Gravity Box and Other Spaces (4 page)

“Let me make us something to eat,” he said. “You could probably stand it if you've been hiding in the woods all this time.” He started to move to the stairs. Her eyes tracked him. “How long have you been hiding?”

“It's been nearly three weeks since I left Brice.”

“You've been in the woods for three weeks?”

“No. A couple folks took me in, but it didn't turn out good.”

Egan thought of the fire down the road and the talk at The Pumphandle. Cold rippled over his scalp for a few seconds.

“I feel like an omelet,” he said, his voice too loud. He clapped his hands together. “I haven't cooked one since the last time I cooked for someone.”

Remembering, his appetite died. The last omelet he had made had been for Clair. He put the unpleasant memory aside. He chopped celery, onions, mushrooms, mixed the eggs, heated the pan. Moving by habit, expertly from one task to the next, until the kitchen and then the whole A-frame filled with lush aromas.

He ladled an omelet onto a plate for her just as someone started banging on the door. He almost dropped the skillet. Esther Miller too jumped at the sound. Egan's
heart was pounding. He put the skillet back on the stove and handed her the plate.

“Eat,” he said. She took the plate. The banging started again, and he headed for the door.

Sheriff Edmunds stood on the front porch with a flashlight loose in one hand. His car waited beside Egan's Cherokee, the engine running, lights on.

“Sheriff—?”

Edmunds aimed his flashlight past Egan. “Is she in there?”

“Who?”

“Esther Miller.”

“Um—”

Edmunds' shoulders slumped and he looked disappointed. “You dumb son-of-a-bitch.” He motioned Egan to follow him into the yard.

“Usually Bert takes a fella home he stays till mornin',” Sheriff Edmunds explained to Egan. He made it sound like an accusation. Egan leaned against the hood of the sheriff's car, arms folded against the night chill. Edmunds paced on and off as he spoke. “Don't make no matter to us. We all know Bert. That's how she is. I saw your truck parked up to The Pumphandle after closing and figured that's where you went. Later I drove by, and it was gone, so I wanted to make sure it hadn't been stolen. I asked Bert. She told me you left, so I come out here to make sure, you know, that everything's all right.”

He stopped pacing and faced Egan squarely. “You let her inside?”

“Did you guess or peek through the window?”

“Don't be smart. Brice told you not to let her in. I s'pose I should of said somethin', too.”

Egan sighed. “She was filthy, barefoot, cold, and scared. What was I supposed to do?”

“Well, that's a fair question. You did a decent thing. You shouldn't have to pay for it. She's got to go home, though. You got to send her on back to Brice.”

“Sheriff, why isn't Brice in jail? The last time I checked, assault was still a felony, unless you go by a different set of laws here.”

“Assault. Who?”

“Bert.”

Edmunds winced. “Can't do nothin'. She won't press charges.”

“And mistreating his wife?”

“I ain't gonna stand here and talk about people you don't know shit about. Brice never did wrong by Esther. He ain't a cruel man. She run off and left him.”

“Had to be a reason.”

“Yeah, I s'pose there had to be. That don't make it a good reason, and it sure don't make it right. Now you listen, son. You're just visitin' here, and what I hear you're a decent sort, so you and me ain't got a problem. There's a lot of history between people here, and you don't even know the first page of it. It ain't good to be meddlin' in what you won't ever understand well enough to judge.”

“I can only assume that anything that would drive a woman to hide in the woods for weeks on end has to be pretty bad.” Egan looked toward the A-frame. “I won't send her back to Brice, but I'll turn her over to you.”

Edmunds frowned. “Me?”

“Take her into custody. Have an inquiry. Find out why she ran off. Maybe Brice isn't as fine a citizen as you think.”

“It don't work that way. She has to go back to Brice.”

“I won't do that.”

“Damn it. We got enough trouble over this.”

Egan remembered then what Bert had told him. “You don't honestly believe that spirit stuff, do you?”

Edmunds shot him a look. “Bert tell you that?”

“She mentioned—”

“It ain't that simple, and she don't know as much as she thinks she does.”

Egan straightened. “Enough. Sheriff, I'm not turning her back over to her husband. If you won't take her into custody, then she stays here until you find a way to handle this.”

“Hell, she don't want to stay here! That's half the problem! She wants to go outside, see the world, go to Topeka or wherever the hell!” He reached out and caught Egan's arm. “Don't do this, Mr. Ginter. Esther has to go back.”

“Why? Because if she doesn't the valley will dry up and blow away? Fuck, Sheriff, give me a break. You find a way for me to turn her over to you or a state agency or a neighbor so that you can look into charges of abuse against Brice Miller and I'll cooperate. Short of that, neither of us have done anything wrong.”

“She's got to you already, hasn't she? You'll do whatever she wants and think it's your idea. You're in over your head and don't even know it.”

“Thank you for your concerns, Sheriff.”

“All right. All right. You want her turned over to someone other than Brice. I'll do that. Maybe Mrs. McCutcheon'll do it. I can talk to her. But you got let her go. Hear me? You got to be the one takes her somewhere else.”

“We'll see.”

Edmunds squeezed Egan's arm, hard. “You got to do it. And for God's sake don't fuck her, you hear me? You keep her out of your pants or there'll be hell to pay.”

“I don't fuck other men's wives, even if they are in the process of divorcing them.”

“You remember you said that. I'll be back in the morning with Mrs. McCutcheon. We'll work this out.”

Egan watched Edmunds climb into his squad car and back down the drive. He could have just arrested me and taken her himself, Egan thought. But no, apparently by their rules he had to cooperate over this.

