No Story to Tell (17 page)

“Hi! Sorry, I didn’t think you were still there—”

Her voice trailed off as she waited for a response to her words that didn’t come.

“Rose?” Rose had said she was going to call. She tried again. “Rose, is that you? We seem to have a bad connection. I’ll hang up and you can try again, okay?”

Static answered her back as she pressed the hard smoothness of the receiver against her cheek listening intently for any identifiable sound, then abruptly the noise quit.

“Oh there, that’s better,” she offered, but still her words were met with a strange silence. “Hello? Hello, can you hear me now?”

Motionless, she listened carefully. The line was not dead. A thin breath was lightly perceptible on the other end: someone was holding their receiver close, listening to her. Annoyance closed over her. Stupid kids and their stupid pranks. She again went to disconnect, and again, just before she severed the connection, a muffled voice emanated into the room. Raising the phone once more to her ear, she tried again.

“Look, can I—”

A gravely voice thick with disguise cut her off along with the renewed static, and she had to listen intently to decipher the words spoken.

“What? What did you say?” She was answered by a soft click.

Electricity sizzled through her as she set the telephone back in place and sat staring at it. Her mind reeled in a dizzy attempt to understand what had just transpired. Who would do such a thing? Say such a thing? What sort of silly prank was that, to phone someone in the middle of the day and say such a thing? She raised herself slowly onto a chair and sat stiffly staring at the demure black box, which suddenly seemed to possess gargantuan proportions. She did not move, did not blink, the silence pounding in her head. She waited, terrified it might ring again. Terrified it might not.

She sat that way for five minutes or fifty, she couldn’t tell, but eventually she reasoned that whoever had called was not going to do so again. She closed her eyes and attempted to resurrect the words, chipped and broken as she’d received them. Only a few stood out undeniably, and these she gathered up, savored, and let flow freely over her before she gathered them up again. A truant smile engaged her and she stroked her face lightly with her fingertips, wondering at the words that had been whispered into her, recalling them over and over: “I think you’re beautiful.”

Disbelief bolted out and pounded on her heart. What if the call had been a joke? A cruel joke. Probably right now someone lay laughing at her naiveté, amused by her foolishness. She sprang up through the porch and closed the door, the mirror catching her as she whisked by. Yes. That’s all it had been. Someone’s idea of fun. Or a wrong number. She seized upon this thought, wanting to believe the words spoken had been true; she’d been the victim of nothing more invasive than a wrong number, a simple wrong number. But even this thought, although better, caused disappointment to flood through her. She didn’t want the call to be meant for someone else. She wanted the words to be hers.

She grabbed a chair, hurled it against the pressboard cupboards, delivering a satisfying gash across their tired brown faces. Seizing it again, she raised it up, wanting to send it flying through the window with every frustrated ounce of strength that flowed through her. Catching herself, knowing that she could never explain such an occurrence to Bobby, she sat it back down, biting her lip until an appeasement of blood tasted on her tongue. The phone rang, jangled fiercely against her nerves. Paralyzed, she looked at it, hesitated, then lifted it quietly to her ear.

“Hello?”

Silence met her.

“Hello?” she repeated louder, a little more desperate.

“Oh, hi Vic. Sorry about that. Just had to grab something. So anyhow, Bobby home yet or do you have time to talk?”

“Oh, Rose! Hi. I wasn’t expecting it to be you.”

“You sound disappointed, who
were
you expecting it to be?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Not anyone really. Did you get all your stuff done?”

“Almost. I have to have that Mrs. Miller’s seam fixed by tomorrow, and I still have two rows of potatoes to dig. I think I’ll get the kids to do them tomorrow, getting dark already. I hate it when the days get shorter, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“I don’t know. You sound upset. I didn’t upset you by what I said, did I?”

“No, it’s not that. I just . . . I just had a really strange call before, that’s all.”

“Really? How strange?”

“I don’t know. I guess it wasn’t that strange. Probably just a wrong number.”

