Vows (28 page)

 
He stood behind her, clinging to control by a thin thread. When he could stand it no longer he spun away and stood back to back with her, picturing her behind him.

 
It was Emily who broke the silence. "I don’t suppose you'll be coming to Tilda's party tomorrow night."

 
"No, I don't think I'd better."

 
"No, it's … I…" She stammered to a halt and admitted, "I don't want to go either."

 
"Go," he ordered sensibly, "with Charles."

 
"Yes, I must." They thought of Charles again, still back to back, staring at opposite walls.

 
"I'm getting a lot of pressure from Tarsy to go. I've invited her to dinner instead at the hotel."

 
"Oh."

 
He felt as if his chest were being crushed, and finally, in desperation, he turned around to study her slumped shoulders, her wool cap, the nape of her neck, the suspenders pressing her tan shirt against her shoulders. How the hell had this happened? He loved her. She was Charles's woman and he loved her.

 
"This is terrible … this is dishonorable," he whispered.

 
"I know."

 
When another minute had passed without producing any solutions, Tom repeated, "You'd better go."

 
Without another word she grasped Sergeant's bridle, swung onto his back, and slapped the reins, shouting, "Heeaww!" By the time she hit the double doorway she was galloping hell-bent for redemption, on an escape route from Tom Jeffcoat and the unpardonable turmoil he had caused in her life.

* * *

In the weeks that followed she learned there was no escaping. The turmoil was with her day and night. Days, while she worked within a thirty-second walk of Tom Jeffcoat. Nights, while he infiltrated her dreams.

 
Such crazy, improbable dreams.

 
In one he was riding Fannie's bicycle and fell, knocking the wind out of himself. She stood beside him laughing. Then suddenly he was bleeding and she fell to her knees in the middle of Main Street and began tearing bandages from her mother's favorite linen tablecloth. She awakened, thrashing, working at the bedsheets as if to rip them in strips.

 
In another dream—the one Emily had with the most disturbing frequency—she was dressed in a strange mixture of clothing: Frankie's cap and Mama's bed jacket and Fannie's knickerbockers. She walked down a strange street, barefooted. At the bottom of a hill the roadbed turned into a fetid quagmire of pig dung, and as she slogged through it, Tom stood on the tip of the new church roof with his arms crossed over his chest, laughing at her. She became incensed and tried to fly up to the steeple and tell him so, but she was mired deep and her arms refused to lift her.

 
In another, they were playing French Postman and he kissed her, which was absurd, because though she continued attending the local parties at Charles's insistence, Tom continued staying away, often as not with Tarsy.

 
Yet the dream persisted. One night, lying restless and troubled beside Fannie, Emily decided to confide in her.

 
"Fannie? Are you asleep?"

 
"No."

 
Across the hall Mama coughed, then the house became silent while Emily formulated questions and worked up the courage to voice them.

 
"Fannie, what would you think of an engaged woman who dreams of somebody besides her fiancé?"

 
"Another man, you mean?"

 
"Yes."

 
Fannie sat up. "Gracious, this is serious."

 
"No, it's not. It's just… just dumb dreams. But I have them so often and they bother me."

 
"Tell me about them."

 
Emily did, omitting Tom's name, while Fannie settled herself against the head-board as if for a lengthy talk. She described the two nightmares, and asked "What do you think they mean?"

 
"Goodness, I have no idea."

 
Emily gathered her courage and admitted, "There's another one."

 
"Mmmm…"

 
"I dream that we're playing French Postman and he's kissing me."

 
Fannie said simply, "Oh, my."

 
"And I like it."

 
"Oh my oh my."

 
Emily sat up and punched the blanket in self-disgust. "I feel so guilty Fannie'"

 
"Why feel guilty? Unless, of course, there's a reason."

 
"You mean have I actually kissed him? No, of course not! He's never even touched me. As a matter of fact there have been times when I'm not even sure he likes me." After pondering silently for a minute Emily asked, "Fannie why do you suppose I never dream of Charles?"

 
"Probably because you see him so much that you don't have to."

 
"Probably."

 
After a moment of thoughtful silence Fannie asked, "This man you dream about—are you attracted to him?"

 
"Fannie, I'm engaged to Charles!"

 
"That's not what I asked."

 
"I can't … he … when we…" Emily stammered to a halt.

 
"You are."

 
Emily's silence was as good as an admission.

 
"So what
has
happened between you and your dream man?"

 
"He's not my dream man."

 
"All right, this man who doesn't like you sometimes. What happened?"

 
"Nothing. We've looked at each other, that's all."

 
"Looked? All this guilt over a few innocent looks?"

"And we played your damned game once—Guessing Blind Man. He was wearing the blindfold and he sat on my lap and he … he touched my face … and my hair … it was awful. I wanted to die on the spot."

 
"Why?"

 
"Because Charles was right there watching!"

 
"What did Charles say?"

 
"Nothing. He thinks those games are purely innocent."

 
"Oh, Emily…" With a sigh Fannie folded Emily in her arms and held her close, drawing the girl's head to her shoulder and petting her hair. "You're so like your mother."

 
"Well … isn't that good?"

 
"To a point, yes. But you must try to laugh more, to take life as it comes. What harm is there in a kissing game?"

 
"It's embarrassing."

