Bone Deep (6 page)

He
dropped his arms from her
as if he’d been scorched
.

As she scooted away, a pang went through her at the loss of those sheltering arms around her.
She touched her lips with her fingertips and
glanced at Tom.

He
knelt
, hands clenched into loose fists against his thighs. His chest moved in shallow breaths and his
gaze
slid away from hers to stare at the ground.

For a moment they
remained
froze
n
several yards apart.

Sarah broke the silence. “So your mother had
real
psychic powers.”

He sat back on his heels. “Sometimes.”

She brushed the embedded gravel from her palms. “And you
h
ave flashes sometimes
, l
ike the dream you mentioned. You told me yesterday you
’
d seen me before in a dream.”

He nodded
once
.

She pushed herself up to her knees. “What happened in th
at
dream?”

He shook his head, still studying the ground. “Nothing.”

Sarah was curious about the dream, but dropped the subject.

“
H
ow often do you have these premonitions
,
and how often do they come true?” She was excited yet
dismayed
by the idea of someone possessing such powers. She’d been raised in
a
Christian and even though she hadn’t attended church or talked to God much since John’s funeral, old beliefs died hard. The minister would’ve said it was against nature and maybe even a sign of the devil to be able to
see the future
.

Tom looked at his hands, clenching and unclenching them slowly. “When people come to look at me, sometimes I see pieces of their lives. I don’t know if it’s something that’s going to happen or something already past. It’s just ... pictures.”

“But you knew today that the car was going to fall on me.”

“Yes.” He looked into her eyes again. “You were going to be hurt.
I couldn’t let that happen.
”

She
exhaled
, trying to comprehend everything he
’
d told her. It
seemed outlandish
, but the proof was in the solid
Plymouth
sitti
ng barely a yard away from her with
the jack lying on its side beneath it.

“Thank you. You probably just saved my life.”

Tom smiled at her then, the tiniest
lift of the corners of his mouth, eyes crinkling a little
.

Suddenly Sarah laughed giddily, overcome by the intensity of her brush with danger. “I just realized. I still have to change the stupid oil.”

He rose to his feet. “I can do it for you.”

“No. I need to get back on the horse,” she said, standing up too.

He looked at her blankly.

“It’s an expression. It means facing your fears.”

He nodded.

Tom helped her place the jack and make sure the
Plymouth
was securely seated on it this time. When Sarah continued to struggle with the wrench, he took over in typical male fashion, turning the plug with
infuriating
ease. He placed the pan beneath the drain and
climbed
out from under the car.

“I’ll finish up,” she insisted.
“I need to be able to do this myself.”

Still he stood by while the oil drained into the pan and checked to make sure the drain plug was secure after Sarah had screwed it tight.

“Men,” she mumbled, picking up the container of oil and carrying it to the refuse pit to dispose of it.

When she
returned
, Tom had let the car off the jack and was opening the hood to add oil.

“I
told you, I
can do it.” Sarah’s tone
was sharper than she intended, and s
he felt awful when he stepped quickly away from the engine. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap
, b
ut
, a woman living on her own needs to be able to take care of things like this. But i
f you want to chop some more firewood
, I wouldn’t stop you.
”

Obediently he
started
toward the back yard.

“Tom, wait.” She walked over to him and took his hand, smiling up
at him
. “Thank you again for saving me.”

He nodded and his eyes
creased at the corners
again.

She
found she
didn’t want to let go of his hand, but forced herself to step away after a moment. He looked at her for another
second
then turned and headed around the corner of the house.

Sarah filled the engine with fresh oil, wiped her hands
and
slammed the hood shut.
Checking
her watch
, she saw
it was already time to begin preparing dinner if she was going to have the pot roast ready by six o’clock.

While she
washed
vegetables at the kitchen sink, she watched Tom through the window
, chopping wood
. He was such an odd man, unlike anyone she
’
d ever met. While much of that probably had to do with his strange upbringing, she felt there was more to it than that. There was a far-seeing look in his eyes that made her think of angels, or mythological stories of gods who walked among men.

She wished she could get him to talk more. Their meals together had been mostly silent and she
’
d been forced to carry on
one
-sided conversations. She wanted to know more about him, how much he understood about the world, or if he had been imprisoned in ignorance. It would be a slow process to draw him out.

Sarah suddenly realized that in one day she had decided
to let him
remain here
. Without discussing it or asking him his plans, Sarah knew that he was here to stay. Taking on the responsibility of hosting him was overwhelming, but
also
a comfort. The farm hadn’t felt so much like ‘home’ in a long time.
The desolation she’d experienced since John’s death had receded a little and for the first time in months, she felt an interest in something. Maybe too much interest.

