I have an undeserved sense of accomplishment
...and here is the first story I have rewritten for tomorrow. It is 16 pages double spaced. My other story that needs to be rewritten almost completely is 8 double spaced...so I technically only need to write six more double spaced pages. But here...read...comment...I haven't proof read...not time...sooo just go with it :p
Storm
The Kansas night air was still and thick with an unrelenting heat. The crickets were silent, the fields of wheat remained still, not even a whisper of a breeze could be heard, and the small dilapidated shacks and trailers that dotted the narrow dirt road were dark.
The people of these weather worn shelters knew what a storm meant. It meant change. Dying crops could be restored and a family could be saved. A storm could also destroy. Entire homesteads could vanish in the time it took for the storm to crash down and leave. The people knew this. Perhaps that is why when the nights became tense with silence and the sky fell black, the people let their homes fall dark and into the quiet of the night. That's all; sleep and pray that tomorrow would dawn better. As the eyes of the people closed into sleep, only one pair remained open, staring out into the night and towards the distant horizon.
Mary’s dark brown eyes gazed across the fields of wheat, down the dirt road, and past the silent shacks. Her right hand rested on her stomach while her left hand drooped, heavy with the solidness of the thin blue line. Positive. She rubbed her stomach gently, her eyes still fixated on the gathering clouds. Mary had known even before she felt the weight of that blue line. She had known before he had even spoken to her. It had been in those eyes. His blue eyes that seemed to to be filled with a world she would never understand, a world far from the fields of wheat and the dung colored shacks, a world made of so much more than the three rooms she called home.
Straw colored carpeting and coarse wooden walls. A small room that served as kitchen, dining room, and living room. A dented card table with rusting legs and two mismatched chairs where she and her husband sat for ten minutes in the morning and ten minutes at night. He would eat without a word, get up, brush the crumbs out of his dark beard, and go into the other room or off to work, leaving Mary alone. That had been their relationship for the past year. Joe was asleep now, dead to the world and to Mary as he lay in the small bed, beyond the doorway, his dark brown eyes shut and blind to the gathering storm.
●
She had just turned eighteen when she talked to Joe for the first time. A Sunday. The morning had dawned gray and foggy, as it always seemed to, but the sun was making a valiant effort to shoo the misty veil away. Though the sun beat down, thin wisps still clutched at skirt hems and pant cuffs as the devoted made their weekly march up the church steps. Mary made her way to the front pew, following her mother’s stiff and precise stride. Today was the day she finally got to sing solo, she had been waiting for months, striving to push herself in her new social group. The church choir, her one link to the world beyond her home with the porch that creaked with every light step, the chickens that clucked at any foreign movement in the yard, and a mother who was more like a hawk eyeing up her captive prey. Mary always felt her mother’s eyes on her, peering down her severe beak of a nose, her holy vigil never ending. It was almost time for her solo and Mary shrugged out of her gray coat that dangled down to her calves. A gift from her mother, or as she liked to put it, “A little reminder to be modest in how you dress”. Mary stood up, ready to take her place with the rest of the choir.
“Isn’t that dress a bit short Mary?” The question rose up to Mary’s ear; she batted it away. The question was like a stubborn fly, always there, always buzzing, never willing to let her be.
“Mother, it’s the same dress I always wear to church.”
“It looks shorter and it looks like someone took my good scissors to it,” said Mary’s mother, staring at the hem of her skirt.
“You’re imagining things.” Mary turned rapidly towards the front of the church, her skirt twirling with her, she didn’t want her mother examining her hem too closely. The buzzing fly wasn’t quite done with her yet.
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable with your jacket on dear?”
“Mother. I am not wearing my coat to sing in front of the church.” Her mother held the coat out to Mary but she only shook her head and left.
As she sang, Mary was aware of her mother sitting with her hands folded in her lap and her eyes shut, most likely praying for God to show her disobedient daughter mercy. If her mother didn’t want to pay attention to her that was fine, someone else had taken an interest in her performance. The boy she had daydreamed about as she went about her chores and read the books she had to hide from her mother was now focusing his dark brown eyes fully upon her. It was Joe. He was twenty two and not confined from the world by creaking porches, clucking chickens, or hawkeyed mothers. From her rare visits to town she had seen him cracking jokes in the Bison Bar and talking about how he had seen this and done that.
Her song was over and it was time to return to her mother's disapproving words, but even as she made her way back to the pew, Joe's eyes stayed with her. He flashed a quick grin in her direction; Mary suddenly felt warm and the church lit up with a radiant light. The sun had finally won out over the fog.
●
Though silent, Mary could feel Joe’s presence in the next room, just as she could feel the cumbersome blue line in her thin hand. She hadn’t moved for hours, sitting still on the dull gray couch; its cushions sagging like a worn mule’s back from the many nights Mary sat up watching for the storm to return. It had finally come, and was now lingering on the horizon. If it hit, Mary knew it would bring change, just as it had the first time when the clouds had rolled through the sky, dark and towering.
●
One Sunday morning she had woken up on the gray couch to a dull morning sky. Joe would sleep in as he always did, leaving Mary to walk the three miles to the church and the three miles back. It wasn’t that Joe wasn’t religious, Mary could hear him praying every night from the other room; he believed that every other day of the week he showed his dedication by going out and providing for his wife, no matter how meager the provisions were. Sundays he slept in and Mary woke early, readying herself for the weekly journey.
