The Girl from Charnelle (6 page)

S
he didn't want to think about him, but she couldn't help it. He was there on the screen of her imagination. At home, hanging up the laundry on the line, the early-spring wind biting cold, snapping the sheets, she'd see, in the play of shadow and light, an image that looked like him on the deck of the Armory, a beer in his hand, the snow spitting at his receding form. In history class, dozing during Mr. Nelson's lecture on Santa Anna's surrender, she saw his body moving away from her, that athlete's graceful swagger, the muscles of his arms and back and legs and buttocks rippling beneath his clothes. At night, too, she was shaken by dreams, could feel his tongue on her lips, on her neck, that soft mustache over her skin. She soon found herself awaiting these images, disappointed when they weren't there. She went to sleep eagerly now at night in hopes that he would appear, and sometimes she woke before they were over, and she would close her eyes quickly and try to slip into the center of the dream, and occasionally she could do it, and when she woke in the morning, she felt feverish, her body damp and chill-bumped, because sometimes in the dreams he
seemed to swallow her whole, envelop her in his big body, like a cat eating a small animal, and at other times, she could hear that exaggerated sigh of his, see his pursed lips shaped in an O, and a cold, metallic film seemed to slip over his face that would exclude or indict her. A dark kernel of shame would grow hard and thorny in her stomach, and sometimes she felt she carried around this shame, visibly, for everyone to see.

She'd look for his pickup on her way to school and walking back home. She waited sometimes by the phone, trying to will it to ring, and one time, as she sat staring at it, concentrating, it did ring; the sharp, shrill staccato alarmed her. She didn't dare touch it for fear the phone might burn her hand.

“Pick it up, goddamn it!” Manny said, but she just sat there, in shock, and he grabbed it, a twist of disgust on his lips. “What's wrong with you?” he asked, covering the phone.

Turned out it was for him, anyway. But it had spooked her.

 

Finally she wrote him a letter. She started and stopped several times, spending too many hours on it, shredding each draft into tiny pieces before beginning the next. Eventually she wrote one that was as good as it was going to get.

When she read it over, though, it seemed wrong still. There was something foolish about it, a sentimental pleading, a defensive undercurrent that seemed to say,
It's not my fault, it's not my fault. I'm really a good girl.
But
she didn't know how to get around that, or underneath, or through it. It was just there as a kind of ghost image of the letter. She started to throw it away, but then she quickly put it in an envelope, addressed and stamped it. She didn't put her own address on it. She ran to the post office with it clutched in her hand, and the running seemed to carry a momentum of its own, so that when she got inside, her heart beating rapidly, her legs tingly, the motion of putting it in the slot seemed without consequence, like a wave or a gesture, nothing to it. When it slipped from her fingers, like a quick good-bye, the envelope disappearing into the darkness of the bin, she felt a momentary gasping
oh, no,
but then it was done, and there was no getting it back, and finally it was out of her system, and there was nothing in the damn letter anyway, except an apology. It was over.

As she walked home, a hummingbird hovered in front of her face for several seconds, and it seemed like a sign, a good sign. She felt better, and after that he seemed to disappear from her thoughts, and she slept that night and the following three nights, not dreaming at all, and each morning she woke up, fresh and ready for the day, as if the world were waiting for her to be in it again.

 

Four days later, however, emerging from the clogged doors of the school with Marlene Shopper and Debbie Carlson, she saw his pickup across the street, sitting there like a huge red exclamation point. He waited until he knew she saw him and then pointed to the street. He drove slowly down the block and turned right. She told her friends she had to go back, that she'd forgotten her history book, that she'd walk on home alone. She went inside the school and then down through the corridor and exited at the south entrance and walked quickly in the direction he'd gone. She got to the end of the block, turned right, and saw him parked in an alley.

“Get in,” he said. “Quick.”

When she opened the door, he said again, “Quick. And put your head down.” She closed the door behind her and did as he instructed. “Down more!”

She crouched on the floorboard with her arms resting on the seat. She felt nervous, sick to her stomach. She thought she might vomit. “What's going on?”

