The Diary (3 page)

For her part, Elizabeth wouldn't have minded if he
had
made a pass. Oh, she'd have made a show of minding, but only because it was expected. Among her kind, the only acceptable response to such crude behavior (not that any man in Emory would've dared make a pass at the daughter of Mildred Harvey) was to either turn a blind eye or fell the would-be Lothario with a withering glance. Should the fellow persist, a sharp scolding, or in extreme instances a slap across the face, might be in order. That a good girl might fall prey to such a seduction was unthinkable. Elizabeth, at twenty, was educated in the ways of the birds and the bees—it was the modern age, after all—but for unmarried ladies of her class, the region of the female anatomy discreetly referred to as the “flower of womanhood” was strictly off-limits to members of the opposite sex and even, for the most part—aside from basic hygiene—to oneself. There had been some progress since the corseted era of her mother's youth, but for a young lady to be known as “easy,” even in the year 1951, was about as ruinous as having a reputation for setting cars on fire.

But while Elizabeth had her standards, she often wondered what it would be like. She'd only gone so far as to let Bob remove her blouse and, once, her bra (they were practically engaged, which made it permissible) while they'd been steaming up the windows of his Buick coupe. She wouldn't have described it as unexciting, but there hadn't been any of the unexpurgated thrills of
Lady Chatterley's Lover
, a contraband copy of which had recently fallen into her hands via her friend Dot, who'd obtained it from a cousin in England. Elizabeth had breathlessly devoured the novel in a single night behind the locked door of her bedroom, yet whenever she tried to imagine herself in similar throes of passion with Bob, it struck her as a bit silly. However much she looked forward to their wedding day, she could never quite envision him weaving wildflowers through her pubic hair or assigning nicknames to their private parts.

Now, squirming a bit under AJ's scrutiny, she thought,
I bet nothing would embarrass him
. The thought sent a fresh surge of blood to her cheeks. If her hat hadn't been partially hiding her face, it would have been apparent to anyone looking on that AJ was having a decidedly bracing effect on her. But, amazingly, even that wasn't enough to make her walk away.

“All right, it's a deal,” she told him. “Just don't make me look bad, that's all I ask.”

Another man might have insisted that no artist could possibly make her look bad. Elizabeth was well aware that she was exceptionally pretty. Even if she hadn't known it from looking in the mirror, the steady flow of compliments she'd been receiving all her life would have confirmed it. When she'd been a baby in her carriage, it had been common, according to Mildred, for people to stop on the street to admire her. Nowadays, with her dark hair and classic features, her slim hips and shapely bosom, she frequently drew comparisons to her namesake, Elizabeth Taylor. The only difference between her and the star of
National Velvet
, it was often said, was that Elizabeth Harvey's eyes were hazel instead of violet, the color of greenstone shot through with veins of ore.

But if AJ found her attractive, he didn't remark on it. “Have a seat,” he said, motioning once more toward the wooden folding chair opposite his easel. She gingerly lowered herself into it, glancing nervously about as she did. But though there were people milling about, on their way to the food stalls or the dime-toss or the Tilt-a-Whirl grinding away to its tinkling refrain, she saw no one she recognized who would be likely to report back to her mother. The fairgrounds were located in the neighboring township of Shaw Creek, twenty miles east of Emory, and thus drew crowds from two counties. It wasn't difficult to get lost in the crowd.

AJ squinted slightly as if to set her in his sights, then began to sketch with quick, sure strokes. Observing him out of the corner of her eye as she held her pose, Elizabeth was surprised and impressed. Had he been this good at drawing in school? If so, he'd kept it under wraps because she couldn't recall having seen a single piece of artwork. In those days, when he wasn't prowling the halls like a lone wolf, he sat in class without contributing much. (Despite which, his grades never seemed to suffer—another mystery about AJ.) She found herself remembering other things as well, like how she occasionally used to catch him eyeing her and her friends, wearing an expression of bemused disdain as if he found the whole scene, with its pom-poms and letter jackets and class rings, vaguely pathetic. Which was odd, she reflected, since most people would have thought it was AJ's life that was pathetic.