For as long as Mary could remember, Sunday mornings had been sunny, every week the same as the week before. But that Sunday had been different. The morning had dawned gray and still. A haze had settled on the fields and shacks; the air was thick as she made her slow trek towards the church. It seemed with every step she took the stillness became more pronounced and the sky began to fade into shades of angry gray. Mary arrived at the church to find that she was late, for the first time in her entire life; she could hear the organ already playing, and her fellow church goers singing their praises. She hurried towards the door and only paused a moment to look at a car she had never seen before. A white town car, its body sleek and stylish; it spoke of a life beyond what she could ever dream. A slight breeze tugged at Mary's skirt urging her inside.
She had slipped into the church and sat down at the back. Her eyes darted around the room, checking to see if anyone had noticed her absence. It seemed that no one had. The people were, as they were every week, listening with rapt attention to the sermon. Except for one.
A man Mary had never seen before, who sat directly across the aisle from her, his blue eyes focused on her own. He was dressed in a fashionable suit, one that the people she knew could never afford. It was clean and white, while his light hair was neat and trim. The man flashed her a smile, nodded, and turned back to the sermon. Mary's eyes lingered on the man for another moment; she could have sworn he was glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. A soft rumble of thunder rolled over the church and Mary forced herself back to the words of the priest, strong words on the sin of abortion. Mary nodded along aggressively.
The sermon had finished and the congregation was departing. Mary lingered in her seat and watched the man in white get up and leave; he smiled and nodded again before passing through the doors. She had wanted to say something, to find out more about this man. But in her mind she had already created his life.
Mary pictured a world of grace and untold beauty, a world where no one waited for change; in his world no one ever wanted change. She saw him in a house made of brilliant white marble that glimmered in the sunshine. Sturdy columns lined the front of the building, proof of his life's security and stability. Each was strong yet beautiful, with elaborate artwork bursting forth from their tops, swirling growths of flowers finely carved by a skilled artist's hand. An expanse of windows, ten times as large as Mary's small opening to the world, broke the marble facade, each flooding a room with warmth and light. The wooden floors of his dining hall glowed with the sun as his table filled with foods from all different continents, foods she had only seen in books borrowed from the insufficiently filled library. The scent of lamb, duck, sweet pork, and bread pudding floated up from the long table and settled like a comforting blanket over the room. He had a library filled with his worldly knowledge. Dark rich wood stretched from floor to ceiling, made all the darker by the shadows cast from the dim light of ancient chandeliers. Grand glass doors opened from his sanctuary of study out onto his exotic gardens and perfect lawns. A large iron cast gate surrounded the immaculate expanse of land, keeping out all that was ugly. Snow white orchids and day lilies grew everywhere, with roses bursting forth, declaring their existence with their bold blood red hue. He did not sleep on a collapsing couch, watching the night sky for the next storm; he slept on the purest of linens while looking at clear starry nights that shined for him and him alone. No matter what his life was truly like it didn't matter. He was gone and Mary would never see him again. She walked out of the church, braced herself against the increasing wind, and made her journey home.
●
Mary heard a faint groan. Joe was tossing and turning again. He could spend up to an hour trying to get comfortable before passing out for the night. The aches and pains of fourteen hour days took their toll and kept him from the sweet release of sleep. Mary longed to go and soothe away his pain, to coax out the knots with her attentive touch. But night after night she remained on the couch, knowing it was better to let him get through it on his own. Work. Eat. Sleep. That seemed to be the only thing Joe's body allowed him to do anymore. Mary closed her eyes and wondered where her Joe had hidden himself and who this stranger, devoid of any true life, was.
●
Mary stopped outside of the building to take one last glance over her shoulder. She was certain her mother would rise out of the shadows at any minute, one hand to her heart and the other clutching a small crucifix, her eyes raised imploringly towards the sky. But there was nothing, just an old tabby lounging on the post office steps. With a final smoothing out of her skirt, Mary opened the door and entered the Bison Bar. She was instantly hit with the strong smell of beer and the frenzied chatter of jovial patrons. The ceiling was low and the lighting was dim but that only added to warm feeling she got from the place. Mary made her way past the bar with its stools upholstered with bison skins. The light bounced off the red tint of the wooden bar top and the sound of bottles and mugs played out a constant beat as they slide from the bar tender with the knowing wink to the waiting hand of a thirsty patron. Mary had stopped to stare at Beck the Bison, the bar mascot, whose shaggy head was mounted behind the bar. On her first visit to the bar, Joe had told her the name Beck meant dweller near the brook. He knew a lot of odd things like that, things Mary never would have learned had she stayed behind the white picket fence of her home. Suddenly Mary felt a pair of strong arms wrap around her waist.
“You made it,” said the voice from behind her. Before she could respond she found herself being picked up and spun around the room.
“Joe put me down,” Mary said between laughs.
“Never,” he said holding her tighter and spinning faster. As far as the other patrons were concerned, the loud whirling and laughing wasn't happening, this was how these two had greeted each other for the past month. Regular business. Joe set Mary down and pulled her in for a familiar kiss.
“You're late tonight, I was worried your ma caught you.”
“You think that whether I'm late or not.”
“Yeah but she almost got you last time.”
“Well if a certain someone hadn't been waiting at my gate like a ninny, I wouldn't have had to run and I wouldn't have scared the chickens half to death.” Mary smiled and gave Joe's wrist a light squeeze.
“So what are we doing tonight? I'm up for anything...except talking about your job. Crops this, cows that, blah blah blah...”
