparing for the winter night, Leona blew out the bedside lamp and felt the night shrink around her, more eager than ever for morning. Wishing my life away, she thought, and smiled ruefully at the truth of the old cliché.

One evening, as he was preparing to leave, she went to the living room to get his coat, lifting it from the back of a chair. Slowly she looked back toward the kitchen where he was and heard him talking with Vee. On impulse, she drew the coat—full of the smell of him—up around her shoulders. She was consumed by it. The scent of leather and tobacco and that hint of lime tonic flooded her senses. She imagined him touching her, and a hot, wicked sensation ran through her. Then, in the other room, he laughed. She thought she'd been seen, glanced behind her. The doorway stood empty.