Dance With Me
-The Way of Nature, the Way of Grace-
June 1932
There is a place; a small nook in the corner of the world. It rests beside a gleaming lake so wide that the coppice and woodland stretching along the terrain of the opposite side were simply a blend of browns and greens. The water is tepid year-round, warmed by the deposit of a volcano that had erupted decades ago. When you walk knee-deep into the lazy ripples of a wind-blown current, schools of tiny fish swarm your ankles and nibble at your toes. Pleasant, harmless little creatures. A dock of weathered wooden planks stretches out into the water, and sitting at the end, tied by rope to the pillars and quietly knocking into the planks against the current, is a lone white rowboat.
Past the water there is a thin beach of the softest white sand. Softer than any sand ever felt anywhere, and beyond that a velvety green lawn extends up to a large garden, blooming with different grasses, thick verdant stalks erected high from the soil, and earthbound flowers lying low within the leaves of their neighbors in tiers and tangled vines. The property is cleared of grove and thicket in the shape of a half-circle and along the perimeter old pines and furs stand together in a dense forest, tall and proud, their limbs stretching for the sky.
There is a house that sits at the center of this property, its exterior a clean ivory. One floor rests on top of another, and an elevated porch wraps all the way around. The roof is slanted and shingled, the windows flanked by shutters as green as a shaded pasture of Emerald Isle. Inside the rooms are spacious, and peppered with handmade furniture that had been constructed in a small shop resting as a separate structure to the side of the house. This house was built nail by nail, board by board to coincide the vision dreamed by a woman a man loved very much.
To the west of the house, that man is standing with his hands on his hips. He wears a soiled undershirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His tan trousers are held up by thick elastic straps folding over his shoulders and crossing over his back. In front of him a young boy grasps a heavy axe in a careful position. He has dark hair, and ears that jut out from the sides of his small head. The boy's lips are tightened with focus on the task before him. He grips the axe tightly with his small hands, and under his father's instruction swings it back, bringing the blade down into the exposed wood of the tree trunk in front of him. He releases the handle, the blade stuck in the wood at an angle, and turns to wait for either criticism or praise at the job he'd done. The man grasps the boy by the shoulder, shifting to smooth the hair on the back of his head, and the boy knows that he has done well.
Two girls, younger than the boy but not by much, run barefooted in the yard. Both girls are blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauties – genes they inherited from their father. But as they chase frogs hopping over the blades of grass in an effort to escape the eager pursuers, they moved and laughed in a harmonizing grace that unmistakably came from their mother.
She stands knee-deep in the lake water, at peace with the scene that is her home and her family. She feels a tickle along her ankles and feet as the tiny fish brush by. She places a hand on the firm bump of her stomach, and prays for a boy. It would be wonderful if their eldest could have a brother. The man – her light, her foundation, her strength – he wants a large family. He wants the affirmation, the reassurance that no matter what might happen to tear them apart, none of them would ever be left alone in this world. She would give that to him.
In this corner of the world, there was no reason to earn your keep by means of illegal activity. Here, the economy flourishes and only continues to grow. The man, a skilled carpenter and businessman, splits his time between a thriving sawmill and a small shop selling canned goods and tobacco in the heart of town, much like the one his daddy used to own. The woman teaches history at the local schoolhouse, and volunteers once a week at the hospital.
I can see this place so clearly. There is nothing in the world that will destroy this life that they have built together. I can see it. The man and woman lock gazes. Their expressions are blurred by distance, but their thoughts and intentions are as clear as if they were written on paper, or spoken in sweet whispers behind closed doors and bed sheets in the comfort of night. I see it. They look at each other, and they know. They know that every hardship and battle, every war won and lost, every decision they ever made has led them to that moment, and they know that they would relive each and every one of them if it would lead them there again. They know that this is their life, and it is beautiful. They know that they had finally done right by someone, and it had been each other.
Humans are selfish creatures. And there isn't anything too terribly wrong about that, it's just our nature. We live our lives day by day, never really thinking about it too much. We establish schedules, and we do not stray. We make goals, and direct our passion and our focus into them. We never stop to look at the world around us. Why would we? It's our environment, our home, we see it every day. It isn't anything new. We take the ones we love for granted. We stop going that extra mile to remind them exactly what they mean to us. We don't tell them we love them as often. We assume they already know. The world is changing. It's growing, shifting, developing at a speed we've never seen before. And we change with it. If we are to keep up, how could we allow the time to tend to the little things? We can't afford to.
That all changes, when the world as you know it is about to end. I didn't ever really see Franklin, not for what it was, until I left the hospital to return to Forrest. Rolling hills and mountain landscapes, half-timbered farmhouses tucked into pristine, endless woodland. Roads were few and precipitous, and they all led down slope into the valley, where lay Rocky Mount. Creeks and streams slithered every which way throughout the terrain, joining together in some places to flow as a single power before parting ways again in separate directions. The birds sang and the cicadas buzzed and the trees whispered excitedly in an ever-present breeze. And yet the world was quiet here.
At the sound of a running motor and tires rolling over gravel, Mr. Dillon stepped out from behind the side of the station to greet the visitor. Everett was a tall and dark man who worked the gas pump, and when he saw it was me he tipped his hat and disappeared once more. I vowed to talk to him more. To ask him about his wife and baby, and offer up my assistance should they ever need anything. I'd invite him and his family for dinner one night, and I'd make sure they knew how wonderful an employee we thought Everett was. He was hardworking and loyal to Forrest, and Forrest trusted him dearly. He'd have a job at the Station as long as he wanted it.