“What did they say?”

“Oh. Well, I couldn’t really tell for sure. The line wasn’t very clear and—”

“Who’d it sound like? Anyone you know?” Rose barged in, eager to get on with the details.

“Not really. I couldn’t tell. I think maybe he was disguising his voice or something.”

“So it was a guy?”

“Yeah, I think so. Like I said, it was hard to hear.”

“Well, what did he say? You must have heard some of what he said.”

“Not very much. Just a few words. . . and I’m not even sure I got those straight. There was a lot of noise on the line.”

“Well, what do you think he said?”

“I don’t know, it was too hard to tell for sure,” Victoria hedged, suddenly unsure herself if she’d actually heard the words or just imagined them out of the garble. “I think it was just a wrong number anyhow.”

“Why do you think that?”

Victoria hesitated, feeling herself being backed very adroitly into a corner she knew she didn’t want to be backed into.

“Was it something he said? It was, wasn’t it? Come on Vic, tell me.”

“Well, okay, but I’m not even sure I heard it right. I probably didn’t. I think he was saying something about thinking someone was beautiful . . . or something like that.”

“Thinking who was beautiful?”

“I don’t know, whoever he thought he was talking to I guess.”

“Well, maybe he thought he was talking to you. That thought ever occur to you, Vic?”

“Yeah right Rose, not likely. I’m pretty sure it was just a wrong number. The line was bad, could have even been long distance.”

“Hey, maybe it was that Elliot guy.”

“No, Rose. It wasn’t Elliot. It wasn’t anyone. Anyhow, forget it. It’s not a big deal. Just scared me a little bit, being out here all by myself and getting a call like that.” She glanced at the darkening windows and flipped on the light.

“Bet it was him. Maybe he’s out of town somewhere, sitting in his hotel room all lonely, finally works up his courage, gives you a call—”

Victoria rolled her eyes and laughed as she listened to her friend pick pieces out of the air and create a suitable scenario.

“Rose, forget it. It wasn’t Elliot, and besides I can’t quite imagine him having to sit around working up his courage. He’s not exactly lacking in the self-esteem department.”

“No? Well what department is he lacking in then?” Rose asked laughing, flipping the conversation back to Elliot before Victoria realized it.

“None that I know of.”

“Really? And which ones do you know of?”

“Rose! We’re not talking about him.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s nothing to say.”

“I hear your words, Vic, but I’m not believing them.”

“Rose, why are you so stuck on me liking this guy?”

“Oh, well let me see. Because he’s good-looking, has a great body, obviously has some bucks and he’s nice. Oh, yeah, and also because your husband is a selfish jerk who treats you badly.”

Victoria laughed again as Rose ticked through her list. “Okay. I can’t argue with most of that. But it’s not going to happen. Why don’t you go for him if you think he’s so fascinating?”

“Love to, darling, but there’s one fatal flaw.”

“What’s that?”

“Too much bohemian blood in his veins. Can’t tie a guy like that down with three kids and a dog.”

“He has a dog.”

“Maybe so, but you watch. When the time comes for him to fly, the pets will be given away to the neighbors and he’ll be gone. Can’t very well do that with kids.”

“You think so, Rose? You think he’ll just up and go one day?” She knew Rose’s words were an echo of what Elliot himself had told her, but still she resisted them. They didn’t fit with what she wanted to believe.

“Absolutely. Leave just as suddenly as he arrived. He doesn’t belong here; you know that. He knows it, too. Just kind of playing the farm life thing for a while and then on to something new. That’s why I think you’d better just hang on and talk to him next time he calls.”

“Rose. It wasn’t him. Really. I’m sure of it. It wasn’t a normal call; it was sort of creepy. Like whoever it was was just sitting there listening to me most of the time. Kind of scary, actually.”

“Yeah, well, trust me, Vic, people are weird. You never know how they might get their kicks. Or maybe he was just unsure how you’d react, or maybe he just wanted to be sure it was you on the phone and not Bobby. Who knows? Next time just talk to him and find out.”

