What's Left of Her (3 page)

So what if that is the last time he said the words? Mabel is right; fancy words are frivolous and empty. Actions are what count, what uncover the truth in a person’s heart. Doesn’t Rupe bring her a paycheck every two weeks? Didn’t he hand-dig a new flower bed for her last Saturday; bring in peat and topsoil, even though he was dead tired and aching, just so she could plant more roses? And if she opens the kitchen cabinets, aren’t they lined with gifts from her husband; a fancy mixer, an electric knife, a food processor, a meat slicer?

Gifts of love. Gifts of sustenance. Isn’t that enough?

“Evie?”

She looks up, forces herself to focus. “Rupe. You’re early.”

Her husband wipes his forehead with a balled-up red bandana. “Axle broke on the tractor. Eulis is coming out to take a look at it.”

Evie eases the pie crust into the plate, smoothes out the air pockets, and crimps the edges with her thumb and forefinger. “There’s leftover turkey in the fridge. I could make you a sandwich.”

“I’m good.” He pulls a glass from the cupboard, turns on the spigot. “I just need water. It’s so damn hot out there.”

“It’s supposed to reach ninety-two today.” She begins scooping the apple mixture into the crust.

“Damn.” He downs the water, fills the glass again. “I tell you, Evie, sometimes I wish I worked in an air-conditioned office.”

This makes her laugh. “Honest, Rupe. Can you picture it? The windows don’t even open in most of those buildings.”

He laughs too. “I’d look like a fool in a monkey suit, wouldn’t I? Probably strangle myself with my own tie.”

She smiles, sprinkles cinnamon on the heap of apple mixture. “It would be a sight.”

“I think I’ll leave the fancy duds to Quinn. That boy’s bound to end up in some highfalutin office.”

“He’s talking about law.”

“He’d make a damn good lawyer. Hell, he knows how to argue his way out of anything.”

“But he’s a wonderful artist, too.”

Rupe finishes his water, sets the glass in the sink. “I don’t care what he does, as long as he believes in it. You gotta believe in what you’re doing or nothing’s worthwhile.”

She nods, dips her head so he can’t see her face. “You’re right.”

“I’m going back to the site to wait for Eulis. Those the apples he gave you?” He plucks a sugared piece from the top of the pie, plops it in his mouth.

“Yes.”

“They’re good.” He gives her a peck on the forehead. “I’ll see you around six.” His big hand touches her hair, and then he is gone.

Her husband’s words stay with her long after he’s gone to meet Eulis, long after the sweet aroma of apple fills the air, long after the mixing bowls are washed and dinner is started.
You gotta believe in what you’re doing or nothing’s worthwhile.
He is right, he is so absolutely right.

What do you do when you don’t believe, when you go through motions that were your life but were not you; that were what you did, but did not define you? What do you do when you don’t recognize the person in the mirror, the one performing years of the same task, making sound into words that can’t be understood? What do you do then?

She loves her family, loves them all, even Mabel and Burt. They’ve taken her in, cared for her, rescued her from grief and loneliness, and she owes them. She will always owe them. And she owes her children, too. They’ve given her purpose, and they deserve a mother who can give
them
purpose, one who will lay out an example of what it is to live and be alive. Not a shell, not an empty broken piece of unrecognizable human flesh moving in and out of their days, more observer than participant.

It is the painting that makes her come alive. She lives inside of it, right in the core of the oil: red, purple, yellow, blue, black, breathing its heavy scent, smearing the slickness of it on her fingers, her shirt, her face. She’s tried to hide from it for years, denying the pull, instead forcing herself into layer upon layer of daily existence that is too tight, too restrictive, too foreign. But lately, the stretches of midnight to early morning hours in the attic have increased, the need to be up there, hidden away,
free
, have grown into a wild, nameless yearning that calls to her, seducing her soul with its promises.

She knows who she is, who she has always been, despite years and miles, a husband and two children. It all comes down to honesty. But what she does not know, and what she fears most, is acknowledging what she is
not
.

Because that will change her life forever.

Chapter 4

“Tell me something, Evie Burnes, how can you stand to bake pies for that damned man?”

Evie sips her coffee, shrugs. She looks forward to Tuesday morning coffee with her friend at Hazel’s Diner, but sometimes Brenda gets carried away, even for Brenda. “The pies aren’t for Reverend Thurston. They’re for the church and besides, Rupe likes me to donate, says that aside from being Christian, it’s good business.”