 
Fannie's response, rather than soothing Emily, only added fuel to her misgivings. "Then I fear, you poor misguided dear, that you simply haven't kissed the right one."

* * *

In late August Tom received a letter from Julia:

Dear Thomas,

 
I have been very troubled by what I did to you. It seems the only way to appease my conscience is to write to you and apologize. On my wedding morning I cried. I awakened and looked out my window at the streets where you and I walked so many times, and thought of you so far away, and I remembered the look on your face the day I told you of my plans to marry. I'm so sorry if I hurt you, Tom. I did not mean to. My abrupt termination of our engagement was unpardonable of me, I know. But, Tom, I am so happy with Jonas, and I wanted you to know. I made the right choice, for me, for both of us. Because I am so happy, I wish for you the same kind of happiness. It is my dearest hope that you will find it with a woman who will cherish you as you deserve. When you find her, please don't be pessimistic because of my ill treatment of you. I should not like to believe myself responsible for any cynicism you might harbor toward women. Connubial life is rich and rewarding. I wish it for you, too, perhaps the more so since Jonas and I have learned that we are expecting our first child next March. I hope this finds you content and flourishing in your new environs. I think of you often and with the deepest affection.

Julia.

He read the letter on the boardwalk outside Loucks's store. When he finished it he found himself amazed at how little sentiment it engendered for Julia. There was a time when the sight of her handwriting alone would have made his heart leap. It came as somewhat of a shock to realize that she no longer had the power to hurt him.

 
But her letter made him homesick. The mention of the street where they'd walked brought back other vivid images of his hometown and family. He was sick of eating in a hotel, of sleeping in a loft, of working fourteen hours a day, first in the livery stable, then on his house. Sometimes, weary from hours of plastering, when he'd walk back to the livery barn for the night, he'd stare at the early lanternlight in the homes he passed and feel utterly dismal.

 
So he began spending more time with Tarsy.

 
Had there been any other girl in Sheridan who interested him, he would have wooed her. But other than Emily Walcott, Tarsy was the only one, and it was natural that the longer they saw one another, the freer they became with each other. In time they found themselves treading a dangerous line between discretion and disaster.

 
Frustrated by the fact as much as Tom, Tarsy finally had to talk to somebody about it and sought out Emily. She came to the Walcott home after supper on a dreary, misty evening in late September. Charles and Edwin were playing a game of backgammon. Frankie answered the door and took Tarsy back to the kitchen where Emily was helping Fannie with the dishes.

 
"Emily, can I talk to you?"

 
"Tarsy—" One look told Emily something was amiss. She laid down her dish towel immediately. "What's wrong?"

 
"Could we go upstairs to your room?"

 
Unsuspectingly, Emily obliged.

 
Upstairs in the lamplight Tarsy removed her wool coat and poked around Emily's room as if reluctant to reveal what was troubling her, now that she had Emily's ear. At the dresser she picked up a brush and absently ran a thumb over the bristles. Discarding it, she chose a comb and ran it once down the back of her hair, which was caught in a black bow and cascaded to her shoulders.

 
Emily studied her, waiting patiently for whatever it was Tarsy had come here to say. She was slim and pretty, dressed in a white blouse and red plaid skirt, easily the prettiest girl in Sheridan. It often crossed Emily's mind that it was no wonder Tom found himself attracted to Tarsy. They'd been seeing a lot of each other lately, Emily knew, and the effect upon Tarsy had been noticeable.

 
She had changed over the summer. The giddy, giggly girl was gone, replaced by a level-headed young woman who no longer flung herself across beds or flopped into haystacks, gushing.

 
Ironically, the change had endeared Tarsy to Emily much more than ever before.

 
Emily went to her now and turned her around by the arms. "Tarsy, what is it?"

 
Tarsy raised distressed brown eyes. "It's Tom," she admitted quietly. She spoke his name differently than in the past, with respect now.

 
"Oh." Emily's hands slid from Tarsy's sleeves.

 
Tarsy caught one before it could slip away. "I know you don't like him, Emily, but I … I don't have anyone else I'd trust with this. I think I love him, Em."

 
There it was: the confidence. Another load for Emily to carry. Had Tarsy only pretended to swoon as she had a few months ago, it wouldn't have been so tragic. But she was absolutely earnest.

 
"You love him?"

 
"Oh, I know, I've said it before. I've mooned around like a star-struck little girl and I've flung myself down in the hayloft and drooled and acted like a perfect ninny over him. But it's different now. It's the real thing." Tarsy pressed a fist beneath her left breast and spoke with alarming sincerity. "It's here, in the deepest part of me, and it's so big I can scarcely carry it around anymore. But I'm afraid to tell him because if he found out, he'd stop seeing me." Tarsy dropped to the edge of Emily's bed and sat disconsolately, staring at the floor. Her hands lay calmly in her lap instead of flapping about melodramatically as they once had.

 
"You see," she continued, "he told me quite a while ago that he suspected I was looking for a husband. But he made it clear that he was not in the market for marriage. I knew that all along, even when I began to let him kiss me. At first that was all we did, but then we kept on seeing each other and now … well, it's only natural that—" Tarsy rose abruptly and walked to the window where she stood staring out at a misty rain. "Oh, Emily, you must think I'm terrible."