Of Body And Soul (11 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Andrea opened the bedroom window overlooking the bandstand on
Albany Street, and thought of their honeymoon.
Has it been three months?
She shivered, not  knowing if it was  because of the scene she remembered of the children in the marketplace, or just the cloudy sky predicting rain. She discarded her doubts. After all, this was the Fourth of July and her first celebration since the wedding and her move to Kinderhook. The people of the village had gone to great lengths to make this Fourth of July a memorable one. 

Flags gracefully flapped from every storefront. A group of teenagers had wrapped each light pole with red, white, and blue fabric
, and at night the streetlights looked like huge lighted candles.

From the
bedroom window, she watched as vendors arrived with their carts, and restaurants opened their doors to place tables and chairs outside, in intimate groupings, giving the scene a European flair. She couldn't be happier as she watched the scene. She knew she had a wonderful life and silently said a prayer of thanks.

"Hey," Kurt called, "come back to bed." He pulled back
the white silk sheets as she snuggled in beside him. "Why are you up so early?"

"I thought I'd go to my studio and paint awhile before you got up, but I guess I won't go now," she said,
playing with the hairs on his chest.

"Stay with me. We haven't had the opportunity to pamper
ourselves since our honeymoon."

"I know. But you're the one who's been doing all the traveling. You've flown from
Albany to Manhattan so many times, you must have a reserved seat. Have you decided what newspaper you're going to work for?"

"I wanted to go with the Times, but I received an offer I can't refuse. I planned to tell you t
onight, right after the fireworks, but I guess now is as good a time as any." He stroked her arms and pushed the hair away from her eyes. "What do you think of your husband becoming a television personality?"

She sat up in bed. "A what?"

"You heard me," he grinned. “Channel Six has offered me a position, anchorman on the nightly news. It would mean working crazy hours, but I wouldn't have to travel as much."

"What a wonderful opportunity for you
, darling. It would give us more time together and we could finally start our family."

"What do you mean
, 'finally'? We've only been married for four months. Didn't we agree to wait two or three years?"

"Well, now that you have a secure job, I thought you'd want children sooner."

"You thought wrong." Kurt studied her face. "Damn it, Andrea. Stop trying to manipulate me." He jumped out of bed, went into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

Stunned, she sat up and rubbed her forehead. "Kurt, come back to bed. Please. Let's discuss this. I just. . ."

"I don't want to come back to bed and we're not going to discuss it anymore," he declared through the closed door.

She walked over to the door and gently tapped on it. "Kurt darling, come on out."

With that, he pulled the door open and stood there with his hands on his hips, staring at her. "What is it you want to hear? That I want children? Well, I don't. Not right now, anyway. You knew this from day one. Please don't do this to us."

"Do what to us? It's not us who doesn't want children
, it's you. You're spoiled and self-centered."

"Oh, are we going to start name calling?" The caustic
accusations shattered the mood that had begun their beautiful morning. "Look, this is a fact of life with me. I said not yet."

"What about my feelings? I'm not getting any younger. I'd
like to have a baby, before I'm too old to care for it," she said sarcastically. "Damn it. What's your problem? Talk to me, Kurt."

"Talk to me, Kurt," he said snidely. "You know, Andrea, not every kid came from an Ozzie and Harriet family. How the hell would you know anything about having problems with your pa
rents?"

She gripped her hands tightly together
and looked at Kurt as he paced back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists. She was overwhelmed when she saw the violent look on his face and she realized she didn't know this man at all.

"Emily told me you and your Dad didn't get along."

"Didn't get along," he laughed. "Did she also tell you how many times my father
spanked
me?"

And
rea glanced at Kurt. Something about the way he said the word
spanked,
the subtle emotional change in his voice, struck her.

"So tell me," she said s
ympathetically. Andrea walked over to Kurt and reached out to him. "Was your father a tyrant?"

Kurt backed away from her. "Don't touch me."

She drew back from him as if a ball of fire stood in his place. She fought the tears that flooded her eyes.

"Was my father a tyrant?" he spit the words out. "No, not really, I mean, he yelled and screamed a lot, and I got spanked once in a while, like other kids. But, I wouldn't call him a t
yrant," he lied.

"Kurt, I feel it goes deeper than that. Please, darling, talk to me."

              "Are you calling me a liar?" he yelled. "You don't know. You just don't know." He pulled on his shorts and shirt and tied his Nike's. "I'm going for a walk."

"Wait, I'll go with you."

"No. I'd rather go by myself," he said, and ran down the stairs, slamming the door behind him.

She glanced out the window and saw him run
down the street as if chased by the devil himself.

Kurt pounded down
Chatham Street with sweat pouring down his face, his lungs ready to burst. There was so much rage within him the bitter taste of bile burned his throat. He stopped a minute to wipe the salty sweat from his eyes and catch his breath.              

Thoughts
churned in his mind. He flinched as he remembered the painful beatings he took from his father
. Why does she want children? I thought once she realized what a wonderful life we had, just she and I, it would be enough for her. I don't want kids. I will not do to my kids what my father did to me. All the clinical research indicates when children are abused by their parents, those children will abuse theirs, and so the cycle continues. I love kids, but I will not let this
happen
.                            

