Rush Home Road (31 page)

Mose was staying with a retired porter near the tannery at the far end of town and, though she insisted she'd be fine, he wouldn't consider letting Addy walk home alone. They'd left the park just moments before Hamond arrived, Addy remarking on the stew-thick air, and Mose remarking on the sharp white moon and how well it lit their way. The only sound, save for the murmuring of the
other night walkers, was the symphony of crickets courting in the grass. The sound put Addy in mind of Rusholme and the year she and Leam had started off for the lake one August morning. They thought they must be still asleep and dreaming for what they saw: a blanket of crickets inching across the road, coming up from the ditch on one side, struggling toward the ditch on the other, like they hoped the water'd be different there and save them. Addy had laughed, stomping on the crickets and squealing at the sound of their crunchy skeletons, excited by the sheer number she could kill with just one foot. But Leam had been afraid. He'd reminded her of the locusts in the Bible, and how any time insects swarmed it meant there was a bad thing coming.

Addy had shivered, realizing the crickets might indeed be an omen of destruction. If Leam was right, the fact she was amusing herself by killing them might bring the doom directly down upon
her
head. They stood still, she and her brother, watching the insects inch past them, hearing for the first time the whispery sound their bellies made as they stroked the dusty road. L'il Leam had said, “Shh. Listen. Sounds like they're saying, ‘Watch out. Watch out. Watch out.'”

Addy began to cry. Leam had been sorry then because scaring Addy had not been his intention. He'd simply said what he believed. And he believed in warnings.

They decided not to go to the lake after all and didn't venture into the ditch to raid the errant stalks of sweet
corn as they usually did. “What about the monarchs, Leam?” Addy asked hopefully as they headed back to Fowell Street. “Why ain't there no destruction from the monarchs?”

“Well, Little Sister,” he considered, knowing she meant the yearly migration of monarch butterflies to the lake. It was a tradition in Rusholme, much like Christmas and Thanksgiving, to go see the monarchs. The whole town would set off on some certain fall day with old horse blankets and picnic baskets and spectacles if they needed them. The butterflies would have beat them to the place. They'd have been arriving for days and by the end the sky'd be full of them, thick as raindrops. They'd settle on the near-bare branches, fluttering their magnificent black-and-orange wings, making the trees look alive and like they'd take off flying too, if not for their stubborn roots. “The monarchs don't count, seeing as they ain't
crawling
insects, Addy,” L'il Leam had concluded. “It's just the crawling and hopping ones, like crickets and grasshoppers, what bring the doom.”

They couldn't bear for the evening to end so Mose and Addy took the long way home, quiet, unaware that they were leaning against each other for support. Addy would tell Mose about the monarchs someday, and about the crickets and her mother and father and brother and all the things about Rusholme she'd kept to herself since the day she left. They passed the Ferguson house on Degge Street and Addy saw there was a light in the sitting room. She was sure it would be Mary Alice and not Hamond still awake.

“This is Mary Alice's house,” she said. “Too hot for her to sleep, I suppose. I think I'll go on in and see does she want some company.”

Mose didn't like the sound of that but couldn't say exactly why. “It's late, Addy. Awful late to be calling on a person.”

“Mary Alice is more than a person though, more than a friend or a mother. She won't mind. Besides, don't you know I'll burst if I don't tell her about seeing you again?”

Even in the moonlight Addy saw that Mose was blushing. “I can, can't I, Mose? Tell her about seeing you?”

He set his hands lightly upon her arms in a way that made her shiver. Then he leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers. When his tongue politely begged to explore, she parted her lips and allowed. She breathed the air he exhaled and tasted his mouth. Addy might have gone on kissing Mose right there on Degge Street, but all at once she felt him grow hard and press against her stomach and suddenly she wondered if she'd been wrong. Was he a gentleman after all? For that matter, was she a lady? She pushed him off and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

“I'm sorry, Addy,” Mose whispered, and wished she hadn't looked away. “After what you told me tonight, I don't want you to think I think…” He struggled with the right phrasing. “I just want you to know I'm a gentleman and wouldn't, couldn't…”

“I know,” Addy said, turning to meet his gaze, and now she truly did know. “I'm going inside, Mose.”

“To tell Mary Alice about me?”

“Yes.”

“You gonna tell her we're getting married?”

Addy giggled. “I'm not sure I believe that myself.”

Mose reached down, took her hand, and lifted it to his lips. Addy squeezed his fingers and turned around, telling herself not to run like a child or squeal with delight as she made her way up the little walkway to the Ferguson home. She turned when she reached the door, knowing he'd still be there. She held her breath as she gave a little wave and watched him walk down the street, thinking how beautiful and mysterious a simple life could be.

The house was quiet. Addy knew not to call out. Hamond was a sound enough sleeper but she wouldn't want to wake Simon and Samuel. If she did they'd want a glass of water, then a pee, then it'd be another hour before they'd be back down. She crept through the sitting room and down the hall, and like a storm that appears suddenly overhead, she felt some ill wind blow in from the back door and she knew something terrible, something she couldn't stop, was just about to happen. She realized she could hear the crickets again, so many and so loud it was like to pop her ear. She took a deep breath and opened the back door.

There was someone in the yard and though she couldn't see in the darkness or hear any person's voice, she could sense a presence. Addy had not the will to turn back so she crept down the stairs, squinting at the bushes and the fence beyond. It was then she heard whispering in the woodshed.
There were two voices, and though she couldn't identify them precisely, she had a flash in her mind of what Mary Alice had told her of Hamond's infidelity. He's there, Addy thought, he's in there with one of his women. There was a trill of laughter followed by a hard slap, and then silence. The door to the shed never had shut right and even now was half open. Through it came another sound, a moaning sound, like someone was hurt. Addy swallowed hard and moved forward, knowing if she reached the pear tree she'd get a clear view inside the shed.

