Once Beyond a Time (27 page)

I was also thinking this morning that I hadn’t seen Celeste in nearly six months when suddenly she was there, sitting in the other rocking chair, holding a cup of tea. She was smiling dreamily to herself, so I greeted her by asking what she was thinking about. The wedding, of course.

I try to smile at Celeste now as I ask, “Will Mrs. See be there?”

“Oh yes, she’ll be there. Of course.” She sips her tea, and her brow puckers as though in thought. “What makes you ask about Mrs. See?”

“I don’t know,” I say, though actually I do. I sigh, get up, and pour myself another cup of coffee. “This morning I was remembering what she said about spring. You know, that spring would come. Now it’s April and everything is budding and blooming.” I turn to the window and look out. “But it isn’t spring. Not really.”

Always winter and never Christmas,
I think.
And certainly never spring.

I move back to my chair and sit. Celeste is nodding. She settles her empty cup and saucer on the hearth. “I wish I could tell you what Mrs. See meant, but I don’t know.”

“That’s all right,” I say. I look at the coffee in my cup and feel my stomach turn. I don’t want it after all. I too settle my cup and saucer on the hearth. “Strange things happen in this house, and none of it seems to make much sense. I suppose I should be used to that by now, if one can get used to”—I wave a hand—“any of this.”

Celeste rocks quietly a moment. “I think someday it will all make sense—everything that’s happened and is happening here, I mean.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I really do.” She stops rocking and leans forward in her chair. “I have something to tell you. It’s another message from Mrs. See. I’m not
sure it’s proper for me to be passing along messages but …” Her eyes roam the room as though she’s waiting to see whether something or someone will stop her from speaking.

“How does Mrs. See know about me?” I ask quickly, in case she disappears.

“Oh, I know for sure I can’t tell you that,” she says, shaking her head.

“Okay. Well, can you tell me the message?”

Her warm eyes come to rest on my face and she smiles. “She says there must be forgiveness where Sheldon is concerned.”

I draw back in surprise. “How does she know I haven’t forgiven Sheldon? Did you tell her?”

“No. I promise you, I didn’t tell her.”

“Who is this Mrs. See then? Is she some sort of clairvoyant or something?”

Celeste laughs lightly. “Oh my, no. Nothing like that.”

“Well, you must have told her
something
about me.”

“A little. Not much, really.” She pauses, then adds, “I can tell you only that she’s a woman who cares about you.”

“Cares about me? She doesn’t even know me.”

“Well, she has a good heart.”

“And does this Mrs. See have a first name?”

Celeste chuckles again. “Yes she does. Her name is Margaret.”

“Uh huh.”

I’d like to tell Celeste to tell Margaret See to mind her own business. But I don’t.

I don’t because I know Margaret See is right. A year has passed since Sheldon first asked me to forgive him, and I haven’t done it.

I rise and go back to the window. I look out at all the blooming things, the newly unfurled leaves on the trees, the crocuses and daffodils budding near the edge of the yard. Behind me, I hear Celeste say, “Mrs. See, she’s like most old folks, you know? They’re always talking about how fast time
goes, how fast their lives have gone by. She says young folks think they have all the time in the world, and the next thing they know, it’s all gone. The sure thing about time is that it always runs out.”

I think about that a moment. Then, still looking out the window, I say, “All right. What’s that have to do with me?”

“She wants to know what you’re waiting for,” Celeste says. “Because if you wait too long, it’ll be too late.”

What, in fact,
am
I waiting for? When will the moment come that I’ll finally forgive Sheldon? Will I ever be willing to forgive him?

A cloud shifts and sunlight slants across the yard, falling softly on the grass. Winter has indeed ceded to spring, no matter how I feel about it. In all the calculating I’ve done these past months, I never figured into it the fact that time runs out. I know that Mrs. See is right, and I must find it in myself to forgive my husband, in spite of the lingering heartache. Maybe not today and maybe not tomorrow, but soon. This is something I must do very soon.

