This Is How I'd Love You (27 page)

“I will park the truck just outside the super’s house. Do you think you can get him down the hill?”

Charles glances down at his own boots, one wooden. What would have been a simple task so recently was now impossible. He says only, “I will wait with him. Perhaps together . . .”

In the end, she does it all. Charles only cradles her brother’s feet in the crook of his elbow as Teresa handles his torso with surprising strength. Covered in blankets, he rides in the bed of the truck all the way to El Paso, the box of sterling goblets rattling beside him.

“Do you think he’ll survive?” Teresa asks, midway through their journey.

Charles nods. “Yes,” he says, the ease of so many lies returning to him quickly. He really has no idea. There is an insidious danger in the unseen injuries. But had they come across him on the battlefield, they would have given him a chance. They would have loaded him in.

She seems reassured. They speak very little. Charles keeps his eye on the horizon, the way the vast blue sky seems to fade slightly at its edges. The world wearing out.

The outskirts of El Paso appear with their fences and long, low buildings of ranches and dairies. Teresa suddenly places her hand on his arm. It is a strange gesture, neither affectionate nor necessary.

Without reason, she removes it just as suddenly.

“Whatever you find there, in New York, she wished it had been you. All along. From the moment I met her.”

“I don’t understand,” Charles says. “Tell me what you mean.”

But she will say nothing else. They are soon in front of the doctor’s office and Charles stays with them only long enough to determine that her brother’s treatment is assured. Then he crosses the street and waits for the next eastbound train.

I
t is not until ten days later that Hensley finally sees Lowell. Instead, she’s seen her dear friend Marie almost every day and the two girls have spent afternoons walking arm in arm, looking in windows and sharing lemon bars from the corner bakery. Marie is being courted by the owner of a shoe store whom she met when he fitted her mother for new boots.

“He has all the prettiest shoes in his shop, Hen. I can’t help but think about that. Is it terrible?”

Hensley laughs. “Of course not. Practicality is highly valued in these matters, I’m told. Beautiful shoes are a real, tangible benefit.”

The girls giggle, wiping powdered sugar from one another’s cheeks. “Have you seen anyone since you’ve been home that you fancy?”

Hensley blushes. “Oh, Marie. You know me. I’m too aloof to attract anyone’s attention.”

“You certainly got Mr. Teagan’s.”

Hensley is quiet.

“I’m sorry, Hen. I didn’t mean to . . .”

“Don’t be silly, Marie. You’re right. I got his attention and my brother seems convinced that we are right for each other.”

“No. Harold? What use would he have for Mr. Teagan?”

Hensley shrugs. “I don’t know. Did I tell you about the time I was riding that enormous horse, Thunder, and two hawks dived right in front of me and each grabbed a lizard?”

Marie’s eyes widen. “Oh, Hen. You were like an actual cowgirl or something. I know some people might not, but I love how brown your skin is now.”

“I wore a hat every day, I promise. But it’s impossible to avoid the sun. Oh, Marie, you’d love it. Wading in the creek and eating a picnic beneath an enormous cottonwood tree. I could walk out the back door in my bare feet and see lizards and rabbits and even snakes.”

“I’m just so glad you’re home,” Marie says, squeezing Hensley’s arm. “Really, I am.”

Hensley leans her head against Marie’s. “Me, too,” she says, wishing she could tell her the truth.

 • • • 

W
hen her brother left early that morning, he was agitated by yet another unanswered telegram. He’d been mysterious about Lowell’s whereabouts, his intentions, the misunderstanding of her arrival. Finally, that evening when he returned from work, something in his demeanor seemed shifted.

“You are to meet Lowell tonight for dinner. It’s all set. It may still be redeemable.”