Years later, Addy would think on that night and wonder if the moon had ever shone so bright. She'd taken the steps toward the pear tree, hidden behind its trunk, and seen clearly a thing she had never seen before. A thing she could not believe. Gabriel Green was buck-naked, his skin silvery with sweat, his chest heaving, his long body rippling and shivering in pain. His back was pressed against the wall of the shed, his arms stretched out and strung with rope tied to hooks. His head hung to one side, and with his arms like they were, he looked just like Jesus on the Cross. It was from Gabriel's lips the moans escaped and Addy could see now, though it was another thing she could not believe, that there was pleasure in his pain. Mary Alice stood in front of Gabriel, naked too, glistening too, making circles with her round behind, back and forth and in and out, barely brushing his thick erection. Gabriel leaned forward, opening his mouth and finding Mary Alice's soft shoulder. He bit her hard and she brought up
her hand to slap his face. He let his head hang again and moaned a little more as Mary Alice scraped his nipples with her fingernails.

Addy could scarcely breathe and much as she knew it was a thing not to be seen, she could not look away and could not fathom the depth of her own arousal. She would not tell a soul what she saw, not Mose or anyone, for if she told there would be judgment, and feeling as she did, any judgment would then also be against her. What she saw she'd keep quietly and wonder over and be confused by, until she concluded that humans were only creatures, and creatures as unpredictable, noble and base, brutal and benevolent as any animal, or the weather, or the Lord.

She watched Gabriel start to move again, struggling against the ropes, thrusting, his eyes small and searing. Mary Alice stepped back, teasing. Gabriel lifted his right leg and hooked it around her narrow waist, drawing her in, seizing and squeezing until she was pressed against him. Mary Alice was the one to struggle now, as he tightened his leg hold and began to buck against her. Suddenly she stopped struggling. She lifted her leg, set her foot against the wall, reached for Gabriel, and guided him inside her. They both moaned quietly in their pleasure and pain. Addy might have spoken then, or walked directly inside the shed, for Gabriel Green and Mary Alice were so lost in the desperate love they were making, she was sure she would have stayed invisible.

 

 

ADDY ARRIVED HOME SHORTLY
after midnight to find Mrs. Lemoine sitting up, more tired and worried than angry. After a talk about the surprise party, and an even longer apology for going off the way she did, Addy retreated to her room. Her mind tore through the events of the day. She'd been stunned to learn Mary Alice had thrown her a matchmaking party, even if she wasn't sorry she missed it. It certainly explained the peculiar way she and Mrs. Lemoine had been acting that morning. But how could she make sense of what happened in the woodshed? Or moreover, how she felt watching it?

Mose
, she thought, and felt a surge of what she imagined was true love. Although she would think of Mose and be with Mose for many hours and weeks and years, she thought no more of her future husband that night. She waited with a galloping heart until she heard the door to Mrs. Lemoine's bedroom close shut, then she stripped off her clothes and stretched naked on the bed, not minding, even liking, that her skin was hot and damp. As she listened to the crickets Addy slowly guided her finger toward her nipple. She moved the finger back and forth, pinching a little, sensing the heat in her groin. With one hand still attending on her nipple, she directed the other down her concave belly to burrow in the slick coarse hair between her legs. Almost at once she felt the same sensation she'd felt those years ago, and not since, the white-
hot tingle provoked by Riley Rippey's tongue. As she probed and caressed herself, a thing she'd never done before, she thought of Mary Alice and Gabriel Green in the woodshed. Until this night she would never have allowed that such a thing could be. It was savage, Addy knew, but it was also love.

Hamond slept through it all. He'd spoken briefly with the girl at the park by the river then headed back to Degge Street to see if Addy had shown up there. He found his wife sitting on the steps in the backyard and had asked, “Think I ought to go looking some more?”

Mary Alice had been impatient. “Oh go on to bed, Hamond. She'll get home. She always does. If anyone can take care of her own self it's Addy Shadd.”

Hamond lingered a moment, listening to the crickets. “Hot.”

“Well it's summer, isn't it?”

“Why don't you come on to bed?”

“I'm not tired.”

“Why don't you come on anyway?” Hamond said in a way that left no doubt what he meant.

“Good night, Hamond,” she said simply, and he knew that meant go away.

It wasn't a thing he'd admit to, but Hamond was hurt by his wife's rejection. He didn't understand why Mary Alice held him in such contempt. He was, after all, a good father and a good provider and he never once laid a hand on her. And he never once, though the Lord knew he'd been
tempted, shared himself with another woman. Even in those long years after Olivia was born and Mary Alice would not be touched. And even when the pretty young whore at the tavern told him he looked so sad she'd love him for free.

Hamond didn't know exactly why Mary Alice'd gone off like she did that first time. She'd sat day after day in the chair by the window, drinking coffee till she got the jitters, her baby daughter screaming in the crib, diaper full, stomach empty. He didn't talk to anyone about his wife's condition, of course. Anyone who knew her knew something was wrong, and anyone who didn't, well, it was none of their business. She had come back to herself eventually. She would come back again, Hamond thought. The bed was hot and lonely, but he fell right off that night and, as he always did, slept like the dead.

Addy understood now that Mary Alice had lied about Hamond. She stopped being cool to him after that night, and though Hamond had never quite noticed her coolness to begin with, he did notice Addy stopped coming by the house so often now. Simon and Samuel missed her sorely, and he realized he did too. When he asked Mary Alice if they had had a quarrel, she just shrugged and looked out the window.