Shelter Me (9 page)

"I guess not."

"You've taken communion, right?" He frowned at me. "It's the same thing. Well, except, this tastes better."

I looked down at the glass, then back up at him. He was smiling now. "Just grape juice," I said.
 

"Even on Easter and Christmas?"

He was right. For holiday communions, I had eaten bread dipped in real wine. I remembered it as being sour and unpleasant, and it wasn't really something I felt the need to experience again.

"Come on," he said, with a coaxing smile. "This is a special occasion, Marissa. Just have a little taste. If you don't like it, you don't have to finish it."

I already knew I wasn't going to like the taste, but I wasn't going to let on. He probably thought I was the kind of "bad girl" who went out boozing with my friends, like everyone else did. I didn't usually bother to correct them.
 

I took a sip. It wasn't as sour as I expected, but it was very rich, almost perfumey. My mouth felt dry after I swallowed.

He was twirling the stem of his glass, rotating it slowly on the coffee table. "Have you really never had a drink before?"

"No," I said.

"That's surprising. From what your mom said about you, I just thought..." He stopped, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought that up."

"It's okay. I know how she talks about me." I eyed the glass, and considered the possibility of taking another sip. "You can take everything she says with a grain of salt."

"Yes," said Mark, smiling. "I've noticed."

I let out a long breath. It was refreshing, for once, to hear someone acknowledge it. I tipped a little more wine into my mouth, letting it roll around on my tongue this time, trying to acclimate myself to the taste.

"Well, most people don't start with dry red wine, so you're doing remarkably well so far." Mark's smile broke into a grin. "It's kind of an acquired taste. Once you get used to that, you'll be able to enjoy almost anything."

I felt myself relax a little. Somehow, with Mark, I always felt like I needed to prove something. Like he'd made some kind of assumption about me that wasn't true, and I was going to suddenly remind him that I was just a stupid inexperienced kid and he'd be better off finding a wife who was more mature and worldly. But his smile and easy attitude about the wine was making me feel a little better.

"Now listen," he said. "You don't have to talk about this right now if you don't want to, but I'm curious. Why do you think people assume things about you that aren't true? I was told you were troubled, but as I got to know you, it doesn't really seem that way at all. You just seem like a girl who needs a little guidance. Not some rebellious basket case."

My wine glass was growing warm in my hand. I set it down, and swallowed hard. "Is that what people say about me?" I looked up at him. "A rebellious basket case?"

He made a dismissive gesture. "Whatever. You know what I mean."

I did, but having him confirm it still felt a little uncomfortable. I tried to come up with an answer but my mind was blank.

"Oh, Marissa." He sat up, looking concerned. "I'm sorry - I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I thought you knew...well obviously you do know, but I didn't need to rub your nose in it." He reached out and grabbed both my hands, holding them in his. They suddenly felt very small. "I'm sorry. Let's not talk about it right now."

"No, it's okay. It's...it's fine, really." I pulled one of my hands away and grabbed my wineglass, taking a longer swig than I'd dared to before. "I just try not to think about what people are saying. But I know. I can see it, you know, they whisper about me when they think I'm not paying attention."

Mark nodded, watching me carefully.

"I don't know why, exactly," I went on. "It's just always...I don't know. The earliest thing I can remember is my parents always pestering me to talk. Like they were always worried that there was something wrong with me. But I knew how to talk, I just didn't see the point of babbling constantly. I wanted to wait until I knew exactly what I was trying to say. My sisters would just start making noises, and my parents called it 'talking' but it really wasn't. I didn't want to be like that, you know? And I guess I was too little to know that I should have just acted like everybody else. But once I got into the habit, I guess I got stubborn."

Mark was still nodding. "You don't like being judged by other people's standards," he said.

"I guess." I'd never thought of it in those terms. I just didn't want to have to struggle to be something different than I was. But the world in general seemed to think it was necessary. My parents, my peers, everybody - everywhere I turned, I felt misunderstood. Complaining about it, though, had always seemed self-indulgent. As my mom always reminded me, there were people out there with
real
problems.

