Matters of Faith (38 page)

But he didn't count on it.

All he wanted after he got out of here was to go home, work on his dad's boat, somehow make things up to his family, and live a decent life. He no longer had any thoughts about escaping to another state. His parents wouldn't be around forever, and Meghan was eventually going to need him.

And he was going to be there.

He was allowed some personal possessions now. He'd asked for his iPod and his jewelry. He was only allowed one necklace, so his dad brought him the leather cord and slid all the charms off the others and brought them jumbled together in a small plastic baggie. Marshall had strung them all on the cord and wore it constantly.

He'd taken to lightly touching the jagged bulge under his thin T-shirt, just a brush of his fingertips. It was enough, most days. Most days, nobody noticed.

“Are you comforted by wearing the charms, Marshall?” Dr. Reif asked him after taking note of the gesture. He'd shrugged.

“I guess,” he'd answered. But the truth was, he didn't know what he felt when he touched them. He'd believed in them all at one time or another. But now they were merely a reminder that he no longer believed in anything at all.

Fishing. He just wanted to go fishing.

I'VE been abandoned today. Well, technically, I was abandoned yesterday. But I've come to enjoy my big “family” Sundays, and while yesterday I'd felt an exhilarating sense of freedom, today I miss everyone more deeply than I ever would have expected.

Tessa and Charlie took Owen and Meghan to the Flagler Museum on the East Coast because they'd both recently declared an interest in trains. Or Owen professed an interest, and Meghan had jumped on the train too, so to speak.

Kevin and Stacey took their kids to Busch Gardens and Adventure Island, the water park next door to it, for the weekend. And Sandy had left on Friday to visit her brother, whose wife had just given birth to their fourth boy, making the lone girl, aged eleven, desperate for her aunt. Sandy left the care of the produce stand in my hands, but as she had never opened on Sundays anyway, I would be at loose ends after church.

But if Meghan has taught me nothing else, she taught me that I could only live one day at a time, and if I am not in the present, then I am missing all that is important in life. So I tried to make everyone's absence into a good thing.

I considered skipping church and sleeping late, a decadence I've not indulged in for a very, very long time. I still don't get up as early as Cal, but the days of lounging in bed until nine seem forever gone.

And I tried. I lazed, propping pillows behind my head to read when I couldn't fall back asleep after seven, but it was no use. I was habituated, and my stomach was growling. I was, however, able to take my time in the shower after having an English muffin, and I stayed in long enough to drain the old hot water heater. It made me laugh out loud for some reason, and I kept the smile on my face as I dried off, using two towels, slathered on lotion, and blow-dried my hair.

But all my selfish ministrations left me late for church, and as I hurried out the door I felt a loneliness descend, and it only intensified once I was in the car. I turned the radio on but could find nothing but commercials and finally switched it off, arriving at church just as the doors were closing.

I slipped into the last pew and nodded at the family sitting beside me. It was strange to be in church alone, and my attention wandered throughout the service. I tried to concentrate, but my eyes kept returning to a man in the third pew. He had a new haircut, and the line of a tan was clear across the back of his neck, the previously protected strip above it white and vulnerable.

He, too, seemed to be distracted, looking straight ahead when others bowed to pray, remaining seated when others rose. He, too, cast his gaze left and right, as though looking for someone.

It was CAL.

Cal was in church.

Cal was in
my
church.

I must have made some noise, because the little girl next to me looked up questioningly and put her hand in my lap, as though to comfort me. Her mother reached out immediately and took her hand back, mouthing
I'm sorry
at me with a bemused smile. I smiled back at her shakily and patted the little girl's shoulder.

I slouched down in the pew and watched Cal as one would watch a secret crush at a party, holding my breath whenever it seemed as though he would turn his head enough to see me, but he never did. I finally slipped out the next time everyone rose to sing, and hurried to my car, afraid he might have seen me.

I drove home, rattled.

