Gravity Box and Other Spaces (3 page)

She looked skeptical. “You ain't one of them men who just can't make a commitment?”

“No, I'm willing to commit. It just never comes up. It just never comes up—”

His voice trailed off, and in the next instant Egan found himself holding her, shaking, terrified, his breath shuddering in and out.

What? What?

He couldn't make any sense of what he was doing. He felt foolish, and then embarrassment took over, until he just felt bitter and angry. Bert patted his back and wrapped an arm around his head and rocked him as if he were a child.

“I'm sorry, hon,” Bert said over and over. “I didn't mean to. I'm sorry.”

He pulled away and gazed at the rack of CDs. He swallowed hard, amazed at himself.

Just what the hell is this all about?
he thought, then laughed to break the silence. He did not give in to his urge to run out the door.

“It's been crazy around here for weeks,” Bert said. “I shoulda known better. Lemme see about that coffee.”

“Crazy—yeah—ever since Brice Miller's wife ran off, I bet.”

“Oh, that's just local talk,” Bert answered from the kitchen. She came back with two mugs of steaming coffee. “People here have to explain everything. When things go wrong for no good reason, they make one up. But damn if it ain't a persuasive argument. Seems like everything just started fallin' apart after she run off.”

“I met Brice. My impression was that she may have had good reason to run off.” This felt better. This felt normal.

“Oh, that's a fact. He's a first-rate asshole. Where'd you meet him?”

“First day, up where I'm staying, he just came out of the woods to tell me not to let his wife in. It seems like everybody is concerned about him getting her back, though.”

“They say if she gets out everything will dry up and blow away.”

Egan wiped his eyes, grateful for the bizarre conversation. His outburst seemed to be fading away to some distant place that was not part of him.

“How is that supposed to work?”

“Esther Miller is supposed to be a spirit or the embodiment of one, like the life force of the county. As long as she stays, there's life. As long as she's kept in line, there's prosperity. I know, I know, don't look at me that way. I'm just tellin' you what folks around here believe.”

“I take it you're not from around here?”

“Not originally. I moved here about eight years ago from Topeka.” She frowned, thoughtful. “I came through here on vacation and the place was a shambles. Farms were failin'. There was drought one season, floods the next. People were movin'. Some were dyin'. The Pumphandle was up for sale. I won't tell you the price. You'd think I was a thief. I bought it 'cause I gotta cousin in the highway department. He told me a new interstate was planned to go through.” A dark smile crossed over her face. “Well, that didn't work out, but I stuck with it. Brice Miller got married the next year.”

“To Esther?”

“To Esther. And damn if things didn't improve. For about five years everything was as good as you could hope, but then they started havin' troubles, and she run off a couple of times. When she did, people would have accidents, cattle would come down with the damnedest diseases. Stuff those tabloid people would just love, you know? This last time's been the worst, with Frank Menlow dyin'.”

“Why doesn't Esther just divorce him and leave?”

Bert shrugged. “People don't think that way around here.”

“And what do you think?”

“Just stories. But it does have everybody upset. That doesn't help anything.”

Egan finished his coffee. “I think maybe I should go.”

Bert reached for his hand. “Hey, I am sorry.”

“It's not your fault.” He sighed. “I guess I owe you an explanation.”

“No—”

“I'm here to let someone go. I'd been seeing her for almost a year. Things were—good. But that point I told
you about came and went, and I expected to just drift away. It was obvious I was making her unhappy. I thought it was time to move on, let her get on with her life. I'd even started seeing other women. Last month she tried to commit suicide.”

“Lord—”

“I can't stand hurting people. If that's what I'm going to do to her, she doesn't need me.”

Bert was quiet for a long time, and then she leaned back. “You ever thought maybe you're just a coward?” She stood and took his mug. “Sorry. I'll give you a ride back up to the tavern so you can get your truck.”

“That's all right.” Egan lurched to his feet. He felt suddenly enraged, filled with a panicky energy. “I can find my way back. By the way, you owe me a direct question.”

“Shoot.”

“Who gave you the shiner?”

She looked startled, as if she had expected a different question. “Brice Miller.”

“For what?”

“That's two questions.”

“Honesty's cheaper by the bunch.”

She almost smiled. “He blamed me for Esther runnin' off. She used to come into the tavern and we'd sit and talk. I told her about Topeka. We talked about—hell, we talked about everything. I thought I'd seen sheltered people before, but Esther didn't know anything about the world. Brice said I filled her head with city notions, and she ain't satisfied to be here no more.”

“You're right. An asshole. You're a good judge of character, Bert.”

She looked wounded. He felt the impulse to apologize, but ignored it and made himself leave.

The wind cut down the street, colder than Egan remembered it as he trudged back up to the state blacktop. By the time he climbed into the Cherokee he was ready to go back home, the simmering anger substituting for sobriety. He sat there for a time, considering his options.

Drive away now
, he thought, just leave everything where it is and go.

Instead, he made a U-turn and headed for the A-frame. He could pack and leave tomorrow.

Run away.

Again?

A coward—in other words, he reasoned.

He was avoiding something. It really had nothing to do with an inability to know what to do, but an inability to accept responsibility. A therapist had told him that once. At the next session, Egan had shown her his credit report. “Look at this,” he told her. He had known it was an adolescent thing to do, but he had been so offended by the accusation and rejected it so absolutely that he had to refute it somehow. He was responsible.

How else do you prove that you are responsible?

By staying when all you do is cause pain? Or by rejecting all human contact? Or by doing what you always do, leaving when the new wears off and the irritations creep in and the daily rituals annoy more than delight?

He shook his head as if to throw off the unwelcome thoughts and concentrated on the road. This was the first time he had been away from the house after dark. He hadn't noticed before that there were no street lights, and it must have been a new moon because the night was black as pitch.

