These Sheltering Walls: A Cane River Romance (13 page)

            He
shook his head. “Sorry. That wasn’t what I meant to say. I am glad you’re here,
of course, but I was thinking about something else when you knocked and it just
came out that way instead of hello.” He made a mental note to never talk to
Henry when he was exhausted. He lost his censor completely.

            Henry’s
lips were lifting in a soft smile. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

            “Really,
it’s no trouble. Sit down. Is there something you need? Can I get you some
coffee?”

            “I’m
fine, thank you. I had a cup after a tour went through this morning. Three
busses of middle schoolers from Lafayette.” She sat down and slipped on her
sweater.

            “I’ve
got a class of second graders coming through in about an hour. I feel your
pain,” he said. “I admire teachers. I don’t think I could do their job.”

            “You
don’t like kids?”

            “Not
really.” He wondered if it was rude to say that, but figured since she didn’t
have any, it wouldn’t offend her. He thought of the little girl on the river
walk that morning. “One at a time, they’re okay, I suppose. But the bigger the
group, the stranger they seem. Completely uncontrollable, just legs and arms
and noise. ”

            “The
noise, noise, noise.” She grinned. “As the Grinch said.”

            He
raised his eyebrows. “Are you calling me a Grinch?”

            “If
you are, so am I.”

            They
sat there for a moment, smiling at each other, until she seemed to remember why
she’d come in the first place. She cleared her throat and pushed up her
glasses, a move he was starting to recognize was more of a nervous gesture than
anything to do with the glasses. Her elbows were tucked tight against her body
and she tugged at the hem of her dress, smoothing it over her knees. Gideon
skipped back over their conversation the day before, his mind grabbing and
discarding things he’d said. Whatever he’d done, she was steeling herself
against the task of broaching the subject.

             “I
came to see if you were coming to the Finnemore place this evening, but now
that I’m here, I’m guessing you’re not,” she said.

            He
worked through several responses in his head before he managed to ask, “Why?”

            “Why
am I asking you?” Her face had gone pink.

            “No,
why are you guessing I wouldn’t be working there tonight?”

            “Oh.
Because you look exhausted.” She grimaced. “That was rude. My mama raised me
better, I promise.”

             “I’m
not offended. It’s okay to be honest,” he said.

            “People
say that but they don’t mean it.” Although her tone was light, there was a
sadness in her eyes.

            “Yes,
ma’am. I’ll be there tonight.” He picked up his pen and twiddled it between his
fingers. “Listen, you don’t have to work down there alone. I’m happy to share
the space.” He wanted to tell her that she was easy company, that he preferred
her there to being by himself, but the words sat on his tongue unspoken.

            She
visibly relaxed, her breath coming out in rush. “I’m not afraid of the dark or
being there alone. It’s just―”

            “That
door.” He nodded. “And maybe I could try to fix it by shaving off a bit of the
wood where it sticks. Tom is claustrophobic so I can understand how the idea of
being stuck in there is a little creepy.”

            “Is
he? Patsy is, too. She avoids elevators like the plague. But I’m not.
Claustrophobic, I mean. I just can’t stop imagining being stuck in there. For
some reason my cell phone wouldn’t work and nobody would hear me shouting or
notice I was missing, and then I’d be found months later, mummified amid the
old letters.”

            Gideon
started to laugh but the sound died in his throat. She really believed it.

            “I
would notice,” he said.

            “Oh,
of course, when you came to sort through the boxes,” she said. “But that could
be days.” She stood up.

            He
walked around his desk. “What time do you want to meet?”

            “Six?”
She was shorter than he’d thought. Maybe she’d been wearing higher heels or
maybe she just gave such an impression of confidence that she seemed taller,
but now that he was close to her, she only came up to his shoulder.