Brenda snorts. “You need to tell that husband of yours if he spent a little more time listening to town gossip and a little less worrying about business, he’d know old Reverend Thurston is a pervert who’s got his hands in the coffers and Suzie Singleton’s pants.”

“Brenda!” Evie leans over, tries to hush her friend. Brenda Coccani isn’t an easy one to hush or hide for that matter. At 5’11”, she wears bright red lipstick, bright red scarves, and bright red ringlets. And her voice is loud, not soft like Evie’s, but horn-blowing, cattle-call loud, the kind that makes heads turn during normal conversation. A few heads turn with the mention of Reverend Thurston. Of course, they must know what Evie and Brenda are talking about. Everyone knows or suspects, except probably Rupe, who detests gossip and refuses to believe any of it, even when it can be substantiated and transformed from gossip to information. He got furious when his brother Les said he heard Reverend Thurston was practicing more than choir hymns in the rectory with nineteen-year-old Suzie Singleton.

Brenda leans forward, positions and repositions her full chest on top of the cream Formica tabletop. She drops her voice two octaves, to just below normal speaking range. “I heard they did it in the basement of the church, after Sunday school let out.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“And his wife caught them.” Evie opens her mouth to speak, but Brenda holds up her hand. “Wait. I know you hate to think anybody would fart crosswise, but I’m telling you the truth. The man was banging little Suzie and Pauline caught him.”

“Who told you?”

“Pauline’s very own sister-in-law.”

“Georgette? Why?”

“Why not?” Brenda picks at a chipped nail. “She’s hated the bitch since Thurston married her. You know how this town treats people like trash unless you’re one of them.” Brenda pulls her full lips into a satisfied smile. “Seems our good Reverend Thurston is making restitution to Suzie’s family. I’ll bet the proceeds from those pies will go toward making things right with the Singletons.”

“But what about Suzie? Who’s going to help her?”

Brenda shrugs. “Seems the poor girl thinks she’s in love with the old fool.”

Suzie Singleton helped Evie make pumpkin rolls for the church bazaar. She’s a tiny blonde with blue eyes and a sweet smile who wears jeans and sweatshirts most of the time and looks more child than woman.

“And that’s not all.” Brenda stretches herself closer to Evie, the heart chain around her neck dangling against the tabletop. “Georgette says the girl might be pregnant.”

“Oh, my God.”

“I think God has nothing to do with this one.”

“Does Reverend Thurston know?” It seems absurd to refer to him as “Reverend” after what Brenda has just revealed.

“He knows.” She raises a dark brow, perfectly shaped in a high arch. “And do you know what that bastard told her?” Her voice rises, levels, rises higher as her face turns a dull red. “He told her to get rid of it.”

“An abortion?”

“Sure as hell not something you’d expect a man of the cloth to say now, is it? ’Course, sure as hell don’t expect a preacher to stick his dick in a young parishioner’s honey pot either now, do you?”

Evie shakes her head, stares at the tiny crack along the rim of her coffee cup. It is so faint she can hardly make it out, but it is there, and soon, after several more uses, the crack will spread, particles chipping away bit by bit, until one day, the hot liquid will seep through the openings and the cup will fall apart, burning, even scarring the unsuspecting user.

Reverend Thurston and his lies are no different. They will spread and leach into the daily lives of his parishioners, until one day they’ll burst out, fragmenting Suzie, her life, her world, and leaving too many scars.

“I told you he was a bastard.” Brenda pulls out a cigarette, lights it. She puffs hard three times, then blows out a long, thin line of smoke. “You should tell him to shove those pies up his self-righteous, hypocritical ass.”

“What’s going to happen to him?”

Brenda takes another puff, lets out a tight laugh. “What do you think, Evie? What do you really think is going to happen to the good Reverend Thurston?”

“Well, I imagine the bishop will get involved—”

“Shit. The bishop’s not going to get involved. Nobody’s going to get involved because it’s already been taken care of, nice and neat, all wrapped up with a bow.”

Evie stares at her friend, waits. Brenda hates Corville, has talked about leaving since the first day Evie saw her twenty
years ago, cashiering at Furmano’s. There is always a plan, a grand scheme to walk away from Corville, no, run, so fast that the town will worry some tragic event has befallen her.
They’ll miss me when I’m gone, Evie. They’ll all miss me, especially that goddamn Les Burnes.

