Forbidden (10 page)

It was like a graveyard for Mardi Gras floats.

Rachel followed Akiva through a maze of pathways around the float carcasses and buildings, which looked like oversized caskets. Moonlight slanted onto the abandoned or forgotten floats, gleaming off the skeletal frames, the pieces looking like jagged teeth and splintered bones. As they rounded the corner of a warehouse, each of her steps felt as if they could be her last. They'd been on the move for days, drifting, running, hiding. Today had seemed as long as a year, the minutes and hours piling up inside her, weighting her limbs and eyelids.

After they had left Akiva's New Orleans apartment, they'd toured the city streets until the sun disappeared beyond the horizon and night settled in. At times, Akiva had raced through yellow and red lights, and at other times puttered through green ones. His fancy car wove in and out between cars and trucks. He'd press the gas pedal, and the car would shoot forward; then he'd slam on his brakes, and Rachel would jolt forward and back until her stomach knotted and shoulders tensed.

They'd found tiny motels and stayed only briefly, long enough for Rachel to wash and doze, stretched out on a lumpy mattress. Then they repeated each day the drive through and around the city. Akiva's intensity had frightened her.

She dared to ask: “Are we lost?”

“No!”

“Are we looking for something…for—?”

He'd slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “Just let me think! All right?”

And so she'd remained quiet and still, not wanting to attract his attention or fury.

This city's night was different than Promise's, where quiet tucked the farms and businesses in around the edges, and the stars shone brightly in the night sky. New Orleans was noisy and intense with neon lights, honking cars, and blaring sirens. The warehouse district now absorbed the city lights and sounds like the scientific oddity she'd heard about back in school—a black hole. She felt alone, helpless, and at the mercy of Akiva, who was not her friend as Jacob once had been.

When she'd first come to New Orleans with Jacob, Rachel had experienced the raucous celebration of Mardi Gras. Jacob had been enthralled with the booze and drugs so easily bought and consumed right on the streets, but she had been stunned by the freedom the partiers had shown: dancing in the street to the suggestive music, shouting and calling obscenities, unbuttoning shirts, flashing body parts, couples kissing and groping right out in the open.

Jacob's eyes had glittered with excitement, and he'd bought her piña coladas until her world tilted, and she'd clung to his arm as she teetered on high heels she'd bought on their journey into the South. He'd pulled her into a darkened alley, where they bumped into another couple, the woman's bare legs locked around the man's pale hips. The darkness hid Rachel's red-hot embarrassment, but Jacob had made some remark, more apology than anything, and pulled her farther into the shadows.

With her senses whirling from the alcohol and pounding music, she'd tasted the bourbon on Jacob's tongue. His hands probed and pressed against her as his pelvis ground urgently against hers. Arguments had surfaced in her mind, only to be swept away by the waves of alcohol drowning her questions and hesitations and the stirrings of pleasure his fingers erupted inside her as he'd unzipped her tight-fitting jeans and slid them down her thighs. The warm night air had caressed her bare flesh, and she'd given herself over to the moment and Jacob.

There, right there in the alley with the smells radiating from the garbage bins, was the first time they'd “done the deed,” which was how Jacob had referred to it. She ignored the way his careless remark nettled her. The fact was she hadn't been a virgin when he'd taken her in the alleyway, nor had she been his first. Later at the motel, she'd teased him. “You can't think of a better phrase, Mr. Poet?”

He scrutinized her for a moment, his gaze sliding over her as if he was unbuttoning her blouse one button at a time. He moved her back toward the bed, until her knees bumped the mattress, and she sat. Formally, he knelt before her. When he'd spoken, he'd used a deeper, reverent tone he utilized when quoting a poem—“‘A sweet disorder in the dress…'”

He lifted her foot and braced the sole of her high heel against his thigh. “‘Kindles in clothes a wantonness: A lawn about the shoulders thrown into a fine distraction—'”

His finger slipped beneath the strap at her heel and slipped the shoe off her foot. As he quoted more, he drew a line along her calf, making the skin along her arms pucker. “‘An erring lace, which here and there enthrals the crimson stomacher—'”

He massaged her muscles, cupped her foot in his hands, and bathed her skin with his gentle, tender touch until flutters tickled her lower belly. “‘A cuff neglectful, and thereby ribbands to flow confusedly: A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat—'” Slowly, his hands skimmed upward along her legs, behind her knees, along her. “‘A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility: Do more bewitch me than when art is too precise in every part.'”

A few minutes later, breathless and languid, she lay beneath him, stretched out on the bed, and whispered in his ear, “That's a mighty long way to say I want…”

“To get it on? Or off?” He laughed and rested his head against the curve of her shoulder, his weight blanketing her. “The poem's called ‘Delight in Disorder.'”

