Burlap and Wine
Cotton and fond words. She keeps her heart in an ivory cage, but it still manages to feel.
Leah tells everyone who asks that she's road tripping. Young Leah, hands that have finally stopped shaking, a high ponytail and dark combat boots she found for a few dollars at a roadside sale, isn't living out of her car; she's road tripping. She tells herself this, too, and it's a joke because, in reality, she's running.
She doesn't settle until her Falcon's fuming out of its hood, until there's a decent layer of dirt on its dark paint, on the rusted chrome details. By then, she's left Louisiana, reached Mississippi, and—while she had no intention of stopping in the small city—her Falcon breaks down just outside of Poplarville. It's smaller than New Orleans, closer; the last time she checked, New Orleans had broken a million, and Poplarville was probably crawling towards it's second thousand.
She kicks the car fondly.
Her spot is sitting on the trunk of her Falcon, hand raised in the air, hailing whatever driver that will give her the time of day. People slow down, ask her if she needs help, and she replies that anyone with mechanical knowledge would be grand. A few head towards Hattiesburg, offer to give her a ride. She debates sending them after a mechanic, realizes she doesn't have too much money as it is, that the mechanic would tell her what she already knows, it's shot, and she'd be stuck trying to find the money to pay for a new engine, a new transmission, anything. She waits until the sun is setting to accept, climbs into an old man's truck that reminds Leah of Remey.
They introduce themselves—James Barrett, he says, and Leah responds with the first name she can think of, Celeste, like the stars she's so fond of, Celeste Marlow—and drive Leah down some backroad Leah would have had no intention of going down. She prepares herself to defend herself when the man grins. He continues with the introduction. He's a handyman, and he'll fix Leah's car for free, if she works for him for a few weeks. Begrudgingly, she accepts, even though she has no clue what any of the car parts do—she would have fixed it on the side of the road, skipped this entire debacle, had she—and she doesn't want to be stuck in any one place longer than a few days, if necessary. "I'm a little old on the years," he states.
"Uh, yeah," she murmurs, before she can help herself. When she notices what she's done, she blushes to her sunglasses. His grin widens. Leah knows exactly what kind of place this is, where everyone knows each other, everybody knows everyone's business, full of gossiping ladies and bible thumping, there's probably a church potluck every month and one general store within a twenty-mile radius, and it's almost everything Leah can't stand.
Leah isn't in any position to turn him down.
Tuesday afternoon starts, and Leah's elbow deep in car parts when Old Man Barrett—"you want me to call you Old Man Barrett?" and apparently the answer is yes—mentions there's a mass Wednesday night. Leah doesn't give it a passing thought, expects that to be her cue to close tomorrow night, until she notices the tone he used, the one her Aunt Twyla was fond of, with the subtle undertone of there not being a choice. She exhales, looks at him behind her sunglasses, all overalls and white button up shirts, and nods once. She knows she'll look insane next to whatever Poplarville has to offer, knows her in her high ponytail, beaten up combat boots, ripped jeans, and oversized t-shirt will look strange next to anyone in a vaguely religious setting.
She follows Old Man Barrett's directions to the church, sits in some church Leah thinks could be a hundred years old. No one sits next to Leah; she makes assumptions, of course, of the people who flock in behind her. And she's tried to make herself presentable—she wore her t-shirt and jeans, even though Old Man Barrett gave her a sundress that his daughter wore, or his wife, Leah didn't ask, said she'd wear it next time—and she curled her hair with a few gentle casts, but she keeps her sunglasses on, even when she slid into the pew. She sits, even though she's seated behind some family with an infant, even though she's next to a loving—too loving—couple, and Leah doesn't know any of their names.
When everyone evacuates to a line, Leah does so hesitantly, follows the assumed action, even if she is confused as to why they're receiving what looks like crackers, even if she doesn't know what is going on. She's confused that she didn't burst into flames once she crossed the threshold. When her turn comes, she meets the man's eyes—green, dull green—and sputters that she doesn't want it. The man shows her how to fold her arms, for next time, and she pretends she's not intrigued. She takes her seat, then, and walks out as soon as they've finished the mass.
She plans on avoiding the man entirely. She doesn't know how long she's in town for, or if she'll even show up at mass on Sunday, but she's happy to give the man a wide, wide berth, for her sake.
Of course, that's not what happens.
She takes her spot beneath a tree, an oak, and listens in on conversations quietly, to the women who hover just outside the church. The man's name is McKinney. He's the preacher's son, or something, because he fills in when no one else can. When he heads towards the parking lot, Leah stops him with a rough call. She doesn't want to touch him, doesn't want him to feel how cold she is.
He spins towards her, and she nearly doesn't remember what she wants. "Are you McKinney? Someone told me you would be able to give me a ride to Old Man Barrett's garage."
"Old Man Barrett," he echoes.
