Dunaway's Crossing (6 page)

He glared at her with the familiar dark wrath in his eyes, and his height increased as he inhaled with anger. Then he drew back his hand and swung it full force across her mouth.

She fell back and hit the dressing table before landing on the floor. Her hand mirror, brush, and cologne bottles toppled around her. Her face felt like it had exploded, and the taste of blood flooded her mouth. She tried to get her feet under her, but Ben was too fast. He yanked the robe off her shoulders, wrenching her arms still in their sleeves. Gripping her elbow with one hand, he tossed the robe to the side, then slung her over the bed.

Quickly she stood again and faced him. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. “No, Ben,” she tried to assert herself. “Don’t do this.”

But she knew he didn’t hear her in his rage. He grabbed her hair again and yanked her to the bed, pushing her into it face down. He held her there by the neck, pressing her face into the embroidery of the counterpane. She heard him unfasten his belt buckle with his free hand, so she gritted her teeth and tightened her muscles, ready for a lashing.

Instead, he pushed her legs apart with his. Then her flesh tore as pain ripped through her core. She cried into the mattress and tried to press up with her palms, but Ben only pushed her neck harder, pressing her face so deep into the bed linens that she could hardly breathe. She grasped handfuls of fabric and ground her teeth with each excruciating thrust, not even relaxing when he finally shuddered and loosened his grip. She turned her head and sucked in air. The bed spread was wet with her tears, stained with the blood from her mouth. She kept her face turned from Ben as she listened to him fasten his trousers and leave the room.

When she could no longer hear his footsteps, she drew her knees to her chest and lay on her side as she wept, pain still pulsing through her. After a few minutes, she gathered the strength to stand, and she shuffled across the room and picked up the robe. She used it to catch the blood dripping down her leg.

Wincing with each step, she crept to her bathroom and turned the tub tap for a second time, numbly going through the all-too-familiar motions of the aftermath of forced sex. She watched the water fill the tub as she wiped tears from her cheeks, her legs still shaking, her back side still throbbing. Gingerly lowering herself into the tub, she reclined so that most of her weight rested on her spine, not her bottom. Part of her knew she should be heartbroken or horrified or shocked. Instead, all she could think of was practicalities. As heinous as Ben’s brutality was, this rape had not hurt as much as the first one. And at least this one would not result in a baby.

Only a handful of passengers scattered across the platform of Pineview’s small train station, most of them country folk returning home, hugging loved ones who had come to greet them. A cluster of Girl Scouts in uniform waited for passengers to deboard, eyeing their prospects timidly, afraid to make their approach to sell Liberty Bonds. Will watched them skeptically. Every scout to save a soldier? Who came up with that slogan? It would take more than Girl Scouts to save the soldiers he killed in France. He removed his wide-brimmed hat and ran his hand through his straight brown hair. Then he replaced the hat and turned for a full view of the platform.

Where was she? Ralph had said to look for a petite woman, well dressed with dark hair. In the last five minutes Will had seen no one fitting that description, and in this town, he’d expected her to stand out. Eyes still on the train, he stepped backward toward the ticket office when he felt a bump, then heard a sharp, high-pitched cry. He turned and cursed himself at what he saw. “Oh, no. Ma’am, I am so sorry.”

She sat on the cement platform wearing a ruffled white shirt and a brown skirt. She’d drawn her knees to her chest and buried her forehead in them, so that he saw not her face, but the top of her hat. He knelt beside her.

“How could I be so stupid?” He took her satchel, which lay beside her and cupped her elbow with his palm. “Let me help you up.”

She shook her head emphatically, holding up a white-gloved hand. “Let me take a moment,” she said into her knees. Her back rose and fell a few times before she lifted her face and revealed a tear-streaked face. Immediately, she searched the pavement around her and found a small draw-string bag, which she picked up and drew from it a handkerchief.

“My God, I’ve hurt you,” he said, still holding her elbow. “I’m so sorry.” Will’s neck and face burned with humiliation as well as the late summer heat. But his gut wrenched in confusion as well. Had he really bumped her hard enough to draw tears?

