Sweet Everlasting (11 page)

She looked quizzical.

“ ‘That Blasted Dog.’ ”

She grinned, and covered her mouth with the knuckles of one hand, then fumbled in her pocket for her notebook.
You could name him Lou,
she wrote.

“Lou?”

Because of how you got him.

Now it was his turn to look puzzled.

Pressing down a smile, she scrawled,
In lou of payment,
and then blushed to the roots of her hair when he threw back his head and laughed, long and loud.

“Lou it is. I like it. Here, Lou!” he called experimentally. “It works. Thanks, Carrie.”

She mouthed,
You’re welcome.
Her delighted heart felt light as a feather.

He looked past her shoulder. She stood straighter, girding herself for good-bye. “Would you like to dance?”

She couldn’t believe her ears. Her blood beat faster—it was celebrating. Unable to stop smiling, she shook her head.

“No?” He looked surprised.

She wrote in her notebook,
Thank you. I wish I could but I can’t.

“Why can’t you? Your new shoes pinch your toes?”

She looked down at her tattered old brogans, then back up with a grin.
No,
she mouthed.

“You’re tired because you were out all last night dancing?” he teased.

She wanted to laugh at that. She mimed
No
again.

“You don’t like me?” His eyes twinkled; he tried to make his lips droop in a pout, but they just wouldn’t go that way.

That was the silliest guess of all. Carrie flushed, and bent her head over her notebook to hide her face.
I can’t dance,
she wrote.

He scowled down at the message. Then he took the pencil out of her hand, closed it inside the notebook, and slipped them both back into her skirt pocket. “I’ll teach you.”

She stepped back, startled, heart pounding. While she was shaking her head, he reached out and took her hand.

“It won’t hurt,” he said in his low, thrilling voice. They were the same words he’d said that day he’d touched her throat and made her fall in love with him. “I’ll show you right here. Nobody will look at us.” He took her left hand and put it on top of his shoulder, still holding her right. When he slid his other hand around her waist and rested it on the small of her back, she had to quit breathing.

“This is a waltz,” he told her. “This is the easiest dance of all. Nice and slow.” She was only dimly aware of the soft, sad song the band was playing now. “Move back when I move toward you, Carrie. That’s it, your right and my left. Now over here. Up again, that’s it, and now over here, back where we started. Perfect. I think you’re a natural at this. Shall we do it again?”

She beamed at him briefly, then frowned down at her feet, concentrating. They were making a little box, she saw. She didn’t step on his toes, but she was stiff, too conscious of herself, and of every inch of herself that was touching him. But gradually she started to relax, beguiled by the music, and his jokes, and his constant encouragement.

“Don’t look at your feet anymore. Look at me.”

She did—and immediately stumbled. He caught her and pulled her closer, until she could feel the whole front of his body against the whole front of hers. After that she never missed a step, which was strange because she completely lost track of what her feet were doing.

“This isn’t so bad, is it?”

It’s wonderful,
she wished she could say. She never wanted it to end. His blue-violet eyes were dark now, and in them she saw the deep down kindness she was used to, and something else, too—an attentiveness that was new, a special concentration on her alone.

His lips curved in a smile, and all at once she realized she was staring at him like a dreamy-eyed fool. But she couldn’t look away. She smiled back, giving her heart away. She didn’t know a thing about flirting or hiding her real feelings. What did he think of her? She’d have given anything to know. Her impossible love welled up, like a creek flooding its banks—and finally she did have to look away, to save herself from drowning.

You are a melon-headed fool, Carrie Wiggins.
He doesn’t think of you at all. He asked you to dance because he’s a nice man and you were standing right next to him. When this is over he’ll forget about it, he won’t lie awake all night remembering it, second by second, and tomorrow he won’t think of every detail all over again.

He stopped moving. She came to an awkward halt in his arms, perplexed because the music was still playing. “What’s wrong?” he asked, not letting go of her.

She had no answer, nothing to tell him. Even if she could speak, what would she say?
Loving you makes me sad.

Then the music did stop. There was an odd little pause before he stepped away from her, letting his hands fall.

“Hello, Tyler. You haven’t forgotten our dance, have you?”

