She came back a few days later, and for the first time in months the knock
at the door didn't cause him to panic, or even shudder. Instead, he jumped
up and answered it with excited anticipation, and he was not disappointed;
she was there, the sun behind her framing her face and lighting her dark
hair.
She had come, presumably, to ask him if he was interested in taking part in a pie bake being held up at the school. He looked at her strangely, but she looked steadily back up at him, a laugh playing behind her eyes, until he understood that that wasn't the reason she had come at all. He invited her in, and she came in more readily this time, not blinking an eye at the baskets of corn he had hauled in that morning, nestling into the corner of his couch like it was already her special place. Which, Mort realized, it was.
He shut the door and joined her on the couch, sitting right next to her instead of at the opposite corner. With a second's hesitation he put his arm around her and stroked her shoulder. She rested her head against him and took his other hand in her own warm ones. Mort had never been so happy, even before the divorce...
And yet, he thought with frustration, all his thoughts kept leading back to that event. Divorce. D-I-V-O-R... he heard it being spelled out in his head and that cold panic took hold in his abdomen again. The voice he was hearing wasn't his own thought...it was a voice from the past, with a sharp southern accent, anger in its tone. Who was it?... what was it? He took in his breath sharply, like he was hurt. Marah raised her head and looked at him, concerned.
"Something wrong?"
He smiled slightly, but he knew there was no mirth in his expression. "No." He shook his head as if to clear it of a bad dream and looked into her eyes, and his tense expression softened. "No," he repeated, his voice a little more relaxed.
"How have you been?" she asked softly.
"All right."
"Do you get lonely up here, ever?"
I didn't, Mort wanted to say. Until you came along, and now... "Sometimes." He looked down at her. "Where are you staying?"
"I'm renting the third floor from Mrs. Olmann."
"Oh."
There was a short lull in the conversation, and then Marah looked up at him suddenly, sitting up and dropping his hand. She turned to face him full- on, so that his arm slipped from around her shoulders.
"Mort, I like you a lot, but..." she trailed off and tucked her hair behind her ear. Oh, here it comes, thought Mort. But you're a murderer, so gotta go, see you around... "I haven't had great experiences with love before, and I'm afraid of... of being hurt again," she finished lamely. Wow, how generic and stupid did that sound, she thought.
Mort, however, was actually feeling rather pleased that this reservation she was feeling hadn't been all about him. He looked at her searchingly.
"Is that why you left? Why you came to town?"
She turned away from him again, so he could only see her profile. She looked down at her hands. "Yes," she whispered. "I was with someone, and he was very, very..." she swallowed, "protective, but when I tried to tell him I was leaving, he got violent, and so I had to run..." She looked at him and managed a small smile in response to his shock. "He won't find me here. I don't know how I even remembered this place, my friend had had me over to her house here once, during Christmas break, while we were both in college. And when I was trying to think of a place to go..."
More scenes were running through her head than she was telling him. The darkness, her blood pounding in her ears, him yelling, the tables, the chairs being overturned, something crashing behind her, the walls, the walls... and then the hands...
He put his arm around her again, guiding her head back onto his shoulder. He felt how tense her body was, how her breathing was labored. He sensed that she was blinking back tears.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "That should never have happened." A long silence grew between them, and suddenly her heavy breathing became gasping, and he realized in a split second it was sobbing. He wasn't sure what to do, it seemed like forever since another human being had actually turned to him for consolation. But he did his best, taking both her hands, raising her chin so he could look into her eyes.
"Breathe," he told her. "Breathe...take a breath..." Even as he said the words, he heard them being repeated, ghost-like, somewhere in the fog of his memory. He had comforted Amy like this once—no, many times—but once in particular, he had said these exact words to her. At the time he had been angry. Why? Because she was in the process of taking my money and disappearing, he told himself. That had to be it.
Marah was obeying, taking long gasping breaths and trying to wipe the tears from her eyes. "I didn't come here to tell you a sob story," she managed to get out. "I didn't want to come begging for pity." A thought struck her, a frightening one. "I don't want you to feel like you have to be with me now since I've been hurt once and you—"
He shushed her. "I'm glad you came," he whispered simply. "Not just here, today. I mean to this town." She looked up at him. His eyes were sincere. He kissed her, and when he felt the last of her salty tears run down her cheeks, he kissed those too, until she smiled again and kissed him back.
