Heart and Home (26 page)

Spotting the tightly wrapped
tin-foil pack of brownies Lottie Kepner sent home with me, I stretched across
the table and grasped them, drawing them toward me. I opened up the package and
placated my confusion and lovesickness with bite after bite of fudge walnut
decadence. By the time I wolfed down three of them (and they were fairly large
in portion, let me tell you,) I had a vague idea of what needed to be done.

My finances were in order
for the time being, and I could manage to stay in my apartment and maintain my
bills until well after the holidays without seriously stressing to find another
job. I could freelance if I really needed to. I’d made plenty of contacts over
the years that not even Cal Rogers’ grudge could diminish.

Before the end of December I
would make a decision about where I was supposed to be.

I reached for my cellphone
and quickly punched in Becky’s number, which I used so often just the week
before that I had memorized it easily. On the third ring she picked up and
said, “Hello.”

“Hey Becky, it’s me.”

“Funny, I was just thinking
about you,” she laughed.

“Maybe I was sending
signals,” I said. “I’ve got some big news…”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Becky’s mind was blown when
I told her what I’d done, and she didn’t know what to think. I guess I didn’t
either because I didn’t think much about it at all over the next few days. Cal
was still sending me emails, which I read but refused to respond to.

I focused on writing in a
way I hadn’t done since high school, from the heart.

Because that was the thing
I’d always loved about words. They could be used in so many ways to really
appreciate everything going on in the world around me, but for the last four
years I’d been using them in much the same way I scorned Amber Williams for
doing to the people she felt were beneath her. I’d written more than my fair
share of stories for the
Tribune
that
probably ruined a few lives, and though there’d been excitement in catching
stories like that, there were also plenty of times I felt like a snoopy jerk
who got her jollies airing other peoples’ dirty laundry.

Troy said he thought I was a
damn good writer, but how could he say that if he’d really read my work at the
Tribune
. That hadn’t been my ambition in
high school. I always loved writing about entertainment and music, movies and
theatre—things people enjoyed about life and the real irony was that the
slap-in-the-face job Cal tried to give me before I walked out would have
actually been closer to the kinds of things I wanted to write about when I started
out. Human interest, local happenings, reflections of the world’s moments
before they passed us by.

There had been no sign of my
mother’s ghost since I dreamed about her sitting next to my bed while I slept,
but I continued to read through forums and websites looking for some kind of
explanation about what happened while I’d been home. Despite the lack of
paranormal activity, which was more than a little disturbing, I kind of missed
the feeling of certainty that she was nearby and watching over me. I kept the
message she left on my machine, maybe that was a little crazy, but sometimes
when I really felt like I needed to hear her voice, I played the message back
and just listened for comfort’s sake alone.

I didn’t let the guilt eat
at me, though there were days it really wanted to swallow me whole. I tried not
to let myself wonder too often whether things might have turned out differently
had I called her back that day.

I didn’t tell Troy or my
father right away about quitting my job. Troy planned to drive down to see me
the following Sunday after I’d gone back to the city, and I figured talking
with him about my decision would be easier face to face. Besides, our time
talking was not usually spent on the mundane, especially once Troy started to
feel more comfortable on the phone. There were nights that I’d just crawl into
bed with the phone and turn off the light, pretending he was there beside me
confessing the reason behind his lacking spiritual faith.

Between confessions and
plans, we explored each other’s hopes and dreams, and for the first time in my
life my own aspirations felt a little bit murky.

That Sunday evening when we
lie in the dark of my bedroom together, hidden away from the city beyond the
walls, we lay wrapped in the sheets and each other’s arms continually
unraveling each other’s darkest secrets and desires. Propped on his elbow on
the pillow beside me, he listened as I let it all out, how I’d quit my job and
didn’t know where I was going to go from there, and when I finished he shook
his head, offering a knowing grin.

“I knew it! What other
people think really does bother you.”