“Just how gullible—” he murmured aloud, then shivered in the sharp, cold wind and went back inside.

Egan came awake from a dream he had thought banished.

The woman stood framed in a bathroom door, bright sunlight silhouetting her, as Egan stood motionless, although every part of him pleaded with her. She cocked her head as if trying to understand what he was saying, and he knew by her expression that his language and hers did not translate. Slowly, she pushed the door closed while he begged her with all that was within him not to. The lock snicked to, and he stopped talking. He listened intently to every sound that now came from the other side of the door—the slide of glass on metal runners, the shuffle of plastic prescription bottles, the water running in the bathtub, and the indefinite sound of an old-fashioned straight razor being opened. He did not speak. Mute, he could only listen to the sound of flesh parting, not even sure how he knew what it was supposed to sound like. After a long, long time pinkish water flowed beneath the door and over his bare feet.

He blinked in brilliant morning light. His mind, dream-hazed, took in the outline of a woman above him without surprise or question. The door had opened and the sounds had been phantoms taunting his memory, but she was still there, and he welcomed her without hesitation. Another
few seconds, he knew, and the dream would fade completely, leaving him with reality and the possibility of more bad dreams, but for now, caught by the light and warmth of her touch, he doubted nothing.

She worked at his lust with both hands. He wondered at her urgency. There was no need to coax him further, but it felt natural. This was the ideal, the irresistible, the necessary, and the perfect. He could smell her, thick and wet. He felt himself begin to arch, pressing up toward her, and his mind made the last transition from dream to reality. She spread open above him, moist and willing. She took him into herself. Sensations exploded both new and familiar. They moved together as knowing partners. They explored sensations as hungry neophytes. He gasped at the startling heat and thrust again and again.

“Jesus,” Egan gasped. He reached up and clasped her upper arms. It was too much. He thought to throw her off, get her away, but instead he held her and pressed for more. He watched her breasts move up and down to the rhythm of their coupling. Egan's mind crowded with conflicting images of Edmunds' warning, his own words about married women, his dream, but none gave him a way out. It was impossible to stop. His climax was near: a thrust, one more, no, two.

When he came, his grip tightened, and she arched in seeming ecstasy. Finished, he dropped his hands. Red marks like bands circled her arms where he had held her.

She did not move from their embrace, but lowered herself along his length, somehow keeping him from slipping out. Her skin was dry and warm. He stroked her back without thought as she nuzzled at his neck. Egan wrapped his arm around her, pressing her closer, stroking her back.

Egan relaxed beneath her, enjoying the sensation of the sheets, the friction of skin on skin, the compact weight of her.
It would be nice to keep it like this
, he thought, the quiet just after, only the wavelike cadence of their overlapped breathing. This was the part too quickly lost to time. If he could find a way to hold this moment, to remain present instead of letting it fade, then he might find a way to stay. But at some point you had to move, you had to speak, you had to come back to everything else.

Esther Miller raised her head and looked at him. Egan tensed, anticipating the first awkward words—an apology, an excuse, or an explanation that gave him a chance to be indignant, forgiving, or simply to say nothing and let the chance just slip away.

“Help me,” she said.

Before thought, before response, something struck the front door with a sharp crack.

Esther rolled off of him to perch at the edge of the bed. Egan sat up, pulse hammering. Another round of banging came, followed by more yelling. Egan clearly heard “Esther!”

“Get dressed,” Egan said. He stood and pulled on his clothes, giddy, a moment when he almost laughed. This had never happened to him before. He had always stayed away other men's wives or lovers.

Glass shattered.

“Esther! Come out here! You got to come home!”

“Damn it,” Egan cursed. He laced his boots and stood. Esther lay still on the bed. “God damn it, get dressed!”

“It's Brice,” she said.

“So what? Put your clothes on.” He looked around the floor and found the oversized pants and shirt he had given her. He snatched them up and tossed them at her. “Put these on now!”

“Esther!”

“Leave me be!” she screamed.

Egan's heart seemed to jump in his chest, and he stared at her, dumbstruck. Tears streamed down her face. She climbed off the bed and slowly began putting on the clothes.

“Esther, you got to come home! The soy ain't comin' up and the corn's rottin' in the husk! Old Man Emory lost half his grain to spoilage and Cy Taylor's dog run off!”

Esther chewed her lip, buttoning the shirt. She stooped over and rolled the pants legs up.

“Esther!”

“I'm goin', Brice! I'm leaving the valley!”

“Shut up!” Egan demanded.

“You can't do that, Esther! You got a commitment!”

“Not my choosin'!”

“Don't matter! It's the way it is! You, young fella, you there?”

“Yes.”

“You sleep with my wife?”

Egan hesitated. He rarely lied. He practiced absence so that he would not have to.

“Damn it! Esther, did you fuck him? Was it your idea?”

“Go away!” she cried.

“Young fella, you send her out, and we can forget all about this. It ain't your fault. You don't know. You don't understand. You send Esther out to me, and it'll be all right.”

“All right?” Egan looked at Esther. “What does that mean?”

“Please. Don't send me back. I want to leave.”

“Then—”

“Esther!”

Egan descended the stairs. “Mr. Miller, Sheriff Edmunds is supposed to be here this morning with Mrs. McCutcheon to take Esther into protective custody. I'm not going to send her out or let you in until he arrives.”

“Mrs. McCutcheon? What in hell for? Her part's done.”

“Esther will be in protective custody.”

“Protective? What's that mean? Will I get my wife?”

“That's up to Esther.”

“I don't think so. Listen, you don't understand.”

“You already punched Bert over this. How do I know you won't do the same to Esther?”