Her hand slid down his back and rested along his narrow hip. “I like that. It fits.”

He nudged her with his groin. “It sure does.”

He had been full of questions.
Do
you
like
this? What does this feel like?
And boldly, he'd told her what he wanted. But the sex had meant nothing more than two teenagers exploring and experimenting. She hadn't loved Jacob any more than he had loved her. His heart remained with Hannah, just as hers had no other name etched on it than Josef. While she'd been in a strange place, doing things Josef would not approve of, she hadn't been the same plain girl from Promise, Pennsylvania. How could she ever have garnered Josef's attention anyway?

The truth was, she hadn't wanted to leave home or Josef. She'd hoped telling him she was going to New Orleans with Jacob Fisher would push him into some sort of a declaration. But it hadn't. He hadn't said anything to her at all, and a part of her heart crumpled. She'd already told Jacob she'd go, so she went.

But a couple of years later, after she'd returned home and settled back into a plain lifestyle, a miracle had occurred: she had finally married Josef, and they never discussed any previous experiences. He treated her as a virgin bride, and she followed his lead, wanted to feel the way he saw her. Their time together had been sweet and fervent. He had come to bed each night eager, and her body had readily responded, but he hadn't talked about what they did together in the dark, beneath the quilts of deep purple and forest green. He had whispered of his love, his adoration, but they had not laughed together in bed, and they had not spoken of their wants and needs.

She wanted to forget the deep, encompassing emotions that had been such a part of making love with Josef. Her husband was gone. And she was here now. Tired of being frightened. Exhausted from travel. And ready for whatever awaited her to be over.

Akiva unlocked a metal door and pushed it open. When she hesitated before stepping into the gloomy darkness, he clasped her hand. The door clanged shut behind her, and she flinched. The safety and security of home and faith seemed very far away. She attempted a prayer, but it felt as if that door had been shut and locked, as well. Whatever was about to happen, whatever Akiva had planned, she deserved.

But her baby did not. She wanted this nightmare over, so she could take her baby home to safety.

“Not much farther.” Akiva's voice resonated through what seemed like a spacious, barnlike area and rebounded off a metal ceiling.

He led her into the womb of the building, and her eyes began to adjust. Shadows and silhouettes took shape and grew into solid objects and forms. Crazy jester heads loomed out of the darkness. Their colorful collars and curved hats reminded her of those long-ago days in New Orleans when she and Jacob had laughed at the silly, bizarre decorations. Carnival masks lined shelves, some in stacks and others haphazardly, as if they'd toppled over. At the end of one row, a leviathan blocked their path. It gave her a jolt, and she sucked in a breath. Her belly contracted, and the baby kicked. Akiva hesitated but said nothing. Even his angry presence was better than being alone, even if she didn't trust him or understand what he wanted.

Something scuttled along the wall, and she caught a glimpse of a long, thin tail. Mice and rats didn't bother her. Only the unknown of what she was doing here gnawed through her defenses.

At a metal spiral staircase, he began the upward climb, and she followed, keeping a hand on the railing. The baby kept her off balance, and she moved in an ungainly and awkward fashion. The higher they went, the darker it became, until he helped her onto a narrow walkway that swayed slightly with each step.

It was hot and muggy, and perspiration prickled her forehead. They eventually reached a doorway, which he unlocked and pushed open to reveal a small room set high aloft the shelves and vast space of the warehouse. His hand at the small of her back encouraged her to enter first. The flooring had a more solid feel, and a tiny amount of relief sifted through her. He flipped a switch, and a light above her head flickered on, twitching until it caught and glared. She blinked, tilting her chin downward and recoiling at the sudden brightness. The room held a bed, chair, and table. Cool air poured out from a box in the corner, and she was able to breathe easier.

She moved around the small space. The bed was narrow and plain, the desk scarred, and the chair had a rung missing. It might require more faith than she had at the moment if she sat upon it. “Where are we?”

“Your new home.”

“New home? But you told me if I came here I could help Josef.” She turned to face him…but she was alone.

Akiva had left, shutting the door between them. The key in the lock twisted and clicked, the sound loud and defiant in the quiet of the room. As he walked away, his footsteps faded into nothing, only to be drowned by her restrained sobs.

Rachel rested on the bed, curled on her side, the baby nestled between her palms as she rubbed circles across her belly. Sometimes her stomach contracted, the skin growing taut, and after a moment or two, it relaxed. It wasn't painful necessarily, but it made her anxious.

The room was dark but cool, the fan in the corner working overtime, and the sporadic hum her only companion. At least she didn't have to share a bed with Akiva, but being alone with her thoughts seemed equally dangerous.