He sat on a bench and rested his head in his hands. In a nearby backyard, he could hear the laughter and excitement of a child and an adult. He left the bench to search for the source of the sounds. He peered into a yard. A
small boy, about three or four, with blonde curly hair and deep blue eyes, played with a man about Kurt’s own age.             

"Come on, Peter. Kick the ball. You can do it." The child gave the soccer ball a swift kick. "That was great,
son.” The father approached the boy and knelt on one knee. “You were great," he said, hugging his son. The man looked up and smiled at Kurt. "Did you see that? Isn't he great?" He patted his son on the shoulders. "Come on, Peter. Let's find Mom and show her how you've progressed." Father and son walked away, hand in hand.

Kurt shuddered at the thoughts of his childhood. He remembered
a similar incident with a different ending. It hadn't taken much for Kurt to incur a beating: a defiant word, a below-par report card, or in his case a dropped football, were all sufficiently venal "crimes." His father was particular where he beat him: his back, his legs, his buttocks. Any hidden place. When the beatings first started, his body would bruise badly, but he'd never bleed. As the beatings grew more severe and the wounds got extremely bad, the blood would flow.

Kurt couldn't determine if the verbal abuse was worse than the physical abuse. At least with the beatings, the bruises went away. These memories still vivid, still crippling,
were etched in his mind. No way was he going to bring a child into this world. No way would he risk abusing or mistreating him. It was better not to have children at all. Not to have the dread of repeating history. He should have never lied to Andrea. He should have told her straight out he never wanted children and the reason for his decision. He'd go back now and tell her the truth. He loved her more than life itself, but nothing and no one would change his mind.

Andrea sat on the front porch and watched the festivities
progress with the day. She never heard the screen door slam shut, as Kurt entered through the back of the house. The swing in which she sat began to sway and she turned to look up at him, her eyes red and swollen from crying.

He pushed the swing i
n silence for a few more seconds and then sat next to her. He held her hand in his and brought it to his lips. "I'm sorry I hurt you," he said softly. "Is it too late to recoup the rest of the day?"

"No, my darling, it isn't." She rose from the swing and pulled him up to her. "Take me u
pstairs."  

A
s the curtains blew softly from the gentle breezes, music entered through the bedroom window. The day had stayed overcast, but it didn't rain. Andrea lay cuddled in Kurt's arms. 

"Should I be offended that my lovemaking has put you to sleep?" he asked.

Peacefully she shook her head and opened her heavy eyes. Kurt turned his head to glance at the clock on his night stand. "The crowds will be gathering for the concert," he whispered, not wanting to break the mood.

She pressed her body deep into his, like a spoon molded into another spoon, not wanting to leave the feel of him, the smell of him. She let her fingers trail a path down his stomach.

Kurt grabbed her hand before it reached its destination. "Don't you want to get something to eat before the concert starts?"

"Why can't we just stay here and listen? We have the perfect spot," she giggled, as she pr
oceeded on her destination.

"Yes, we do, but we won't see anything if you continue," he said huskily.

"I guess you're right. Our neighbors will wonder where we are." She jumped out of bed and ran for the shower. He wasn't far behind.

The smell of sausage smoking
on the grill; French fries being pulled from the fryer; pizza hot from the oven; the sweet smell of cotton candy and jellied apples; the laughter of children playing games and running through the streets; the hum of the orchestra tuning up; this was the Fourth of July. The excitement, the sights, the sounds, and the smells of a holiday.

They walked, hand in hand, as the excitement drew them in.

They stopped to admire a sculpture when Andrea saw her doctor. "Dr. Mitchell, I'm surprised to see you here!"

"Andrea, you look wonderful. I take it you've been well," she smiled.

"Yes, I have. I've gotten married since my last visit to your office. This is my husband, Kurt. Kurt, I'd like you to meet Doctor Mitchell." They shook hands. "She lives and practices in Albany."

"
What are you doing in our neck of the woods?" Kurt asked.

"Every summer I take the month of July off, and spend it roaming through the antique shops in Chatham,
Hudson and Kinderhook."

"I enjoy collecting antiques
," Kurt said. "Would you join us for a drink?"

"I'd love to, but I promised to m
eet someone," she said, smiling. "We'll probably run into each again other before the day is over. Maybe than," She waved farewell and hurried down the street.

"I'm starving," Kurt said, as they passed a cafe. He inhaled the aroma of grilled sausage, pe
ppers, and onions. "We have to stop and get one of these sandwiches," and hurried to the counter to place an order. "Andrea, honey, would you like one?"              

She nodded, "And
a beer, too.”

They ate while the orchestra played John Philip Sousa marches and then smoothly pr
ogressed to Mozart and Vivaldi.

"This orchestra is terrific. How does such a small town afford such extravagance?"

Andrea asked.