"Well," said Mark. "There's really nothing wrong with that. I know we clergy types always end up sounding like a broken record, but have you tried praying for guidance? You might be able to find a balance that makes you a little bit more comfortable, and helps people accept you for who you are. But never forget - God already does."

I nodded. I'd been told things like that before, but Mark sounded like he actually meant it, as corny as it sounded.

"And..." He squeezed my hand. "So do I."

***

Things were going pretty well between Mark and I. I'd sort of adjusted to the whole thing, although it still didn't quite feel like real life. My days were full; after the shiftless empty hours of my post-high school doldrums, it was strange. I was almost never home. He took me to all kinds of places around town, which I'd only ever been to with my family. Sometimes, the employees recognized me and I could feel their eyes following me, wondering why I was suddenly with this man. It seemed like we were always having lunch, or ice cream, or coffee, and he never even gave me a chance to see the bill.

A few nights a week, I'd eat dinner at his house. He always made something fancy - herb crusted this, poached that, with a different wine that was supposed to complement the taste of the meal. I thought the food made the wine taste even more acidic and biting, so I mostly drank water while I ate. I didn't think he was particularly pleased about that, but he never said anything.

After dinner he'd often pour a very small, skinny glass full of a different syrupy-sweet wine from the freezer. It was so cloying it made my mouth water, but I would drink as much as I could, trying to stop before my head started swimming.

He talked almost constantly while we were together. It seemed like he never ran out of stories. After a while, some of them began to sound vaguely familiar, and I started to wonder if he was repeating himself. But I could never call up a specific memory of him saying the same thing twice. After a while I just shrugged it off, though it seemed that as time went on, the stories got more and more extraordinary.

Sometimes I tried to reconstruct a timeline of his early life based on what he'd told me, but it was difficult to make sense of things. He'd get slightly irritated if I asked too many questions, so eventually I gave up on it.

On this particular night, he was a little quieter than usual. He seemed frequently lost in thought, though I felt his eyes on me almost constantly, especially when I wasn't looking at him. Something was obviously troubling him, but I didn't want to be nosy.

Finally, when we were sitting on the sofa with our desert wine, I couldn't stand the silence anymore.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, softly. It seemed like forever before he answered.

"I wish you wouldn't dress like that, Mari."

I froze. My throat was tightening, and I tried to force myself to look up at him, but I couldn't quite manage it.

"I'm sorry," I managed to say.

"It's okay," he said, his tone soft and soothing. "Just try to be a little more thoughtful in the future, okay?"

I swallowed with difficulty. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

When he didn't answer, I forced myself to look at him. He was giving me a look that suggested I was being a little slow.

"I'm sorry," I said, again. Ever since I'd hit puberty, my mom had been making me try on all my outfits in front of her. I wasn't allowed to buy anything she didn't approve first. I'd always thought she was pretty strict, so it never occurred to me that my clothes might be immodest.

"Please stop apologizing," he said. "
I'm
sorry. I really thought..." He sighed a little. "Some girls, you know, they do it on purpose. A little bit. For attention."

"I'm not doing it for attention," I insisted, folding my arms across my chest. I doubted that my neckline was the problem - my collarbones were barely showing - but he'd made me very self-conscious.

"You have to understand how men think," he said. "Stay away from anything that clings, or anything above knee-length. Sometimes it helps to buy things a couple sizes too big, I know there aren't always a lot of options out there if you don't want to sew your own clothes." He was smiling. I relaxed a little, but not much. I didn't think that my shirt was too tight, and my jeans certainly weren't above knee-length. But I didn't want to admit my ignorance any further.

"I was afraid you were going to tell me I needed to dress like Louisa May Alcott," I admitted. "Like some of those girls do."

"Well," said Mark with a chuckle, "there's nothing wrong with doing that if you want to. But no, I don't think it's necessary."

"I can go home and change," I said, my face turning beet red.
 