There were no cars in the lot except Forrest's Coupe and his TT. It was still early in the afternoon; not even the brothers had bothered coming in yet. I parked the Chevrolet next to the old truck, and sat for a moment as I listened to the hiss and crackle of the cooling engine. Resting on the seat beside me was the application to the University of Virginia. I couldn't ignore it; the light colored paper gleamed up at me in the reflection of the sun. I picked it up and skimmed over the black lettering on the front page. They wanted to know my name, my age, where I was from, whether I was a man or a woman; they wanted to know what I wanted to study.
I tossed the application down, and wiped the back of my hand across my forehead. I forced myself to breathe deeply, to unravel the winding knot tight in my upper chest. We can say many things as humans. Doing them is a whole other challenge on an entirely different level. Leaving for university had been my whole plan all along, hadn't it? That was why I was saving my wages; that was why I was living at the station. I didn't think it through. I was under the assumption and illusion that Forrest would always be here, and I could return to him. Like some kind of landmark. God, what was wrong with me? I couldn't do it. When it came down to it, I didn't think that I could walk away from him as easily as I thought I could.
The ground beneath me shifted with an unstable quake as I walked across the lot. I assumed I was walking. My legs tingled with motion, and when my surroundings came into focus, they were different from what they had been moments before. I couldn't recall the trek from one point to another, but somehow I got there. I climbed up the steps of the porch slowly, hand gripping the railing. In my other hand was the application, hanging heavily in my fingertips. I wanted to tear it apart. I wanted to burn it. I needed a pen to fill it out.
Inside, Forrest sat alone at a table. His cardigan sweater lay draped over the back of his chair, hat resting on the table. Steam rose from a mug of coffee held in his hand as he glared down at large book that lay open in front of him. He took a sip from the mug as he scratched something out with a stub of pencil, and looked up when I entered through the screen door with a creak and a slam. His unfaltering gaze asked me why I was back so soon.
"The Doctor let me take a personal day," I said, and he inclined his head, waiting for the rest of the explanation. I hadn't formed an explanation yet. It took an entire drive to plan those eight words. Words were the stuff of imagination now. I didn't know what I would say. I only know what I saw. I only know what I felt. I saw a man that had given himself to me, body and soul. I saw that corner of the world, that heaven on earth, our promise. I saw my life with him, a life of easy peace and simple pleasures, after the madness of this period. And I felt my whole world begin to crumble at the prospect of giving it up.
Forrest's gaze flicked down to the collection of paper pinched tightly between my fingers. He blinked slowly, and the grays shined up at me again. Another silent question. I couldn't remember how to breathe. How could I remember how to match words together to form coherent sentences? I wanted to climb into his lap, shove my face into the crook of his neck and beg him to find a way out of this. I wanted to take him by the hand, drag him out to the Coupe, drive, and never look back. "Edna," he finally said, the throaty grumble drifting up to my ears, and the words came flying back into my head. They soared past as my conscious struggled to grab for them, and the frustrating efforts brought tears to my eyes.
My senses stung and blurred, and I sniffed, dabbing my fingers in the corner of my eyes quickly to catch the tears before they could fall. Forrest sat up a little taller, waiting for me to speak, brow furrowing in perplexity. "Forrest," I said, and my voice didn't sound like my own. It sounded hollow, far away. I stepped forward, and Forrest leaned to push out the chair beside him. I collapsed into it, not sure if I continued to possess the strength to look at him. Instead my focus rested on a chip in the wood at the edge of the table. The application was still in my hands. I no longer wanted to touch it, and I'm sure it's clean color was now tainted with blotches of perspiration. I tossed it onto the table, and watched as Forrest's gaze followed it curiously. My throat constricted at the sight of him so close to me, and I could feel my face contorting against my will at the emotion rising from somewhere deep within.
"Forrest," I said his name again. The word formed so easily, slipped so fluidly from my mouth, like his name had become simply a muscle reflex at the very thought of him. I brought a shaking hand up to my eyes, shading them so he wouldn't see me shut them tight. "Something happened, Forrest." Something bad. A cruel, unutterable atrocity. My eyes leaked through their tight confines, and I brushed the wetness away. My nose was a plugged, running mess, so I exhaled deeply through my mouth, took my hand away from my eyes, and opened them to the world again.
Forrest sat stock straight, brow creased over wide eyes as he looked down at me. His hands had fallen into his lap, and his mouth was set in a firm, grim line. I didn't have to look to know that under the table, his hands would be balled into tight fists, and the thought produced a silent sob, a choke of my senses and everything blurred as I rocked to the side to turn away from him. We both hated for him to see me like this. I gasped, forcing enough air into my lungs to accommodate a single sentence, a quick message to relay so he could at least have some idea of what happened before composure and words and rationality gave out on me completely. "They ain't gonna let us be together."
"I've learned in life that every day a man has to do things he doesn't want to do. You know it will be forgotten, but you know that you have done what was needed. There is no glamour. Heroes wreak havoc and die, but if you want to be there for your children as they grow up, you must stay alive - Forrest knows that." -Tom Hardy.
To love someone so dearly, perhaps more than yourself, and to have that relationship be strained and broken by the fate of time, where there is not enough of it, can do irreversible damage to the spirit.
So I'm gonna go shove skeletons back in my closet now. Show this chapter (and me?) some love, if you enjoyed it.