“But it doesn’t,” I
insisted. “I mean, it does, but not how you would think. It’s sort of messed
up, I guess. Like, take Becky, for instance. She can talk about me all she
wants because she’ll do it with a good heart and nature. But the people who
talk just for the sake of trying to unearth some twisted secret they can smear
all over town…”

“Like your old friend
Amber?”

“Yes!” I rolled back into my
pillow. “And there are a lot of Ambers in Sonesville, Troy. You know there are.
I saw a good handful of them at church last Sunday.”

“Yeah, but there are a lot
of Becky’s too,” he pointed out. “The world is full of people who only feel joy
when they’re causing other’s misery, Janice, but you can’t let them interfere
with your life like that. That’s what they want, to get under your skin.”

“I guess,” I reached up and
tangled our fingers together. “But that is the thing that really makes it hard
to even consider coming back there for good. Here, I can be anonymous.”

“Is that what you really
think? That just because you’re out here no one’s talking about you?”

“No,” I shook my head.
“People back home may still talk about me, but I’m not there to see the looks
on their faces when I walk through the produce section at the supermarket, or
when I sit down next to you in church on Sunday morning.”

He shrugged, “I suppose, but
I always just stand there and grin like I know something they don’t. It seems
to really mess with their heads and make them wonder what they’re missing.”

I giggled. “I guess that
makes you a braver man than I.”

“God, I hope you’re not a
man,” he leaned over the mere inches that separated us and grazed my lips. “I
mean, that certainly would give them something to talk about, but it’s the
girly part of you that turns me on.”

“You know what I mean,” I
laughed.

“Yes, and I will vouch for
the fact that you are one hundred percent girl.” He kissed the tip of my nose
and added, “Cooties and all.”

“If I have cooties, I got
them from you, Mr. I’m Going to Chase All the Girls at the Church Picnic and
Kiss Them.”

He fell backwards with a
dramatic groan, “You remember that?”

“How could I forget? In
fact,” I crawled across the bed and rested atop his chest, “when I first saw
you that day at Mom’s funeral that was the first thing I remembered about you.”

“Was that before or after
you fainted?”

“How do you know that wasn’t
why I fainted?”

There was something about
his laughter that made me feel full inside. “What you saw me and fainted?”

“You were that gorgeous,” I
made big, playful eyes at him. “One look, and I knew I had to do something to
get your attention.”

“That’s probably exactly
what happened. You women and your wicked games, I should have known.”

“But seriously, even though
it was probably one of the scariest things that ever happened to me, I’m glad
it was you that came to my rescue that day.”

“Being rescued was scary?”
He leaned back in mock surprise. “I thought that women liked that sort of
thing? Knights in shining armor, and all that nonsense?”

“Fainting was scary,” I
corrected him. “The rescuing thing was very attractive.” I slid up into his
kiss, and for a few moments we let ourselves be carried away.

At last he lifted his hands
to my face and held the hair away as he looked into my eyes. “So, quitting your
job…does this mean you’ll be coming back home?”

“Not yet,” my eyes darted
away for a moment, quickly returning to his. “I really don’t know what I’m
going to do just yet.”

I thought I noted a hint of
disappointment, but he veiled it well before asking, “So, you’re going to stay
here then?”

“I think I have to,” I said.
“I keep thinking about what you said to me, about how I shouldn’t make any
quick decisions so soon after my mom dying, and I think you’re right.” I traced
my finger over his collarbone so lightly it raised goose bumps across his
chest. “I mean, yeah, quitting my job was probably a super rash decision, but
my reasons for doing it felt right at the time, and they still do, but moving
back home so soon… I don’t know,” he lowered his hands, allowing the hair to
fall back into my face. “I want to come back for all the right reasons, not
just one or two.”

“I understand.”

“But I’m still going to come
home on weekends, and holidays,” I assured him. “Just like I planned before I
quit my job. I just feel like I need some time to figure out who I am and where
I belong.”

After a moment’s thought he
nodded and said, “I think that’s a very wise choice.”

“Thank you,” I watched his
face for signs of discontent, but saw nothing. “I had such issues with that
place all my life, you know? Yeah, when I came back this time it felt
different, and I felt a connection I hadn’t ever felt before, but…”

“But what if it’s not
enough?” He finished my thought. “What if you come back and feel like it’s
imprisoned you again?”

