In a Pickle
Chapter 7: People Will Talk
"She was sick last week and she's been sick three mornings in a row this week."
Norman Balthus listened as the young woman, Eleanor's niece, he believed, chattered on, obviously anxious to tattle about her employer. Normally, he wouldn't have listened to such, but he had been concerned about Iris lately too. She just hadn't been herself. Besides looking tired and drawn over the past few weeks, she had been quiet and, well, sometimes downright snappish when she did talk.
"It's none of my business," the girl went on. "But I know what makes a woman sick like that in the mornings. I have five kids of my own and I was sick just like that with everyone of them—"
That had Norman's attention. But surely not Iris.
"Becky!" Eleanor scolded, hurrying across the room to join them. "That's enough of that."
Eleanor smiled at Norman nervously, trying to cover her embarrassment. "Sorry, Reverend."
She looked back at Becky sternly. "Shame on you for gossiping about Miss Iris like that." Eleanor hustled the girl out of the room. "Go on back into the kitchen and finish that packing."
The phrase "speak of the devil" was on the tip of Norman's tongue as Iris chose that moment to come down the stairs, looking pale but put together.
"Oh," Eleanor looked flustered, wondering how much Iris had heard. She liked Miss Crowe. The Crowes had been awfully nice to her and her family when they were down on their luck. "Feeling better, Miss Iris?" she ventured.
Iris nodded, "Yes. Thank you, Eleanor."
"We're almost finished with the china."
"Good." With a smile, Eleanor went back to work, satisfied that Miss Iris hadn't been offended by anything she might have overheard.
"I'm sorry you had to wait, Norman. Just let me find my gloves and I'll be ready."
Norman studied his adopted daughter as she rifled through a drawer. He couldn't shake what that girl had said. "So you haven't been feeling well lately?"
"No," she said offhandedly. "Ah-ha, here they are," she said working her fingers into the dark gloves. She noticed that Norman was staring at her. She smiled to herself. That was his concerned face. The one he had worn when she had come down with the mumps at 14, and the same one he had years later as he waved goodbye to his children on the train platform as they headed off to St. Paul. "I'm fine. I think it's just some sort of stomach flu," she reassured.
"Are you sure you are up to the luncheon today?" he asked.
"Yes. Stop worrying. I'll be fine."
"Good." He helped her on with her coat and followed her outside to his car. He was sure it was nothing. Just a stomach flu like she said. Iris was the one he never had to worry about. Justin, well, Justin was concerning him more and more every day with his fanatical ways, charging straight ahead with that radio ministry no matter what the church board said. . .
"Say, little girl, are you still seeing that radio fellow? Dolan, wasn't it?"
"No," she asked with a laugh as he opened the car door for her. "Why do you ask?"
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The tree stood black and solitary against the roiling crimson sky. She struggled to make her way up the hill, grasping and clawing at handfuls of dirt. The rain bit at her skin, and clouded her eyes. Something was bleeding, clotted and dark. It broke apart in her fingers, smearing them scarlet. It came thicker now. A face but not a face, smooth and white and hard like a doll's. The face laughing without moving as it plunged a dagger into the tree. It cries out as its heart is pierced, frantic, mewling cries.
"Miss Iris? Miss Iris, it's Brother Justin on the phone for you."
Eleanor's weathered face hovered in front of hers. Iris brought her hand to her throat to calm her breathing.
"I'm sorry. I must have dosed off." She shuddered, half remembering the nightmare she'd been having, and was truly thankful to Eleanor for waking her up from it.
"Hello?" she called quietly into the receiver, glancing around to make sure she was alone in the hallway.
She smiled, "Hi." It was good to hear his voice. He'd left Sunday night with Tommy Dolan for a week of meetings with sponsors and producers in L.A. It was only Tuesday. And while she had actually looked forward to a few days all to herself . . . it was good to hear his voice.