Then, she's horrified, annoyed. "People don't call him Old Man Barrett, do they?"
He ducks his head, laughs. "He likes to mess with foreigners."
Leah curses. "Goddammit," she mutters, and winces, says, "oh, hell, sorry, didn't mean to—what is it, take the lord's name in vain—"
"It's fine," he says, and Leah knows it's not, it's not, "c'mon. I'll give you a lift back to the garage."
That night, Leah decides she'll stay in Poplarville until it's no longer safe. That night, Leah realizes there might be something worth pursuing in Poplarville besides the blueberries. She keeps to herself, mostly, staying in the garage until Barrett pushes her outside—"you need some fresh air, girl"—and, even then, she simply goes out to sit on the front porch. Sometimes she walks into town. Mostly, she stays there in Barrett's odd little house in the backwoods of Poplarville, and she thinks.
She thinks about what needs to be done. She thinks about who she can contact to become involved in the outer workings of the Caster world that won't notify her Mamma, how she'll network herself so she's not swept into the Light, so she knows the darker side of casting. She thinks about how the car might not be the best option. She thinks about how, maybe, even in Poplarville, there might be someone of the casting disposition.
Her sunglasses remain firmly in place, and no one questions her, even when she can hear them whispering about it in their little gossip circles.
She ends up claustrophobic—the people, the air, the constant friendliness—and takes up a second job at the library, sorting books that a few casts deal with easily. She's frugal with her magic, though, and uses it when she knows no one else will notice—casually eliminates a bruise in an apple at the farmer's market with her fingertips, stitches together ripped pages in classics, sorts through books, through car parts, faster, alters thoughts clumsily, turns speculation away, changes her eyes to brown when she can't get away with sunglasses—and she experiments in her room at Barrett's, in the one conference room the library has.
She takes her time, changes vowels, the way syllables roll off her tongue, to see how the results change from her previous knowledge her Mamma gave her. She accidentally patches her boots. The flowers she meant to change colors wither quickly. Barrett is none the wiser, thinks she's amazing at organizing, and Leah's hard-pressed to say otherwise. She pours over literature like she did over her Mamma's recipe cards, over classics, over manuals, learns Latin better than she ever could with a mentor. She remembers her Mamma would be proud, her daughter furthering her education in an abandoned library in a lonely town. She reads about health, about healing, avoids matters of the heart. It's by complete accident she learns how to start fires—accendo, she whispers, and flames dance on her palms—or how to stitch—consarcio, she mutters when she finds it in an aging book, and she finds her shoes laced—or how to roughly heal—velox saluber, she says, confidently, when a bird hits her window, breaks a wing, and flies away as though on new wings. And she continues like that, learning odd little casts she's sure she'll never have to use.
She attends mass whenever Barrett looks at her sternly, which is almost twice a week, every week. She doesn't move from her pew in the last row, is the first to leave, but she stays, watches McKinney with keen, absent eyes. Sometimes she thinks he knows what goes through her head, but there's no way he's one of them, a Caster, and she talks herself out of it before long. Maybe, somewhere in this town of dead ends, there's a Caster, but Leah doubts she'll find them anytime soon.
Barrett gives her his truck, and she sometimes takes it for drives down main street at midnight, when she can't sleep, when insomnia kicks up her nerves.
(She's sure it's something in her blood, something about the family her Mamma never talked to her about, something about how she's a Dark Caster.)
Sometimes she takes it to the church, parks it under the oak, and leans her head against her closed fists, contemplates crying. Sometimes she drives as far as the highway, almost to the Interstate, when she turns around, goes back to Poplarville, because she doesn't want to leave, not yet. Something's missing, she swears, even when she knows it's inane, even when she knows there's nothing there but gossip and ghosts.
On one of those drives, she parks the truck and goes for a run. She runs down the alleyways, down the closed shops, runs into McKinney getting the tar beat out of him. Even in Poplarville? She thinks, and then she looks at him, sighs. Even in Poplarville. She lands a solid punch on the offender's jaw, watches them stagger backwards. And McKinney has a black eye, a split brow, and—ouch, Leah thinks—his normally second-hand blazer looks more rough than usual. The form disappears—she wants to say it's a man, but she knows there are others like her—and Leah regards McKinney with a quick glance, sighs.
"Come with me," she says, and McKinney stares at her with those dull, green eyes. She adjusts her footing. "McKinney, come on. I'm parked a few blocks away." He follows behind Leah, about ten paces, and Leah doesn't question it, not when she has to wait a minute in the car for him to climb into the passenger seat, not when she listens to silence for another two minutes, because he's apparently ten paces behind in thought, as well.
She wants to ask what he did, who that person was, wants to find them, but she bites her tongue.