“Alright, alright I get it. So what would my Mary like to talk about then? Business? Politics? Religion?”
“I don't know anything about business or politics and I get my daily dosage of religion from mother.” Joe leaned in closer to hear Mary as the rise and fall of a fiddle's fidgety tune filled the bar.
“Well the way I see it, you just told me you don't wanna talk. So I figure we should dance.” Joe grabbed Mary by the hands and began leading her in a dizzying dance. They twirled and stomped as they chased the fiddle's song, kicking up little clouds of dust as they went. Mary's head felt light and she could hardly breathe from laughing as the room spun into a whirlwind of light and sound. The fiddle wouldn't quit and Mary and Joe were determined to outlast their opponent. Hours flew by and the only thing Mary was sure of was Joe's steady grip and the steady growth of light in the room as the sun rose for another day.
●
The screen door shuddered in the wind. No doubt it would soon fall off. Something was always falling apart in the small shack: tables, cabinet doors, marriages. Mary looked back from the window to her self proclaimed cell. Somewhere out of sight a faucet dripped, it had needed fixing for weeks. The carpet was balding in some areas, revealing a wooden floor, gray like the flesh of a corpse. The fridge door was dented from slamming into the counter one too many times and the card table was ready to lose a leg. This wasn't a home, it was barely a house. Houses were strong and sturdy, and homes were where people lived happily and where two people who loved each other raised families together. Mary placed her hand back on her stomach, wondering if it would be a boy or a girl. She looked at her empty wooden walls and imagined them filled with family photos; little boys in overalls playing catch with dad and little girls in jumpers and pigtails picking flowers for mom.
●
Mary clung to Joe's neck as he maneuvered his way past the screen door, carrying her into their new home.
“I know it's not much but it's a start,” Joe said still holding her.
“It's ours, it's perfect.”
“You're just saying that to be nice you little tease. You deserve the best and I promise we'll have a real home soon.” Joe carried Mary into the next room and deposited her gently on the bed.
“This is a real home, you're with me and who knows...maybe soon there will be some some one else to keep us company.” Mary pulled Joe down onto the bed, gripping him around his chest.
“Whoa slow down there you little filly, we discussed this. No kids until we have money for a new home and a good life.” Mary pouted up at Joe and batted her eyes.
“Oh no, that sweet little face of yours isn't going to work this time. Just you be patient. They predict a good season this year, the crops should do well and we'll be able to start a family soon enough.”
“I guess we can wait a little bit, at least I'll have you,” Mary said giving Joe a hard squeeze.
“That's right, you'll always have me.” Joe kissed her forehead as the light faded from the room.
●
The dark clouds were closer now, the wind had picked up, and every now and then the soft hint of thunder could be heard in the distance. Mary's hand still rested on her stomach while the other had long ago become vacant, though the memory of the blue line still lingered. A flash of lightening illuminated the room and Mary heard Joe turn in his bed. His bed. No longer their bed.
It had been a year since she had slept in the same room as her husband. That night she had been feeling lonely, had been excited to feel the mattress sag, announcing Joe's arrival home from work. His body, warm from a days worth of hard labor barely brushed against her cool waiting one. His muscles were tight as she slid a hand over his shoulders, gently pulling him towards her. The muscles remained tight and with a rough jerk, Joe's bare back was to her.
“Mary, it's been a long day. Leave me alone.” She stared at his back, her hand fell to the bed. It had been like this for weeks now, her body, aching with the coolness of a solitary day, being denied the warmth of his company. Every night the same excuse, but every night she held out hope.
“Do you even love me anymore?” She received no response, even the crickets faded off into unnerving silence.
“Joe?” The bed creaked and Mary was aware of his dark eyes upon her face.
“How can you even ask that?”
“I never see you anymore.”
“I work fourteen hours a day.”
“I miss you. I'm lonely. If we had a child maybe I--”
“We can't support a child right now, you know that.”
“I just want a family so much.”
“I know...I know.”
Mary felt Joe's calloused hand brush her shoulder, tensed with anticipation, but just as quickly as it had found her, the hand fell into the tan field of sheets and slid away. Her eyes once again met only her husband's back. Gathering her pillow and an extra sheet, Mary left her husband's bed for the last time and claimed the couch as her own.
●
Joe. She missed him. She missed his touch, his voice, the smell of the earth upon his skin. Every day he worked to provide for her and himself, to keep them off the streets. Some days Mary wished he would just let them lose the house. She needed something to happen. Anything, it seemed, was better than this existence of nothing. Yet every day, like the unstoppable rise and fall of the sun, Joe got up and worked, allowing her to continue her lonely life. No friends. No family. No husband. She was starving for something, everything. Mary thought she had found it in those blue eyes on that second Sunday.
●
For the second time in her life, Mary was late to church. It had been a week since she had seen the man in white. For the entire week he had lurked in the corners of her mind like the clouds had lurked over the fields. A roll of thunder followed Mary as she raced towards the church where once again, she saw the white town car parked in the dusty lot. Her heart pounded at the sight of it. Mary entered the church and sat down; throughout mass she could only scan the crowd for the man in white, but to no avail. He was no where to be seen. The sermon ended and Mary made her way outside, only nodding despondently as people said their goodbyes.
“Are we normally so late to our Sunday mass?” Mary spun around to find the man in white leaning against the town car, his arms folded, and his eyes fixed upon her face. A clap of thunder shook the sky overhead. Mary looked around, she wanted to make sure it was she who was being addressed. There was no one else, only her and this stranger.