            “I’ll
be there,” he said. Her eyes were such a pale green, almost a sage color, and
the rims of the iris were as dark as Kentucky bluegrass. He could imagine women
all over the country trying to get that particular combination with colored
contacts while Henry tried to hide them, ashamed of the genetic twist that had
given her features worthy of a Hollywood star.

            As
if to prove his point, Henry dropped her gaze. She murmured something and then
she was gone.

            Gideon
stood there in the middle of his office, replaying her words, trying to make
everything fit together. He’d become so used to reading people in seconds,
sensing their fears and their weak spots, and filing them into neat categories.
But just when he thought he learned enough about Henry to put her in a slot,
she revealed another detail that shifted his perception of her. It was as if
she were one of those pictures he’d loved as a kid, the kind with a list of
hidden items and the more you looked, the harder it was to see the key or the
feather or the pencil hidden in the photo. Then just as you were about to give
up, you finally saw it, right there in plain sight.

            He
wasn’t a curious man. He’d learned to keep his nose out of other people’s affairs.
Living a quiet life meant minding his own business. But there was something
about Henry that he just couldn’t shake.

The beginning of love is the will
to let those we love be perfectly themselves,

the resolution not to twist them to
fit our own image.

― Thomas Merton

            Henry
walked down the sidewalk toward the Finnemore house and tried to calm the
anxiety that hummed in her veins. Asking Gideon to work with her in the
evenings was a good idea. It certainly erased the nagging fears about being
trapped in the basement and no one hearing her calls for help.

            At
the same time, though, she found herself replaying the moment she’d left his
office that afternoon. The intensity in his gaze had stopped the breath in her
lungs. Her whole life she’d avoided looking too closely at anyone. She didn’t
want to see the lies flicker across their features as they spoke. When people
came too close, she backed away, turned her head, focused somewhere else. For
the first time, she wanted to step forward, cup his face in her hands and see
as clearly as she was able. She wanted to ask him a million questions, wanted
to know everything he was thinking. And that had never turned out well for her
before.

            She
brushed back a loose strand of hair and turned the corner. Gideon himself said
he valued privacy above everything else and she’d agreed with him. She
certainly didn’t want anyone prying into her life. She was a hypocrite now,
though. She would lie through her teeth if he got too close to her, but she
wanted to peer into his hidden room, just like the woman in Bluebeard. And like
the end of the poem, it would do nothing but drive him away to some other
place.

            Henry
saw the old green door cracked and when she pushed, it opened easily, revealing
the lamps and the boxes and Gideon, already seated at the table. He’d brought
in another chair and she was relieved to see he’d set it at the other end but
on the same side. It would be easier to concentrate if they weren’t face to
face.

            “Hey,”
he said, standing up.

            “Hi,”
she said, and was embarrassed to hear a note of shyness in her voice. “It’s
cooling off out there in the evenings. The festival is going to be perfect. If
it doesn’t rain.”

            “Do
you like zydeco music?” he asked, waiting for her to sit down before taking his
seat again. She smiled a little at his manners. Kimberly would call him
old-timey but Henry thought it was sweet.

            “Like
it?” She shrugged. “Does a Creole girl get to choose whether she likes zydeco
music? It’s sort of like the air. It’s just there.”

            “True.
I suppose I should have asked whether you like dancing.”

            “Again…”
she said, smiling. “It’s sort of understood that we Byrnes and Pascals will
attend and enjoy ourselves.”

            “Tom
loves it. The music, the crowd, the food, everything. I’ll go so he won’t make
me feel like I’m failing to uphold our culture, but I’m not a fan of it all.”
He spoke easily, as if they were friends and had been for a long time.

            She
glanced into the box next to her chair. Everything was as she left it. He
really was letting her sort the letters and pictures independently. It was a
vote of confidence that gave her a flush of pride. Not that she would have been
offended if he hadn’t. It was his project and he had a responsibility to keep
track of the work, but it was good to know he considered her an equal at the
task.

