Home Another Way (12 page)
“I’m not very nice,” I said, stealing Doc’s line. “You should know that about me by now.”
A smile lifted the right corner of Beth’s mouth. “I do. I just thought you might behave better in public.”
“Never.” Then I said seriously, “I know you can do this.”
She nodded and closed her eyes. Head lowered, she put her fist against her lips, catching the skin of her knuckle between her teeth.
The pageant began. Jack introduced each act. There was the obligatory nativity scene, with a bunch of screechy kids singing “Silent Night,” some sort of fairy ballet, tap dancers, jugglers, and a guy who played a saw blade. And, much to my displeasure, Patty Saltzman proved to be a competent pianist. Not Juilliard caliber, but much better than your average ten-year piano lesson veteran.
Jack seemed to clap loudest for her.
Beth and I were last. We made our way to the stage, stepping over stray feet in the aisle and puddles of melted snow. I wiped my hands on my skirt, checked to make sure the violin was still tuned, and played the introduction. Beth began to sing:
When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should
come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.
My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.
But, Lord, ’tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!
Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul!
And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be
sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall
descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
I watched Beth as she sang, muscles rigid, hands fisted at her sides, eyes fixed on the back corner of the room where the wall met the ceiling. Her voice, however, had changed. It was no longer timid, but luminous, infectious. I found myself, for the first time, truly hearing the words of the hymn. I didn’t understand half of them—all those
thee
s and
thou
s and holy talk. But I knew it was about hope, and for a moment I could almost feel it. Almost. If someone had asked me, right then, if I believed in God, I might have said yes.
She finished, and for one static second the room fell silent as vapor. Then, all at once, the ovation began, tumbling around us. “Bow,” I told Beth, and she did. So did I.
We stood there together, in the rain of applause, the porcelain skin of the unmarred half of Beth’s face glowing as if lit from within. For an instant, she was the girl from the photo on Jack’s desk, untouched by flame and sorrow. And I was performing at Carnegie Hall.
The clapping stopped—not all at once, as it began, but in trickles. The lights snapped on, and squinting at the sudden brightness, I caught a glimpse of Doc sneaking out the door. Beth hugged me and thanked me, still beaming as the audience crowded onto the stage, offering words of congratulations and handshakes, and wilted carnation bouquets. Beth and Maggie wept together.
There were too many people around me. The heat and the smells—body odor and perfume, skin and peppermint candy—turned my stomach. I wriggled out of the throng and packed my violin in its case.
“You’re not sneaking out, are you?” a voice asked from behind. Jack.
“I don’t really do crowds,” I said.
“Please stay. There’s punch and cookies coming out.”
“Tempting, but not tempting enough.”
“I know it would mean a lot to Beth.”
I looked back to the stage where Beth still stood, talking and smiling, surrounded by people who loved her. She had more joy than anyone I’d ever known; not that I’d known too many happy people. But I’d met plenty who had reason to be happy—talented, rich, beautiful people with big houses and blond children, and yearly vacations on tropical islands. Beth had none of those reasons, and less.
I was envious.
“I just have to go,” I told Jack.
“I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow, then?”
“Well . . .” I fumbled around for some excuse, not sure why I’d ever agreed when Beth invited me last week. I had no warm Christmas memories to relive, and certainly didn’t want to sit there listening to the joyous Yuletide tales of relative strangers.
“You’re not getting out of this one. If you’re not at the inn by nine, I’m going to come drag you over,” Jack said.
I sighed. “Can you make it ten?”
“Okay, ten.” Jack laughed. “It’ll be brunch instead. And Sarah?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For everything.”
I thought for a moment he was going to hug me. He jerked forward, but stopped, finally deciding to pat my shoulder with a “See you tomorrow,” and went off to find his sister.
While buttoning my coat, I saw Dominic standing at the back of the hall, one leg out the door. His eyes clung to Beth, drinking in her every movement, a desert cactus sucking up the rain after months of parching heat.
He loved her. I could tell.
“Dominic,” I called, pushing through rows of folding chairs. He looked at me, then bolted from the building. By the time I stepped outside, he was gone, his taillights blushing in the darkness as he drove away.
Maggie covered a cardboard box with bright Christmas paper, and filled it with home-baked muffins and cookies, yeast breads, Starlight Mints and hand-knitted slippers. Then she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, and poured boiling water over a teabag and spoonful of honey. She watched the chamomile-scented steam curl over the rim of the cup before sitting and taking a sip.
Her arthritis raged tonight, bones throbbing, as if someone jammed a bottlebrush into the hollowed-out centers, thrusting up and down, scraping out the marrow. She’d worn the wrong shoes to the pageant, shiny black ones with an unforgiving sole. Pure vanity. Her clunky orthopedic sneakers looked horrid with her dress.
She heard a noise in the hallway, and Beth floated by, humming softly, in a pink nightgown, pearls still on.
“Can’t sleep?” Maggie asked.
She nodded. “I thought I’d have some warm milk,” Beth said, taking the carton from the refrigerator and fishing through the cabinet for her favorite mug, the black one with the New York City skyline stamped on it in gold, though the tops of the tallest buildings had long since been washed away by Maggie’s scouring sponge. “Done with those boxes yet?”
“This is my last one. Here, I’ll make the milk for you,” Maggie said, gripping the edge of the table as she creaked to her feet, loose joints of the old wood chair scritching in concert with her knees. A soft groan escaped from between her clenched teeth.
“It’s okay. I can do it,” Beth said.
“Humor an old lady, will you? I hate watching you heat it in the microwave. It’s not right.”
“Mom—”
“I said I’ll do it,” Maggie snapped. She untangled a copper pot from the rack above the stove and dumped some milk into it. The burner
clicked, clicked, clicked
in the late-night silence before bursting into a blue, gassy light. The color reminded her of Beth’s eyes. Always did.