When she pulls into Barrett's, they haven't exchanged any more words. He unties his shoes at the door, Leah doesn't bother, and follows her to the second floor slowly. Leah supposes the kitchen would have worked, as well, but the supplies are upstairs, she reasons. She sits him on her bed, carries her First-Aid kit, sits beside him cross-legged. "Look at me," she mutters, and he obeys—such pretty creatures, she thinks—and she tells him to close his eyes. Velox saluber is on her tongue, bitter, tempting. Instead, she presses alcohol soaked rags to his cuts, lets him wince into her touch—shh, shh, shh, she exhales—lets him curse her in whatever language he wants to, just not verbally. Her fingertips press around his split brow, contemplating, before she shakes her head. "No stitches," he murmurs, and Leah wants to laugh, wants to shoo his hands from hers.
"No stitches," she echoes. He might stare at her too long, might grip her hands too tightly, but Leah finds something curious in the way his heart is beating. Inconsistency, she wants to say, but she shakes it off. "No stitches," she repeats, and this time she means it. His eyes—shards of granular brown and mossy green—seem paler in the lamplight, washed out. She stares for a second, an exhale, then clasps the kit shut. "Your shirt is ruined."
"Surely..."
Leah nods once, assesses the damage. A few crimson stains where the blood dripped, a few tears. Nothing a steady hand and a sweater couldn't fix, she's sure. "Stay the night," she says. He blushes unevenly, and Leah swears it's not beautiful, it's not, but she can't deny the burst of fondness it coerces.
"I..."
"Stay," she repeats. She pats the bed, stands, grabs the kit. "You need the bed more than I do, and the Old Man has a surprisingly comfortable couch." She glances at the room, the haphazard organization, Latin books stacked, open, ancient histories teetering towards the open, screened window. Tonight, her blood is hot, energy pulsing through her. She almost wants to ask McKinney what he's thinking, see if he hasn't bashed his head or something, but that would require a decent grip on her words, and she doesn't trust herself, not until the words are off her tongue. "Even better, I have some reading I have to catch up on."
McKinney doesn't move from his spot, frozen on the bed, a white button up—as all men seem to wear around here—and a slate blazer, stoic, a bit roughed up. Leah resists the urge to calm his hair with her hands. His mouth is still open, as though he's trying to refuse, but he's not speaking. Leah rolls her eyes, plops the kit on the table near the door, bends so she's at his eye-level. "People around here are going to talk, aren't they?" The barest flicker downwards, upwards. Her lips pull in a grin. "I'm not going to steal your virtue in the middle of the night, McKinney." She gently punches his shoulder.
She takes the chair and reads with little ambition, focuses on his breathing, on his movements, how he eventually lays down, on top of the blankets, how his breathing levels, his heartbeat calms. When she's sure he's asleep—or resting, at least—she starts studying.
The women at the church are going to talk.
Sometime in the night, she dozes off. She doesn't dream, not anything she'd remember, and she wakes with a jolt. She rubs her eyes, scrawls a note on a torn piece of paper, holes herself in the garage. McKinney is probably the type to wake up at some ungodly hour, she's sure. She sorts parts with quick movements, cleans where its needed. Around six, Barrett checks in on her, nods once, and Leah mirrors the movement before he disappears into the house. Leah practices her Latin.
The door opens, and Leah assumes it's Barrett, casually mentions there's an attractive man in her room—anticipating a hearty laugh, a quip—and there's an embarrassed noise. "Miss..."
"Marlow," she supplies without turning. "Celeste Marlow," she adds, as an afterthought. She inhales slowly. "You're up early."
She hears him shift. "How do I thank you?"
"You don't," she answers easily. "You were hurt. I had the means to help you. There's nothing you need to do to repay that." She shrugs after a moment. "Besides, I needed practice." She sighs, stands, walks to him. The bruises are lighter than they should be—which means her cast did work as it was supposed to—the injuries are healing nicely. She ghosts her fingertips over them. "You're healing remarkably." He grips her wrist in his hand.
"You must have magic hands," he mutters, and Leah's heart leaps. She brushes the comment off with a laugh. "What do I owe you, Miss Marlow?" His voice is low in her ear, and she wants to say everything, wants to say a drink, preferably alcoholic—because she hasn't had the honest chance to and she somehow thinks drinking with McKinney would be something of a life experience—or a kiss, something flirty.
"Take me to the church tonight." His river water eyes flash. "I'll call us even." He lets go of her wrist.
"Church it is, then." Leah flashes a smile and pretends her heart isn't tight in her chest. He chuckles, and Leah shakes her head.
"Come on, McKinney. Let's get you home." The tools are forgotten, then, and swapped for a ride in Barrett's Ford, for country music that grates her ears, or would have, had she been listening. Instead, she listens to the tires on gravel, McKinney's light, deep breathing. He feeds her directions. She swallows them like air. The truck doesn't swerve once. People on the sidewalks wave, and Leah gives a half-hearted wave back to each of them. After a five minute drive, she pulls into a farmhouse's driveway, shoves the shift into park. "There you go, McKinney."
