In All of Infinity (2 page)

♥
Part One: If Anything, a
Body ♥

Esme Reagan and her unborn child were laid
to rest in York County Cemetery on a rainy day in August of 1925, a
death foreseen by few that touched many. She had been a highly
loved teacher at the local school for the past two years. Even when
she was pregnant, she couldn’t stay away. Those who predicted her
death, because she wasn’t one meant for childbearing, blamed her
sudden ending on her husband, Dr. Emmanuel Reagan.

The day of the funeral, he turned forty. He
felt and looked decades older and the weather attempted to emulate
his mood. He dressed in black and the sky became the darkest gray
it could without becoming ebony. The expression on his face made
even his closest acquaintances question if they’d ever seen him
smile.

Emmanuel was an only child and he’d been
orphaned at a young age, having been left under the care of his
elderly aunt. Since he was too young to remember his parent’s
funerals, both of which passed on a year apart, he hadn’t a memory
of the sadness surrounding such occasions. He understood how his
mother could die of heartache, though, because he felt overwhelmed
by his emotions.

Emmanuel glanced at the gravestones beside
his departed wife, seeing the names of his parents, Jonah and Opal,
who’d both died in their thirties. He realized he didn’t know them
as much as he would like, even though he’d memorized the stories.
He felt as if he were burying his beloved by total strangers, but
ignored the fact and focused all of his attention on the
preacher.

His mind drifted and he recalled the first
day he was brought into Aunt Camilla’s life. He’d spent a year or
so going from orphanage to orphanage, but he was such a peculiar
child that no one held onto him for long. Although he was curious
like most children, he seemed to turn his curiosity into an
obsession. There were nights when he couldn’t sleep for wondering
about the function of sleep, the causes of death, anything that
could possibly cross his mind. Even though he was strange, everyone
he’d ever met sympathized with him. He was such a handsome,
distraught child.

Aunt Camie (as she preferred being called)
was his aunt on his mother’s side. She’d been married once, but her
pairing with Colonel Chris Dobson wasn’t a fruitful one. He was
sure that it was her lack of faith that caused them to be unable to
have children, but he had loved her anyway. Their love, even after
his death, was what astounded Emmanuel as being his first taste of
admiration between two people of the opposite sex.

She was fifty when he first met her. She was
the only one who wanted him, although he had several other
relatives. He remembered her arms around him, the smell of spring
all around her, and the warmth in her hazel eyes. He knew then that
he was home.

As he stood, a man of age, wisdom, he
recalled some of the words Camie had told him. She was sitting on
the porch, rocking in a rocking chair, sewing his pants where he’d
torn them when he was running from someone—a girl.

“Emmanuel, I fear you’re in for a life of
trouble…and I won’t be able to sew your pants forever.”

He found a smile forming on his face,
remembering how sincere she was, but stopped before it could fully
appear. Camie had always been full of humor even when she wasn’t
trying to be, and always so honest. He was truly in for trouble and
so was anyone he met…not to mention those he chose to love.

He took the first shovel of dirt and threw
it onto the casket, the hollow sound sending a shudder through his
body. He felt as if he’d never eaten a morsel in his life, as if
he’d never taken a sip of water. He felt empty without her near. As
the rain continued drenching him, he wished he could switch places
with Esme and his unborn child. He wanted to be dead.

With legs growing weak and tears streaming
down his face, hidden by the rain, he began walking away. He heard
their whispers but he didn’t meet any of their eyes. They didn’t
understand. What he and Esme had was special, never to be surpassed
by any written tragedy. They couldn’t understand, and, for once, he
didn’t want to explain.

When he was out of sight, he began running.
He didn’t know where he was going. The rain poured harder, lashed
at his face as he continued to increase his speed. Breathing began
eluding him but he continued, not knowing when or if he would stop.
He began wishing God would strike him dead, but he slid and fell in
a mud puddle.

As he sat on his knees, the sobs rocked him
and he threw his head back, letting the rain fall into his mouth.
He remembered a time when he was with Esme, in the rain, so he
imagined that she was every drop. She was more than rain, thunder,
lightning, air… she was everything to him. She was life.

“Why?!” he screamed to no one and yet
everyone, still looking towards the sky. “Why did you take her from
me?”

His answer was more rain, more wind. A storm
was brewing beyond the dark clouds he’d seen earlier. He saw
lightning strike in the distance and felt compelled to stand. The
mud on his clothes didn’t stop him from walking on, seeking
shelter. How had the weather made him want to live? He didn’t
know.

When at last he’d reached the house, he
stood in the yard, looking at the porch. He imagined her standing
there, her dress blowing into the wind. He didn’t want to move,
blink, but eventually he did both and she disappeared.

He walked towards the house, a song in his
head that he’d heard only days ago. For a moment, he recalled
coming home from work, catching her up in his arms and twirling
around the kitchen. He was often surprised how her simplest action
could make his worst day seem uncomplicated.

Emmanuel stopped before he reached the front
door, put his hands in his pockets, and sniffled. He wasn’t going
to be able to live his life the way he’d planned. Her death had
ended that. Instead, he would have to find a way to go on without
her…lest he succumb to the pit of darkness. He smiled, knowing that
she wouldn’t want that.

He saw Euclid, one of her cats. His gray fur
was wet with rain. Emmanuel scooped him under one arm and stepped
into the house. His knees threatened to give way, so he dropped the
cat and fought for balance. Jasmine, her scent, seemed to cling
everywhere, as if the house was made of it. He undid his tie and
staggered upstairs, knowing what he must do: get away.

Emmanuel didn’t know where he was going, if
he would ever return, and such was always the case with him. Before
he left, he tossed the cats out and let them run wild. As he stood
on the porch, watching them glare at him with spite, he wondered if
his and their fate would be the same. He locked up the house,
turned in his key to a trusted neighbor, and purchased a train
ticket to Somerville, North Carolina.