From the age of nine he'd lived with his grandparents just outside town, along one of the county roads in an area called Cement Town, so dubbed because of the cement factory that dominated the landscape. Unfortunately, jobs weren't the only thing the factory provided: Its belching stacks deposited a gritty dust, like a gray pall, over everything within a one-mile radius. It was said by those who lived in Cement Town that no amount of hosing or sweeping could remove that dust. It was embedded in the weave of carpets and curtains and upholstery. It clung to shelves, and to the books and knickknacks that lined those shelves. It ran like a line drawn in gray chalk along baseboards and ceiling moldings. It worked its way into hair and clothing and the treads of shoes. At times it could even be felt gritting like graphite between one's back teeth.

Dead center in all that grayness sat Joe and Sally Keener's small grocery store. How they eked out a living was anyone's guess, given the modest means of their customers. Everyone, including the Keeners themselves, must have wondered how they managed to stay afloat year after year, peddling jarred and boxed goods with more dust on them than on the pavement outside, shrunken heads of lettuce, gray-tinted lunch meats of indeterminate origin, and crackers and loaves of bread long past their expiration dates. The likeliest reason was that they were the only grocers for miles around and many of the people who lived in Cement Town didn't own cars.

Once, on her way to visit a friend at one of the outlying farms, she stopped at the Keeners' store, where AJ worked after school and on weekends. She wasn't quite sure what prompted her to do so, other than vague curiosity about AJ's life outside school, but when she encountered him stocking shelves in back, the blank look he gave her was enough to drive away any warm words of greeting she'd been about to utter. Flustered, she muttered a quick hello and asked if they had any Dr. Pepper.

He shook his head, replying, just shy of rudely, “Just Coke and Pepsi,” before getting back to work.

She went away feeling rebuffed, though she told herself there was no reason it should matter one way or the other what AJ thought of her. After all, it wasn't as though she cared about
him
.

Nonetheless, she puzzled over the mystery of the boy who appeared entirely self-contained in a world that crowded him on all sides and who was proud in a way that bore no relation either to his station in life or his achievements. A pride that certainly didn't derive from being the apple of his grandparents' eye: Joe and Sally Keener weren't the warmest of people, and their attitude toward their grandson, the few times Elizabeth had seen them at school functions, was one of grim duty. She could see them now in her mind's eye: two absolutely colorless people, as stark and gray as everything else in Cement Town.

She was struck by the marked contrast with AJ. It was as if God had determined that all the life leached from Joe and Sally Keener should go to their grandson. Even the air around him seemed charged. Watching him was like watching a blade held to a grindstone as it whirred; she could almost see the sparks shooting off him.

At last he tore the finished caricature from his pad, extending it toward her without comment.

She gazed at it with interest that quickly gave way to dismay. It wasn't an exact likeness, nor was it meant to be, but he'd captured her to a T: a large cartoon head dominated by sultry eyes and pouty lips, capped by an old-fashioned bonnet, which sat atop a miniature cartoon body in a hoop skirt and ruffled pantaloons. In one hand was a staff, like Little Bo Peep's. In place of sheep, a herd of love-struck swains trailed after her.

“Is that really how you see me?” she managed to choke out.

AJ shrugged, tossing a stub of pastel into the box of supplies at his feet. “The trick is to sketch the first thing that comes to mind,” he told her. “That's what I thought of when I was drawing you.”

“That I'm a tease?” She rose to her feet, glaring at him. “For your information, I've had the same boyfriend for the past four years!”

AJ smiled flatly, and some unreadable emotion flickered in the depths of his blue-denim eyes. “Yeah, I know. I ran into Bob the other day. He mentioned that you two were still an item. Congratulations.” He made it sound as though it were a bull-riding event in a rodeo and he was congratulating her for having stayed in the saddle longer than any of her competitors.

Annoyed, she blurted, “We're going to be married.”

Elizabeth regretted the words as soon as they were out. What on earth had possessed her to say that? Bob hadn't even asked her yet. Though it was generally considered a foregone conclusion, it would be highly embarrassing should word get out about their “engagement” before he actually popped the question. And if for some reason Bob didn't propose? She would never live it down.