"Well, the committee hired this particular orchestra because of the string section. At first, the townspeople
gave the committee a hard time when they realized the cost. But, through the combined efforts of the committee, the students, the teachers, and the music department’s extensive fundraising campaign, they were able to acquire the funds to afford such a magnificent orchestra."

They sat and watched as the people marched and danced
, completely absorbed in the magic of the evening. By the time the fireworks were concluded and the national anthem sung, it had become impossible for Kurt to confront Andrea with his true feelings about children. He decided let it go for a couple of days and then have a serious talk with her.

Through the remainder of the summer, Andrea stayed busy, putting the finishing touches in their home, and helping with the last minute wedding preparations for Emily and Michael. She and Grays
on were on the phone constantly, the calls becoming an integral part of their lives. If it were possible to develop a deeper bond over the phone, they did.

Andrea learned Grayson loved Italian food, but hated red sauce. She loved to watch thrillers and comedies
, but hated science fiction. She loved the color of emeralds, but hated the color of rubies. She loved to garden, but was afraid of worms. “Grayson, I’ve learned so much about you. What have you leaned about me?”

Grayson was quiet for a moment. “Now that you asked, you are a
strong and independent woman, but a child at heart. You’re like a blender trying to fuse harmony into your life and everyone around you. Your adoration for children for is extreme and your need for a family is overpowering.  Are you happy, dear?" she asked.

"Oh, Grayson, I couldn't be happier."

"Have you discussed it with Kurt?"

"I've tried, but every time I broach the subject, he gets furious and becomes hateful. He won't let me near him and his silence becomes overbearing.”       

"Have you asked Emily
about his behavior?"

"Yes, I have. The only thing she says is she and Kurt had an extremely difficult father,
and Kurt should be the one to explain it to me."

"Why don't you plan a long weekend
together? I'm sure Kurt can get some time off from the television station.” Grayson became quiet. “Andrea, please don't do anything you'll regret later."

"I won't. I promise."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

As the last shades of the hot summer went into a surprisingly crisp autumn, Indian summer sneaked in and changed the aura of the landscape. The Catskill Mountains beckoned her with their display of color.

"Kurt, do you th
ink you could get some time off so we could have a weekend in the mountains?"

"I can't see why not. When do you want to go?"

"I'd like to go this weekend. There's a restored 1893 Victorian Inn in Windham. I used to go there in the summer, with my parents. There's a lake on the property where my Dad and I fished. You can fish while I do some painting. The mountain range is huge and reaches out and tugs at your inner soul. When the winds blow, you feel they’re speaking to you. It’s spectacular.”

"Sounds good to me. Make the reservation," he said, smiling.

As they drove to the Catskill Mountains, nature crept through the windows to stamp an indelible picture of trees: yellow-green, apricot-orange, lava red and bright canary, and fused them into a collage of breathtaking beauty. On arrival, the Wyndemere Inn greeted them with a magnitude of combined beauty and charm. It was everything Andrea remembered from her childhood and more.

White wicker rockers and green
Adirondack chairs graced the front and side porches, inviting visitors to sit and stay awhile. The huge Victorian etched glass doors opened to a living room that was not too large, not too small; just right.

When
she crossed the threshold, memories opened before her as if a curtain had been ripped aside. The smell of apples and cinnamon permeated the room. To the right, a Baby Grand sat waiting to be played. She walked over and sat down.

Reverently
she touched the cold black and white ivory. Her hands fell to her lap, as she deliberately let her mind run backwards.

Kurt watched as she gracefully placed her hands on the keys and closed her eyes. The sound of Chopin vibrated off the walls as her fingers passionately raced across the keys. He knew Andrea played, but she never
had played like this at home.

Kurt turned and looked out the windo
w. The wind had intensified, and the fallen leaves floated and danced to the tempo of the music. He closed his eyes and listened, devouring every note, every movement. As the Sonata climbed to its peak, the room became an intimate chamber. Captivated by the overwhelming feelings of the last few minutes, Kurt never heard the door open. The crescendo of the music brought him back. When he opened his eyes, an older man of sixty, wearing a red and black check flannel shirt and jeans, stood by the piano watching Andrea.

"Miss Wilson, is that you? I couldn't believe my ears when I heard that Sonata. Only one pe
rson played it like that." He smiled down on her. "Where is he?" he said, and turned around in search of her father. "Are they with you?" he looked around again, hoping to see them walk from one of the other rooms.

Andrea stood up and placed her arms around this man. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach his cheek. He picked her up, as if she were a basket of flowers.

It is you. My, my." He held her at arms’ length, "you've grown into a beautiful woman.”

He dropped his hands and looked toward the door. “We
ll, where are they?"

She forced back the tears tha
t wanted to come. "My parents . . ." she swallowed the lump in her throat. "My parents were killed in an automobile accident seventeen years ago."

"I'm sorry," he said, as he wiped his hand across his forehead. He cradled Andrea in his arms, and rocked her gently. He softly conveyed his condolences and then turned to Kurt.

"Mr. Belson, I'd like you to meet my husband, Kurt."