“No,” she said. He blinked and continued to stare into her face. “I had to walk.”
It was a true statement, but Mary had felt as though she was making up an excuse, trying to apologize for being late to this man she didn't know. Another loud clap of thunder echoed through the silence and a flash of lightening darted through the sky.
“Let me give you a ride home. There's a storm coming.” The man in white walked to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. Mary hesitated before deciding there was no harm in taking his offer of a ride, she did want to know more about him anyways. The man in white took her hand when she approached the door and guided her into the passenger seat. His hands were soft and smooth, so different from those of Joe's, which were worn, callused, and never so gentle.
The man in white got into the car and after Mary pointed the way, he began to drive down the dusty dirt roads, back towards her life of a neglectful husband and sky watching. She had so many questions she wanted to ask but could only glance at the man. Mary felt him glance back from time to time until they both glanced and found the other's eyes.
The man in white pulled over and faced her, his arm on the back of the seat. She knew what was going to happen, but she told herself that maybe, just maybe, she could understand his world, feel what she could only imagine, and make real what she only read about in books. A world where she didn't belong, but where she longed to be. He was gentle and his touch soft, she could feel herself melding with him, felt herself getting closer and closer to the house of white with the giant gate and the exotic gardens. She was so close to the bed of white linen and the endless nights of stars that would gleam only for her and him. She was there when the storm broke out overhead and the sky fell open, and then she was back in the white car, the rain pounding down onto the roof and into her mind. He dropped her off down the road from her house, smiled into her eyes, nodded, and was gone.
●
Mary had seen the stranger's world, felt it, and for a brief moment had been part of it. Now she was back in her world of grays and browns and clouded night skies, but with this nameless man's child. She didn't have the grace and splendor of the stranger's life that she had desired, she only had a life within her that was soon going to be brought into a world that never changed and never would. It was a pit that sucked a person down and choked them with the dust, the only relief coming from the terrible storms that determined the people's fates. Mary's free hand joined her other upon her stomach, rubbing it gently. She could hear the screen door rattling in the background as she watched the fields of wheat writhe in the strengthening wind. Mary wondered if her mother watched a storm when she found out that Mary was on the way, sitting in a room much like the one Mary sat in now. She had never forgiven her mother for allowing her to come into an ugly world, a prison. Hadn't she known that there was no escape for anyone from the dust and fields? Mary ran a hand through her dark curls, twisting a strand tightly around her finger as she thought of her mother. Her mother had knowingly brought her into such a world, had never tried to stop it, had believed that God would save the devoted from all suffering. Lightening once again lit up the scene before her. Mary scanned the illuminated road, looking for any sign of the white town car. It was foolish, but she had almost believed that he would come back and take her and his child to the brilliance of his white marble home and his bed of white linens.
●
The last few nights she had a recurring dream about the man in white. He swam through the shimmering blue that was his pool, his secluded oasis. Pure enjoyment in simplicity, touched by the extravagant. He emerged from the waters glittering, every motion fluid. Mary stood on the edge of his vast lush lawn, her feet rooted to a patch of cracked dry dirt. In her arms she held a squirming screaming child, its eyes the dull shade of dust, its hair the color of wheat. She could never move, never make a sound; forever watching, wanting. The man in white would flash her a smile, the same smile that had first captivated her. Slowly he approached, offering to her in his outstretched hand one of his roses, as red as the blood furiously pumping through Mary's veins. The rose vibrated with life but Mary could only stare longingly, struggling with every fiber to reach out and take it. Finally, her arm began to move inch by inch towards the gift; it felt as though hours were flying by as she made her painful progress. She was almost there, one more inch and her finger would graze the silky petal, but just when she found herself a mere centimeter away, she would see Joe, standing off at a distance, dirty from labor and an expression of deep pain in his eyes as he watched Mary struggle for the rose. His eyes would close and his body slowly slipped away to dust, caught by an oncoming storm and scattered across the land. Mary would wake with a start to find herself back on the couch and back in her life.
●
Perhaps that is why she had been watching the horizon each night. She had been waiting for the storm to return, the storm that had taken her away that one Sunday afternoon. Mary saw nothing that night, just the empty road and the darkened houses. The man in white was not coming back. He had come into her life but briefly and left her with only a small piece of his world, the child. Mary now had the chance to bring a piece of his grace and beauty into the dirt covered shack. But what good would it do? She would know of the connection to this grand world, but the child would not. The child would be stuck, just as she was to these fields and this home and this life. What right did she have to do that to a child?
Perhaps the man had wanted it. Perhaps he had seen a woman who needed a small iota of hope in her life, a hope she could have with her always. A hope of things that lay far beyond the wheat and the clouds. Mary's finger untwisted itself from her strand of hair and went back once more to her stomach. Thunder cracked loudly overhead, the storm had almost arrived. She heard Joe move once again in the next room. He would know it wasn't his and how could he live knowing some stranger, from a world he could never understand, had given his wife this child and left it for them to care for? Mary didn't want to see the man in white whenever she gazed into her child's face, she wanted to see Joe's.
There was a shed out back that had once been used to keep his animals in. Now it held Joe's various farm tools. Mary knew what she would have to do. For the first time that night, she looked away from the sky and to her stomach. Mary closed her eyes and realized that this storm would be a destructive one. She smiled as lightening crackled across the sky outlining her in the window. A smiling woman looking down at her secret, a secret she would save from a life of dust, clouds, and strange men in white. The storm broke out.
