On Shifting Sand (45 page)

Which he did. We did, not touching each other again until we made our vows to each other. Now, though, my sin
is
against Russ, and I don’t have his faith to guide me to mercy. I remember his words.
Did I sin? Yes. Did I confess? Yes.
And I must accept God’s forgiveness as a fact. But I’ve never given it a chance to renew my spirit. I’ve been adulterous with my mind and my body, never letting Jim far from my thoughts since the night I met him, and taking advantage of every opportunity for his attention, his conversation, his touch, and all.

But I can do better. And it will start at this moment.

With my robe wrapped tight around me and my feet left bare, I brave the ice-cold of the kitchen, stairs, and shop floor, maneuvering expertly through the dark storeroom and finding the latch. I move it slowly so as not to make a sound. If he wants me, he’ll have to knock. If I want him, I’ll have to open, but the barrier of that small metal bolt will give me a chance to do the right thing. It will be my strength.

Back upstairs, I resist the urge to take back to my bed. Instead, I start a pot of coffee, dress, and run a comb through my hair. Unlike the other mornings, I refuse to enhance myself in any way. My skin remains dull and dry, my cheeks sallow, my lips their own natural dark. No powder, no perfume. The woman staring back at me is not one waiting for her lover. She is a trusted wife, locked inside her house, dedicated to her home, protecting it from the lion bent on devouring her.

She needs a task for her wayward hands.

Outside, the wind blows hard, but clean. Perfect for washing, so I set about gathering linens and towels. In Ronnie’s room, I pick his clothes up carefully, so as not to shake them and send clouds of dirt into the room, already in need of a good swabbing. I drop the clothing in the tub to soak and take the linens to the kitchen, where I drag the Maytag from its place in the corner and attach the hose to the sink to watch it fill as I sip my coffee.

I glance at the clock—9:15. He should be here by now, waiting. Standing across the street, perhaps, watching for my return, wondering if I’ve been held up at the school, or in some conversation with Merrilou
Brown at the crosswalk. More likely, he stands on our loading dock, gingerly trying to open the door, turning the knob and giving it a hesitant push, curious at the resistance.

The water rises in the white tub, and I pray for deliverance and strength. I flip the switch and watch the agitators spring to life, their sound filling the kitchen. Our bedsheet disappears beneath the water and I think,
There. I cannot take a lover on a bare mattress.
But I could, and I would, were I to open the door and find him on the other side. So I must not open the door.

Then Ariel’s sheet. Then Ronnie’s, and a cup of pure white soap flakes that dissolve the minute they hit the water. This is Ariel’s favorite part, and I’ll be sure to save some of the washing until the afternoon so she can share the excitement.

My stomach churns with the same intensity as the washer. Jim has lain within those very sheets with me. Now our mingled sin sloshes along beside the innocence of my children. How could I have brought him into our
home
? Not like Russ, with the welcoming arms of a friend and the heart of a Samaritan offering shelter to the wounded.

“God, forgive me,” I say, knowing my words are swallowed up by the overwhelming rhythm of the washer. “Protect me, and send him away. Keep him away, Lord.” I can make no promises on my own behalf, having no strength of my own and little evidence of God’s strength working through me. But if his hand can keep Russ at a distance, surely he can do the same with Jim? Pick him up and put him down. Let him ride the winds of a storm to some other place. Let him find another woman—

My heart clenches at the thought of his sharing another woman’s bed, but there is a reason I’ve never asked where he spends his afternoons. Or his nights. Or why he always smells of reliable Ivory soap and has clean clothes. Or why he is never hungry. All of these are the works of a woman. Not a squatter, not a hobo. A woman close by, maybe a woman I know.

“Oh, God—what a fool.” The same realization I came to after that first afternoon, and here I am no wiser than before.

A tiny sound rings out above the clangor of the washer, distinguished by its high, metallic tone, something I haven’t heard in weeks. The bell above the shop door downstairs. For all my confidence in the tiny metal bolt on the storeroom door, I forgot that he has a key to the shop.

No, no, no. Lord, please. No.

I measure his steps in my mind, crossing the store, up the stairs, his footfall muffled by the washer. Plunging my hands into the soapy water, I grab one of the sheets, occupying myself against his touch, feeding the fabric through the slow-turning wringer. I sense, rather than hear, the kitchen door open behind me, and my skin feels the weight of his steps ripple across the linoleum. Already, weakness threatens to overtake me, and when I feel his hand cupped against my waist, drawing me back toward him, I can only whimper, “You shouldn’t be here.”

He blows a hush against my neck, igniting my flesh, pulls me closer, and brings his other hand—

My heart stops.
Russ.

And everything goes black.

“Not exactly the welcome home I was expecting.” I recognize the lightheartedness in his voice, though his eyes hold nothing but grave concern as he dabs at my forehead with a cool, damp cloth.

“You startled me is all.” I reach up to catch his hand and kiss that place on his wrist where his pulse runs warm. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Who were you expecting?”

I can’t tell if he is joking or not, so I dodge the question entirely. “Why are you here?”

He helps me sit up against the arm of the couch, making sure I feel strong enough to do so, and comes to sit beside me.

“Last night, after I hung up the telephone, I kept hearing Ariel’s voice.”

I chuckle. “Believe me, I
always
hear Ariel’s voice.”

“Afterward, I was consumed with this longing to be home. Everything
you’ve said to me came flooding back, and then it was your voice, not Ariel’s. I could hear you as clearly as if you were right next to me.”

