Читать книгу The Object Of Love - Sharon Cullars - Страница 8

Lacey took another sip, tasted the merlot just beneath the cabernet. The bottle was almost at its dregs. She knew the words to describe it: full-bodied, firm, rich with currant—terms she’d picked up when she joined a wine-tasting class nearly four years ago. It had been in part a lark, in part a much-needed diversion to fill dead evenings. Her first months as an “empty-nester” nearly drove her crazy, and she’d sought to escape from the silence of the house. The meetings had given her a deeper appreciation for wines and she had made some good friends in the bargain. When she’d first tasted the cabernet, she’d fallen in love with it, and had determined to buy a bottle on her first excursion to France. She’d bought this one in particular, promising herself to save it for a special occasion, then decided on Calvin’s wedding. She had planned to uncork it at the reception and toast her son and his new bride. Thinking on what would now never be, she sighed, which was followed by a small hiccup.

Downing the glass was a step toward healing, she told herself, then poured another to toast her son’s life, celebrate the years he was on this earth, here with her.

Tonight, she was determined to rid herself of sadness and death. For a night, at least, she just wanted to abdicate the position of grieving matriarch, become a living woman again. Wanted to rid herself of everything that reminded her of this last week. Didn’t think she could ever look at another rose, nor dress herself in black again. Tomorrow, she’d tear down the rose bushes out back, throw away her funeral dress and the black pumps with remnants of cemetery grass still clinging to the bottom. She’d do anything and everything to stop the pall that oozed from the house’s seams, seeped past doorways, through windows. She needed to fill this house with life again—otherwise she would die an achingly slow death.

Lacey pulled herself up from the leather chair, the same one Joe had sat in that afternoon, took a few steps, stumbled, then straightened up and teetered over to the entertainment center. She pulled out a jumble of CD cases, most of which clattered to the floor. Of the few remaining in her hand, she spotted an old favorite—Rufus with Chaka Khan. She put it on, cranked up the speakers, determined to squeeze out the gloom. Immediately, the room rattled to Chaka’s explosive voice demanding someone to “Dance With Me.” The walls complied, began shaking. She wanted to join them, began moving her hips but couldn’t seem to find her usual rhythm, a persistent wooziness in her head messing with her jam. Then, a guitar riff wailed and suddenly she was transported back to a sweltering, crowded dance floor. She saw herself, a teenager again, tight tee and jeans, high heels that hurt her feet, but she didn’t care.

With the memory, she finally found her groove, and began moving her hips and arms to the music. The pile of the carpet caressed her bare feet. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, ignored the tears streaming from them. Opened a smile to the ceiling, then laughed at a remembered joke someone had told her. Eddie somebody. Felt the blast of his breath against her ear as he whispered about how beautiful she was. Years before Darryl, before Calvin. Before responsibilities and disappointments. All there had been was laughter, music, and an unshakable belief of youth never ending.

A bell suddenly joined Chaka’s declaration. Damn, she must be really loopy. She didn’t remember any bells on the CD. See…there it was again. She stopped, listened. It occurred to her only then that the music was way too loud. And with the thought, she realized sadly that she wasn’t a teenager dancing the night away. And that she had neighbors who were very protective of their peace. It was probably one of them standing at her door.

She reached for the controls, turned off the player, then headed to the foyer. She’d forgotten to turn on the hall lights, and cursed as she bumped into the hall table. The pain, crazily enough, actually brought some comfort. She was alive, at least. Not like her son.

When she opened the door, she expected to see a familiar face. Maybe Ray or Ellen. But not his face. She blinked, wobbling. No, not just his, but theirs.

Lacey didn’t feel the floor coming up to meet her, but on her slide down she smiled, knowing that she hadn’t lost Calvin after all. Because he was standing there in the doorway, along with Sean, both of them looking very concerned. With that wonderful thought, she closed her eyes and disappeared into a welcome oblivion.

Sean bent over her, the second time in several hours. Then he remembered the open door, stood to close it. At least he knew she was all right; the smell of alcohol on her breath had clued him in. As he bent again to pick her up, he remembered other occasions when he’d had to pick up a body sprawled on the floor, passed out from a nightly binge of beer and whisky. But his father had been much heavier, his body an excruciating burden to a young boy. Mrs. Burnham hardly weighed anything as he lifted her into his arms. Her half-opened mouth made her look like a young girl just sleeping, dreaming peacefully. She had changed from her funeral dress and now wore a large, button-down shirt and faded jeans. Her feet were bare.