Spring Mueller’s radiant smile and china doll eyes were dazzling. Carrie blinked in their brightness, backing up fast. Mr. Dattilio was announcing something called the “Cumberland Reel,” and parties of dancers were starting to form on the floor in some complicated pattern that dismayed her. Without waiting for Dr. Wilkes to say “Good-bye” or “Excuse me,” Carrie spun around and escaped into the crowd.

Eppy caught her at the edge of the dance floor, before she could reach the door. “I can see you’re having a good time now,” she laughed, “because your cheeks are red as apples. Did you enjoy your dance? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you dance before, now that I think of it. That Dr. Wilkes, isn’t he an interesting man? I’ve invited him for supper next week. Did you see Frank waltzing with Erma Stambaugh? I told him he had to, so she’d take out another ad for her restaurant in the paper.”

She kept on gossiping about her friends and neighbors, cackling at her own jokes. At last she ran out of talk and craned her neck over her shoulder. “Lord, Erma’s setting out the pies already, and I said I’d help. See you later, Carrie. You have fun!”

The minute Eppy was out of sight, Carrie turned and hurried out of the fire hall.

The night air was fresh and almost chilly after the hot closeness of the dance floor. She paused in the middle of the street and looked up at the sky. Tomorrow night the moon would be full; tonight it nearly was. A scuffling noise behind her made her whirl. There—a figure came away from the dark side of the building. She heard the fast crunch of gravel as the figure scrambled away and ran down the alley toward Wayne Street.

Broom—she knew him by his height and his rail thinness, but mostly by his peculiar jerky gait. She wanted to call out, tell him to stop. He’d been standing under the window, watching the dancers inside the hall, too shy or too scared to come in. Well, maybe it was just as well; he wouldn’t have liked it. She knew people who would have stared at him—at best. Laughed at him and made run of him at worst. But the thought of him standing out here by himself for who knew how long made her feel like crying.

She started up Broad Street, walking toward the moon. It was rising over High Dreamer tonight, outlining the gentle curve of the summit with a silver glow. Almost always the sight of the moon coming and going behind wispy clouds could take her out of herself and make her forget all the little worries and sorrows she might be carrying. Not tonight. She was full of some strange, unnamable feeling, bursting with it, and it was so heavy on her that even the beautiful night sky couldn’t touch it. She heaved a troubled sigh and turned her face up to the moon, eyes closed. If she could bathe herself in its cold silver rays, as if it were the hot golden sun, maybe it could make her feel peaceful.

“Hey, Carrie, hold up!”

She whipped around. Eugene stopped running and walked the rest of the way toward her. Swaggered, more like, hands in his pockets, chin jutting at that smart-aleck angle; but when he got to her, he was still breathing hard. She could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“You going home so soon? I saw you before, but I was with somebody and couldn’t talk. I’ve never seen you at a dance before. You didn’t come with anybody, huh?”

She guessed he meant a man, and she shook her head. He looked “spiffy,” as Eppy would say, in a checkered jacket with a vest, and his thick brown hair slicked down with oil.

“You look good tonight, Carrie. What kind of flower is that?”

Eppy had pinned it to her dress—she’d forgotten all about it. She held up two fingers, then touched them to her lips, to tell him it was a tulip.

“Huh?”

She put her hand in her pocket for her notebook.

“Never mind, it don’t matter. Come on, I’ll walk with you a ways.”

Before she could nod all right, he took her hand. She was surprised, but she didn’t draw away. They were friends, after all. Sort of. They went along quietly for a little ways. She began to think there was something he wanted to tell her, because he was so silent and alert. His huge hand squeezed around hers hard, and she could feel the nerves jumping. She was more than surprised when he pulled her to a stop under the street lamp at Truitt Avenue and took hold of her other hand, too. She’d never seen this earnest, watchful look on his face. His eyes were black, and for once there was no mischief or goading in them.

“You look so good, Carrie,” he repeated, in a voice she’d never heard before either. “You’re really pretty.” Before she could think about that or anything else, he put both arms around her and kissed her on the mouth.

She was too startled to do anything except stand there and let it happen. Her first kiss. It didn’t seem quite real; her brain wouldn’t settle down enough to let her feel it.
It’s not too bad,
she decided. His arms felt good around her, strong and secure, and it was nice to be hugged. His lips pressed too hard, though; surely a kiss ought not to hurt. His mustache was scratchy, and she could smell the wax he’d put on it. He had her arms pinned to her sides, but she managed to free one and lift her hand to his cheek, pulling her mouth away.