She reveled in their warmth, their contact, feeling, for the first time in almost a year, completely safe. How can people believe this man is a murderer, she thought dreamily. He's the most wonderful, understanding, deep...
Mort, too, rejoiced in being near her, being allowed to touch and kiss her. But he was far from feeling safe; in the back of his head, he kept hearing the lazy-yet-angry Southern voice repeating words from his past—dee- vorce—Amy—you took the coward's way out—you stole this. _Stole_ it. You don't deserve this at all. ***
He had a dream that night. Marah came to him, young and pure and beautiful, clad all in white. He reached out to her and she drew closer, until he could put his arms around her, whisper love-words in her ear. But when he touched her, he felt something cold and clammy instead of her soft warm skin—he looked—his hands were covered in blood. Before his eyes the blood spread up his arms, soaking into his clothing, dripping onto the carpet. He looked at Marah; it was her blood, and she was looking back at him, fear and hurt and anger and betrayal showing in her eyes.
"No," he whispered to her, "I didn't do it. I didn't..."
But as he watched her shake her head, her hair turned lighter, she grew a few inches taller, her skin became fairer. Amy.
"Mort," she whispered, tears in her eyes. Somehow there was a shovel in his hands, and he knew what he was going to do.
"Right's right," he murmured, "and fair's fair..." but it wasn't him saying the words, they were not his words, and it wasn't even his voice. "And something's got to be done." Cornstalks were growing up around them, thick and green. He felt himself raise the shovel against her, and—
He woke up in a cold sweat. What was it? A twisted fantasy of what he wanted to do to Amy? He didn't want that, it was sick, and after all, he wasn't even angry at Amy anymore, he'd let go, finally. He had Marah now, and it felt like he was happy for the first time in his life...
Yet the dream wouldn't go away. Instead of fading as most of his dreams did, it remained fresh in his mind with the clarity and detail of a memory. Even though he tried to avoid thinking of it, more dreams—or were they memories—kept coming to him. Her voice, crying...his voice, twisted into a lazy Southern drawl...the shovel in his hands, cool and heavy...digging. A grave.
He didn't go back to sleep all night.
She had come, presumably, to ask him if he was interested in taking part in a pie bake being held up at the school. He looked at her strangely, but she looked steadily back up at him, a laugh playing behind her eyes, until he understood that that wasn't the reason she had come at all. He invited her in, and she came in more readily this time, not blinking an eye at the baskets of corn he had hauled in that morning, nestling into the corner of his couch like it was already her special place. Which, Mort realized, it was.
He shut the door and joined her on the couch, sitting right next to her instead of at the opposite corner. With a second's hesitation he put his arm around her and stroked her shoulder. She rested her head against him and took his other hand in her own warm ones. Mort had never been so happy, even before the divorce...
And yet, he thought with frustration, all his thoughts kept leading back to that event. Divorce. D-I-V-O-R... he heard it being spelled out in his head and that cold panic took hold in his abdomen again. The voice he was hearing wasn't his own thought...it was a voice from the past, with a sharp southern accent, anger in its tone. Who was it?... what was it? He took in his breath sharply, like he was hurt. Marah raised her head and looked at him, concerned.
"Something wrong?"
He smiled slightly, but he knew there was no mirth in his expression. "No." He shook his head as if to clear it of a bad dream and looked into her eyes, and his tense expression softened. "No," he repeated, his voice a little more relaxed.
"How have you been?" she asked softly.
"All right."
"Do you get lonely up here, ever?"
I didn't, Mort wanted to say. Until you came along, and now... "Sometimes." He looked down at her. "Where are you staying?"
"I'm renting the third floor from Mrs. Olmann."
"Oh."
There was a short lull in the conversation, and then Marah looked up at him suddenly, sitting up and dropping his hand. She turned to face him full- on, so that his arm slipped from around her shoulders.
"Mort, I like you a lot, but..." she trailed off and tucked her hair behind her ear. Oh, here it comes, thought Mort. But you're a murderer, so gotta go, see you around... "I haven't had great experiences with love before, and I'm afraid of... of being hurt again," she finished lamely. Wow, how generic and stupid did that sound, she thought.
