Vows (39 page)

 
She rode until her eyelids felt frozen open and her exposed skin, afire. Until her lips felt cracked and her legs, hot and cramped. Only when the horse reared and whinnied at the crest of a knoll did Emily realize she was abusing the animal. Sagebrush tossed his head till lather flew and Emily reined in at last, slumping, letting her eyes close, feeling despair overwhelm her. She sat for minutes, listening to the animal pant, then slid from the saddle and stood at his jaw, still fighting her own emotions. Sage's hide was warm and damp and pungent with horse smell, but she needed something familiar right now. She dropped her forehead against his great powerful neck, clamping her jaw, gulping back sobs.

 
I need somebody. God … somebody…

 
Hot from his run. Sagebrush shook his head, forcing Emily to retreat; not even the horse cared, she thought unreasonably.

 
Flatfooted, she dropped to a squat, arms extended over her knees like a sheepherder rolling a cigarette, stubbornly determined not to cry. Her face burned. Her eyes burned. Her lungs burned. Everything burned—her father's betrayal, Fannie's betrayal, her mother's ceaseless suffering, her own betrayal to Charles. Life was one big burning hell.

 
She dropped her face between her knees and doubled her arms across the back of her head while she wept.

 
God, I'm no better than my father.

* * *

She returned to the stable for lack of choice. Sagebrush was sheeny, patchy with sweat, like the surface of a pond in an intermittent wind. He was thirsty and tired and hungry and eager for his familiar stall. Where else could she go but to her father's livery stable?

 
Edwin was there alone, applying a fresh coat of parsley-green paint to a doublebox wagon. The paintbrush paused in midair when Emily led Sagebrush inside and continued toward the stalls without a glance in Edwin's direction.

 
She watered the horse, removed and wiped down the saddle, brushed his warm chestnut hide until it cooled, caparisoned and stabled him. Passing her father again on her way to mix feed she felt his eyes follow, though he uttered not a word. She stared at the far end of the corridor as if Edwin no longer existed, striding mannishly with a wad of misery in her throat.

 
God, how she'd loved him.

 
Returning with a half bucket of grain, she blamed her stinging eyes on the paint fumes, which were thick in the closed building. Again Edward's gaze followed. Again she stared straight on, sensing his remorse and hurt, unwilling to accept it.

 
When Sage was fed she headed back toward the office, passing her father a fourth time, maintaining the same silent defiance as before.

 
"Emily!"

 
Her feet stopped but her eyes remained riveted on the great rolling door twenty feet away.

 
"I'm sorry," Edwin offered quietly.

 
She compressed her lips to keep them from trembling.

 
"Go to hell," she said, stone-faced, and walked on in a cocoon of pain.

* * *

She moved through that day with as much life as a door swung by the whim of the wind. She crossed paths with her father—it was inevitable—and spoke to him when necessary. But her voice was glacial and her eyes relentlessly evasive. When he asked if she wanted to go home for noon dinner first she replied, "I'm not eating." When he returned from his own dinner and set a plate of sausage and fried potatoes at her elbow, she cast it a disparaging glance and returned her attention to her needle and whipcord without offering so much as a thank-you. When he saw her leaving shortly after 2:00 P.M. he called, "Emily, are you going home?" His voice sounded lonely, echoing down the shaft of the long building. With grim satisfaction she answered him with only the roll and thump of the closing door.

 
Outside, ten feet from the building, she met Tom Jeffcoat, heading in.

 
"Emily, could I—"

 
"Leave me alone," she ordered heartlessly and left him staring at her back.

 
At home there was Fannie to face. Emily gave her the same treatment she'd given her father—gazed through her as if she were of no more substance than a cloud. Minutes later Fannie came to the doorway of their shared bedroom and said, "I'll be washing some bedding in the morning. If you have anything that needs doing up, just leave it in the hall."

 
For the first time Emily met Fannie's eyes—a fierce glare. "I'll do Mother's bedding!" she spat, shouldering past the older woman without touching her, crossing the hall to her mother's room where she closed Fannie out with a firm click of the latch.

 
She spent the afternoon at a task she detested: crocheting. She was wholly inept with a hook and thread, but worked on a doily as penance and atonement, staying at her mother's bedside until Papa came home from work and looked in.

 
"How is she?" he inquired, entering the room.

 
Emily leaned forward and touched Josephine's hand, ignoring Edwin. "It's nearly suppertime. I'll bring your tray up soon, all right, Mother?"

 
Josephine opened her eyes and nodded weakly. Emily slipped from the room without waiting to observe her mother's pathetic smile shift to Edwin.

 
When supper was ready Emily ordered in a tone that would brook no refusal, "Frankie, come. You've scarcely seen mother in over two weeks. Bring your plate up while I feed her. She'll be so happy to see you."

 
Frankie dutifully followed but sat on Papa's cot, picking at his food, staring at his knees instead of at the skeleton on the master bed. When he asked to be excused, looking pale and guilty, Emily let him go, but ordered him to help with dishes because she was going to stay and read to Mother.

 
A half hour later Edwin's footsteps sounded on the stairs and Emily quickly shut the book and kissed her mother, escaping to her own room, leaving Edwin standing in the upstairs hall, following her with baleful eyes.

 
By mid-evening she had reached a major decision, the correct one, she was sure. No matter what Papa and Fannie did to Mama, she would send her to her grave happy about one thing.