Storm
The Kansas night air was still and thick with an unrelenting heat. The crickets were silent, the fields of wheat remained still, not even a whisper of a breeze could be heard, and the small dilapidated shacks and trailers that dotted the narrow dirt road were dark.
The people of these weather worn shelters knew what a storm meant. It meant change. Dying crops could be restored and a family could be saved. A storm could also destroy. Entire homesteads could vanish in the time it took for the storm to crash down and leave. The people knew this. Perhaps that is why when the nights became tense with silence and the sky fell black, the people let their homes fall dark and into the quiet of the night. That's all; sleep and pray that tomorrow would dawn better. As the eyes of the people closed into sleep, only one pair remained open, staring out into the night and towards the distant horizon.
Mary’s dark brown eyes gazed across the fields of wheat, down the dirt road, and past the silent shacks. Her right hand rested on her stomach while her left hand drooped, heavy with the solidness of the thin blue line. Positive. She rubbed her stomach gently, her eyes still fixated on the gathering clouds. Mary had known even before she felt the weight of that blue line. She had known before he had even spoken to her. It had been in those eyes. His blue eyes that seemed to to be filled with a world she would never understand, a world far from the fields of wheat and the dung colored shacks, a world made of so much more than the three rooms she called home.
Straw colored carpeting and coarse wooden walls. A small room that served as kitchen, dining room, and living room. A dented card table with rusting legs and two mismatched chairs where she and her husband sat for ten minutes in the morning and ten minutes at night. He would eat without a word, get up, brush the crumbs out of his dark beard, and go into the other room or off to work, leaving Mary alone. That had been their relationship for the past year. Joe was asleep now, dead to the world and to Mary as he lay in the small bed, beyond the doorway, his dark brown eyes shut and blind to the gathering storm.
●
She had just turned eighteen when she talked to Joe for the first time. A Sunday. The morning had dawned gray and foggy, as it always seemed to, but the sun was making a valiant effort to shoo the misty veil away. Though the sun beat down, thin wisps still clutched at skirt hems and pant cuffs as the devoted made their weekly march up the church steps. Mary made her way to the front pew, following her mother’s stiff and precise stride. Today was the day she finally got to sing solo, she had been waiting for months, striving to push herself in her new social group. The church choir, her one link to the world beyond her home with the porch that creaked with every light step, the chickens that clucked at any foreign movement in the yard, and a mother who was more like a hawk eyeing up her captive prey. Mary always felt her mother’s eyes on her, peering down her severe beak of a nose, her holy vigil never ending. It was almost time for her solo and Mary shrugged out of her gray coat that dangled down to her calves. A gift from her mother, or as she liked to put it, “A little reminder to be modest in how you dress”. Mary stood up, ready to take her place with the rest of the choir.
“Isn’t that dress a bit short Mary?” The question rose up to Mary’s ear; she batted it away. The question was like a stubborn fly, always there, always buzzing, never willing to let her be.
“Mother, it’s the same dress I always wear to church.”
“It looks shorter and it looks like someone took my good scissors to it,” said Mary’s mother, staring at the hem of her skirt.
“You’re imagining things.” Mary turned rapidly towards the front of the church, her skirt twirling with her, she didn’t want her mother examining her hem too closely. The buzzing fly wasn’t quite done with her yet.
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable with your jacket on dear?”
“Mother. I am not wearing my coat to sing in front of the church.” Her mother held the coat out to Mary but she only shook her head and left.
As she sang, Mary was aware of her mother sitting with her hands folded in her lap and her eyes shut, most likely praying for God to show her disobedient daughter mercy. If her mother didn’t want to pay attention to her that was fine, someone else had taken an interest in her performance. The boy she had daydreamed about as she went about her chores and read the books she had to hide from her mother was now focusing his dark brown eyes fully upon her. It was Joe. He was twenty two and not confined from the world by creaking porches, clucking chickens, or hawkeyed mothers. From her rare visits to town she had seen him cracking jokes in the Bison Bar and talking about how he had seen this and done that.
Her song was over and it was time to return to her mother's disapproving words, but even as she made her way back to the pew, Joe's eyes stayed with her. He flashed a quick grin in her direction; Mary suddenly felt warm and the church lit up with a radiant light. The sun had finally won out over the fog.
●
Though silent, Mary could feel Joe’s presence in the next room, just as she could feel the cumbersome blue line in her thin hand. She hadn’t moved for hours, sitting still on the dull gray couch; its cushions sagging like a worn mule’s back from the many nights Mary sat up watching for the storm to return. It had finally come, and was now lingering on the horizon. If it hit, Mary knew it would bring change, just as it had the first time when the clouds had rolled through the sky, dark and towering.
●
One Sunday morning she had woken up on the gray couch to a dull morning sky. Joe would sleep in as he always did, leaving Mary to walk the three miles to the church and the three miles back. It wasn’t that Joe wasn’t religious, Mary could hear him praying every night from the other room; he believed that every other day of the week he showed his dedication by going out and providing for his wife, no matter how meager the provisions were. Sundays he slept in and Mary woke early, readying herself for the weekly journey.