Mort, however, was actually feeling rather pleased that this reservation she was feeling hadn't been all about him. He looked at her searchingly.
"Is that why you left? Why you came to town?"
She turned away from him again, so he could only see her profile. She looked down at her hands. "Yes," she whispered. "I was with someone, and he was very, very..." she swallowed, "protective, but when I tried to tell him I was leaving, he got violent, and so I had to run..." She looked at him and managed a small smile in response to his shock. "He won't find me here. I don't know how I even remembered this place, my friend had had me over to her house here once, during Christmas break, while we were both in college. And when I was trying to think of a place to go..."
More scenes were running through her head than she was telling him. The darkness, her blood pounding in her ears, him yelling, the tables, the chairs being overturned, something crashing behind her, the walls, the walls... and then the hands...
He put his arm around her again, guiding her head back onto his shoulder. He felt how tense her body was, how her breathing was labored. He sensed that she was blinking back tears.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "That should never have happened." A long silence grew between them, and suddenly her heavy breathing became gasping, and he realized in a split second it was sobbing. He wasn't sure what to do, it seemed like forever since another human being had actually turned to him for consolation. But he did his best, taking both her hands, raising her chin so he could look into her eyes.
"Breathe," he told her. "Breathe...take a breath..." Even as he said the words, he heard them being repeated, ghost-like, somewhere in the fog of his memory. He had comforted Amy like this once—no, many times—but once in particular, he had said these exact words to her. At the time he had been angry. Why? Because she was in the process of taking my money and disappearing, he told himself. That had to be it.
Marah was obeying, taking long gasping breaths and trying to wipe the tears from her eyes. "I didn't come here to tell you a sob story," she managed to get out. "I didn't want to come begging for pity." A thought struck her, a frightening one. "I don't want you to feel like you have to be with me now since I've been hurt once and you—"
He shushed her. "I'm glad you came," he whispered simply. "Not just here, today. I mean to this town." She looked up at him. His eyes were sincere. He kissed her, and when he felt the last of her salty tears run down her cheeks, he kissed those too, until she smiled again and kissed him back.
She reveled in their warmth, their contact, feeling, for the first time in almost a year, completely safe. How can people believe this man is a murderer, she thought dreamily. He's the most wonderful, understanding, deep...
Mort, too, rejoiced in being near her, being allowed to touch and kiss her. But he was far from feeling safe; in the back of his head, he kept hearing the lazy-yet-angry Southern voice repeating words from his past—dee- vorce—Amy—you took the coward's way out—you stole this. _Stole_ it. You don't deserve this at all. ***
He had a dream that night. Marah came to him, young and pure and beautiful, clad all in white. He reached out to her and she drew closer, until he could put his arms around her, whisper love-words in her ear. But when he touched her, he felt something cold and clammy instead of her soft warm skin—he looked—his hands were covered in blood. Before his eyes the blood spread up his arms, soaking into his clothing, dripping onto the carpet. He looked at Marah; it was her blood, and she was looking back at him, fear and hurt and anger and betrayal showing in her eyes.
"No," he whispered to her, "I didn't do it. I didn't..."
But as he watched her shake her head, her hair turned lighter, she grew a few inches taller, her skin became fairer. Amy.
"Mort," she whispered, tears in her eyes. Somehow there was a shovel in his hands, and he knew what he was going to do.
"Right's right," he murmured, "and fair's fair..." but it wasn't him saying the words, they were not his words, and it wasn't even his voice. "And something's got to be done." Cornstalks were growing up around them, thick and green. He felt himself raise the shovel against her, and—
He woke up in a cold sweat. What was it? A twisted fantasy of what he wanted to do to Amy? He didn't want that, it was sick, and after all, he wasn't even angry at Amy anymore, he'd let go, finally. He had Marah now, and it felt like he was happy for the first time in his life...
Yet the dream wouldn't go away. Instead of fading as most of his dreams did, it remained fresh in his mind with the clarity and detail of a memory. Even though he tried to avoid thinking of it, more dreams—or were they memories—kept coming to him. Her voice, crying...his voice, twisted into a lazy Southern drawl...the shovel in his hands, cool and heavy...digging. A grave.
He didn't go back to sleep all night.