“I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention it to anyone,” she added, her cheeks warming. “We're keeping it a secret for the time being.”

AJ shot her a puzzled look, as if he found the need for secrecy a bit odd, given the fact that she and Bob had been going together practically forever. But his only comment, delivered in his patented arch tone that verged on condescending, was, “Don't tell me you're planning to elope?”

“No, of course not. It's just … it's complicated.” The fire in her cheeks spread to engulf her entire face. Nervously she toyed with the top button of her blouse, where a pulse throbbed at the base of her throat, her gaze fixed on AJ's muscular forearms streaked with Easter-egg-colored dust.

“Really? I would have thought just the opposite.”

She bristled. “Are you saying I'm predictable?”

“No. Just that I'm sure you two will be very happy together.” Again that half-mocking tone.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “Now, I'm afraid I must be going.” She handed back the drawing and dug into her handbag, extracting a five-dollar bill from her wallet.

But AJ refused her money. “It's on me,” he said. “A deal's a deal.”

“I never said it wasn't good,” she allowed grudgingly. “It's just … well, it's not very flattering is all.” Hearing the words come out of her mouth, she felt that his opinion of her was justified.

He smiled. “Caricatures aren't supposed to be flattering. That's actually the point.”

“All right. I get it.” She glowered at him, tucking the money back into her wallet.
To hell with him
, she thought. There was no rule that said you had to pay someone to insult you.

AJ took hold of her arm as she was turning to go. “No, I don't think you do,” he said in a low voice that shocked her—it was that of someone bound to her by something far more intimate than any of the exchanges they'd had thus far. “But if you'd care to stick around, I'd be happy to explain.”

Elizabeth knew, she absolutely
knew
, that there was no possible reason for her to stay and listen to his explanation. But somehow she remained rooted to the spot. There was something about AJ that was making her act in ways contrary to her nature, and she didn't like it one bit. Why did she even care what he thought of her? Soon she'd be married to a man who thought the sun rose and set with her.

Despite all that, she found herself rearing back, hands on hips, to reply, “All right, but this better be good.”

AJ didn't know
what had possessed him. It wasn't as if he'd set out to insult Elizabeth. And he certainly hadn't intended for it to lead to a confession. But damn if the woman didn't have that effect on him. Wasn't that what had gotten him into trouble in the first place?

“Not here,” he said. “Can we go somewhere?”

She hesitated just long enough for him to get the message that she wasn't too keen on the idea before answering, “All right, but I don't have much time. I'm supposed to meet someone.” Her boyfriend, no doubt. Fiancé, rather, he corrected himself. The unspoken word was like a piece of gristle lodged between his back teeth.

“It won't take long. Come on, this way,” he said, beckoning to her as he turned on his heel.

He didn't bother to pack up his easel and supplies, knowing they wouldn't be disturbed. Nor was he concerned with any potential loss of business. He'd made fifty dollars so far today, with the rest of the long weekend still ahead of him, so he was in good shape. And next week was the county fair in Seneca, and after that the one in Tilden.

He'd been working the circuit for the past two years or so, traveling from one county fair to the next, living out of the beat-up old Studebaker that had become his home and occasionally his bed on those nights when he couldn't afford to spring for a boardinghouse or motel. He made good money, but the work was seasonal. The rest of the year he relied on his savings and the odd jobs he picked up here and there. It was enough to get by.

This was his second summer doing the Shaw Creek fair. But he had yet to take the short trip down the road to Emory to see his grandparents. It wasn't that he hadn't forgiven them—he'd become inured to their coldness long before they'd turned him in for a crime that, in his view, had been nothing more than a case of delayed justice—but he didn't think it likely that they'd forgiven him. They still held him responsible, he suspected, for the unfathomable loss that had delivered him into their care. Not that he'd had anything to do with his mother's death; he hadn't even been with his parents at the time. But logic seldom played a part in the hardening of hearts. The simple fact was that he was alive and she wasn't. For Joe and Sally, there was no getting around that.