He glances at her, takes her hand, kisses her knuckles, and Leah thinks it's something from a movie, something from a fairytale, except she's her own hero. "Church tonight, Miss Marlow." She nods once.
"Pick me up at nine, McKinney."
She wears the dress Barrett gave her, a white sundress that makes her look tan, makes her look taller, more mature. She pulls her hair in its ponytail, wears a flannel to cover the unfortunate way it makes her chest look, ties the ends in a knot just below her heart. If she cared, she'd say the town was rubbing off on her, but she maintained that she was her own person, and Celeste Marlow was exactly who Leah Valentin would be. The doorbell rings around 8:50, and she dashes down the stairs, aware no matter how fast she moves that Barrett will be there before her. She leaves a kiss on the Old Man's cheek. He says to be back before midnight, as if he's her father, and she shakes her head. Three, she negotiates. He gives, only because McKinney is a churchgoing fellow, and Barrett knows where he lives.
They drink whiskey on the steps of the church. Leah still wears her sunglasses, even though the sun set an hour ago, even though the stars are starting to come out. She points them out to McKinney—there's Lyra, Cygnus, and Ursa Major and Minor, she rambles, lacing her hands with his to point out their trails—while he watches her. She feels breathless.
It escalates from there.
It escalates, and Jonah lets it happen.
It escalates, and Jonah's nights are in stark contrast to his mornings after he finally drags Celeste Marlow home at four in the morning, after copious conversation and activity that is not at all faithful.
The first night after: Celeste shows up and asks him to show her around ("There has to be something to do around here, and Old Man's not going to show me."), and they end up at the lake where Jonah used to swim at every summer when he was a kid. They share a beer ("It's not going to kill you, McKinney," Celeste says, and it doesn't) and their knees touch, slacks and torn jeans, and Jonah's not anywhere close to the water, but he swears he's drowning.
The morning: Jonah sits in the front row pew and holds the hymnal so tightly he rips a page.
The night: Celeste kisses Jonah in his car in the parking lot behind the church, and has to tell him three separate times to "stop shaking, it's okay, do you want to stop?" (Yes, Jonah says, no, I don't know. God, oh, God, please just touch me, okay, please, please.)
Morning: Jonah pounds hard at his chest during the prayer of confession: through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.
Night: Jonah sneaks Celeste into the back room of the church, and they get drunk on communion wine, and Celeste says she's not religious, but when Jonah sinks to his knees, Celeste can't help but wonder if religion has to coexist with divinity.
Morning: Jonah sits in the confessional, swallows hard, says, "Forgive me, father, for I have sinned," and he wants and doesn't want to say what his sin is, and then finally chickens out, murmurs, "I have coveted." He's given five hail Mary's as penance, and they ring so hollow it makes his chest ache.
Night: Celeste leaves tomorrow. They're at the lake again, the reflection of the moon rippling distorted on the surface of the water, and it's too quiet, and Celeste leaves tomorrow, and Jonah says he's okay, but he's not, isn't sure he's ever really going to be okay, wants to make the most of the few hours they've got left and wants to push her away all at once. He prays Celeste may decide to stay longer, then immediately feels like he's blasphemed. Jonah wants to ask Celeste to stay, wants to demand, to beg, but the words get stuck and burn his throat raw with shame.
Leah watches the water, watches the moon, watches the oaks sway in the breeze, and the keys in her pocket feel like an anchor, like freedom. She wants to ask him to come with her. She wants to take her to a city, to somewhere else, but he doesn't know her, doesn't even know her name, doesn't know what she is, what she does, her past, her family. The words are easy to swallow, after that realization.
She still thinks about blurting the words. About how McKinney would tell his family he's going on a road trip, tell anyone who asks, and he won't know for how long. Her car is littered with old receipts and cigarette butts from Remey, and he'd feel more at home in the Falcon than he has in Poplarville the last 23 years. She'd wait until the town was a tiny speck in the rearview before she'd crank up the radio, flash McKinney a blinding smile, throw her head back and sing along, one hand on the steering wheel, one held tight in McKinney's own.
She thinks about telling him. I'm a Caster. But the words are too difficult.
She thinks about telling him. I ran away from home. But the timing's all wrong.
She lets him kiss her, lets him drive her back to Old Man Barrett's, lets him disappear down the driveway.
In the morning, she leaves a note on the kitchen table—thanks for everything, Old Man—and another in the hymnal in the first row pew—remember me. xx Leah Valentin—even if it is a splurge on her part, leaving a real name, leaving a part of her in the town she had hoped to blow past.
The white dress looks at home folded in the passenger seat.
She presses harder on the gas and watches Celeste Marlow fade away with the dust her tires create.