            Picking
up a picture, she read the back, made a note and then said, “You know, if we’re
being honest about it, I don’t look forward to it. It’s not like Christmas. I
just go because I should.” It felt good to say it. “I do like the meat pies.”

            He
seemed to think that was funny and she had to force her gaze away from his
smile. Who knew that beard was hiding perfect dimples? It was only a matter of
time before someone discovered the hermit archivist was worth another look. The
idea of Gideon with a girlfriend made her think of how it would be to run into
him on a date, which made her think of the awkward moment she stood between him
and Blue the other day. Suddenly she groaned.

            He
looked up. “Yes?”

            “I
meant to return a phone call. Now it’s six o’clock and I just remembered…
again.”

            “Feel
free. I don’t mind,” he said and went back to his reading.

            Henry
felt her face go hot. Blue had called that morning, leaving a message that he’d
really enjoyed their date and hoping they could go out again sometime. There
was no way Henry could call him now, in front of Gideon. “It’s fine. I’ll call
tomorrow.”

            “If
you remember,” he said to his papers.

            “True,”
she said, laughing a little. “I’m not usually that forgetful.”

            “Sometimes
I forget things I don’t want to do,” he said. “I’m not aware of it at the time,
of course. My brain is very crafty at hiding my own procrastination from me.”

            Henry
hoped that wasn’t the case. Blue was a really nice guy and was the closest
she’d come in years to a prospective boyfriend.

            The
flame from the lamps reflected on the edges of her glasses and she took them
off, laying them on the table. The headache that had been lurking all day
seemed to fade away. She picked up another photo. Three small boys in matching
overalls stood next to a donkey. The back had such faded writing she couldn’t
make it out. She drew the lamp closer and tilted the photo, squinting at the
names.
Alcide Richards. Alton Richards. Benjamin. Oakland Plantation. 1903
She made a note and looked more closely at the faces of the little boys. Two
were clearly brothers or cousins. The third was either an orphan or a child
loaned by the plantation, no last name necessary since he didn’t really have a
family, or one that mattered enough to write down.

            She
looked up, wondering about Tom and Gideon as children. Tom was shorter, more
talkative, more open. They both had the same dark hair, although Gideon kept
his cropped short and Father Tom always seemed to need a haircut. Although
Gideon’s eyes were blue and Father Tom’s were black, they had the same brown
skin and sharp cheekbones. The way the lamplight reflected off his features now
put everything in sharp relief. Deep in concentration, there was a little line
between his brows and a tightness to his mouth.
The more she
examined him, the more she suspected they weren’t related at all. Gideon’s
mouth was different. Even though he didn’t smile as often, it seemed more
expressive. A quirk of one side was like a laugh, when it straightened out in a
line his anger was as clear as if he’d raised his voice.

            He
looked up, catching her eye. He didn’t say anything, but simply waited for her
to speak. Henry scrambled to think of something innocuous to say but in the
end, simply said what she was thinking.

            “Clark
said you and Father Tom grew up together.”

             “We
were in the same foster home.”

            “That’s
why you don’t have the same last name.”

            “Yes,”
he said. And then he leaned back in his chair. “And no. It’s complicated.”

            She
picked up the photo again. “These boys, I was just thinking of names and
children and losing one’s sense of place.” She wasn’t making any sense but he
nodded as if he understood.

            “I
lived with my foster family from the age of five and I took their last name
when they adopted me. Tom arrived when I was thirteen and he was eleven. He
chose to keep his birth name.”

            “How
do your parents feel about that?”

            “My
adoptive
parents don’t mind, I don’t think.” He paused. “We’re not
close.”

            For
the first time, Henry saw something in his face that she hadn’t before. His
words weren’t quite a lie, but they weren’t exactly true. “You don’t speak to
them at all?”

             “No.
But Tom is very close to them.”

            Henry
placed the photo back in the stack and picked up another. She was trying to put
all of the pieces together but none of it fit.