But now that I am here, I am still rattled, and wander from room to room, nervously jumping at every sound and car going by. I finally change into my bathing suit, grab a book and my towel, and walk down the path to the beach.

Meghan and I go to the beach more now than we did when she was a small child. Somehow, having it right there during our daily lives inured us to its call. We thought of it as a place for tourists, people who didn't work for a living, or go to school, or have to manage the countless little chores of daily life. But things are slower now, and it's a rare day that we don't get down to the beach, or across to the bay, or both.

As the sand shifts beneath me, conforming itself to my curves, and the sun warms my back and legs, I stop wondering about Cal and his appearance at church, the last place he would ever have gone when we were together. I breathe in the air of the Gulf of Mexico and its salty moisture infuses me, softening my thoughts, relaxing my body.

It is nearly as good as church, and with the Gulf lapping quietly in the background in a mesmerizing rhythm, I do something on the beach I haven't done since I was a teenager. I fall asleep.

When I wake, the sun is high in a cloudless sky, and I wince as I stretch and turn over. I'm going to have a painful sunburn later, but it feels wonderful right now, my skin taut and alive, as if the sun were as healthy as we'd believed it was when I was a child. I sigh as I turn my face up to the heat, wishing for the scattering of freckles I'd had across my nose back then instead of the unevenness and blotches of my middle age.

The beach is almost empty but for some diehards, and I watch a couple with a young boy crouched between them in the wet sand at the water's edge from behind my sunglasses. They lean over the boy's back and kiss each other, and tears spring to my eyes, taking me completely by surprise.

It's time to go home.

I shake my towel out, wrap it around my waist and walk back to the house, slowing considerably and then stopping altogether when I see Cal's truck in the drive. The tailgate is down though the back is empty, and I run my hand along its edge as I walk around the back and approach the house.

Cal is standing on the steps, adjusting the tension on a brilliant white, aluminum screen door. Its newness assaults my eyes. It makes everything around it, the doorframe, the house, the steps, the yard, seem old and decrepit in comparison.

“Hey,” I say, startling him.

“Oh, hey,” he replies with a slow smile. “What do you think?”

“Wow,” I answer. There are other things I want to say.

“Yeah,” he says, opening it, letting go, and watching in pride as it slowly closes and latches by itself. “Works great, huh? Come on up, give it a try.”

I climb the stairs and hand him my book and extra towel. He hops off the steps and stands back with his arms folded and his legs set wide apart to watch me try out the door. I open it, let it go, watch it close, and nod my head at him and smile.

“No, no,” he says. “Go in like you'd go in normally. Go ahead.” He looks like Marshall looked the Christmas he'd given me an insanely inappropriate nightgown and badgered me to try it on. He'd been so proud that he'd shopped for and wrapped it himself, but neither Cal nor I could keep from spluttering when I opened it. Marshall had looked so pleased with himself, and later, after dinner, I saw him curl up on the sofa with it, rubbing it against his cheek until he fell asleep.

The nature of the gift, its sheer lace inserts and clear intent—to adults—as a sexy nightie had been completely lost on him. He'd thought it was soft, and he'd wanted me to have that. I'd never worn it—it wasn't just inappropriate; it was also two sizes too small—but I'd kept it tucked in the back of my drawer, though I haven't thought about it until this other gift arrived.

It, too, seems shockingly inappropriate and out of place, but I suddenly realize that to Cal, measuring for it, shopping for it, installing it, is likely a very, very soft thing he'd wanted to do for me.

And so I start at the bottom of the steps, climb them, open the screen door, open the kitchen door, and step inside, trying not to cringe as I let the screen door go. But I am two steps safely inside the kitchen before it latches behind me.

I turn around to see Cal grinning at me through the screen. He places his fingertips lightly against the fresh black netting and says, “What do you think?”

I touch his fingertips with mine through the screen, eerily reminiscent of the way Marshall and I had “touched” through the glass on visiting day, before he'd been transferred to the minimum-security prison. “It's perfect. Thanks.”