“Well, I’m sure there won’t even be a next—”

“Whoops. Sorry Vic, gotta run. Jenny just dumped the milk. Catch you later.”

“Okay, bye, Rose.”

Victoria hung up the phone, sat in silence except for the slow, steady hum of the yard light as it threw a patch of yellow onto the ground where Bobby parked his truck. The clock ticked out 6:45. She placed leftovers into the oven to warm and started a bath. Shedding her sweatshirt and jeans into a lumpy pile beside the hamper, she closed her eyes and listened for the familiar rumble of an approaching vehicle. Hearing nothing, she disappeared down the hall and into the bedroom. Leaning against a stack of unread mail-order books, a lopsided chair buried under five years of household procrastination blocked her entry into the left half of the closet. There a myriad of obsolete clothes with washed-away patterns hung hidden from Bobby’s view so he would no longer wear them. Edging the chair off to one side, she slid the door open and began to flip through the shirts and pants, her hands feeling their way to the back of the closet. She wondered at how quickly the years had stolen by since she’d first hung the dress up, never dreaming it would remain buried for the next twenty years. Her fingers found it first, dangling in the gauzy film that encased it. She pulled it from the closet, tore away the plastic and twirled it lightly on the hanger, the brilliant green glowing vitality into the room.

She slipped it on, smiling as she once again felt the perfection of its silky caress. Studying herself in the closet door mirror, she twisted to survey her backside, the skirt swishing playfully around her thighs as she inspected first from one side and then the other. Running her hands along the gentle taper of her waist she found the dress still fit with ease, was if anything a shadow too big. Watching the mimic of her reflection, she performed well-rehearsed movements, her limbs remembering themselves in the confident elegance of the dance and responding with grace. Slowly, she twirled herself to a stop, dropped her head and raised her eyes coquettishly to assess the vision she created and smiled, pleased to see the dress still presented her with the elusive charm of provocative innocence.

Stepping lightly across the unmade bed, she slunk into the living room on a sweeping step, her skin and the silk slipping against each other igniting her as she went. Twisting her hair on top of her head, she held it there with one hand as she moved to the motion of the music in her mind, the accompanying steps ones from the dance she never performed. She had lived to dance. Loved the feel of appreciative eyes on her as she moved in synchronicity with the music. Flowed across the stage as she lost herself in the passion of her love, becoming not a body moving to the music but a body moved by the music. Stepping carefully in the cramped room, she performed a minuscule version of her routine, remembering rather than executing the full flying leaps and intricate spins. Drawing to a close, she curtsied deeply to herself and favored her audience with a smile. With exquisite balance, she raised herself up on tiptoe and slipped the dress off in a fluid arc, letting it dissolve into a pool around her feet soon joined by a black bra and white panties.

Critically she examined her nakedness in the hollow eyes of the windows, spun a slow pirouette to view herself from all sides. In spite of how she’d come to feel about herself, she had to acknowledge her own image did not bear her out and, although the dynamic strength of her youthful body had left her, its shape had not. Scooping her clothes off the floor, she looked again at her reflection. The uncomfortable realization settled over her that she was also fully visible from outside, and instinctively she covered herself as best she could. Quickly, she crossed over to the porch door. For the first time in almost twenty years she locked it, then retraced her steps back down the hall and into the bathroom.

She twisted off the faucets, the steaming bath scarcely an inch short of overflowing onto the floor. Wiping a blurred swath across the medicine cabinet mirror, she pulled her hair away from her face and gazed openly at herself. She supposed she might be thought beautiful, although the presence of her mother’s diminutive mouth overpowered by her father’s stark green eyes disqualified her ability to judge herself that way. But her jaw was strong, her cheekbones set on an angular cut, giving the impression of a strength of character she did not feel she possessed. She released her hair and watched as it swung forward crowding her face, the steam forming once again over the mirror slowly fading her out.