The Other Side of Silence (8 page)

“I like the land, and the changing
seasons, and the quiet, too,” she said to him.  “Can we go home?”

CHAPTER NINE

They went to his place, deep, deep
into the quiet, into the haven he had created for himself.  Now she understood
why.  They stood in the gloom wrapped in each other’s arms, rocking back and
forth to a silent music of their own like an echo of the wind through the
trees.  By the time they stopped, had grown still and the darkness had descended
entirely, her thirty-dollar panties were soaked through, though he’d done
nothing but hold her.  Wordlessly he lifted her skirt and sundered the narrow
waistband of her undergarment in a single pull, then turned with her to the
wall and raised her in his arms, driving deep and hard and silently.

After, with her legs still wrapped
around his waist, he carried her into his bedroom, where he stripped off all
her clothes and tucked her beneath the mound of quilts.  The night seemed
unusually chill.

“Where are you going?”

“For a walk,” he said.  “I’ll be
back.”

Sunny watched him shirk off his
jacket and change his shoes, then leave the house still wearing what remained of
his expensive suit.  He was angry, she could see that.  Not at her.  Even so,
as she listened to the front door close softly she thought: Don’t stop loving
me because I’m not exactly who you thought I was.

He had left the small light burning. 
Sunny sat up on the high mattress of his bed, the bed that felt like home, and
looked around his room.  She went and used the bathroom, slipping into one of
his tee shirts, which hung well past the middle of her thighs.  When she
returned she climbed back beneath the covers, staring at the books on the
wall. 

I’ll never know exactly who you are, she
thought, but I’ll not stop loving you
.

Maybe that was what had him worried,
the fact she never
could
know who he was.  And neither could he.

*        *        *

When he returned it was very late. 
Some innate sense told her that, because no clock existed in the room.  The
sounds of the night outside had changed, like the stillness before the dawn. 
She listened to him remove his clothes, fold them across the back of the maple
rocker in the corner.  He climbed beneath the covers, his long body chilled and
smelling vaguely of wood smoke and fresh air and the damp places of the earth. 
Smoothing the sleeves of his soft tee shirt up her arm, he bent and placed his
lips against the roundness of the lean muscle there.  Even his lips felt cold.

“You’re not asleep,” he whispered. 
“You don’t have to pretend to be.  I’m sorry I was gone so long.  I was
thinking.”

She rolled onto her back.  “About
us?”

“No.  That’s one thing I don’t have
to think about,” he said.  “I know who we are, together, don’t you worry about
that.”

Reaching up, she smoothed his dark
hair back from his brow.  “I wish I knew you when you were younger,” she said. 
“I wish I could tell you who you are.  I wish I had that to give you.”

“You do know who I am,” he said. 
“You are the only one who does.”

She slipped both arms behind his
neck, drawing his head down.  She kissed the sweep of his eyebrows, the full
curve of his mouth.  The breath from his nostrils ran warm across her cheek. 

“What’s it like?” she murmured
against his lips.  “What does it feel like, being who you are?”

He thought a moment, climbing on top
of her and fitting himself between her legs, propped up on either side of her
body by his elbows.  She pulled the covers up over his naked back. 

“It’s like…it’s like being on the
other side of silence.  Nothing is common.  Nothing is ordinary.  Everything is
precious, and no one else sees it, no one hears the small things, no one
understands the connection between each and every action, the finer moments of
humankind and the revolutions of the earth.  That is where I’ve always stood,
and I stood alone.  When you stand beside me I’m still here, but I’m not alone
anymore.”

Sunny swallowed, unable to speak. 
She kissed him again, felt his mouth open to the pressure of her own, the
silken glide of his tongue across hers.  As she had that first time he kissed
her, she felt her face wet with tears and did not know who shed them. 

“You’re so good for me,” he said. 
“Hell, I’m even hard again.  Care for another go?”

She laughed, scrubbing her face dry,
then reached down beneath the blankets to close her hand around him.  “Will you
marry me, Roger Macleod?” she whispered.

“Too late,” he answered.  “I believe
I’m already taken.”

*        *        *

The rain started just before
daylight, drumming on the roof, rolling into the gutters, splashing on the
ground outside the windows.  Sunny watched the rivulets converge and flow down
the glass, silver against silver as night lightened into day.  Behind her Roger
slept on his back, his arm flung above his head, his mouth slightly open and a
sound like the growl of a young puppy emanating on occasion from his throat. 
Slipping from the bed, she wrapped one of the quilts about her shoulders and
stood before the wall of books, tipping her head to read the spines.  She felt
vaguely uneasy, as if she were spying on some secret part of him, and in the
same moment she thought,
there’s something I’m missing here.