He holds up a finger and bounds back down the stairs. I'm dying of thirst, and I enjoy the waft of cool air as I pull a couple of waters out of the refrigerator. The tailgate slams shut on the truck, and I hear the jangle of Cal's keys as he pulls them from the ignition and slips them into his pocket.

I hold a water out to him as he comes in the kitchen, smiling as he takes exaggerated, slow steps and doesn't get caught by the screen.

“Have a seat, Mr. Fix-it,” I say. “I'm making spaghetti bake with sausage. You staying?”

“You asking?”

“I guess I am,” I say as I pull ingredients out of the pantry.

“Sounds great. Hear from Tessa yet?”

I shake my head as I cut up an onion. “No, but I didn't ask her to call. They should be back in a few hours.”

“Good.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I just thought, maybe we could talk a little, just you and me.”

“Okay,” I say, my heart racing. “Do I need wine for this talk?”

He laughs, a rich, male laugh I haven't heard in a long time. It makes me consider telling him to be quiet and take me upstairs, but I don't. Cal is ready to say something, and no matter what it is, I am ready to hear it.

“I don't think you
need
wine,” he says. “But maybe we should both have some. In the pantry?” he asks, as if I've rearranged things in his absence.

I nod, and he pulls out a bottle of red wine, pours us both a glass, and splashes some into the sauce. I grin at him. “All right, hands off the food, mister.” God it feels good to banter with him.

He leans against the counter and watches me cook, occasionally handing me an ingredient or utensil. “So, I've been thinking about Marshall.”

“Mmmm,” I answer, draining the pasta.

“He'll be out in three months, you know.”

“I know,” I say, shaking the colander.

“Have you talked to him about what he wants to do?”

“Not really. I thought we'd cross that bridge when we got there.”

“Have you given much thought to having him back here?”

I don't answer for a bit, and Cal lets me think while I build individual dishes of spaghetti, sausage, sauce, and cheese. I feel his eyes on me, watching my hands work, and I know he wants me too, as much as I want him. I place the dishes on a tray and slide them into the oven before I look at him, feeling my face flush.

“Let's sit in here,” I say, nodding at the kitchen table. “It's nice with the door open now.”

He gives me a small, appreciative smile and pulls a chair out for me, and when we sit in tandem, we look at each other directly for the first time in a long time.

“I've thought about it,” I finally answer. “I'm not sure how I feel. Obviously he's not going back to school any time soon. He needs someplace to live, and I feel that my—our home should always be open to him, but—”

“But you're worried about Meghan,” he interrupts. I take a sip of wine.

“Yes, but not why you think.”

“I don't think he'd do anything to harm her, do you?”

“No, I don't.”

“You're worried about how Meghan will feel about having him here, if
she'll
feel safe.”

I laugh. “Okay, I guess it is why you think then. Yes. I talked to her therapist about it a little. He doesn't think we should move so quickly, you know, force her to talk about him if she's not ready.”

“So have you been thinking about anything?”

“Well, I thought that maybe we could get him a small place in town, you know those new apartments they built last year? They seem affordable enough, and of course he'll need to get a job. I guess it is time to start getting things rolling, isn't it?”

It had seemed as though Marshall would never be free again, but suddenly the three months seem like entirely too little time. My sip of wine turns into a gulp.

“Well, we've been talking about it,” Cal says.

I hate the jealousy that still courses through me when I'm faced with the fact that Marshall talks to Cal more than me now.

“And?” I ask, trying to not sound irritated.

“I think he'd be a pretty good fishing guide,” he says, completely taking me aback.

“Really?”

“Yeah, he seems to want to give it a try.”

I raise my eyebrows as I consider, coming around it as slowly as I had Cal's truck earlier. It seems as good an option as any, I suppose. I certainly don't have a better plan. And of course everyone in town knows everything, thanks to the newspapers. He probably wouldn't be able to get any sort of decent job.