No Story to Tell (30 page)

Nerves began to dance through her as he turned to face her, one hand holding the edge of the sheet that still covered the painting. They smiled at each other shyly. Like two platonic lovers about to consummate their union, suddenly hyper-aware of their separateness, the illusion of their perceived knowledge of each other about to be unceremoniously exposed.

And then it was done. The painting erupted into the room, drawing Victoria’s breath into itself. A powerful creature—primal, tangible and exotic with long, languorous, full-moon luminous limbs—dominated the canvas. Explosive in its quiet wanting, the green dress quivered with the vitality of the animal coiled within, the left strap tantalizingly low, offering a curve of porcelain breast, sensual in its simplicity.

The ghost of the gothic arch window hovered in the distance. The figure was surrounded by the murky moodiness of the background. But it could not touch her. It served only to further radiate the dynamic contrast of her being. She was a creature-goddess, birthed free. A creature with no thought to look beneath it for the depleted sack, the afterbirth that had held it for so long.

They stood in silence as she struggled to absorb the pure raging emotions the painting had set off within her.

Finally, Elliot cleared his throat, breaking her trance. “So? What do you think? Is it okay?”

She wrenched her gaze from the canvas, forcing herself to look at him, surprised to hear the unfamiliar note of self-doubt in his voice.

“Elliot. . . it’s just. . . it’s just, unbelievable. It’s just incredible. It’s just . . .” she hesitated as her attention was pulled back to the painting.

“What? It’s just what?” he replied nervously. “Didn’t I cover your face up enough? I can fix that.”

“No, don’t worry about that, Elliot. That’s just the thing. Even I wouldn’t recognize myself. I
don’t
recognize myself. I mean, it’s a wonderful painting, Elliot. Incredible. But, I don’t know who you’ve painted there. Certainly not me. That’s not how I look. Not really.”

Regaining his sense of composure, Elliot laughed with noticeable relief.

“Yes it is, Victoria. That’s exactly how you look. That’s exactly how you look . . . to me.”

Sleep numbing her brain, Victoria miscalculated the extent of her reach and sent the receiver sprawling across the floor. Barely a week had passed since the last call, and the spray of static shooting into the room snapped her instantly alert. Her mind scrambled for Bobby’s whereabouts. He was going to be in town late working on JJ’s car. Wasn’t that what he’d said?

“Hi. Sorry about that. I was just lying down. Guess I fell asleep.”

She strained against the darkness to make out the wall clock and was surprised to see she’d slept away the afternoon and on into the night. Curling onto the couch, she nestled the telephone beside her and pulled the comforter into place.

“Mmm,” she murmured warmly. “I was having the most amazing dream.”

She waited for a signal to carry on, juggling against her fears of sharing such an intimate moment with a stranger. And yet, she argued with herself, really he was not a stranger. He understood and sympathized with her more than anyone she could put a face to. And she felt more comforted in his anonymous presence than she ever had in Bobby’s physical one. If a relationship were to be judged on how it made her feel, then she judged this one as far stronger and deeper than any she’d ever known. It had become obvious to her that the caller, whoever he was, meant her no malice. So far, she’d heard no talk of the calls around town, a fact that made her feel insular, her secrets safe. And besides, she wanted to share the delight of her intimacies with him. It was the least she could do, she reasoned, after all he’d done for her.

“It was sort of terrifying, but also kind of, you know . . . erotic.”

She tossed the word away quickly, as if it might be found deviant and she would be rejected for using it. She sat tightly, held her breath until she was assured of his calm acceptance.

“I was all alone, in this dream, putting makeup on in front of this big mirror. Or trying to, anyhow. I had this tube of lipstick. Bright, bright red. Brilliant red. And I was trying to put it on so I could go out, but I couldn’t get it to work. I kept dropping it and it wouldn’t go on and I was getting incredibly frustrated about it . . . could you hold on a minute? Don’t hang up, okay? I just have to check something.”