For as long as Mary could remember, Sunday mornings had been sunny, every week the same as the week before. But that Sunday had been different. The morning had dawned gray and still. A haze had settled on the fields and shacks; the air was thick as she made her slow trek towards the church. It seemed with every step she took the stillness became more pronounced and the sky began to fade into shades of angry gray. Mary arrived at the church to find that she was late, for the first time in her entire life; she could hear the organ already playing, and her fellow church goers singing their praises. She hurried towards the door and only paused a moment to look at a car she had never seen before. A white town car, its body sleek and stylish; it spoke of a life beyond what she could ever dream. A slight breeze tugged at Mary's skirt urging her inside.
She had slipped into the church and sat down at the back. Her eyes darted around the room, checking to see if anyone had noticed her absence. It seemed that no one had. The people were, as they were every week, listening with rapt attention to the sermon. Except for one.
A man Mary had never seen before, who sat directly across the aisle from her, his blue eyes focused on her own. He was dressed in a fashionable suit, one that the people she knew could never afford. It was clean and white, while his light hair was neat and trim. The man flashed her a smile, nodded, and turned back to the sermon. Mary's eyes lingered on the man for another moment; she could have sworn he was glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. A soft rumble of thunder rolled over the church and Mary forced herself back to the words of the priest, strong words on the sin of abortion. Mary nodded along aggressively.
The sermon had finished and the congregation was departing. Mary lingered in her seat and watched the man in white get up and leave; he smiled and nodded again before passing through the doors. She had wanted to say something, to find out more about this man. But in her mind she had already created his life.
Mary pictured a world of grace and untold beauty, a world where no one waited for change; in his world no one ever wanted change. She saw him in a house made of brilliant white marble that glimmered in the sunshine. Sturdy columns lined the front of the building, proof of his life's security and stability. Each was strong yet beautiful, with elaborate artwork bursting forth from their tops, swirling growths of flowers finely carved by a skilled artist's hand. An expanse of windows, ten times as large as Mary's small opening to the world, broke the marble facade, each flooding a room with warmth and light. The wooden floors of his dining hall glowed with the sun as his table filled with foods from all different continents, foods she had only seen in books borrowed from the insufficiently filled library. The scent of lamb, duck, sweet pork, and bread pudding floated up from the long table and settled like a comforting blanket over the room. He had a library filled with his worldly knowledge. Dark rich wood stretched from floor to ceiling, made all the darker by the shadows cast from the dim light of ancient chandeliers. Grand glass doors opened from his sanctuary of study out onto his exotic gardens and perfect lawns. A large iron cast gate surrounded the immaculate expanse of land, keeping out all that was ugly. Snow white orchids and day lilies grew everywhere, with roses bursting forth, declaring their existence with their bold blood red hue. He did not sleep on a collapsing couch, watching the night sky for the next storm; he slept on the purest of linens while looking at clear starry nights that shined for him and him alone. No matter what his life was truly like it didn't matter. He was gone and Mary would never see him again. She walked out of the church, braced herself against the increasing wind, and made her journey home.
●
Mary heard a faint groan. Joe was tossing and turning again. He could spend up to an hour trying to get comfortable before passing out for the night. The aches and pains of fourteen hour days took their toll and kept him from the sweet release of sleep. Mary longed to go and soothe away his pain, to coax out the knots with her attentive touch. But night after night she remained on the couch, knowing it was better to let him get through it on his own. Work. Eat. Sleep. That seemed to be the only thing Joe's body allowed him to do anymore. Mary closed her eyes and wondered where her Joe had hidden himself and who this stranger, devoid of any true life, was.
●
Mary stopped outside of the building to take one last glance over her shoulder. She was certain her mother would rise out of the shadows at any minute, one hand to her heart and the other clutching a small crucifix, her eyes raised imploringly towards the sky. But there was nothing, just an old tabby lounging on the post office steps. With a final smoothing out of her skirt, Mary opened the door and entered the Bison Bar. She was instantly hit with the strong smell of beer and the frenzied chatter of jovial patrons. The ceiling was low and the lighting was dim but that only added to warm feeling she got from the place. Mary made her way past the bar with its stools upholstered with bison skins. The light bounced off the red tint of the wooden bar top and the sound of bottles and mugs played out a constant beat as they slide from the bar tender with the knowing wink to the waiting hand of a thirsty patron. Mary had stopped to stare at Beck the Bison, the bar mascot, whose shaggy head was mounted behind the bar. On her first visit to the bar, Joe had told her the name Beck meant dweller near the brook. He knew a lot of odd things like that, things Mary never would have learned had she stayed behind the white picket fence of her home. Suddenly Mary felt a pair of strong arms wrap around her waist.
“You made it,” said the voice from behind her. Before she could respond she found herself being picked up and spun around the room.
“Joe put me down,” Mary said between laughs.
“Never,” he said holding her tighter and spinning faster. As far as the other patrons were concerned, the loud whirling and laughing wasn't happening, this was how these two had greeted each other for the past month. Regular business. Joe set Mary down and pulled her in for a familiar kiss.
“You're late tonight, I was worried your ma caught you.”
“You think that whether I'm late or not.”
“Yeah but she almost got you last time.”
“Well if a certain someone hadn't been waiting at my gate like a ninny, I wouldn't have had to run and I wouldn't have scared the chickens half to death.” Mary smiled and gave Joe's wrist a light squeeze.
“So what are we doing tonight? I'm up for anything...except talking about your job. Crops this, cows that, blah blah blah...”
“Alright, alright I get it. So what would my Mary like to talk about then? Business? Politics? Religion?”