“Your arrangement or my life?” Hensley asked wearily. She had spent the last three nights at her sewing machine, trying to accommodate the changes in her figure. Using a bolt of awful taupe silk, which must have been her mother’s, that she’d found in Harold’s closet, she’d made a draping of cascading pleats to attach to a tunic. She would have preferred feathers worn long like a necklace, or roses made from some ethereal chiffon, but when she held up the pleats against herself and looked in the mirror, she was pleased.

“Let’s try to leave the drama to the playhouse,” Harold said, pouring each of them a cup of tea. “Or to Mr. Teagan.” Harold smiled at her as he stirred a lump of sugar into his tea.

Hensley let the steam collect on her palm, condensing into small, cool drops. “He doesn’t love me, does he?”

Harold sipped his tea carefully. “Again, Hensley, it’s time to be practical. Words like that can only confuse things. They are fraught, and their meaning changes with the decade.”

Hensley wiped her damp palm across her cheek. “I really thought he did. I thought I could tell. It seemed perfectly simple.”

Harold loosened his tie and said nothing more.

 • • • 

S
he meets him at an Italian restaurant on the east side. They do not touch. Lowell seems not to know what to do with his hands and so he places them firmly on the table.

“Hensley,” he says, quickly, as she sits down at the table across from him. “Would you like a drink?”

“Maybe something cold would be nice. Thank you.” Hensley looks at the charcoal gray wool of his suit coat. With a deep breath, she surveys the landscape of the table. He’s already ordered a Scotch and water for himself, which is sweating. There are red flowers on the table, and for a moment she thinks he’s brought them for her. But as she looks around, she sees that there is a bunch on each table. Glancing at his face, Hensley tries to find something new or changed in him. Instead, all she can see is that his hair is darker than she remembered it.

“You look well, Hen,” he says finally. “How are you feeling these days?”

Hensley blushes. The question seems too personal. Then she reminds herself that he is her fiancé. It is his baby twirling inside of her right now.

“I’m fine, Lowell. I feel good. Just a little tired. It’s a long journey. I thought you were to be at the station . . .”

“I can’t really tell. I mean, you’re hiding it well. It’s not noticeable at all.”

Hensley smooths the front of her dress and shrugs. Is this a compliment?

Then, after another sip of his drink, he adds, “Are you sure?”

“You mean, might you be off the hook?” Hensley says, her heart racing.

He shakes his head, his brow furrowed. “Don’t start. I’m just curious. I’d like to see, that’s all.” He winks. His small teeth make an appearance as he smiles. “Husbands are allowed.”

Hensley shudders. “You are crass. Would you like me to lift my skirts right here and let you inspect me?”

“Settle down, Hen.” Lowe reaches for a cigarette. “I only meant that you aren’t fat yet. That’s a good thing.”

“Yet?”

He ignores her. “I’ve had a lot of time to sort this out. We are embarking upon a sort of living play. We’ve been cast in our roles and we must do our best to render them with passion. I hope you can remember how this started.”

She takes a deep breath. “Passion?”

“Love, then. Is that better? Charles has things arranged with a judge next week.”

“Next week?” Hensley is suddenly short of breath. She imagines what her poor brother has had to endure, fixing this mess. Fraternizing with a man like Lowell Teagan is not his idea of fun.

“Not soon enough for you?” Lowe finishes his drink and signals the waitress for another.

“I just didn’t know it had all been worked out. I mean, I wasn’t even sure . . . when you didn’t meet my train I thought . . .”

“The sooner the better. While you can still pass for respectable, right?”

Hensley pushes back her chair. She wants to hurl her glass of water at him. Dirty him, shame him, hurt him. Why did she ever think this would work? Does he care at all for her? Will he ever learn to be thoughtful, to be kind? Will she?

“It’s a joke, Hen. Look, we’re in a predicament. Or, rather, you are. But I helped you get there, I know. So I’m trying to do the right thing. But don’t make me feel as though by marrying you I am shackling my entire spirit. Can’t we be light? Be frivolous?”

Hensley is still. His words do absolutely nothing to quell her anger. In fact, she cannot remember ever feeling so offended. She is certain she has never hated anyone until this moment.