"I'm glad you called. The phone woke me up from the worst dream," she explained, rubbing at her cheek sleepily. "I can't really remember, just strange." She ran a finger idly down the side of the phone and grimaced distastefully at the dust she found. "It's the same I guess . . . I wouldn't say it's any worse . . . I am fine, really," she scolded halfheartedly. "You sound like Norman." She ran her hand across the velvety material of her robe, just below the tie and smiled. "Hmmm, that's fine too." She heard Eleanor shuffling around. "Oh, it was yesterday . . . I'm glad things are going so good . . . Okay. . . Goodnight, Justin."
"Eleanor!"
A white-blonde head peeked out of the dinning room at her. "How's Brother Justin?"
"Fine. He's just fine," Iris smiled back. "Why don't we call it a night?"
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"You've lost weight," Justin observed. He slid his fingers across her ribs, mapping the contours of each one, to make his point, amazed at how large and gangly his hand looked against the delicate bones.
Iris twitched at the tickling sensation and swatted at his hand, avoiding the question.
Her hand tangled in Justin's hair as his lips replaced his fingers.
"I'm no expert in these matters . . ." She opened her eyes to see his face hovering above hers now, his head propped on his elbow. "But shouldn't you be gaining weight instead of losing it?"
She huffed, there was no other way to describe it, and tugged the sheet up over her.
Justin would have laughed at the childish gesture but—she looked ill. Dark circles under her eyes, in sharp contrast to her blanched skin. Skin that felt clammy where her thigh lay next to his. She shivered and he watched as her hand clutched the sheet with a tremor.
"Is something wrong besides the morning sickness?"
"I can't sleep," she said wearily. "I-I keep having these awful . . . nightmares. But they don't feel like dreams—"
"They feel real," he finished. Real like the tight knot of guilt burning in his chest, and real like the decision that had to be made soon.
She nodded, "They feel like drowning."
She laughed, then grimaced as he shifted over her, draping his torso across hers and groping at the floor beside the bed.
"Ughh, you haven't lost any weight, Justin Crowe," she pushed at his shoulder.
She felt him laugh, but couldn't see his face. "What are you doing?"
He "reappeared" holding a clump of white cotton and lace. "Hold up your arms." She did as he said and he tugged her nightgown over her head and arms in a strange reversal of their childhood positions.
She relaxed a little as he gathered her to him, his chest against her back, curling protectively around her.
Her father's hand, grabbing her by the arm, encircles it completely, leaving a powdery purple ring in its place. His hand—her hand. Plunging, stabbing. Lightening split the tree and broke apart the sky. Spatters of blood down her arms, like bruises, like burns. The tree, the sky—she cries out. Drowned out by a baby's choking fury ringing out over the valley.
She jolted awake and looked wildly about the darkened room. The sound of her name gradually replaced the sound of the crying, thumping in her ears. He was kissing her face, her neck, brushing his hands over her damp chest, down her arms. Gestures she had taught him—touches meant to soothe and distract. Face against his neck, she mumbled into his pulse something about father—the tree—blood.
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Iris blinked against the light shining in her eyes—the glint from a flashbulb reflecting in the sun. She stood amongst the enrapt crowd listening to Justin's voice vibrating through the once empty valley, dedicating the new temple in memory of the children who died, the martyrs she had founded their ministry on. She met his eyes as he recited their names. Blue eyes burning into hers. "Irina, how could you?" Swallowed up by black.
The light burnt sharply into her pupils. She tried to close her eyes; something held them open. Iris shook her head and squinted up into a blurry face. "Ahh, Miss Crowe, can you hear me?"
Everything around her, sterile and white and cold.
"Miss Crowe. You fainted. You are at the hospital now. I am Doctor Martin. You were unconscious for a few hours. I need you to look at me. Try to focus, Miss Crowe."
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"Now, Miss Crowe, care to tell me how you got in this state?" the doctor said patronizingly.
Iris stared at him in disbelief. "What?"
Confusion writ across his face as it had hers. "Oh, no. Not that state," he chuckled as if it were funny. "But I know about that one too. How did you get so run down and exhausted that you collapsed?"