“Oh, Russ—” I lean against him, my arms encircling his, my head on his broad, welcoming shoulder, knowing exactly what he is going to say next.

“I went to my knees and prayed,” he confirms. “I asked God to forgive me for my heedlessness, and for not trusting him enough to provide for us in a way that didn’t tear us apart. And then, in my spirit, I heard him tell me to go home.”

“Go home,” I repeat, just to hear it in my own voice. “So what did you tell the hospital?”

“That I had a family, and that I couldn’t be at the hospital for all the days they required. I’m going back Monday morning—” he put his finger to my lips to quell my approaching protest—“to meet with several ministers from other churches, schedule some hours for volunteering time. The need is so great.”

“But our debt is paid, isn’t it? They don’t need you driving in from the next town.”

He pats my leg, reassuring. “We’ll see, but I hope not. I like to think I’m needed here, too.”

“You are.”

I pull his face close for a kiss, which he immediately deepens, pulling me across his lap like we are teenagers again. My mind reels, twisting upon itself as the relief of Russ’s return collides with the fear of discovery. An unexpected deliverance. Surely Jim must see the car parked in the alley, or in front of the store. He knows—he must know—Russ is here. To stay away. More ardent embraces push Jim to the edge of my mind, and my husband seems unaware of any distraction on my part. He stands, sweeping me up in his arms, and carries me halfway to the bedroom before I pull myself away.

“We can’t.”

He nudges my neck. “Of course we can. The kids are at school.”

“I don’t have clean sheets on the bed.”

“I don’t mind.”

I wriggle in his grasp. “I can’t leave the laundry like that, undone. The soap will dry in the fabric, and then it’s impossible. Besides, it’s a clear day. Who knows when we’ll have another one?”

He kisses the end of my nose and returns me to my feet. “I suppose I could help.”

“With laundry?”

“I suppose I could watch.”

“Trust me, that wouldn’t help. We have a little time before the kids are home. Why don’t you go over to see Mr. Brown? Tell him you’ll be here to preach on Sunday. You will, won’t you? Because I don’t think we can take another week of him.”

Russ glances at the clock. “I will.”

“And I’ll finish this and see what I can put together for a special lunch. They’ll be so surprised to see you.”

“I hope they react a little differently,” he says with a wink. “Be sure to make something that you’ll eat too.”

“I will.” I stand poised at the Maytag until Russ disappears, then immediately run downstairs to the bolted door, opening it inches, enough to see if Jim waits on the other side.

Nothing. Nobody. I open it farther, crane my head out, look in all directions, but see only our trusty sedan, coated tan with road dust, and an otherwise-empty alley. Heart racing, I run back upstairs, onto our balcony, leaning over to see as far as I can up and down the street. Russ’s distinctive gait is all I recognize, and I close the door.

Minutes later, the apartment fills with the sound of the washer, and I stand in such a place as to see both doors with nothing more than the slightest turn of my head. After running the sheets through the wringer after the rinse water, I dump them in the basket and head downstairs to hang them to dry. Our clothesline consists of a single pole with four arms reaching out at the top, each connected to the next with shorter and shorter lengths of clothesline running toward the center. Considering the limited space in the alley, it is a much more convenient design than a single, long length, but it makes for an extensive drying time. I’ve
learned over all these months not to overload it on any given wash day, as an unexpected storm could blow in at any minute, ruining several loads’ wash. The rest of today’s laundry will be strung about the apartment.

I’ve draped the last of it over the line when I see him, standing at the entrance to the alley as if he’s been there all along. It is a cold, dry day, and my hands feel like they have thin sheets of ice ready to crack against my skin. I fold my arms, trapping them within the warmth of my sweater. Russ’s sweater, actually. Thick and loose, swallowing my body. Other than that, I don’t move.

Jim looks at our car, then at me. “He’s back?”

I hold myself tighter and nod.

A slow grin spreads across his face. “I’m going to miss you, Nola.”

Anything left will have to be said in these final minutes, and I hold a thousand questions on my tongue. Somehow I know if I watch him walk away, I’ll follow, if only to pour them into the wind, and their answers could only make this moment more painful. I pick up my empty laundry basket and, without another glance in his direction, pull my leaden feet up the three shallow steps to the loading dock and open the storeroom door, leaving it unbarred behind me.

The special lunch I wanted to prepare turns out to be eggs and pancakes, but Ronnie and Ariel are so excited to see their father, I could have prepared sawdust and sauerkraut and it would have made little difference. At the end of the hour, when Ronnie goes back for his afternoon classes, Ariel insists that Russ read her three stories for her nap time while I continue with the wash. I rinse the clothes from the tea-brown water in the bathtub and run them through the soapy agitations until the water drains clear, and by the time I’ve wrung out the last tiny blouse, my back aches with the labor and my hands feel raw. Russ brings the sheets in from the line and volunteers to make up our bed—an act that eases my mind, as I’ve been dreading walking into that room with him. I know
there is nothing amiss that would arouse any suspicions on his part, but the thought of occupying the same space with him that I’ve occupied with Jim fills me with dread.

If ever there was a time to confess, it is now, while he has only my own words to condemn or forgive as he sees fit. Surely, though, Jim will stay away, if for no other reason than to protect himself from my husband’s wrath. He may have fought valiantly in the war, but he is no match in size or physicality for Russ. As before, each moment that passes makes my sin easier to live with and harder to tell. That night, when we are all in bed, and the wind howls around us, my body stretches the length of his within the crisp, clean sheets.