Outside the kitchen window, Tom’s muscular arms emblazoned with bold colors lifted the axe and brought it down in methodical strokes.
Sarah
watched his smooth movements and rippling back muscles and once more that trapped-bird
flutter
in
side her started up
.

She focused on
the potato she
’
d pared to almost nothing
and
kept her gaze firmly away from the window.

After supper that night
Sarah and Tom
retired once more to the living room.
She
built a small fire to ward off the chill and they sat before the fireplace in
the two
armchairs. Again Sarah listened to the news
on the radio, but she noticed
Tom looking at the
Tom Sawyer
book
on the shelf like an anxious dog waiting for its food bowl to be filled
.
Why couldn’t he just tell her what he wanted?

S
he realized
if she waited for him to say something,
she’d be waiting until dawn so she finally
asked
, “Would you like to hear more of the story?”

“Yes.”

Tom had said he
could read a little. She
’d
like to find out how much. “Why don’t you follow along with me in the book?
W
e’ll look at
the book
together.”

They stretched on their stomachs on the rug in front of the crackling fire, arms propped on throw pillows from the couch. She opened the book to the first chapter this time and began to read.

"‘TOM!’ No answer. ‘What's gone with that boy, I wonder? You TOM! No answer. The old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the room; then she put them up and looked out under them
.”

Sarah ran her finger along under each word,
pointing out
the places where
Tom’s own
name was printed. When she glanced sideways, he was frowning at the black print and her moving finger.

They were shoulder to shoulder. She
felt
heat radiating from his body and the warm skin of his arm
brushing against
hers. Her attention was distracted from the story as she stole a look at the tattoo on the back of his hand stretched out beside hers.
A bright sun had flaming rays which
licked out from the solar disc up his fingers and around the sides of his hand toward his palm.

Sarah
brought her attention back to the book and read quickly through the abridged version.
Some of the language was quite old fashioned and she didn’t want to lose Tom’s interest.
Soon she
reached
the p
assage in which
Tom me
t
Becky Thatcher.

“
He worshipped this new angel with furtive eye, till he saw that she had discovered him; then he pretended he did not know she was present, and began to show off in all sorts of absurd boyish ways, in order to win her admiration
.”

She stopped. “Tom, do you want to try to read a little bit.”

He shook his head
and
tapped the page for her to go on.

Sarah continued until she reached the description of Huck Finn.

“
Huckleberry came and went, at his own free will. He slept on doorsteps in fine weather and in empty hogsheads in wet; he did not have to go to school or to church, or call any being master or obey anybody
.”

She was struck by the
similarity to Tom, a rootless man
with no place to call home. She was glad she hadn’t chosen to read Huckleberry Finn with its harsh descriptions of the boy’s abuse by his father,
far
too similar to Tom’s real life. However, Huck had escaped to freedom so maybe it was a story that Tom would enjoy.

He nudged the back of her hand, letting her know she’d paused too long
. “Go on.”

She smiled but closed the book. “My throat’s sore. I can’t read any more.” She turned toward him and his face was
right in front of hers
. “Tom
,
growing up in that place was there anyone who you talked with? Anyone who was a friend? All those years--there must have been someone.”

He traced the illustration on the cover with his finger. “Bernard. He talked to me sometimes, brought me things to eat. He’s the small man you saw.”

“
The midget?
Where do all of those people come from? All the people in the”
—s
he almost said ‘freak show’ but
changed it to—
“
s
ideshow?”

“Everywhere. People who belong there find their way.”

Sarah thought that no one belonged in such a bizarre, nomadic world.

He turned on his side to face her and propped his head on
his
hand. “Tell me about your family.” It was the first time he
’
d made a direct request.

He was so
near
she could see the shadow of stubble growing on his scalp, blurring the images there. She felt self-conscious talking with his eyes riveted on her.

“Well, I’m from
Chicago
originally. I met John when we were in college
. He was in the agricultural program
. We got married and moved here to
Fairfield
after his father died and left him the farm
. His mother
had passed away some time before
. Now that John is gone I don’t know what keeps me here. My parents want me to
come home to
Chicago
but
... I’m not ready to leave here.”

Sarah was afraid to find out that she was just as lonely in
Chicago
as she
’
d been on the farm. Maybe there was nowhere on earth where she wouldn’t be lonely without John.