Time had lost its meaning. Before they'd arrived at the warehouse, she'd lost track of the days. But now, even day and night eluded her. No window allowed her to track the sun or moon. Akiva came and went, bringing her food: an apple, crackers, water.

“What do you want with me?” she'd asked. “How can I help Josef?”

But he'd quietly shut the door, giving no answers, no reasons.

Had it been minutes? Hours? Days? She had no idea. She slept some of the time, dreaming of Josef. Once she woke, speaking his name, tasting it on her tongue and savoring the sweetness of his memory. Then she'd cried herself to sleep again.

This time, when she woke, she listened for sounds outside her door but heard nothing. She usually didn't hear Akiva coming up the steps, and his arrival always startled her. But, at least for now, it sounded as if she was truly alone.

It felt like she'd been locked away and forgotten.
What
if
she
went
into
labor
and
had
no
one
to
help
her? What was her family thinking…doing? How could she get away from Akiva and find help?

Only one answer came to her. Slowly, she rose from the bed, reached for her prayer
kapp
, and covered her head. She knelt beside the bed, even though her lower back ached and the grains in the unfinished wood floor bit into her knees. Bowing her head, closing her eyes, she prayed, and after a while, her prayer gave way to song, a hymn.

“When I survey the wondrous cross

On which the Prince of glory died,

My richest gain I count but loss,

And pour contempt on all my pride.

“Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,

Save in the death of Christ my God!

All the vain things that charm me most,

I sacrifice them to His blood.”

When the door opened this time, she didn't move. She didn't look up. She didn't even stop singing.

“See from His head, His hands, His feet,

Sorrow and love flow mingled down!

Did e'er such love and sorrow meet,

Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

“Were the whole realm of nature mine,

That were a present far too small;

Love so amazing, so divine,

Demands my soul, my life, my all.”

She finished the refrain, and whispered “Amen,” as if the song had been her prayer.

“What are you doing?” Akiva's tone sharpened.

She met his dark gaze. A steady stream of light poured through the opening behind him, creating a silhouette of light and dark, and the tension in the room silenced her. She kept her head lowered.

“Prayers will do you no good.”

She leaned against the mattress and pushed to her feet. “You don't believe in God, Jacob?”

“Many believe in God, but not that He answers prayer.”

She eased herself onto the edge of the bed and looked at him with a calm she had not experienced in a long while. “But what do
you
believe?”

He remained silent for a moment, and his gaze shifted downward, as if examining his own heart. “I don't believe God would help me.” He looked at her again, those eyes so dark, so void of emotion, so captivating. “Or you, either. You are more like me than you want to believe, Rachel. Out for your own good. Seeking what will benefit you. Nothing or no one else.”

Her heart jolted, his words hitting their mark. She drew a steadying breath, but it snagged on the guilt lodged deep inside her. “I am not like
you
.”

He shrugged a shoulder dismissively. “Jacob, then.”

She shook her head, and the ties of her
kapp
rippled.

“You think God just wipes all of your sins away?”

“God forgives,” she said, her voice stronger than she felt. “Even after all I have done. Even all you have done, Jacob.”

He laughed, but no humor entered the bitter sound. “You are more naïve than I imagined.”

“It is not what I believe or you believe about God that matters.” She clasped her hands together, resting her forearms against the sides of her belly. “It is what the Bible says that matters. That is the truth. ‘For this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins.'”

“For ‘many,' huh?” He blew a breath between his lips, puffing them out. “I do like the sound of that though—
blood
.” He tasted the word like it was a ripe, summer peach. “Believe whatever foolishness you want. Maybe God will help you, Rachel. But not me.”

She tilted her head sideways, studying this man, whose heart must be aching. “Are you truly unrepentant?”

The skin around his eyes tightened. “You don't know what I've done. Or how I feel.”

“I don't have to know.”

He took a step toward her, his hands fisted, his features fierce and tense, as if he might launch an attack of some kind. “If I told you, you'd faint dead away.”

“You cannot threaten me. God will allow what He will to happen. To me. And to you.”

His features hardened into a mask.

But she did not shrink back from his intensity. Her prayers had fortified her with a calm, supernatural strength. “I told you I'm not as naïve as you believe. But it doesn't matter if I know what you have done. Or what you
will
do. God knows. And He forgives those who are repentant.”

“What about those who are not?”

“Jacob, you knew the truth. Have you so quickly forgotten what you were taught?”

“I knew enough to look for my own truth.”

“Is your truth the same as God's? Where has your truth gotten you, Akiva?” She used his new name deliberately and let her question sink into him before adding, “I will pray for you.”

She bowed her head, but he interrupted her good intentions. “Job prayed, and look what good it did him.”

Drawing a slow breath, she did not wish for an argument, and yet something prompted her to say, “Job was a righteous man. He did not lose his soul. So I will pray for you.” Again, she bowed her head.