Running her fingers down the titles,
she thought she began to note a pattern in his interest, besides the era.  Pulling
a volume out, she opened it to where it fell naturally from use.  He had taken
a highlighter to mark certain passages.  In other pages small pieces of paper
had been inserted.  Some of these had notes on them in his hand, but even that
varied depending, she supposed, on his state of mind at the time he jotted them
down.

The light was too poor to read by, so
she replaced the book on the shelf, crossing the floor to the rocker.  Lifting
his suit pants she hung them on a hook behind the door.  She had no reason to
hang them in the wardrobe.  Even in the dimness she could see the mud stains on
the knees.  The dry cleaner would have a field day with them.

What had he been doing out there in
the dark for all of those hours alone?  Thinking, he said, and not of them, not
doubting them, together.  So what then? 

Sunny sat down in the rocker, leaning
her head against the back.  His shirt was still there.  She could smell him in
it, familiar and musky.  She turned her cheek against the wrinkled linen,
breathing deeply.  Unconsciously she began to rock the chair with her bare foot
on the wooden floor beyond the edge of the rug.

When they were married, she would
sell the farm, or rent it out.  But she didn’t think they could live here, as
much as she loved this place.  It was too small.  These were things they needed
to discuss, but they hadn’t. 

Closing her eyes, Sunny continued to
rock.  She was scared, she was crazy in love, but she was also practical. 
There was nothing to be afraid of, love was wonderful, and there were matters
to be discussed, to be decided.  That was that.

God, she thought suddenly, how had he
lived for fifteen years without knowing who he was?  He knew who he was now,
who he had been for that fifteen years, but what about before?  How often did
he think about that lack of knowledge, of memory?
 
And
with no point of reference, what was there to think of?  She visualized the
absence of memory like a hollow void, echoing with eerie silence.  And he lived
the other side of that silence.  That was what he had said.

Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, she
held it closer to her face.  She wanted to help him, but she didn’t know how. 
There was nothing she could do, and he didn’t seem to expect her to do anything
but be there.  And she would be.  Always.

Standing up, she stopped the rocker
with her heel and wandered out into the main room.  Sparsely furnished, she
didn’t see a television, just as he’d said.  Opening the front door, she stood
against the screen staring out at the rain.  A puddle rapidly formed at the
base of the steps.  Subdued, the birds sang nonetheless. 

“Hey.”

His arms went around her, the dark
stubble of his jaw rough against her cheek.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she
said.  “You must be exhausted.”

He shrugged against her. “I’ve had
worse nights,” he said.  Straightening, he ran his hand over the crown of her
head.  “Breakfast?”

“Sure.”

He walked away from her, into the
kitchen.  “When do you want to get married?”

“I—what?”

He chuckled, rummaging through the
cabinets.  “When do you want to get married?” he repeated.  “How?  Where?  What
do you want to do about living arrangements?”

She blinked, a slow smile spreading
across her face.  “What, do you read minds or something?”

“Just yours,” he laughed.

Picking her purse up off the floor
where she had dropped it the night before, she scooped the spilled contents
back into it, flipping oven her cell phone to check the time.  “Huh.  I’ve got
a message.”

“Then listen to it,” he said.

Entering her password, she raised the
phone to her ear.  “Sunny.”  It was Kathy.  “Scott’s gone.   He left a couple
of hours ago after a horrible fight.  He wouldn’t be at your place, would he? 
Let me know, please.  Please let me know.”

The message had been left at 1:45 in
the morning.  Roger stuck his head out of the kitchen.

“Shit,” she said.

CHAPTER TEN

“Why am I making this my problem?”
Sunny said out loud in a rhetorical query, as no one was around to answer.  She
didn’t even have an answer for it herself.

After she had ascertained from Kathy
that Scott hadn’t returned home yet, Roger had helped Sunny check the house,
just in case Scott really was there.  His truck hadn’t been outside, but he
could have parked that on any of the lanes into the fields and walked in. 
She’d called a few of his older buddies, the ones Kathy might not know.  By the
time the third one had asked why she even cared where her ex-husband was she
decided to quit calling and just compile a list.  If Scott didn’t go home to
his new wife by noon, then Sunny would turn the list over to her.

She called Kathy to tell her she
hadn’t seen him, hadn’t heard from him, and to find out if he might have showed
up.  He hadn’t.

“He will,” Sunny told her.  God, but
this was bringing back all sorts of bad feelings of her own.  “Give him time,
and he will.  But don’t give him a break.  Don’t let him get away with this
type of behavior.   I don’t know what you need to do about it, but don’t accept
it, Kathy.”