“I don't know anything about business or politics and I get my daily dosage of religion from mother.” Joe leaned in closer to hear Mary as the rise and fall of a fiddle's fidgety tune filled the bar.
“Well the way I see it, you just told me you don't wanna talk. So I figure we should dance.” Joe grabbed Mary by the hands and began leading her in a dizzying dance. They twirled and stomped as they chased the fiddle's song, kicking up little clouds of dust as they went. Mary's head felt light and she could hardly breathe from laughing as the room spun into a whirlwind of light and sound. The fiddle wouldn't quit and Mary and Joe were determined to outlast their opponent. Hours flew by and the only thing Mary was sure of was Joe's steady grip and the steady growth of light in the room as the sun rose for another day.
●
The screen door shuddered in the wind. No doubt it would soon fall off. Something was always falling apart in the small shack: tables, cabinet doors, marriages. Mary looked back from the window to her self proclaimed cell. Somewhere out of sight a faucet dripped, it had needed fixing for weeks. The carpet was balding in some areas, revealing a wooden floor, gray like the flesh of a corpse. The fridge door was dented from slamming into the counter one too many times and the card table was ready to lose a leg. This wasn't a home, it was barely a house. Houses were strong and sturdy, and homes were where people lived happily and where two people who loved each other raised families together. Mary placed her hand back on her stomach, wondering if it would be a boy or a girl. She looked at her empty wooden walls and imagined them filled with family photos; little boys in overalls playing catch with dad and little girls in jumpers and pigtails picking flowers for mom.
●
Mary clung to Joe's neck as he maneuvered his way past the screen door, carrying her into their new home.
“I know it's not much but it's a start,” Joe said still holding her.
“It's ours, it's perfect.”
“You're just saying that to be nice you little tease. You deserve the best and I promise we'll have a real home soon.” Joe carried Mary into the next room and deposited her gently on the bed.
“This is a real home, you're with me and who knows...maybe soon there will be some some one else to keep us company.” Mary pulled Joe down onto the bed, gripping him around his chest.
“Whoa slow down there you little filly, we discussed this. No kids until we have money for a new home and a good life.” Mary pouted up at Joe and batted her eyes.
“Oh no, that sweet little face of yours isn't going to work this time. Just you be patient. They predict a good season this year, the crops should do well and we'll be able to start a family soon enough.”
“I guess we can wait a little bit, at least I'll have you,” Mary said giving Joe a hard squeeze.
“That's right, you'll always have me.” Joe kissed her forehead as the light faded from the room.
●
The dark clouds were closer now, the wind had picked up, and every now and then the soft hint of thunder could be heard in the distance. Mary's hand still rested on her stomach while the other had long ago become vacant, though the memory of the blue line still lingered. A flash of lightening illuminated the room and Mary heard Joe turn in his bed. His bed. No longer their bed.
It had been a year since she had slept in the same room as her husband. That night she had been feeling lonely, had been excited to feel the mattress sag, announcing Joe's arrival home from work. His body, warm from a days worth of hard labor barely brushed against her cool waiting one. His muscles were tight as she slid a hand over his shoulders, gently pulling him towards her. The muscles remained tight and with a rough jerk, Joe's bare back was to her.
“Mary, it's been a long day. Leave me alone.” She stared at his back, her hand fell to the bed. It had been like this for weeks now, her body, aching with the coolness of a solitary day, being denied the warmth of his company. Every night the same excuse, but every night she held out hope.
“Do you even love me anymore?” She received no response, even the crickets faded off into unnerving silence.
“Joe?” The bed creaked and Mary was aware of his dark eyes upon her face.
“How can you even ask that?”
“I never see you anymore.”
“I work fourteen hours a day.”
“I miss you. I'm lonely. If we had a child maybe I--”
“We can't support a child right now, you know that.”
“I just want a family so much.”
“I know...I know.”
Mary felt Joe's calloused hand brush her shoulder, tensed with anticipation, but just as quickly as it had found her, the hand fell into the tan field of sheets and slid away. Her eyes once again met only her husband's back. Gathering her pillow and an extra sheet, Mary left her husband's bed for the last time and claimed the couch as her own.
●
Joe. She missed him. She missed his touch, his voice, the smell of the earth upon his skin. Every day he worked to provide for her and himself, to keep them off the streets. Some days Mary wished he would just let them lose the house. She needed something to happen. Anything, it seemed, was better than this existence of nothing. Yet every day, like the unstoppable rise and fall of the sun, Joe got up and worked, allowing her to continue her lonely life. No friends. No family. No husband. She was starving for something, everything. Mary thought she had found it in those blue eyes on that second Sunday.
●
For the second time in her life, Mary was late to church. It had been a week since she had seen the man in white. For the entire week he had lurked in the corners of her mind like the clouds had lurked over the fields. A roll of thunder followed Mary as she raced towards the church where once again, she saw the white town car parked in the dusty lot. Her heart pounded at the sight of it. Mary entered the church and sat down; throughout mass she could only scan the crowd for the man in white, but to no avail. He was no where to be seen. The sermon ended and Mary made her way outside, only nodding despondently as people said their goodbyes.
“Are we normally so late to our Sunday mass?” Mary spun around to find the man in white leaning against the town car, his arms folded, and his eyes fixed upon her face. A clap of thunder shook the sky overhead. Mary looked around, she wanted to make sure it was she who was being addressed. There was no one else, only her and this stranger.