In the dark hallway, he traced a familiar path to the stairs. Exactly ten steps up. Just like at his old house. Except here, paintings travelled up the stairwell. His mother had never really decorated like Mrs. Burnham, choosing to leave the wall bare. At the top of the stairs, Sean paused, his eyes adjusting to another level of darkness. To the left was Calvin’s old room and a couple of guest rooms, if he remembered correctly. And to the right should be the main bathroom as well as the one room Calvin’s mother had deemed off-limits. Only once had he and Cal trespassed into no-man’s land, on a rare evening when Mrs. Burnham had gone out to the movies with friends. A bunch of loud women who had cackled through the house as they prepared to leave, talking about the actor’s measurement, and whether his “thing” was more than any of them could handle. Sean remembered that he had felt his face flushing and had turned away before Cal could see.

He and Cal had listened to them through Cal’s bedroom door. Cal shook his head and snickered: “Man, I can’t believe them old broads actually talk like that. And my mama with ’em. Damn, you’d think they know they were too rancid for that. Geez. That’s just sick.” Cal laughed. And Sean joined him more out of solidarity than shared sentiment. At the time, he knew it was naïve to think older people didn’t get it on…that was, if the man could still get it up. He knew from some of his parents’ arguments that his father had had a problem in the sack. Which occasionally added to a combustible fuel of alcohol and violence.

As he carried Mrs. Burnham to her bedroom door, now half ajar, he remembered on that night it had been completely shut as they snuck down the hall. Cal had opened it, waving Sean in with a grin, then switched on the dresser lamp. He beelined to the closet, pulled back the sliding door, brought down a gray tin box. At the time, Cal wondered why most parents always thought their kids didn’t know where to find things, as though a locked box on the top shelf of a closet was invisible to curious eyes. Boxes could be picked so easily it wasn’t even worth the challenge. Cal had taken out the gun, passed it over to Sean. It’d been a .357 magnum, sleek and gray. He’d held it in his hand, weighing it, feeling its silent power. For a second, he’d thought to aim it, pull the trigger, but then thought that’d be stupid since a bullet could be in it and it might accidentally go off. But Cal hadn’t been as cautious, taking it back and aiming it directly at Sean.

Sean had blanched. “Cut it out, man!” He couldn’t help the tremor in his voice as he stared at the barrel.

“Man, you should see your face,” Cal laughed, then finally lowered his hand. “Ah, c’mon, you know I wouldn’t aim a loaded gun at you. My mama don’t believe in loading up. Which is crazy, because I don’t see a burglar waiting for her to go get her bullets.” Cal had placed the gun back into its box, walked to the closet. While Cal set the box back on the shelf, Sean, still recovering from the terror Cal had juiced from him, looked around, his curiosity beginning to subsume his fear. He’d thought how feminine her room was. And that it really didn’t suit her. He had glanced at the bed; a thought flitted and he pushed it away. Couldn’t go there.

Now the room was in half shadow, but Sean immediately noticed the changes. The bed was smaller, made for one person. The bed a decade ago would have slept two. There had been a vanity then, now replaced with a small bureau. The undrawn curtains and comforter seemed darker in the light of a moon standing guard at her windows. He remembered white lace curtains from before. She seemed to have changed her taste from the dainty feminine décor.

He laid her down gently, and she let out a half sob before shifting into a fetal position. The room felt cool, and it would probably only get colder as the night deepened; he didn’t want her waking in the early hours, shivering.

He shifted her body so that he could pull back her comforter, moved her beneath it, then pulled the comforter up to her neck. He noticed a strand of hair trapped between her right eyelids and gingerly pulled it out, then pushed the hair off her forehead.

Depending on how much she had drunk, and what she had drunk, she might be out for hours. Past the dawn.

He should leave, come back tomorrow, since he really didn’t have permission to be here. He had tried calling her from the hotel but had found the number changed. He’d hoped that just by showing up, she would welcome him in.

Not having the privilege of any of the bedrooms, he decided she wouldn’t mind if he settled on the sofa. He left the room, closed the door behind him, and quietly walked down the stairs. In the living room, he noticed that the sofa was different from the one he and Cal had vegged out on. That sofa had been barely large enough for a teenager to lie around on. This one would suit him and his extra height. He noticed the empty bottle, the CDs lying on the floor. He picked up the discs, placed them in a pile on the living room table. Then he turned out the lights, kicked off his shoes, and settled on the sofa.

He lay there for hours, desperately fighting his memories. Finally, he felt the first pull of sleep as it began to claim him. He let it lead him into a dreamless slumber.

His last thought was that at least she wouldn’t have to be alone.