“I’m sorry,” Maggie told her daughter. She leaned against the counter, Formica cutting into her back.
“I can get your medication,” Beth said softly.
“No, no. It’s fine. I’m heading to bed in a minute or two anyhow.” She’d already taken her pills, and they were wearing off, after only three hours. She gave Beth her mug. “You were beautiful tonight.”
“I can’t stop thinking about it. I just wish Sarah hadn’t run out so quickly.”
“She didn’t mean anything by it, I’m sure. Bet she’s not used to having so many people fuss over her.”
“I know.” Beth yawned. “I think I’ll take that milk to my room.”
Maggie kissed her on the cheek, the scarred one—still, after four years, she noticed how that skin felt different against her lips—and watched her pad down the hall. She wanted to finish her tea but didn’t dare sit down again. She knew she wouldn’t be able to stand back up. It had happened before. She had gotten stuck in the living room chair all night, unable to lift her stiff, achy body out of the deep cushions, and too stubborn to call out to Beth for help.
After dumping her half-full cup into the sink—and leaving it there, unwashed—Maggie limped to her bedroom. Luke had given her a cane once; he’d carved it from a twisted hickory branch, and the thick handle fit her hand perfectly. She had tossed it into the fireplace while he stood watching. Only old, useless women used canes, she’d told him.
Stubborn pride, plain and simple.
She fumbled with the six buttons on her blouse, her cramped fingers kneading the smooth plastic disks through the holes. She shrugged the shirt off her shoulders and left it where it fell, on the floor in front of the dresser. Tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, she’d be able to bend over and pick it up.
An ice storm besieged Jonah early Christmas morning. Outside my window, saplings genuflected beneath the frozen weight, heads on the ground, and mighty evergreens drooped with cracked branches. I refused, however, to wear my frumpy, flannel-lined jeans, opting instead for low-rise flares and black cashmere sweater—the one I had planned to wear last night. I kicked my waterproof boots under the couch and zipped on my black leather ankle ones with the three-inch heels. Then I brushed the tight curls from my hair; it now fell around my face in soft waves.
I hurried from the cabin to the truck, which I’d given ample time to warm, and skidded out of the driveway. The road stretched before me, a smooth, glassy sea of asphalt and ice. I hugged the shoulder as I drove, keeping my passenger-side tires in the crunchy snow, for traction, I hoped.
A stop sign loomed red at the next corner. Gently, I pressed the brake, but the truck slid, picking up speed into the intersection. I jammed my foot down, spun to the right, jerked the steering wheel to the left. The truck pirouetted once, twice, and crashed into the drainage ditch on the side of the road. My seat belt prevented me from flying through the windshield, but I was still jostled, and had bit my lip. Blood dripped off my chin. I found a napkin shoved between the seats and applied pressure to the cut. When the bleeding stopped, I checked the wound in the rearview mirror. Teeth marks perforated my lower lip.
Opening the driver’s door, I squeezed a handful of snow into a ball and held it to my lip to reduce the swelling. Then I closed myself back in the truck, idling the engine to keep the heat running, cracking the window so I wouldn’t die of carbon monoxide poisoning. I waited twenty minutes. No one drove by.
It was a couple of miles to the inn. I twisted my scarf around my head, leaving slits for my eyes and nose, and started hiking. Slipping twice on the icy road in the first three yards, I climbed onto the frozen snowbank and walked easily upon the dingy crust for several minutes, until my foot hit a soft spot and I fell through. Shards of icy soot jammed up my pant leg, all the way past my knee.
“I hate this place!” I screamed. My voice echoed through the vacant streets. I jerked my leg out of the snow and continued walking, jaw set, nostrils frozen together.
I saw the inn’s sign, a truck pulling from its driveway. Moments later, Jack stopped in the middle of the road. “Sarah?”
“I crashed. In the ditch down there,” I said, pointing.
“Are you okay?” He helped me into his truck. I unwrapped my face. “You’re bleeding,” he said, taking my head gently in his hands, moving it this way and that.
“I’m fine. I just bit my lip.”
He ignored me, cupping his hands around my eyes. “Does your head hurt? You could have a concussion.”
“The only thing that hurts is my tailbone. I fell on it about a dozen times.” His hands felt warm and dry against my skin, a little rough, masculine. I moved them away. “I’m okay. Really.”
“I told you I’d come looking for you if you didn’t show up.”
The clock on the dashboard read 10:47. “You said ten. If you’d come looking sooner, I wouldn’t have a sore butt.”
“Let me look at your truck. I have a chain in the bed. Maybe I can pull you out.”
The truck, however, was wedged into the ditch. It needed to be towed, Jack said. “I’ll take you to Draven’s garage now.”
“Can’t we just call from the inn?”
“Phone lines are down, because of the ice. The garage is just around the corner.”
We drove to the full-service gas station—the only gas station in Jonah. “Wait here,” Jack said, and he went up the stairs on the side of the building, which I assumed led to an apartment above the garage. He returned in a few minutes. “Dominic’s getting the tow truck.”
Dominic followed us to the accident site. Wordlessly, he pulled my truck from the ditch, started it. “Sounds fine.”
“What about the dent?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Don’t stop it from working.”
“But can you fix it?”
He shrugged again. “Bring it by next week.”
Jack waited for me across the street, in his truck. “I’ll follow you,” he called, and I held up one finger. I knocked on Dominic’s window; he rolled it down. “You can send the bill to Rich Portabella. He’ll pay it.”
Dominic nodded.
If I was going to say something, I had to do it now. “I saw the way you looked at Beth last night.” He stared straight ahead.
“You know,” I added, “she thinks you hate her.”
Dominic still said nothing. But he swallowed. Hard. And rolled up the window.