I turn back to say as much to Celeste, but the chair where she was sitting is empty and her tea cup too has disappeared from the hearth.

Friday, April 11, 1969

“S
OMEBODY HERE TO
see you, Shel.” Ike Kerlee takes the butt of a cigarette out of his mouth and, with a flick of his wrist, sends it airborne. It lands on the hood of a ’62 Nova. He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy lighting up another.

“Who is it?” I ask. I’m out on the lot putting price tags on windshields.

“I don’t know. Never seen her before, and she wouldn’t give me her name.” His wrist is flapping now like a panicked bird as he extinguishes the match and lets it drop to the ground. I’m about to remind him Steve has asked us to keep the lot free of litter, but he interrupts by saying, “She’s a looker, I can tell you that much.”

I’d be more than happy to hand this customer over to Ike. It’s nearly quitting time, I’m tired, and I’m not sure I have the patience to talk to someone who probably doesn’t know the first thing about cars. “You sure she asked for me specifically?”

He exhales, squinting at me through the smoke. “Your name’s Sheldon Crane, ain’t it?”

Wiseguy. Sighing, I offer Ike what I hope is a respectable look of annoyance, then turn and head to the office. On the way, I glance at my watch: 4:24 p.m. Depending on what this lady wants, I may not be out of here by 5:00.

My feet reluctantly carry me up the two cinderblock steps to the door of the trailer. I open it to find a blonde-haired woman gazing out the window, her back to me. She’s wearing a pillbox hat and a blue tailored suit, like she’s dressed to go somewhere special.

“Good afternoon,” I say. “Can I help you?”

When she turns around, I feel myself punched in the gut. I am sent reeling. I clutch the doorknob to steady myself.

“Charlene!” I say.

“Hello, Sheldon.” Her voice is cool, confident. She takes a step toward me, and only then do I notice the tiny, bundled child in her arms. One glance at the sleeping baby sends me into a cold sweat. I swipe a hand across my forehead and find it moist. “I know you weren’t expecting me,” Charlene goes on.

“No, I …” I am shaking my head dumbly. The room seems to fluctuate as though the earth is tilting at odd angles.

“I decided I had to come. I had to see you,” she says.

I must sit down. I wave a trembling hand toward the metal chairs by my desk. “Won’t you have a seat?”

She chooses a chair, shifts the sleeping child from the crook of one arm to the other. She smiles wanly up at me.

I somehow make it to my desk chair, collapsing into it. I clasp my hands together on the desktop to try to still them. My eyes keep moving to the door.

Oh God, if you’ve ever answered my prayers, hear me now. Please don’t let Ike Kerlee walk through that door.

“I heard about Digger,” she says abruptly. My eyes shift from the door to her face, that lovely young face. “I want you to know how sorry I am. He was a good boy.”

“Yes. Thank you. He’s a good boy,” I repeat, changing her past tense to present almost without thinking.

“Mother told me back in October, back when it happened. You know,
when Steve was calling the news around to family. He told Mother, who told me. I could hardly believe it. I still can hardly believe it.”

Oh yes, Charlene’s mother was Steve’s aunt, Meg’s aunt. Of course, yes, family call family in the face of tragedy. People needed to be notified.

“I would have come then,” she continues, “but I wasn’t able to travel.” She drops her eyes demurely and settles them on the face of the child. The baby is so small I recognize it as a newborn, no more than a month old, maybe two.

“Are you here to see Meg?” I ask hopefully.

The blue eyes rise to meet mine; they are full of something I don’t quite understand. “No, Sheldon,” she says slowly. “I’m here to see you. I thought you ought to know.” She lifts the child a fraction of an inch. “He’s yours.”

“Mine?”

“Yes. Yours and mine. This is our son.”

Now I’m certain the earth has tilted precipitously, and I’m hanging on to the desk for dear life. If I let go, I will go floating off without a tether into space. “Are you sure?” I ask dumbly. “Absolutely sure?”