In that moment I knew that
inside he understood the claustrophobic effect Sonesville had on me, that
restriction I’d always felt, as if the very town itself closed in all around me
to stifle me from growing. Reaching out, I touched his hair and ran my
fingertip along the curve of a renegade curl standing out among the rest. “Why
did you want to leave, Troy?”

His eyes moved away from my
face, toward the candle I left burning on the bedside table. I watched the
flame flicker against the blue of his eyes while he thought out his reply. “I
don’t know, Janice. I just… I mean I got that scholarship and suddenly I was on
my way out of there. It wasn’t something I ever planned or considered, I mean I
just always assumed I’d be doing what I’m doing now. But then I was at the
university, and I saw that there were all these opportunities out there, and I
don’t know. I guess I let myself get carried away.”

“What do you mean carried
away?”

“I don’t know, I can’t
explain it.” I watched the muscles in his jaw tighten and remembered how each
time I brought up the whole experience of his going to school, he changed the
subject. “It doesn’t matter anyway because I needed to come back, and that’s
that.”

“But what if there was a way
that you could still finish school without giving up on the farm?” I asked. “I
mean, God, Troy. I’ve seen the things you are capable of. You can do amazing
things with your hands, I just know if…”

“Janice,” he closed his
eyes. “Just let it go,” he warned, and though his voice was soft, there was a
threatening edge in his tone that made me realize if I pushed it any further we
might very well have our first fight. “Please.”

Wrapped up in the newness of
the relationship and the desire for every moment to be tension free since our
time together was so limited, I heeded his warning and let it go, but it took
him several minutes of playful teasing to shift the mood and distract me from
the realization that he was more haunted by the choices he made in his life
than I was by my mother’s ghost the entire time I’d been home to visit.

Yes, he had shown me a great
deal of himself over the last couple of weeks, but he was holding back what I
was sure was the greatest part of who he was.

I woke in the middle of the
night to the sound of him mumbling in his sleep. He tossed fitfully, teeth
clenched as he continued to mutter unintelligibly. I reached out and touched
his arm, but he didn’t seem to notice at first. There was a terrible and
frightening power in his movement, the tightened muscles like a wall of anger
encasing him.

“Hey,” I whispered, and
pressed myself against his back. “Troy, it’s okay.” The sound of his name
seemed to relax him, and for the time being he stopped fighting against
whatever demons plagued his dreams. “It was just a dream,” I brushed my lips
along the warm skin of his shoulder and wrapped my arms around him from behind.

During the rest of his
visit, I didn’t bring up the nightmare or try to convince him he needed to do
something to outlet his need to create. Since he never really visited the city,
only driven by it on the way to somewhere else, we spent Monday afternoon
walking around North Side bundled up against the cold wind that swept in
carrying small flurries of snow from time to time.

We stopped at the Andy
Warhol Museum, but unfortunately the only day they closed up shop was Monday.
So, despite the fact that it was colder by the water, we walked along the
Allegheny River for a while before I drew him into the early financial district
on Fourth Avenue so he could appreciate the architecture of some of the oldest
and finest buildings in the city. He didn’t seem to get excited until we came
out at the Wood Street Subway Station, which fit like a triangle wedged piece
of art under Sixth Avenue and Wood Street.

He walked around the
building twice before asking if we could go into the station to see the inside.
The gallery above was closed, but Troy was quite content to study the building
as it was, mentioning that maybe he could schedule his next visit around an
exhibit so we could come back and check out the gallery.

Back at my apartment that
night we ordered Thai take-out with the intention of watching a movie we’d
rented on the way back from our walk. After watching him stretch his neck and
shoulder through the first fifteen minutes of the movie, wincing every time he
did, I offered a massage which eventually led to another instance of us getting
lost in the moment. By the time we returned to our senses the television was
playing the opening menu screen over and again, indicating the movie ended, but
neither of us really seemed to care.