Though she wishes she could stop them, the tears begin as soon as she speaks. “Nothing about this is frivolous, Lowell. This is forever, what we are about to do. You are to be my husband, not my jester. I do not feel like laughing about such a horrid mistake.”

The consonants in the word seem to spark in the air. The din of the restaurant continues all around them, but between them there is nothing but the echo of her word.
Mistake
. This word is somehow worse than his. How did that happen? In defeat, Hensley pulls in her chair. She brings her hand to her face to wipe away the tears.

“Please forgive me,” she says quietly.

Lowe’s face is expressionless. He smiles a quick, bitter smile and says, “Well, at least we agree on something.”

They sit across from one another without speaking until they’ve finished dinner. A heavy sadness presses against Hensley’s chest, but her eyes are dry.

As the sidewalk outside bustles, a million lives in transit, Hensley can think of only one. She reminds herself not to address him, that it is a useless endeavor, but she cannot help it. It is a cliff that she throws herself right over.

Even as Lowe sits across from her, Hensley drafts a new letter in her mind.
Dear Mr. Reid, Have you ever felt betrayed by your very own self? As though you’ve locked yourself in a burning room and swallowed the key? This is how I feel as I sit across from my fiancé, the father of my unborn child, the man beside whom I will lay my head. I fear that I’ve grown up just a little too late. If I were the girl I was when I met Lowell, I would run away. Pretend that my own happiness matters more than any other’s. But just as I realize that I am part of a much bigger story, that someone else’s history has already begun inside of me, I know I must stay. What a foolish owl I am.

Finally, Lowe stands and offers Hensley his arm. She forces a smile and takes it.

They walk out into the evening, their betrothal like a wedge between them.

When she arrives back at Harold’s apartment, he is already asleep. Hensley paces across the living room.
Next week
. Her thoughts are incoherent. She doesn’t know what to think. The abstract notion of becoming Mrs. Lowell Teagan has become an actuality. They dined together. She took his arm as they left the restaurant. He walked her past his new apartment building on Seventy-second, where she, too, will soon live. He kissed her cheek when he left her at Harold’s door. None of it seems right. But she knows that when she put herself on that train, this was precisely the destination she’d chosen.

Unable to sleep, she sits up late at her sewing machine with his words a refrain blurring her thoughts.
Next week
. She works on a veil. There is a scrap of lace in her sewing basket that she thinks she can fashion into something sweet. A Juliet cap or perhaps a headband. But after hours of standing before the glass, folding and piecing, ripping out stitches and rethreading her needle, she falls asleep, with only discarded bits and pieces strewn around her.

 • • • 

H
ensley spends the week before her wedding on entirely domestic pursuits. She prepares a cut of meat for dinner, irons laundry, tidies the living room, washes the windows, and sweeps the floors. She does not mind having the apartment to herself. But she knows it cannot go on like this. In the glass above her dresser, she marvels at her changing figure, letting herself smile at the baby’s clandestine movements. Beneath her full skirts and long tunics, her belly is becoming round and tight. She likes its weight, the fullness of her body. This baby has become her only ally.

In the afternoons, she walks rather aimlessly, trying to ignore the hourglass that seems to be falling ever faster as her wedding day approaches.

She sees the flyer pasted up against the wall by the Seventy-second Street entrance to the park. The circus will be in town all week. She remembers holding her father’s arm, walking with him behind the clowns and the tricycles and the spinning hoops. How desperate she felt then, and now, looking back, how she longs for such a simple time.

It is not in good taste to leave the apartment after dark alone. Harold would have no use for a circus. She can just imagine what he’d say.

A circus? With clowns and fire-breathers? There’s enough of that in this city without paying for it.

She thinks of sending Arty a note, just to wish him good luck, but decides she’d better not. She walks on home, lingering on the memory of how he snapped that apple right in half.