 
Emily donned a clean lavender dress, coiled her hair in a perfect ladylike figure eight, and went to Charles's house to announce that she was ready to set the date for their wedding.

 
Charles's smile was the full sun after an eclipse. "Oh, Em…" With a joyous lunge he picked her up and spun her, giving a whoop of laughter. His ecstatic reaction reaffirmed that Emily was doing the correct thing. Swinging around in his arms, she swallowed the lump in her throat and thought, I won't be like Papa, I won't!

 
Beaming, Charles set her down. "When?"

 
She smiled because she'd made him happy at last, and he deserved so much happiness. "Next week?"

 
"Next week!"

 
"Or as soon as Reverend Vasseler can perform the service. I want us to be married before Mother dies. It will make her very happy."

 
Charles's smile faded. "But what about your veterinary certificate?"

 
"I've decided to give it up. What will I ever do with it anyway? I'll be your wife, taking care of your house and your children. I was crazy to think I could go gallivanting around the country pulling calves anyway. I'll have all I can do to keep the socks white."

 
Charles frowned. "Emily, what's wrong?"

 
"Wrong? Why, nothing. I've just come to my senses, that's all."

 
"No…" He backed off, holding her gingerly by the elbows, studying her minutely. Something's wrong."

 
"The only thing that's wrong is that time is moving too quickly, and Mother is nearly … She swallowed hard. "I want this very badly, Charles, before Mother dies."

 
"But it takes time to plan a wedding."

 
"Not this one. We'll be married in Mother's bedroom so she can hear us exchange vows. Would that be all right with you?"

 
"You don't want a church wedding?"

 
"I'm not exactly the lacy kind, am I?" Tom Jeffcoat had never ceased calling her tomboy. "Besides, it would save work and trouble. I … I really don't want to ask Fannie to prepare all that food and … and … well, you know how much fussing weddings can be if you let them."

 
"And how many guests were you intending to have then, none?"

 
"Just … well, just Tarsy for my attendant."

 
"And just Tom for mine?"

 
"Tom…" She could not meet Charles's eyes while speaking of Tom Jeffcoat. "Well … yes, if that's who you choose."

 
"Who else would I choose?"

 
"Nobody. I mean, Tarsy and Tom are … are fine. The ceremony will only be a few minutes long anyway."

 
"Have you talked to Fannie about this?"

 
"Fannie's got nothing to do with it. It's my decision!"

 
"Have you talked to your father?"

 
"Charles!" She bristled. "For somebody who's been lathering at the bit to get a date set you certainly don't act too excited."

 
"I would if I hadn't known you since you were cutting teeth. You're upset about something and I want to know what it is."

 
She stood before him with the answer burning deep, compelled to lie to keep from hurting him as she'd been hurt. "If you love me, Charles, please do what I ask. I want this for Mother and I don't think we have much time "

 
He studied her gravely for a full fifteen seconds before dropping his hands and stepping back. "Very well. If you'll answer me one question."

 
"Ask it."

 
"Do you love me, Emily?"

 
His question seemed to resound in the pit of her stomach. And if her answer revealed only the partial truth, her motives were purely honorable.

 
"Yes," she answered, and caught the nearly imperceptible relaxing of his shoulders.

 
She did love him, she did! As she'd said to his best friend, who could help but love Charles?

 
Her reassurance had brought back his enthusiasm. "Should we go tell them?"

 
"I already did … at supper," Emily lied.

 
"Oh." The flat word reflected his disappointment and she felt guilty for depriving him of the joy of making the announcement. But if the two of them went now to break the news together her displeasure with Papa and Fannie would be clearly evident, not only to Charles but to Mother. "Things aren't exactly bright and cheerful around our house, Charles, with Mother being so bad. I thought … well, I thought it might be easier if I simply told them."

 
"That's … that's fine," Charles said doubtfully. "I just thought maybe…" His words trailed off.

 
She took his hand. "I'm sorry, Charles. The whole thing should have been more festive, shouldn't it?"

 
He shrugged off his disappointment and forced a grin. "Aw, what the heck—it's our lives together that count, not what kind of wedding ceremony we have. And anyway, your parents have known this was coming for years, haven't they? I made sure they did."

 
He kissed her happily, his bride-to-be, and lightly caressed her breasts, conveying wordlessly how he would treasure and love her. She felt his tongue in her mouth and answered with her own, putting last night from her mind, assuring herself.
You'll get used to the beard in time. You'll get used to his hands on you.

 
But she was the first to break away. "Should we talk to Reverend Vasseler tomorrow?"

 
"Yes."

 
"Morning or afternoon?"

 
"Morning. Then I can talk to Tom and you can talk to Tarsy in the afternoon. Oh, Emily…" He clasped her close. "I'm so happy."

 
"So am I … but Charles, I have to go now."

 
She walked home feeling despondent. Where was the sense of eagerness she had expected after making the commitment? At home the emptiness seemed to expand as she hung up her coat and walked through the silent rooms downstairs.
This is not how it should feel. This moment should be splendid, a sharing of the news, a falling into arms, a rejoicing with those you love and who love you.

 
She plodded upstairs and stopped in the light shining into the hall from her parents' bedroom, glanced inside, and paused in distaste. All three of them were there. Mother on the bed. Papa on the cot, and Fannie in a side chair. It twisted Emily's vitals, the hypocrisy of the scene. Not even for Mother's benefit could she smile at the other two as she entered the room.