“Can I get you anything?” Stupid question. What could he possibly get her? What should he do? He couldn’t let her sit on the hard pavement, but she didn’t want to get up. A group of people had clustered around them, which exacerbated Will’s embarrassment to full-fledged shame.

“No, no,” the woman said, waving her small hand. “I’m fine, really.” She blotted her cheeks with the handkerchief and then looked at Will with round dark eyes that pulled him in like a rip tide. “I’m more surprised than hurt.” A curled lock of dark brown hair escaped its pin and fell against her cheek. He almost had to step on his hand to keep from brushing it away himself. The lady tucked the lock behind her ear and offered him a weak smile.

Then Will noticed the monogram on her handkerchief—BFB—and with another bullet of embarrassment, he realized whom he had knocked down. “You’re Mrs. Ferguson, aren’t you? Netta Coolidge’s cousin?”

She nodded and knit her brow. “How did you know?”

“I’m Will Dunaway, ma’am. Ralph Coolidge asked me to fetch you. He was called away unexpectedly to see a patient.”

“I see,” she replied. “Well, thank you for meeting me here.”

Did he hear disappointment in her voice? Who could blame her? Ralph Coolidge couldn’t have chosen a worse person for this job. He might as well have sent a goat to pick up his cousin. He reached for her arm to help her up. At first she flinched, and he recoiled in response. Then he said softly, “May I help you up?”

“Oh,” she said with a quick nod, as if she finally understood his intent. “Of course.” Still clutching her purse, she held up her arm, which he gripped at the wrist and elbow. She bore down on his grasp as she rose. Standing up, she came just to his shoulder. Will leaned forward to pick up her satchel, and as he did so, she took a step away from him. Was he that scary? He was trying his best to make amends.

She dabbed at her lip with the handkerchief, and only then did he notice the small cut at the edge of her mouth. Just when he thought he couldn’t feel worse about knocking her down.

“You’re bleeding,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I’ll get you some ice. Come, have a seat on the bench, and I’ll go get it.”

“No, no, Mr. Dunaway.” She held up her hand reassuringly.   “You didn’t hurt me. This—” She pointed to her mouth                 “—happened before I came here. I had…an accident at home.”

Will cocked his head in confusion. What kind of accident could a lady like her have to bust her own lip? Was she just saying that to make him feel better? Maybe she just wanted to be rid of him. Silently, he berated himself. He had quite the penchant for hurting people.

A porter wheeled a trunk on a luggage cart. “Mrs. Ferguson, where would you like me to take your baggage?”

“I’ll take it from here.” Will dug into his pocket for a coin. "Thank you.” He tipped the porter and took the cart from him, placing the satchel on top of the trunk. “I’ll come back for your baggage,” he said to Mrs. Ferguson. “First, let me get you seated.” He held out his elbow, and she hesitated a beat before wrapping her thin, gloved fingers around it.

Will walked slowly, in case she was still sore from her fall. After two or three steps, though, he realized he had to slow his gait even more. Mrs. Ferguson wore one of those skirts bunched at the ankle. He’d seen a few around town. Women thought the skirts made them look dainty, but Will thought they made women look like closed umbrellas. Mrs. Ferguson scanned the grounds surrounding the train station. A few automobiles sat here and there on the grass, but none of them in the direction he led her.

“Which motorcar is yours, Mr. Dunaway?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to take you to the Coolidge’s house in my wagon,” he said, pointing to it with his free hand. “I have not followed the trend and bought myself one of those machines.”

“Oh,” she replied, and then fell silent, as if searching for something else to say. How backward she must have thought he was.

Still clutching his elbow, she virtually tiptoed to the end of the platform and leaned closely to him as she descended the steps. When they reached the wagon, Mrs. Ferguson’s eyes widened at the height of its seat, which sat at the level of the top of her head. In her skirt she’d never be able to step up and down.

“Wait one second, ma’am.” Will left her side and pulled an empty crate from the wagon bed. Then he placed it on the ground beside her. “This should help.”

“Thank you.” As soon as she said it, Will’s embarrassment returned. Surely she’d never had to use a crate as a step stool to get into an old box wagon.