“It's a waste of time.” He whirled away from her. “I didn't come here for a biblical discourse. Come on.”

She kept her head bowed and formed a prayer in her heart.

“Now!” His voice filled the room, her head, vibrating through her. He stood just outside the door. Beyond him, bright lights illuminated metal beams and empty spaces, and yet at the same time, darkened his features.

“Where are we going?”

“If you don't need the facilities”—he grabbed the door handle—“then I won't bother.”

Blinking against the bright light, unable to see Akiva's face, just his shape, Rachel stood as quickly as she could manage, but the sudden movement made the room waver. She braced a hand against the bed and slowly, she straightened, not daring to take a step until she knew she wouldn't crumple like an empty potato sack. Akiva had already left her, the door open, and was halfway down the spiraling stairs.

“You coming?” he called.

“Yes.” She followed after him, hurrying out of the room, waddling more than walking, and she supported the base of her belly with a hand. Refusing to look down below the swaying walkway, she feared she would lose her balance and fall to the concrete-slab floor far below. The narrow, curving stairs slowed her pace even more.

When she reached the bottom step, Akiva took off again, his posture rigid. He was still wearing what looked like the same jeans and jacket, just like she was still wearing the slacks and maternity top he'd given her back in Tennessee. But he didn't appear grimy the way she felt.

He led her through a maze of corners and bends, down long aisles of row upon row of Mardi Gras hats and faces, twisting and turning until she had lost her way and could not have found the stairs again if she'd wanted to. It was the same each time he came for her and took her to the facilities. The warehouse felt warm and damp. Sweat dotted her forehead. A pressure built against her bladder, an urgency she had tried to ignore when she'd been waiting up in the room alone and forgotten.

“In there.” He pointed toward a particle-wood door.

The handle jiggled in its socket when she turned it, and she thought it might come right out of the door. She was met with darkness and ran her fingers along the wall for the light switch.

Akiva brushed against her and reached past. “It's a chain.”

The single bulb above her head glowered down at her, and the chain swayed back and forth. Akiva backed out, shutting the door, which didn't lock, and leaving her in a tiny room that boasted a cracked enamel sink and filthy toilet that probably had not had a good scrubbing in years.

When she washed her hands, she cupped her hands and splashed her face. The cold water refreshed her, and she yearned to take a bath and scrub herself from head to toe. But Akiva was waiting.

Finally, she twisted the precarious handle and looked out into the hallway. But Akiva seemed to have disappeared temporarily. She hesitated.
What
should
she
do? Find the stairs? Find a door and bolt? But where would she go?
She had no money, no way to contact anyone who could help get her back to Pennsylvania. She was stuck here at the mercy of Akiva.

After a moment of indecision, she decided the best course of action was to return to the “facilities” and utilize the sink as much as she could. Locating a nail stuck in the wall, she removed her shirt and underclothing and hung them so they wouldn't touch the toilet or floor, which was spotted with dead crickets and cockroaches. She used a damp paper towel and dotted it with pink liquid soap, then rubbed it over her torso and under her arms.

“Akiva!” A woman's loud voice came through the cracks around the door.

Rachel panicked, covering herself with her hands, but the door beside her remained closed. Despite the warmth in the warehouse, a chill stole over her, puckering her skin in its wake. Hurriedly, she grabbed her clothing without bothering to dry her skin. The hooks and eyes at the back didn't catch at first, but then she finally pulled on the blue maternity top. Water spots dotted the material where her skin had not yet dried. Still, she stood in the tiny room, her breathing rapid and constricted.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” The woman's deep, throaty voice sounded familiar.

A smidgen of hope shot through her. It was the black woman they'd seen on the steps of Akiva's apartment building. Akiva hadn't liked the woman, hadn't trusted her.
Was
that
good
or
bad?
Since she didn't trust Akiva, she figured the woman had to be good. And maybe her only chance.

She fumbled with the handle and opened the door a crack. She didn't see Akiva in the hallway. Venturing farther, she pushed the door open another inch. “Hello?”

“Well, well, lookie what I done found.” The heavyset woman lumbered around the corner. The vivid colors she wore clashed like Amish and English cultures often did. “Where is your guardian, eh?”

“Can you help me?”

“Oh,” the woman trilled, her dark eyes glittering, “I can indeed.” The woman continued walking toward Rachel with slow, steady, careful footsteps, head tipped downward, and large black eyes glared with an intensity that took Rachel's breath. A tittering of sounds, murmurings soft and low, filled her mind, distorted her thoughts. Rachel twisted her head, trying to break away from them, but the tentacles of whispers wrapped tighter around her.

The woman drew in a breath through her wide nostrils as if sampling and savoring the air. Slowly, she grinned. “Akiva should not have left you alone.”