Setting the phone down carefully on the floor, she slid out from under her blanket and tiptoed to the porch window. She surveyed the spot where Bobby’s truck should be, scanned the horizon for lights then opened the porch door and listened into the flat distance for any sound. Somewhat satisfied, she hurried to sit back down and closed her eyes with an almost prayer of relief as the static reached back out to her.

“Oh, you’re still here. Good. Anyhow, like I was saying, I was late for something. In my dream. I don’t know what . . . you know how dreams are. They never seem to make any sense, do they? But I was really getting irritated because I had to get ready and I couldn’t. Nothing was working. I felt like screaming and crying and having this big fit, and then the next thing I know I’m sitting in this huge concert hall. Up on stage and the place is packed and everyone’s looking up at me like they’re waiting for something. Like they were waiting for me to entertain them.” She paused as she reflected back over the moment, fully aware that reality had diffused it of all its power and that her words were impotent to bring it back for him.

“I know it sounds silly now, but it really was quite terrifying. And then, as I was sitting there filling up with panic, I realized there’s this huge guitar in my lap. So I pick it up and start to play, but I don’t know how. I can’t figure out a single chord.” She settled deeper under the blanket and continued on in a whisper as if the walls themselves might someday bear witness against her.

“Then, all of a sudden something strange started to happen. Something . . . you know. There was this pressure building inside me as I sat there not knowing what to do. And it just kept getting stronger and fuller and pressing up inside of me until I thought I’d explode. And then I did. Do you know what I mean? It was like I exploded out of myself. Something had to let go, you see. And it was me that finally did. Do you understand what I’m trying to say? It was me letting go. Me.”

Quietness fell over her as she tried to trace her way back to the pure, raw sexuality that had been born inside of her. Imagining him sharing her pleasure as she celebrated herself she danced on, emboldened.

“I could never tell my husband anything like this. I mean, sure he talks big, but the truth is sex embarrasses him. Stuffs it away for some cold, dark night then never mentions it again. An animal act. That’s what it’s like with him. An animal act without the intensity.”

A caustic laugh escaped her as she considered her choice of words and, in an almost reflex reaction, she ran her tongue over her lips like a salve.

“I want to tell you something. But you have to promise me you’ll never tell anyone else, okay?” She listened for a moment then continued on. “Everyone thinks I can’t have children, you know, but I can. I was pregnant once. A long time ago. Before I was even married. I’ve never told anyone that. Never. Not even my husband. It wasn’t his. It was someone else’s . . . Bassman’s. He forced himself on me, it wasn’t anything I wanted. I lost it anyhow, which was good, but it ruined my chance to audition. I was so sick I’d thought I’d die. Sometimes I wish I had—”

A quick confusion of noise scattered across the line, and she felt as well as heard the line being severed. She sat frozen for a moment with the receiver still against her face as something unsettling attempted to work its way into her mind. The sharp burst could’ve been anything. A radio,
TV,
even the fractured yelp of a small dog. She debated with herself over whether it could have been anything else. A voice maybe. The voice of a young child. Standing up suddenly, she shook away the thought, wrapped the comforter tightly around herself and turned on the light.

The knock came too early. And it came to the wrong door. Victoria placed the chair she was holding into the row she was creating. The swirling list of things she still had to do froze in her mind as she riveted her attention on the ballroom doors. She was not expecting anyone. Other than Elliot, that was, and he would be knocking at the alleyway door. Shortly. Her mind leapt between answering the knock or just ignoring it altogether. A sense of duty finally propelled her forward. What if it were one of the mothers, fledgling dancer in tow, in need of their teacher’s encouragement before their first dance recital?

Taking a quick listen for any sign of Elliot walking up the alleyway, she pressed a smile onto her face and hurried over to answer the door. She would make this quick. Obviously, everyone would know she would be busy preparing for that night’s recital. No one could reasonably expect too much of her time.

Opening the door, she was greeted by the long-fingered branches of a spruce tree, reaching in toward her as if to shake hands. The smell of Christmas instantly swaddled her. Too late, her hands flew up to stifle a delighted cry of surprise. Large logger’s hands, roughly reddened and bulky jointed, wrestled the tree in place.