He held out his hand, and she grasped it for support and pulled up her skirt the few inches it would allow. With some effort, she managed to step onto the crate and hoist herself up. As she sat gingerly on the wooden seat, she winced, and Will winced with her at the reminder of his clumsy blunder.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he said after returning the crate to the wagon bed. Then, taking the steps two at a time, he returned to the baggage cart. He pushed the trunk and satchel to the platform steps and handed the satchel to Mrs. Ferguson, who placed it at her feet as he went back to get the trunk. He lifted it onto his shoulder and thanked heavens to feel only a small stitch at his side as he walked down the steps and to the wagon before lowering it on the bed. He situated it between a can of kerosene and a bag of oats. Other sundry crates stood guard at either side. After climbing to the seat himself, he took the reins and clucked his tongue while tapping the horse’s rump with the leather straps. Slowly he drove Mrs. Ferguson through town.

“Have you visited Pineview before?” he asked awkwardly. He hated small talk.

“No, it’s my first visit,” she said, more to her gloves than to him.

“Well, then,” he said as he turned onto Pineview’s main street, “this is Bay Street, although I don’t know why we call it that. We’re nowhere near the water.” He laughed clumsily, but she didn’t join him. Then he pointed to his right. “And there’s our bank, our pharmacy, our hardware store. Oh, and our newspaper office.”

Mrs. Ferguson nodded as he pointed out Pineview’s other landmarks, dotting his explanations with a polite, “Oh, how nice,” or “I see.” She asked no questions. Why should she? What did Pineview have to interest a high society lady from Savannah? Still, Will felt like a stable boy trying to impress a princess.

Finally, after passing the Pineview Grain and Feed and a whitewashed Baptist church, to which Mrs. Ferguson reacted with, “Oh, yes. How lovely,” Will turned the wagon down a residential street lined with white clapboard houses adorned with green shutters and gingerbread. At the end of the street, on a larger lot with a long, rutted drive, stood a white house with a wrap-around porch. A small addition to one side bore a sign, “Ralph Coolidge, M.D.” He drove the wagon to the front yard, then pulled on the reins with a quiet “Whoa.”

“Oh, my.” Mrs. Ferguson’s polite countenance gave way to one of genuine admiration at the sight of her cousin’s home. “What a splendid front porch,” she said as she rose slowly, holding on to the back rest for balance. “But why is that chair there?”

Will followed the line of Mrs. Ferguson’s pointed finger to the bottom of the Coolidge’s front steps where a maple rocker waited with green and white cushions. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe Netta wanted some fresh air? She’s confined herself until the baby arrives.”

“Yes, she told me that,” Mrs. Ferguson said, still standing. Her skin had begun to pink in the late afternoon sun. “But with all those comfy chairs on the porch and that swing, I’d think she’d want to sit in one of them.”

“Ma’am, I’m as puzzled as you are.” Will shook his head. “Maybe we should ask Netta.”

He stood to dismount the wagon and help Mrs. Ferguson down. But before he could put one foot on the ground, the screen door opened onto the porch, and Ralph Coolidge emerged, assuming a wide stance, hands on hips, at the top of the front steps. His loosened tie and rolled up shirt sleeves revealed an unusually busy day.

“Don’t come any closer, Will.” Ralph held up his palm like a patrol officer ordering someone to halt.

Perplexed, Will returned to his seat. He looked at Mrs. Ferguson, who remained standing, her forehead slightly furrowed. Thin locks of hair at her neck had dampened with perspiration. She glanced questioningly at Will, and then waved at the porch.

“Hello, Bea Dot,” Ralph called.

Bea Dot?

“I apologize for greeting you this way, but several folks are down with influenza this morning. I’ve been exposed, and I don’t want to give it to you.”

“Oh, dear.” Bea Dot frowned and muttered before sitting back down. Will couldn’t help noticing she gripped the seat edge and winced as she did so. The sight sent a bolt of shame through him.

“I know your trip was long,” Ralph continued, “but I’m afraid I must extend it a bit more. I’m sorry, but I assure you it’s for the best.”