***

Aunt Camie lived on what used to be an
extravagant home plantation, which had been a huge supplier of
timber, until there was a great fire in 1899. The Colonel perished
in the fire along with the land, which had been scarred for many
years until the summer of 1919. As Emmanuel rode along on
horseback, taking in the cool August air, he took in the depth of
beauty that was Rosewood Grove.

The trees that he once remembered were now
nonexistent, but the greenery extended as far as his eyes could
see. Situated in the middle of it all was Rosewood, the grand
estate that had been built in the middle of the eighteenth century.
The four white bulky columns from the first floor porch extended up
to the second floor, giving the impression that there were two
small houses on top of one another. The wood on the front porch,
richly hued and highly expensive (especially back in the day), was
the reason for the given name.

Emmanuel dismounted and stretched. He
remembered the last time he’d seen his aunt, which had been on the
day after he graduated from medical school. He hadn’t seen her
since, and he couldn’t understand what had driven him to come here.
For a moment, he recalled what Esme had once told him, that he
should ‘gather all dropped breadcrumbs before he can make any more
bread.’ It was her way of saying that she wanted Camie in their
lives, in their child’s life. They were dead, however, so why was
he here?

He took hold of his horse’s reins and
started walking, whistling softly the same melancholy tune he’d
been singing only days before. He now knew the name of it, which
deepened his sadness: ‘Remember’ by Irving Berlin. In an attempt to
clear the music from his mind, he thought about Aunt Camie and the
expression his sudden appearance would place on her face.

If his memory served him correctly, she was
pushing eighty, making her twice his age. They hadn’t been born on
the same month, which Esme had once innocently asked, and they were
as different as could be. He was born in August and as cool as an
autumn breeze; she was born in April and was as flighty as a pigeon
on a busy sidewalk. Despite their differences, from the time he was
ten until he was twenty-six, she was his closest companion. Perhaps
that was why he had returned. He needed someone.

The horse nudged him and he increased his
speed. When he usually walked, he contemplated. This afternoon,
life itself was on his mind and the very intricacies of it. Hunger,
for instance. He hadn’t eaten a morsel since breakfast and here it
was only half past noon and he was starving.

As he stepped onto the porch, he felt as if
he’d stepped back in time and felt that, any second now, a young
school boy with dark red hair and a thirst for knowledge would come
charging out the front door. He smiled as he remembered what it was
like being wild and free, then walked up and knocked three solid
times.

“Coming.” He heard the voice that could only
belong to his aged aunt.

For the heck of it, he began knocking
rhythmically, first with his knuckles three times and then pounding
with his fist twice. At last, the door was thrown open and his
aunt’s hazel eyes were staring up at him. She recognized him
instantly and her frown became a smile.

“Emmanuel!” she exclaimed and threw her arms
around his waist, since she was too short to reach his neck. He
reminded her of a child, but recalled a time when she was taller
than he was. “Come in from that drafty weather.” She looked behind
him, as if she were looking for someone. “Where’s your wife? Oh, no
matter. I suppose she hasn’t arrived yet. Come in. Come in.”

He looked at her blankly, not wanting to
diminish the light in her hazel eyes by telling her the bad news.
“I must put the horse away,” he said with finality.

“Let him have some fun. I’m sure he’ll need
to kick up his heels after the ride you gave him.” She knew him
well. “Come on in and have some food. I’ve cooked plenty.”

When he stepped into the house, he
remembered what it had been like the first time he’d arrived. The
smell of food floated into his nostrils, and the warmth coming from
the fireplace in the den beside him seemed to accentuate the very
feeling of being home. The furniture was the same, and the
staircase with pictures alongside it of people long gone made a
sense of familiarity fill him. He didn’t know these people, yet, in
some quaint way, he knew them as well as any childhood friend.
Their dour faces seemed to lighten up at the very sight of him and
welcome him home.

“Come on.”

They walked into the dining room which was
the room across from the staircase and beside the den. Except for a
candelabrum at the end of the long, newly waxed table, the room was
dark. Seated at the table, prim and pompous, was the man who’d been
attempting to ‘purchase’ Rosewood for the past three decades. In
all honesty, almost everyone knew the proper word was ‘steal.’

When Emmanuel had seen him last, Peter
Gordon had dark hair and greedy, wild green eyes. Although his hair
was white now, he still possessed the same eyes, and it was for
them that Emmanuel had punched him only days before disappearing
from his aunt’s life. Even though he was twenty years younger, she
was in love with him. He made her feel alive.

“You remember Peter, don’t you?” Camie
asked. “If memory serves, I remember you two used to get along
well.”

Peter snorted. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Well, you two can catch up. I’ll go get you
some food, Emmanuel,” she said and started for the door at the
opposite end of the dining room. She walked like a woman years
younger and her nephew watched her go until she disappeared. He
could hear her singing an old gospel tune and realized suddenly
where he’d obtained the same habit.

He sat across from Peter, letting Camie be
the queen of the table, which was as it should be. He realized her
food was almost untouched, and that she’d probably gone through
several glasses of lemon-squeezed tea. With a gnawing feeling in
his stomach, he began to think how much of an intruder he was.

“So…how’s it been?” Peter asked, rubbing his
nose as if he could still feel the younger man’s fist. He took a
bite of meatloaf and savored it before he continued. “I hear you’re
married with a child on the way. It’s all Camie can talk about.
She’s betting you’ll have a girl, since there tends to be more
females in your family. I’m betting you’ll have a boy, especially
with the way you punch. It would be a shame if a girl could punch
like that. Damned shame.”