"Marissa, please," said Mark, reaching out and touching my arm. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. It's all right, I'm the one who's weak. I really appreciate you doing me a favor by accommodating me."

"Sure," I said. "I'll try to be more careful."

***

At church that week, Mark acted like everything was normal. I hadn't realized it at the time, but when we were alone, he was a completely different person. He led prayers before the sermon, and when I saw him standing up there behind the lectern, I couldn't picture that same guy offering me a glass of wine with a subtle, knowing smile. Let alone scolding me about my appearance.

Well, nobody behaved the same at church as they did in real life, did they? I shouldn't be so surprised.

But when I thought about that first night, I still felt an uncomfortable prickle on the back of my neck. I wanted to tell myself that it was just excitement, the thrill of getting to do something forbidden, but the truth was I didn't like the feeling. I didn't like it at all.
 

If he spoke to me a little less after the service, focusing most of his attention on some of the other attendees, I certainly didn't mind. I stood in my usual corner, waiting for my family to be done, when I felt someone's elbow jab me in the side.

"Ow," I said, turning around to see Martha standing there.

"Hey," she said. "I was thinking of asking Mom and Dad if they want to stop and get a fast food breakfast after church, like we did in the old days. My treat. You want?"

"Sure," I said. We were piling into the car shortly after that, driving down the road to the same drive-thru we'd gone to as kids. I had to admit it almost felt nostalgic.

"What do you want, honey?" My mom twisted around to ask me at a red light.

"Just an iced coffee," I said. "Cream only."

"Cream and sugar?"

"No. Just cream. No sugar."

Mom shook her head. "You won't like that. It's too bitter."

"Mom," I said, more loudly than I meant to. "No sugar. I know what coffee tastes like with no sugar. I like it that way."

"Since
when
?" She pulled into the drive-thru lane. "I don't remember you ever wanting your coffee without sugar."

"Just iced coffee," I said. "It's less bitter."

"No it's not." Mom squinted at the menu. "Martha, you wanted the biscuit with the cheese, or without the cheese?"

"It doesn't matter, they'll screw it up anyway," my dad muttered.

The speaker squawked, and my mom began to order. She went through everyone else's requests first, and then: "And a small iced coffee with cream and sugar."

I didn't say anything then, or when she handed it back to me. I took an experimental sip. It was sickly sweet. I tucked it between my knees and let out a little sigh that went unnoticed by the other occupants of the car.

About halfway home, the car jolted suddenly. I grabbed for my coffee but only managed to get the lid, and the contents of the cup went flying. Most of it soaked the front of my dress, but a great deal splattered all over the interior of the car.

"MARISSA!" my mom shrieked, twisting her head around. "What on earth was that?"

"Keep your eyes on the road," my dad said under his breath.

"My coffee," I said. "It spilled."

"It spilled?
It
spilled?" my mom repeated.
 

"I spilled it," I modified, biting the inside of my cheek.

"Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. How many times have I told you to hold on to your drinks in the car? Now there's milk and sugar and coffee all over, soaking into the carpets. Do you have any idea how much that's going to stink? Can you afford to have this car detailed? I don't think so. Maybe you can ask your boyfriend to help you pay for it."

"Paula," my dad said, softly. "It was an accident."

"An accident!" my mom shouted, jerking the wheel. "How many accidents has this girl caused? I've told her again and again, a thousand and one times, to hold on to her drinks. She won't clean up after herself. She never does. It's going to stink like rotten milk in here forever."

Martha's eyes were big and frightened.

"I always clean up," I heard myself say. "You always say that, but I always clean up after myself."

"Yeah," Mom scoffed. "Your idea of cleaning up. So I have to go in after you and re-do the whole thing, because you do everything halfway because you just don't care. It's not your car, why should you? I can't wait until you're married and out of the house, then you'll actually own things and you'll understand why I get like this. You have to take care of your belongings. You have to know your own limitations, Mari. You're clumsy. You have to be careful."