“Ssshhh,” he hissed.

He pulled out of the alley, turned, and drove in silence. After a couple of minutes, she couldn't stay quiet anymore. “Is it about—”

“Please, just stay down.”

The heater blew on her neck. She could feel the vibration of the truck's wheels in her knees. She was afraid. She should never have written that letter. Never sent it.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
How could she be so dumb?

“Hey, I'm sorry about the letter,” she said. “Just forget it.”

“We have to talk about it.”

“No, we don't,” she blurted out, panicked. “Just let me out now.”

“No!”

He drove on without saying anything else. The asphalt gave way to a dirt road and the absence of noise from other cars. He turned left and then left again, then parked. She could see the barn where they had been before. At one time, it had been red. But now boards were out, paint peeling.

“Can I get up?” she asked sarcastically.

“Yes. I'm sorry about that.”

She sat back in the seat.

“You can't do that!” he barked, his eyes wide and angry, his finger pointed threateningly at her. “You can't send me letters. You're damn lucky Anne didn't see it!”

She shrank against the door. “I'm sorry. Jeez!”

He sighed heavily and clutched the steering wheel. “No, I'm not saying this right,” he muttered to himself and then turned to her more calmly. “Okay, first, I'm flattered, really I am. But we can't do what we're doing.”

“We're not doing anything.”

“What I mean is that it's dangerous the way I
feel
.”

He was agitated, clearly, but it now seemed to be more from his own confusion, his inability to articulate what he wanted to say. She felt less nervous.

“I don't understand.”

“I'm almost twice your age.”

What did he think she was asking him to do?

“I could go to jail.”

“What?”

“It's true.”

“I'm sorry about the letter. That was a mistake. I just wanted you to know that I wasn't going to say anything. And that I was sorry—”

“I want to be a good man,” he interrupted. It seemed like he hadn't heard what she'd said. “I haven't always been. I want to be now. Can you understand that?”

There was that implication that she didn't want him to be, or that she herself wasn't good. She knew that she wasn't, she knew that, but it hurt more that he thought so.

“I'm not asking you to not be good,” she stated, momentarily confused by her own words. And then, more deliberately, “I'm not asking you to do anything.”

“Your father is my friend.”

“I know.”

“And I…love my wife.”

She didn't want to hear this. “Can I have my letter back?”

“I burned it.”

“
Burned
it?”

“Don't write me letters,” he pleaded.

She shook her head. She was afraid she might cry again.

“Okay?” he asked. “Do you understand?”

She nodded. He seemed finished. The first wave was over. He had said what he wanted her to hear. And now there was only silence. They sat there, and it seemed strange to her, absurd. She laughed, nervously, and regretted it.

“Why are you laughing? This isn't funny.”

“I know, I know. I'm sorry. I sometimes laugh when I'm upset.”

“Sorry,” he said after a few moments. “I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that your letter scared the shit out of me. Anne almost saw it. I probably overreacted, but it was a very dangerous thing for you to do.”

She nodded. He was right. She wouldn't make that mistake again.

“Okay then. I'm sorry I yelled at you.”

He reached for her hand. She let him hold it. The clouds had moved across the sun, and now the sky seemed darker, closer to dusk than it really was. She felt suddenly as if the air between them had been cleared. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She put her face to his chest. She could feel him loosening up. And then he put his arms around her tentatively and clasped his hands together.

“What am I going to do with you?” he whispered, almost inaudible.

He sighed again, his chest rising, and then seemed to catch his breath.
But she could feel his heart ticking in his chest. Ticking fast. He was afraid. He was. He kissed her forehead. She watched the clouds through the window, dark now, like torn black blossoms.

“You can't ever say anything,” he said.

“I know.”

“Not to
anybody
. Ever.”

“Okay,” she said, though she felt uneasy. The secrecy didn't concern her. That seemed simple enough. But what was she promising? What was she promising herself? She felt like she was crossing over to something she could only dimly envision, some strange place shrouded in fog.
A new world,
her father had said, though it made her stomach turn to think about him at this moment, to think about the way she was using his words. It was her father—as much as, if not more than, John's wife—that she couldn't say anything to.