“Carrie,” he muttered, still in that funny voice. He looked like he wanted to devour her. She pushed against his shoulder with her free hand, but he shifted his grip and kissed her again, and this time he opened his mouth wide over hers and licked her with his tongue. Her eyes widened in amazement. Then she felt his hand close over her breast, and amazement changed to shock. She started to struggle, pulling on his wrist and twisting her face away. He slid his wet lips along her cheek, making her shudder. Finally she got her other arm loose and pushed at him with both hands. With a grunt, he let her go.

His face changed from glazed to cocky while she watched. He put one hand in his pocket and jingled his change, grinning like a fox. “That’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it? I been saving it up for you.” He stepped toward her again, and she moved back quickly, realizing he wanted to do it again.

“Evening.”

They both whipped around. Dr. Wilkes was sauntering toward them down the middle of Broad Street. Carrie flushed hot as fire and hugged herself. Had he seen them? He must have!
Lord, take me right now, I’m ready to die.

“Evening, Doc,” Eugene said, casual as anything. “On a call or something?”

“Not tonight.” He was watching her carefully. “Everything all right, Carrie?” he asked, just as casual.

“Everything’s fine.” Eugene stepped sideways, closer to her. Their arms touched, and she shied away. “Anything we can do for you?”

“You could let Carrie speak for herself.”

Eugene gave a fake-sounding laugh. “Well, that’d sure be a good trick, wouldn’t it?”

Maybe it was the light, but she thought Dr. Wilkes looked angry. What was happening? Some emotion between the two men eluded her. But he sounded nothing but pleasant when he said, “You left the dance so quickly, Carrie, you didn’t give me a chance to ask if I could walk you home.”

She could not believe her ears. Eugene couldn’t believe his either, because when she glanced at him his mouth was gaping open like a carp’s. Both men were looking at her, waiting for her to do something. She put her hand on top of her head, staring between them, floored by Dr. Wilkes’s offer—and aware that if she accepted it Eugene’s feelings would be hurt. Even though he hadn’t treated her in a gentlemanly way tonight, and even though he’d hide the hurt behind nastiness and bad temper, she didn’t have it in her to embarrass him. But she couldn’t go with him, either.

He solved her dilemma for her. Maybe he saw her answer in her face before she knew what it was going to be herself, because he didn’t wait to hear it. “Yeah, you go on with the doc, that’s a good idea. I got somebody waiting for me anyway, so I better get going.” He smirked at her, and winked at Dr. Wilkes. “You know how women get when you keep ’em waiting.” He backed up a few steps, gave a cheeky salute, and slouched off down the street in the direction of the fire hall.

Carrie didn’t know where to look or what to do with her hands. Dr. Wilkes wasn’t feeling very comfortable either, she could tell. Sometimes it was a blessing, not being able to talk. She couldn’t decide if this was one of those times or not. Something needed to be said, but even if she was the chattiest girl in Wayne’s Crossing, right now she didn’t think she’d know what it was. She was relieved when he said, “Well, Carrie,” whatever that meant, and started walking toward the mountain.

They went along for a long time in silence, even after the street lamps gave out and there was nothing to light the way except the moon. Try as she might, she couldn’t fathom just what kind of silence it was. She’d gotten used to Dr. Wilkes’s easy, lighthearted conversation, designed, she knew, to set her at ease. When she shot secret glances at him, she saw him frowning and looking straight ahead, and all she could think was that he’d seen her and Eugene kissing, and it had put him in a bad mood. She still wanted to die—that he might think her a light sort of girl made her burn with embarrassment—but she also wanted to know why, if he disapproved of her now because he thought she was loose-moraled and easy, why he’d gone to the trouble of walking her home. No man had ever done such a thing before—Broom didn’t count. What was he thinking of her right now?

The track they were walking on curved between long pastures and fragrant fields; the smell of turned earth mingled with the faint scent of a distant skunk. The sky to the east was invisible now; Dreamy Mountain blocked it out, dark and somber and lovely. The fields gave out, and the last of the wild cherry fencerows; the scents of bittersweet and elderberry gave way to honeysuckle and pine. When they came to the bridge over South Creek, Carrie stopped.