“No,” she said. He blinked and continued to stare into her face. “I had to walk.”
It was a true statement, but Mary had felt as though she was making up an excuse, trying to apologize for being late to this man she didn't know. Another loud clap of thunder echoed through the silence and a flash of lightening darted through the sky.
“Let me give you a ride home. There's a storm coming.” The man in white walked to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. Mary hesitated before deciding there was no harm in taking his offer of a ride, she did want to know more about him anyways. The man in white took her hand when she approached the door and guided her into the passenger seat. His hands were soft and smooth, so different from those of Joe's, which were worn, callused, and never so gentle.
The man in white got into the car and after Mary pointed the way, he began to drive down the dusty dirt roads, back towards her life of a neglectful husband and sky watching. She had so many questions she wanted to ask but could only glance at the man. Mary felt him glance back from time to time until they both glanced and found the other's eyes.
The man in white pulled over and faced her, his arm on the back of the seat. She knew what was going to happen, but she told herself that maybe, just maybe, she could understand his world, feel what she could only imagine, and make real what she only read about in books. A world where she didn't belong, but where she longed to be. He was gentle and his touch soft, she could feel herself melding with him, felt herself getting closer and closer to the house of white with the giant gate and the exotic gardens. She was so close to the bed of white linen and the endless nights of stars that would gleam only for her and him. She was there when the storm broke out overhead and the sky fell open, and then she was back in the white car, the rain pounding down onto the roof and into her mind. He dropped her off down the road from her house, smiled into her eyes, nodded, and was gone.
●
Mary had seen the stranger's world, felt it, and for a brief moment had been part of it. Now she was back in her world of grays and browns and clouded night skies, but with this nameless man's child. She didn't have the grace and splendor of the stranger's life that she had desired, she only had a life within her that was soon going to be brought into a world that never changed and never would. It was a pit that sucked a person down and choked them with the dust, the only relief coming from the terrible storms that determined the people's fates. Mary's free hand joined her other upon her stomach, rubbing it gently. She could hear the screen door rattling in the background as she watched the fields of wheat writhe in the strengthening wind. Mary wondered if her mother watched a storm when she found out that Mary was on the way, sitting in a room much like the one Mary sat in now. She had never forgiven her mother for allowing her to come into an ugly world, a prison. Hadn't she known that there was no escape for anyone from the dust and fields? Mary ran a hand through her dark curls, twisting a strand tightly around her finger as she thought of her mother. Her mother had knowingly brought her into such a world, had never tried to stop it, had believed that God would save the devoted from all suffering. Lightening once again lit up the scene before her. Mary scanned the illuminated road, looking for any sign of the white town car. It was foolish, but she had almost believed that he would come back and take her and his child to the brilliance of his white marble home and his bed of white linens.
●
The last few nights she had a recurring dream about the man in white. He swam through the shimmering blue that was his pool, his secluded oasis. Pure enjoyment in simplicity, touched by the extravagant. He emerged from the waters glittering, every motion fluid. Mary stood on the edge of his vast lush lawn, her feet rooted to a patch of cracked dry dirt. In her arms she held a squirming screaming child, its eyes the dull shade of dust, its hair the color of wheat. She could never move, never make a sound; forever watching, wanting. The man in white would flash her a smile, the same smile that had first captivated her. Slowly he approached, offering to her in his outstretched hand one of his roses, as red as the blood furiously pumping through Mary's veins. The rose vibrated with life but Mary could only stare longingly, struggling with every fiber to reach out and take it. Finally, her arm began to move inch by inch towards the gift; it felt as though hours were flying by as she made her painful progress. She was almost there, one more inch and her finger would graze the silky petal, but just when she found herself a mere centimeter away, she would see Joe, standing off at a distance, dirty from labor and an expression of deep pain in his eyes as he watched Mary struggle for the rose. His eyes would close and his body slowly slipped away to dust, caught by an oncoming storm and scattered across the land. Mary would wake with a start to find herself back on the couch and back in her life.
●
Perhaps that is why she had been watching the horizon each night. She had been waiting for the storm to return, the storm that had taken her away that one Sunday afternoon. Mary saw nothing that night, just the empty road and the darkened houses. The man in white was not coming back. He had come into her life but briefly and left her with only a small piece of his world, the child. Mary now had the chance to bring a piece of his grace and beauty into the dirt covered shack. But what good would it do? She would know of the connection to this grand world, but the child would not. The child would be stuck, just as she was to these fields and this home and this life. What right did she have to do that to a child?
Perhaps the man had wanted it. Perhaps he had seen a woman who needed a small iota of hope in her life, a hope she could have with her always. A hope of things that lay far beyond the wheat and the clouds. Mary's finger untwisted itself from her strand of hair and went back once more to her stomach. Thunder cracked loudly overhead, the storm had almost arrived. She heard Joe move once again in the next room. He would know it wasn't his and how could he live knowing some stranger, from a world he could never understand, had given his wife this child and left it for them to care for? Mary didn't want to see the man in white whenever she gazed into her child's face, she wanted to see Joe's.
There was a shed out back that had once been used to keep his animals in. Now it held Joe's various farm tools. Mary knew what she would have to do. For the first time that night, she looked away from the sky and to her stomach. Mary closed her eyes and realized that this storm would be a destructive one. She smiled as lightening crackled across the sky outlining her in the window. A smiling woman looking down at her secret, a secret she would save from a life of dust, clouds, and strange men in white. The storm broke out.