“Tell me you understand that,” he said again, more urgently.

“I understand,” she said, though she wasn't quite sure she did.

A
nother snowstorm hit Charnelle for four weeks from late January to late February. The town shut down. Pipes burst. No one could even walk to the grocery store. Within a week of the first snows, things reached a desperate point. One widow died when her heat went out. The governor sent the National Guard with huge plows to make the roads passable. Still the snow kept coming. It was like a military zone at first, but then some of the guardsmen became friendly with the people in town. Near the end of February, the worst was over, but the military jeeps were still in Charnelle, and the guardsmen offered free rides.

Laura was happy at first about missing school, but she soon grew weary of the isolation. Although classes resumed once the Guard cleared the streets enough for the kids to walk, bundled, to school, most other social interaction was limited. Her father had lost almost a week of work and had spent most of that time shoveling snow, fixing pipes for their house and Mrs. Ambling's house, uncovering the drifts in front of the storm cellar so
they could get to the canned fruits and vegetables, and repairing the heater, which faltered with each new dip below zero. Manny and Gene were often enlisted in these chores, and Laura was put in charge of the house and Rich, cooking meals, trying to do laundry with only cold water. She had to string a makeshift clothesline throughout the house, much more elaborate than what her mother had ever done, in order to dry the clothes, both the ones she'd washed and the ones that everybody wore, which were perpetually drenched from the slush and snow. It was hard, sometimes complicated and tiring work, but she did it without much complaint. She went to bed exhausted, and for a couple of nights she slept as if dead, without dreams, but then once she'd adjusted to the new conditions and grown used to the pace, she found herself bored, ready to return to school, to her friends. It was less work there.

She also longed to see John Letig again. At night, before bed, she found herself thinking of him. She was reading a Joseph Conrad novella,
The Secret Sharer,
for her English class. It was about a young captain on his maiden voyage. He felt alone and estranged from his crew, and on the first night of the voyage he saw a green glow in the water, and out of it emerged a naked man, whom the captain, for reasons he could not understand himself, decided to keep hidden from his crew. He stowed him away in his cabin, fed and clothed him, whispered to him in the darkness. Another ship came by, searching for their first mate, who had killed a crew member, was imprisoned on board, then escaped into the waters. It was the captain's stowaway, but still the captain didn't give up his secret. He wanted to keep the man for himself. Finally, on the verge of going crazy, the captain ran the ship dangerously close to shore to allow his friend to jump into the water and swim safely to a deserted island.

No one else in Laura's class seemed to like the story much, but she found herself mesmerized, as if it were speaking directly, knowingly to her. The mysterious man's name was Leggatt, which startled her to read, as if Conrad were reaching through half a century to grab her by the throat. And, like the young captain, she felt that her Letig had come suddenly into her life not only to complicate it but also to reveal something to her. When she read the passages about the two men together, whispering in the dark, she thought of the last time she and John had been together. After he had sworn her to silence, he held her as it grew dark, and he kissed her and touched her arms and back, and it had been tender and reserved, and as the night fell
around them, it had been, above all, secret. As they drove down her street, they saw her father working on his truck in the front gravel driveway, clamp lamps attached to the hood.

“Are you ready for this?” John asked.

She nodded. They pulled to a stop, and she hopped out of John's truck. Her father eyed them suspiciously.

“Where've you been?” he asked.

Before she could answer, John said, “Sorry, Zeeke. I had to get Anne a dress and needed some help picking something out. Saw Laura walking home and grabbed her. Didn't mean to keep her out so late.”

Her father looked at Laura for confirmation. “We found a nice dress,” she said, smiling. “A blue one with white polka dots.”

“Thanks, Laura,” John said.