            Something
in her expression must have told him what she was thinking because he sighed.
“I told you it was complicated. And for someone who has always known their
family and always been secure in their name, I can see how it’s confusing.”

            She
was the last person to look down her nose at complicated family dynamics, but
there wasn’t any way to explain so she said nothing.

            They
didn’t talk for a while, the only sound the rustle of paper or the scratch of a
pen. After a bit, Henry ran her fingers through her hair and stretched her arms
over her head. “Next time, I’ll bring a little electric kettle to brew up some
tea. With a few cucumber sandwiches, it’ll be just like a picnic.”

            He
shot her a look, trying not to smile. “Some jambalaya and sweet tea sounds
better.”            He paused as if remembering their agreement to cook a pot
together and when he opened his mouth again, she was sure he was going to
explain how it had been a joke, a silly exchange meant just for Father Tom’s
benefit. Instead he said, “By the way, did you ever find your keys?”

            “Not
yet. I’m sure they’ll turn up.”

            He
rubbed a hand over his face and she noticed the weariness in his movements, the
dark shadows under his eyes.

            “I
feel bad keeping you down here. You look so tired. Let me just sort through
this last stack and then we should lock up,” she said.

            “No,
I can stay as long as you need,” he said and then covered a yawn. He caught her
skeptical look and smiled. “But maybe you’re right. Let’s clear up what’s on
the table and then head home.”

            She
was nearly at the last photo when he straightened his stack of papers and said,
“You’re perceptive. That’s your super power, right? The one Patsy was teasing
you about?”

            Henry
froze, her hand hovering over the papers. She wanted to nod and hope the
subject never came up again. Of all the secrets she held, this was one that
carried the most weight, the one that could prove the most disastrous if it
came out in the open. It was the secret that held up all the others.

            She
was suddenly so tired of lying. The words stuck in her throat like thick chunks
of bread. She thought of the way she smiled in the face of a lie, and the way
she smoothly lied right back. Gideon’s hedge about his adoptive parents was the
first time she’d sensed anything less than complete honesty from him and it
made her realize how much she yearned for it.

            “I
don’t know how to explain,” she started.

            “It’s
a complicated super power?” he asked, his voice softly teasing.

            “Oh,
you have no idea,” she said. “I’m… I’m one of those people… a person that…”
What if he didn’t want to be near her after he knew? Nobody wanted their
darkest secrets exposed. All the problems she’d ever had with making friends or
finding a boyfriend were suspended in the moment. Nobody liked a peeping tom,
and that was what Henry was, psychologically speaking.

            “Hey,”
he said, concern shadowing his face. “It’s okay. Whatever it is.”

           
Truth.

           
“I’m
a human lie detector,” she blurted. The next moment, she closed her eyes,
unable to watch his reaction.

            “A
what?”

            She
cracked an eye.

            “There
are people who can always tell when someone is lying. Always.” The words
sounded louder than normal in her ears. Patsy had always known from childhood
and although they laughed about it, Henry had never said the words. Until now.

            He
leaned forward, realization dawning. “The people that the CIA or FBI use for
interrogations?”

            “Or
to review confessions or to help solve murders,” she said, wishing it hadn’t
come to that so quickly.

            He
looked up at the ceiling and didn’t speak for a few moments. “This explains a
lot.”

             “Does
it?”

            A
slow smile spread over his face. “Yes, it really does clear up quite a few
puzzles.”

            Henry
felt such a wave of relief that she was glad to be sitting down. “Don’t you
want to try it out? Patsy calls it my party trick.”

            “You
show it off at parties?”

            “No,
no.” She shook her head. “Nobody knows. Patsy just thinks it’s funny when we’re
in a group and someone lies and she can read it on my face.”

            “But
I bet you don’t think it’s funny,” he said.

            She
dropped her gaze to the table. “I hate it,” she said softly. “It’s terrible
what people will lie about.”