Good advice.  She should have taken a
dose of it herself long before she’d reached the point where she had more than
she could physically and emotionally stand.

Hanging up the phone, she decided to
make herself a cup of tea.  Outside the rain continued to fall and the day had
a leaden look to it, closed-in and burdensome and not at all cozy anymore. 
Roger had told her he knew of a few places Scott might be and had taken the
truck and gone to check.  The house felt empty without him.  She’d been by
herself in the house since they got together, of course, and quite often, but
today she felt Roger’s absence sorely even though she knew he would be back in
an hour or two.

As the kettle began to whistle, she
removed it from the heat and took down a cup, the tea bags, honey from the
cabinet, engaging in the mechanics as if they were life-saving therapy.  With
the tea bag still steeping and the paper tab hanging on its narrow string over
the rim, Sunny held the cup close to her face for the warmth and the aroma and
the comfort.  Passing through the dining room, she grabbed the slim volume the
guy from the Lehigh County Preservation Society had given her and went into the
living room.  She turned the light on, necessary despite the fact it was nine
o’clock in the morning, and curled up on the couch with the book on her knee
and the tea cup on a coaster on the table at her elbow, fragrant steam rising
toward the cream-colored lamp shade.

For a moment she stared at the cover displaying
a picture of her house, taken about 1890. Tipping her head against the sofa
back she closed her eyes, worrying, worrying about the men in her life, even
the one she didn’t want there anymore.

Raising her lids again, she opened
the book across her leg and began to read.  The language started off a little
dry, but as she only wanted distraction it didn’t really matter.  The old
photographs, however, were an amazing chronicle.  Eschewing text for the time
being, she flipped through the pages to view the photos and their captions. 

“Ugh.”

Frowning, she lifted the book closer,
hoping what she looked at might be an effigy, some sort of recreation.  But no,
it was a real dead guy.  She shuddered in horror.  Apparently back in—1892,
when the photo was taken, there had still been legislation on the books
authorizing execution by hanging as well as use of this property for that
purpose.  This poor fellow was the last man executed on private property in the
State.  Or one would hope, she mused.  Prior to that, there had been no record
of anyone being hung at “The Hanging Tree” for nearly a hundred years. 
Grimacing, but unable to help herself, she flipped back to the beginning of the
chapter for the historical details.

The phone rang.  Dropping the book on
the cushion, Sunny ran to the kitchen to answer it.

“Sunny, hi, it’s me.”

“Jess!  Sorry we cut out on you at
the wedding like that.”

“It’s alright.  I saw him pawing you
from across the patio.  So did Roger.  That’s why he came over.”

“Yeah, well,” Sunny sighed.  If Jess
and Roger were able to see it that meant numerous other guests had probably
gotten an eyeful as well.  No doubt Kathy knew, or had seen.  No wonder she
thought Scott had come to the house.  He must seem like a pretty desperate,
screwed-up person to her about now.

“He’s quite a guy, that man of
yours.  Roger, I mean.”

“I know who you mean. And thanks.”  She
picked up her cooling tea and took a mouthful.

“Sunny?”

“Hmm?”

“Scott was here this morning.”

Sunny said nothing.  She put the mug
down.

“He was more than upset,” Jess said. “He
was irrational.  Sunny, I’ve never seen him like that.”

“I have,” Sunny said quietly.

“He was pissed as hell at you and at
Roger.  What is
up
with that?  Why should he even care?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Sunny said,
more quietly still.

“And he was drunk.  Drunk!  I thought
I smelled alcohol on him, but he seemed steady enough.  It was only when he
left that I realized the reason he didn’t listen to me was because he couldn’t,
both because he was being such an idiot and because he was too drunk to follow
coherent thought.  When he got in the truck and drove away I saw him pick up a
bottle from the seat and drink from it.”

“You let him drive away like that?”
Sunny asked, something new stirring in her.

“Well, it was too late then.  I
called the police though.  Hopefully they’ll find him before he hurts himself
or someone else.”                                                           

“Good.  You did the right thing.”

At the sound of wet tires on gravel,
Sunny turned and looked down the hall toward the front door.  Through the
limited vantage point of the door glass, she thought she saw Roger’s truck. 
Instead of parking in his usual spot, though, he continued across the driveway
and into the sodden grass, then on around to the other side of the barn.

“Jess, I’ve got to go.  Roger’s
back.”  And something’s up, she thought.  She felt a chill of apprehension as
she hung up the phone and scrambled into her sneakers.  Stepping out onto the
porch she saw that the rain was driving, huge drops pelting the soaked ground. 
Tucking her head against the onslaught, she ran across the driveway. 