Now the look in her eyes tells me distinctly that she’s hurt and a little angry. “Of course, I’m sure.” She shakes her head. “You were the only one.”

I stare at my hands clenched on top of my desk. I don’t want to see the child, don’t want to see its face. Certainly, I don’t want to believe it’s mine. “But when we parted,” I say, “I had no idea.”

“When we parted, I didn’t want you to know. I wasn’t sure I was going to tell you at all. But then …”

“But then what, Charlene?”

Her shiny red lips form a small line. “Then I heard about Digger. I didn’t know what to do at first, but after he was born”—she glances again at the child—“I thought … well …”

I wait. She looks at me expectantly as though I already know what she’s going to say.

After a long and painful silence, she finally says, “I’ve come to ask you to marry me, Sheldon. We have a child. You lost Digger but … you have a new son. You can start over. The three of us—we can make a family.”

Perspiration explodes along my brow. “But Charlene, I
am
married. I have a wife—”

“But you don’t love her, Sheldon.”

“No, you’re wrong. I love Meg. I always have. I—”

Suddenly, the door flies open, and Ike Kerlee comes barreling in. He must see the look of horror on my face because he stops in mid-stride. His eyes roll from me to Charlene, and then for once he does something right. He backs up and leaves without saying a word.

I take several deep breaths, thanking God for the interruption. Finally, I look back at Charlene. “Do you have a lawyer?”

“No.” Her voice is small. She shakes her head.

“Find one,” I say. “Find one and put him in touch with me. We’ll make arrangements for child support. I can promise to help you financially, but that’s all I can do.”

The blue eyes become glistening ponds. I am overwhelmed by a sense of my own wrongness. What have I done to this young woman? In how many ways have I hurt her? The evidence of my wretchedness lies in her arms.

“Charlene,” I say, “if only I could undo it all. If only you had never known me.”

“I’m not sorry, Sheldon. I loved you. I still love you.” She stops. She’s waiting for me to respond. I can’t. Timidly, she asks, “Do you … don’t you still love me?”

I feel the sudden urge to tear at myself—my arms, my legs, my face—to rip away the flesh that has brought me to this moment. “No,” I say, voice trembling. “No, I’m sorry. But no.”

Her eyes well up and then a single tear rolls down each cheek. And yet, she tries to smile. “I didn’t think so,” she says. “But I had to ask. I wanted
to know for sure. I didn’t want to go through my whole life wondering. I mean, you can’t blame me, can you?”

I shake my head slowly. “No, I can’t blame you.”

“I was hoping, maybe you’d change your mind about things. Especially, once you saw the baby and all.”

“I am sorry,” I say again. “I really am. So very sorry.”

I wait for her to explode. I wait for her chastisement to fall down on my head. Surely she’s furious, isn’t she? What woman wouldn’t be? If she were to lash out verbally, even physically, I would feel it was my due.

But she doesn’t. She simply reaches for a scrap of paper and a pen, scribbles something, pushes the paper across the desk at me. “This is my address and phone number,” she says quietly. “In case you change your mind.”

She stands to go.

“Charlene?”

She pauses. She won’t look at me.

“Promise me you’ll call that lawyer. You have my word, I’ll help you financially.”

She nods.

“And listen, if you ever need anything … extra … for the boy, anything at all, you must let me know.”

She glances at me, nods again—one small lift of her chin—and walks to the door. She hesitates a moment, her hand on the knob. “Sheldon?”

“Yes, Charlene?”

“Before I go, wouldn’t you like—you know—just to look at him? Don’t you want to see how beautiful he is?”

I drop my eyes and shake my head. “No. Please, it’d be best if I didn’t. I’m sorry. Please try to understand.”

I hear her sigh. The door squeaks open slowly. I raise my eyes to her again to find her looking back at me over her shoulder. “Your son’s name is Gavan,” she says. “At least you should know that much about him.”