"I haven't been feeling well . . ."
"Obviously." More humor.
"And I haven't been able to sleep," she continued. "I've been busy helping with the move—of the church and our house."
"I see. Now about that other state, you know you should take better care of yourself . . ."
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"And just what are you implying, Norman?"
A nurse looked up from her station to glare at Justin's raised voice.
"Calm down. I'm not implying anything. I'm asking you if there was something going on between that Dolan man and Iris . . . maybe while you were gone?"
"No."
"I know she keeps saying that it was just a bug but, if he took advantage of her—"
"If my sister says this is just a passing illness, then I believe her," he said sternly. "After all, you raised us better than that, Norman." Norman missed the smirk that played across Justin's mouth as he turned and headed for the nurse's station to see when Iris was being released.
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Norman insisted on seeing them home. He watched Iris closely, with a mixture of concern and suspicion that grated on Justin's already frayed nerves. Iris herself seemed too exhausted to notice. After she was tucked away in her room to rest, Norman left with a weighted look and a heavy sigh.
Now Justin paused at her door, laying his palm flat against the wood, steeling himself for what he was about to do. He breathed deeply and rubbed at the tension in his neck before entering.
Iris was sitting up in bed propped against the headboard, toying with the edge of the quilt that covered her lap. Noting that the color was slowly returning to her face, Justin smiled softly at her, before beginning to pace around the room.
"Justin, what's wrong?" she asked apprehensively. She knew him well enough to know that he was struggling with something.
"This isn't going to work, Iris," he said quietly, pausing, seemingly frozen in the middle of the room.
Confusion marred her forehead. "What do you mean?" He finally met her eyes and held them, communicating as always so much without saying a word. Her lips parted and she squared her jaw. "We have to make it work."
"I wish there was another way," he continued, beginning to pace again. "I thought we could hide it—but today proves we can't."
"And just what are you suggesting?" she asked, struggling to keep the hint of fear and growing anger out of her voice.
He stepped towards the window and moved the curtain, looking out into the street.
"Justin."
"I think you should marry Tommy Dolan." The words hung in the air between them.
"What?" she asked finally, almost laughing in her disbelief.
He let the curtain trail from his hand and looked down at the floor, shaking his head.
"Have you lost your mind, Justin?" She made no attempt to hide the anger welling up in her now.
"There isn't any other way, Iris," he answered sternly, his voice taking on an irritated edge. His eyes flashed up to meet hers, boring into her.
She faced down his stare, narrowing her eyes in concentration. "You're serious?" She still couldn't quite believe what he was asking her to do. But as he continued to look intently at her, she knew that he had made up his mind. Panic overwhelmed her. Iris threw off the quilt and came to stand next to him, grasping his arm. "Do you think you can just give me away?" Her words were thick with hurt and resentment.
"You will marry him."
"No." She stared up at him, breathing hard, trying to find some way to convince him. Finally, she leaned in close to him and spoke. "You won't mind another man touching me, making love to me?" He looked away from her, focusing his gaze on the cross hanging over the bed. "No, look me in the eyes. Look at me and tell me, Alexsei." At the sound of his name, he looked back at her, clenching his jaw with emotion. "Tell me you won't mind that another man calls your child his own."
He took her roughly by the shoulders, causing her to gasp in surprise, and commanded, "You will do as I say." He watched as she flinched at his tone. He knew that his hands were hurting her, that they would leave bruises in their wake. Justin closed his eyes and swallowed. When we spoke again, his voice had softened and his grasp turned to a caress, running his hands down her arms. "Please, Irina. Just do what I'm asking."
She stepped back away from him, out of his reach and covered her eyes with her hand.
He watched as her chest rose and fell unsteadily and knew that she was close to tears.
"Get out," she whispered.
He tried to touch her arm, wanted suddenly more than anything to draw her into his arms, but she shook off his touch and retreated farther from him, shaking her head.
He turned and left, slamming the door behind him, leaving her alone to collapse on the bed, hot tears burning down her cheeks.