“Yes, sir,” she answered casually and then skipped to the door. Inside, she peeked out the window. Her father was at John's truck, his arm draped over the top of the cab. Her stomach tightened. John's face was serious, but her father's head nodded in an easy, familiar way, and she knew it was going to be all right this time. She waved to him. She could tell he saw it, but he didn't gesture back, and she felt suddenly guilty, as if she were betraying her father. But she was also deeply thrilled at that moment.

She turned, and there was Manny, raking a comb through his slicked-back hair, a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his lips. “What are you up to?” he asked, the cigarette bobbing.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he said, smirking.

“Shut up!”

“Are you running around with someone?”

“No.”

“Then where were you?”

“With Mr. Letig…helping him find an anniversary gift for Mrs. Letig.”

“Yeah, I bet,” he said and leaned close so that the lit end of his cigarette waggled before her. He puffed a cloud of smoke in her face.

“Get away from me, you idiot.” She pushed past him and went into the bathroom. She looked in the mirror. Were her lips swollen? Did it show? She washed her hands and face with cold water, brushed her teeth, then
changed into her overalls and went into the kitchen and began making the pork chops she'd put in the icebox that morning to thaw.

 

Just a week later, the blizzard had hit. She had seen Letig—John—only twice. Once he'd dropped her father off after work. He'd stepped inside, a sash of snow on his shoulders and across his chest, and waited for Laura's father to fetch a tool. Laura came into the living room and saw him standing there, alone, like a declaration. His cheeks and nose were red from the cold, his blond mustache tinged in frost. She had the impulse to go to him, to touch him, to wipe the snow from his coat. He smiled and then his gaze moved upward, over her shoulder, and her father suddenly brushed past her, pipe wrench in hand.

“Hope this helps,” he said, holding it out to John. “Remember to turn the water off first before you unscrew it.”

“Thanks. I'll get it back to you tomorrow.”

He raised the wrench in a good-bye to her father and then nodded in her direction and was gone. There seemed to be a ghost image of him left at the door, and she closed her eyes and could see his silhouette lined in silver against her lids.

The second time he'd come to pick up his boys, after Mrs. Letig had left them with Laura for the afternoon so she could have her hair done. While the boys were playing with Gene and Rich in the backyard, he kissed her on the lips. It was so sudden, it alarmed her. She shook as he held the kiss too long. Only a couple of seconds after he pulled away, his sons bounded into the room, their jackets in hand.

“Ready to go, boys?” he asked cheerfully.

She and John exchanged frightened, exhilarated looks, and then he pulled out his wallet, withdrew a couple of dollars, and handed them to her, his fingers in her palm a few moments too long. “For services rendered,” he said, laughing heartily.

She smiled at the double meaning of this. She liked the implication of the phrase, like she was his mistress. And that night in the bathroom after her bath, steam swirling, her hair wet and tangled before her eyes, she wiped the foggy mirror and looked at her flushed body, her breasts and neck and face pink and warm from the heat, water beaded on her skin, and
she wondered if indeed mistresses moved in this peculiar space that she seemed to occupy: dark, hazy, warm, a wetly electric charge on the skin.

Now, having not seen him in over two weeks, she found herself thinking of him as the mysterious Leggatt, a green, phosphorescent glow on the water, dangerous. That was his word, too.
Dangerous
. It was dangerous what they were doing. That's what he'd said. And yet worthwhile? Secretly meaningful? She even woke one night and beside her bed was a greenish glow on the floor, and still half dreaming, she swore she saw him rise from this puddle. Then she was awake for sure.

 

Laura's English teacher asked what the students thought the novella was about.

“It's about an idiot who nearly crashes his ship for a murderer,” Gordy Toffler said.

“It's about someone,” Marlene offered, “who risks everything for nothing.”

“It's about the value of a secret life,” Laura said, without really meaning to. It was something she'd written down in her diary about the book and about which she'd been thinking ever since. She hadn't meant to utter the words, but they came out before she could stop them. Everyone turned a head in her direction, eyebrows curiously arched. A blush crept over her face.

“Excellent, Laura,” Mrs. McFarland said, raising her own head appreciatively, a knowing smile at the corner of her lips. “Would you care to elaborate?”