“Sam! Hi. You brought me a tree?”

Peering through the maze of branches, she just managed to catch his flashing grin before he looked away.

“For the show tonight. If that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay,” she gushed generously, shooting a look toward the back door. He’d looked so absolutely pleased with himself that she hadn’t the heart to turn him away. “Here, let me open the other side of the door so you can bring it in.”

“Thanks,” he said, lumbering through the door, bear-hugging the tree, which was anchored into a five-gallon pail of wet sand.

Victoria attempted to keep the tree from capsizing as he struggled free of his work boots. They stood grinning up at the tree, then back at each other, then back at the tree.

“Got it off the block we been logging.”

“It’s perfect, Sam. Thank you.”

Surreptitiously, she checked her watch, alert to any sound of movement from outside. A thin metallic coil of blood tasted in her mouth as she slowly bit her lip, cursing her stupidity.

She had trapped herself. How on earth could she ever explain Elliot’s arrival to Sam? Not that Sam would say anything to Bobby about it. She knew with absolute certainty that he would not. For once, the growing sense of dread swelling within her had precious little to do with her husband. Quite simply, she did not want Elliot’s unexpected arrival to cause any more suffering to her noble, horse-hearted, Sam.

“You really shouldn’t have gone to so much bother.”

Towering above her, one hand holding the tree upright, his mismatched eyes quickly roamed the now-shrunken space. Ten rows of chairs gobbled up most of the floor not sectioned off by a pink ribbon for a stage. A long wooden table holding foam cups, snowflake serviettes and a garish little blue tree with flickering lights consumed the better part of the back wall.

Sam stared down at his heavy wool socks, flecks of chainsaw shavings clinging like yellowed insect husks. She noticed a black rim of grease embedded around each cuticle. Clearly, in his excitement to bring her the tree, he had not even stopped by at home to clean up on his way in from the bush. He leaned the tree over sideways a bit, as if trying to mask the sheer enormity of it. Somehow, right in his hands, it had twisted from a gift into an imposition.

“Maybe Rose can use it,” he murmured as he hoisted the tree up roughly and turned for the door.

“No! Don’t be silly, Sam. We can find room for it. How about . . . .” She scanned the cramped room desperately. “How about right back there?”

Following him back to the alleyway door, she actually shook her head at her own careening flirtation with impending disaster. Heart hammering, ears alert for the cardboard crunch of Elliot’s footsteps, she watched, anxiety-ridden, as Sam anchored the tree further into the sand and pulled at its branches in an attempt to get it to stand up straight.

“How’s that?”

“Perfect,” she lied. “Thank you, Sam. The children will love it.” She smiled up at him energetically, willing him to say goodbye. Instead he brought their attention to a pool of melted snow forming beneath the tree.

“Thought I knocked all that snow off of it. Got a mop in here . . . ?” he asked, whirling one giant step around and seizing the handle of the closet door. Victoria’s life clasped at her throat, the old lock rattling ominously then holding fast.

“No, don’t! Don’t . . . worry about it, Sam. I have to run the mop around later, anyhow.” Her panic sizzled into the room. He withdrew his hand, eyeing her closely.

Avoiding his gaze, she attempted to ignore the multitude of questions dancing around them. With some clever maneuvering she might be able to shuffle around Elliot’s impromptu arrival at the alleyway door. But she knew no combination of words would ever be sufficient to explain away the intimate painting locked away inside that closet.

A curious silence hovered around them. Sam looked down and questioned his hands, growing lumbrous with thought. Victoria grew more anxious. She recognized this in him. This uncomfortable fullness of emotion without expression. Despite the state of her own frantic inner turmoil, she wanted to reach in to him. To help ease his pain. She smiled encouragement. With agonizing slowness, he unzipped his parka and reached inside. Their eyes did not meet as he withdrew a brightly decorated package and tentatively handed it to her.