The barn door stood open.  Not until
she ducked into the cavernous building, where the rain was reduced to a
reverberating rumble on the roof, did she hear the voices.  Roger’s.  And
Scott’s.

“I wanted to go into the house.” 
Loud, demanding, a little out of control.

“Not yet, Scott.  Talk to me here.”

“Talk to you?  There’s not much fucking
point in that, is there?  Where’s Sunny?  Her car’s here.  I saw it.”

“She’s with her sister.  Jess came to
pick her up earlier.  They’re out looking for you.”

Roger’s calm tone held an underscore
of something Sunny couldn’t identify.  But he was lying, saying the first thing
that came to his mind.  The wrong thing, since Scott had been to see Jess only
a short time ago, but how could Roger know?  And why was he lying to Scott? 
She was willing to talk to him, to calm him down.  Sunny moved toward the
stairs. 

“You fucking prick, you’re lying!  I
was there, at her sister’s.”

A moment’s hesitation, and then, “Look,
Scott, you’re bleeding.  Your truck is totaled.  You might want me to just
drive you to the hospital.”

“Fuck you.  Don’t act like you’re my
buddy, my friend—”

“I never was your friend, Scott.  We
had an undefined business relationship, but that was about all.”

Sunny heard a noise, the scrape of a
boot across the rough hewn floor.

“Where do you think you’re going?  I
want to see Sunny!  Do you hear me?  Don’t you move.”

“Scott,” said Roger, “what are you
going to do?  Shoot me?  She won’t come back to you if you do.”

Oh, sweet Jesus, Scott had a gun.

Sunny pelted up the stairs, feeling
them vibrate beneath her feet, feeling the flower of blood in her brain, the
cold, stark terror, the sound of Roger’s name in her ears, on her tongue.  At
the head of the stairs she stumbled, sliding across the hay-strewn, dusty floor
on her knees.  A splinter drove deep into her palm.  From the corner of her eye
she saw Roger move toward her, then jerk himself immobile.  She turned her
head, her gaze falling with a strange stillness on the pair of long, hollow
bores of the shotgun in Scott’s hands.

Slowly, she raised her eyes from the
gun to Scott’s face.  His eye was blackened and blood streamed from a gash high
up on his scalp.  Rainwater sluicing from his close-cropped hair didn’t help,
mingling with the blood that had not dried to cover his cheek, his jaw, the
side of his neck, the collar of his shirt and the shoulder of his jacket.  He
still wore the suit he’d gotten married in, although it was a mess.  Jess
hadn’t mentioned that.

“May I stand up?” she asked quietly.

“Sure, Sunny-girl,” he said, flicking
the barrel of the gun in an upward motion.  She caught her breath, eyeing his
finger on the trigger.  Carefully she rose to her feet, yanking the splinter
from her palm with her teeth.  A thin trickle of blood oozed out of the hole.

“What are you doing with that,
Scott?” she asked, indicating the shotgun with a nod.

“I was contemplating killing myself,”
he stated matter-of-factly.  “But then I had a better idea.”

Years ago she’d had a conversation
with a veteran cop who had told her he always viewed suicidal individuals as
homicidal, because once a person reached that point he or she didn’t often
recognize the value of life in any form.  Sunny drew a breath, let it out and
repeated the process of breathing, thinking hard.

“Scott, why don’t you just let her go
and do what you have to?” Roger said, before she could speak again.  “You don’t
want to hurt Sunny.”

“Roger, I’m not going anywhere,” she
stated through her teeth.

“Aw,” Scott ground out
sarcastically.  “Isn’t that sweet?  I don’t want you going anywhere either,
Sunny-girl.  You may as well witness it when I do it.  See what you’ve driven
me to.  And then you’re next.”

“I haven’t driven you to anyth—”

“
Sunny
.”  This, from Roger. 
Quiet, terse.

“That’s right, Sunny.  You listen to
him and shut the fuck up.  He knows about nut jobs on a firsthand basis, don’t you,
buddy?”

Roger didn’t respond.  Sunny turned
her head, just a little, her eyes seeking his.  His amber gaze held steady on
hers, trying to tell her something.  And then his lips moved, soundlessly
forming words.

I love you
.

Oh God, she thought, don’t.  Don’t. 
Don’t be the hero.  I need you.

Roger made his move then, as if he
didn’t feel the weight of her plea in his soul, lunging across the wide plank
floor with the impetus of desperation powering his muscles.  Scott spun on his
heel, raising the shotgun. 

“No, Scott, no!”

One thought, one thought, one thought
only.  Sunny threw herself at Scott, at the shotgun.  The powder went off in an
explosion as loud and bright in the rain-driven darkness as the Hand of God. 

And then there was silence.