And there it is, there it always is, right in the middle of Brenda’s world. Les Burnes.

“Your father-in-law’s right at the head of it, him, along with Gus Gustofson, Patch McKinley, and Bud Webber. They fixed it good, just like they did with me.” She throws back her head, eyes Evie through half-closed lids. “The town will call her a whore, say she made up the whole thing to protect herself from her old man’s fist. And nobody’s gonna question it, well, at least not outright. But they’ll know. They always know, just like with me. The whole town knows it was Les Burnes’s baby I was carrying, ’course they never made a peep about it, with me being a minor and all.” Brenda straightens, flicks the ashes from her cigarette into the plastic orange ashtray. “That was a long time ago.” She shakes her head, squeezes her eyes shut, then blinks them open. “But they know, just like I bet they know he still sneaks out and comes to see me every now and again like he’s been doing for years. Does that make me a whore if I give in to the only man I ever loved?”

Evie dislikes Les Burnes, brother-in-law or not. Yes, he is handsome and some would say charming, but Evie sees past the forced smiles he flashes at all the women, beneath the layers of sugared compliments, to the man.

“Evie?”

“No, it doesn’t.” She leans over, rests a hand on Brenda’s arm. “But he’s married, with three little girls.”

Brenda laughs. “I know.” Two small words, strung together, filled with pain. “I know.” This time they are whispered, dragged out in grief. “It should have been me, Evie.” She shakes her head and tears fill her blue eyes. “Me.” Brenda clasps her hands to her full chest, the cigarette long forgotten in the ashtray. Her voice grows small, smaller still. “I never should have agreed to the abortion. I should have told old man Burnes I wouldn’t do it, that Les had to marry me. I should have done that.” Her eyes glaze over, bright and glittering with tears and too many memories. “He’d be my husband.” There is a long pause. “They’d be my children.” She sniffs, swipes at her eyes. “Instead, I get a botched-up uterus and a reputation. How’s that for a trade-off, huh?”

“Oh, Brenda—”

“I know, I know. Get over it, right? It happened twenty years ago. But I can’t.” She stretches her hands wide on the table, fingers splayed, long red nails pressing into the Formica. “He loves me. He does. But he won’t leave her, says he can’t do that to the children.”

“But he can string you along for twenty years with cheap jewelry and raunchy underwear?”

“He loves me.”

This is the conversation they have once a month, have had since the night Les and Wanda left for their honeymoon in the Poconos. Brenda has weathered it all; rationalized the marriage, Wanda was a Gustofson, it was strictly business, the babies, first one, it was duty, then two, Les and Brenda were on the outs, then three, it was a mistake. She’s stood by and suffered the new house they built on Tuttle Road, the one the whole town oohed and aahed over with its fancy front porch and white-picket fence. Year after year, Brenda drives by in whatever dilapidated car she can afford at the time while Wanda Burnes’s late-model vehicle sits in their three-car garage.

“It’s that bitch who’s causing all the problems.” The words slide out of Brenda’s mouth in a hiss.

“Wanda? Why? What happened?”

Brenda shrugs, her gaze fixed on her red nails. “Just a little blip, that’s all, no big deal.”

“How little?”

“Les said it’s over. Done.” She lets out a small laugh. “You know how many times he’s said that before? Huh? Dozens. More than that even.”

Evie keeps her voice low. “Why don’t you leave? Go away to your aunt’s in Pittsburgh, start fresh. You could, you know.”

“And then what? Transfer twenty years at Furmano’s and my weekend stint cutting hair at Peggy Lee’s Style Station to J.C. Penney’s?”

“It would be a start.”

“I can’t leave Betty.”

“Your mother is fine. She’d be in better health than you if she’d give up the vodka.”

“There’d be nobody to take her to her doctor.”

“She knows everybody in this town. Somebody would take her. I would if she needed me to.”

“No.” Brenda shakes her head. “She’d drive you crazy. Hell, she drives me crazy and she’s my own blood.”

“Brenda—”

“I can’t leave. I can’t.”

Damn Les Burnes.
Damn him straight to hell.

“You’re lucky, you know that?” Brenda’s full lips turn up at the corners, sad, wistful. “You could’ve turned out like me, being pregnant and all, but Rupe married you, made you a Burnes. You’re one of them. You belong, don’t you see that? Don’t you see how lucky you are?”