Egan slammed on his brakes. His heart raced. A moment or two past the reaction he realized that something had shot across the road in front of him. He
blinked at the swath of asphalt in his headlights, then reached to the glove compartment for the flashlight. He shone the beam into the brush on both sides and saw nothing.
A deer maybe?
He had no idea if there were deer in this part of the country.
Maybe a dog.
It had gone by too fast.

“Shit,” he hissed and tossed the flashlight onto the passenger seat. He drove on with great care keeping his eyes
and
his thoughts on the road ahead, but still he almost missed the turnoff. Once on the dirt road the world seemed to shrink around him, grow darker still, and closer.

The headlights fell on the porch as he pulled up. A woman sat on the edge of the bottom step. In the stark glare her skin seemed flat white and her eyes two dark holes. She was barefoot and her dress was dingy and colorless, mud brown.

Egan left the lights on and got out of the Cherokee. “Let me guess. You're Esther Miller.”

“Can I come in?”

Her face was round and her eyebrows thick, full arches. She looked up at him without blinking. Her arms were wrapped around her knees and showed scratches, like those on her shins.

“Do you know your husband is looking for you?”

She nodded. “I don't want him to find me. Can I come in?”

He noticed that she spoke with only a faint accent. He sighed. “Sure. Why not? I'm leaving in the morning, though, so you'll have to make other arrangements.”

She stood and Egan stared, startled. She was a compact woman, but in a way that suggested stressed boundaries, as if too much were contained by too little. Her body pushed against the dress she wore and everything else around her. Egan felt immediate raw desire.

He went back to the Cherokee and turned off the headlights. He had no night vision, so he took care making his way back towards the house. When he stepped onto his porch, he breathed in the savory aroma of womanhood that clung to her. He moved to the door and fumbled with the key. A stupor filled his mind and complicated his movements, as if he were suddenly just too tired to continue with mundane tasks. Finally, he got the key into the lock, but he hesitated, reluctant to turn the knob.

“Sorry,” he muttered, irritated with himself. “Hasn't been a good night.” He twisted the knob and shoved the door open. He made an exaggerated gesture for her to precede him.

“You first,” she said.

Egan barked a laugh, flapping his hands against his thighs, and stomped into the house. He left the lights off and made his way through the shadows to the kitchen. He found the coffeepot and sloshed it to see if it contained anything, then went to the sink and turned on the small lamp over the stove.

He heard the front door click shut.

“Come on in,” he called, “pull up a couch, make yourself at home. I'm making coffee. Want any?”

After a long silence, Egan looked back toward the front door. Esther Miller stood just within the threshold, head tilted back and turning slowly. The light from the stove did not reach far so she was only a blur within darkness, but Egan still sensed her anxiety, as if at a gesture she would bolt from the house.

“I don't bite,” Egan said.

When she did not respond, Egan shrugged and busied himself with the coffee.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“What?” He turned and almost struck her. She lurched back a step, and he gave a startled laugh.

“Please? No, really,” she said, raising her hands, almost as if she intended to cradle his face. Self-consciously, she lowered them and looked away. “I just wondered if there's something I can do for you.”

“Coffee will be ready soon. Why don't you sit down? Are you hungry? I don't know what I have.”

Up close, the scratches on her arms and legs looked even worse. Her clothes were stained and muddied, one sleeve torn, and her hair was a tangle of black. Dark circles shadowed her eyes and her lower lip looked swollen.

“Let me—I think I have some clean clothes you can wear.”

He was surprised at the relief he felt when he broke away from her to scurry up the steps to the loft. It was a familiar reticence, but for a moment he could not place it. Then he knew. He had felt the same way at fourteen when he had first tried to kiss a girl, and he did not know if she would allow it.

He went through the chest of drawers by the bed and found an old pair of jeans and a clean flannel shirt. Shoes—he had no spare shoes, nothing that would fit her, anyway. He opened the closet and fished out a pair of slippers.

Esther Miller sat on the edge of the sofa that faced the wood-burning stove, her arms crossed over her chest as if she was protecting herself. Egan switched on the lights. She looked frightened and shuddered briefly. He placed the clothes beside her.

“These are the best I can do right now. Are you hungry?”

She nodded absently while she lifted the shirt off the pile. Without a word, she stood and began to strip off her
tattered dress. Egan stared at the hardened nipples of her breasts.

“Um—I'll make something—” He backed away, retreating into the kitchen.

He opened the refrigerator and gazed unseeing at its contents while he waited for his pulse to slow.

“Can I do something?” she asked.

He felt himself flinch, but he controlled it and made himself look over his shoulder forcing calm into his voice. She stood a few feet from him. The clothes were too large and baggy which made her look much younger. Egan found it easier to look at her now.

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “Anything—cleaning—”

“No, that's—” Egan started, but changed his mind. “Why is everyone looking for you?”

She chewed her lower lip and tucked her hands into the pants pockets. “Brice Miller wants me back.”

“But you don't want to go back?”

“No.”

“I don't get it. You've been hiding in the woods? Why don't you just leave?”

“How?”

“Can't you drive?”

She shook her head.

“Then get someone to take you.”

“I'm trying to.”

“What's the problem, then? Don't tell me everyone is on your husband's side. Bert would take you.”

“She can't.”

“Why not? I doubt she's afraid of Brice. He already hit her, you know.”

Esther Miller's eyes widened and for a moment her entire face seemed overwhelmed by sudden pain. She looked away from him before he could speak.

“A woman can't—” she began, then shook her head again. “Would you?”

A flurry of impressions chased each other through Egan's mind, too fast for any to make sense. He wanted to say “Yes,” but he mistrusted the impulse. Getting involved in the marital problems of friends was bad enough, but he could see no way it would turn out acceptably with strangers.