February, 10th
Margaret:
I called Bessy's man and, for lack of a better expression, set an appointment for this early afternoon near a park. In spite of my logical wariness everything went smoothly and just as depicted on TV (when the script sets everything to go right, that is). I sat on the blue bench on the left of the swingers, a moment later someone appeared and pushed something in my pocket. I handed back a wad of bills and this person vanished. The whole thing took perhaps 90 seconds since I arrived to the moment I left.
While I walk back I realize I am sweating and the fabric of my shirt chafes the skin of my underarms. I feel like I've just dodged the meanest bullet of my life. As I turn the nearest corner I meet Phil, who has just got off the bus from school, and notice Mr. Thornton's car parked by our door. I haven't seen Mr. Thornton since... since that afternoon and I don't relish the prospect of a new meeting.
Phil sits at the dining room table scattering his notebooks and pencils and gets down to work. I would love to have a shower but it will have to wait. My father's study door is shut; my mother and Dixie are in a knitting frenzy of baby patterns and fluff yarn in the living room, the soft clicking of their needles the only conversation they have. The kitchen clock ticks. Phil's blue crayon scraps the map where he colors the Pacific Ocean. Everything is calm.
After an hour or so my father's face appears on his doorway and right behind him comes Mr. Thornton. They join the ladies in the den and my mother asks me to make tea, which I set out to do at once and have everything ready a few minutes later.
I then carry the large tray balancing a full pot of freshly brewed tea, chocolate cake, sugar, cups, saucers and spoons. Dixie helps me lay it on the coffee table and sets out to pour tea and slice the cake. I go back to the dining room, where Phil has finished his homework and is drawing his customary purple dinosaurs while silently longing for cake and warm milk. From my vantage point I can see Mr. Thornton's profile: his dark thick hair is neatly cut and leaves the forehead clean, his eyebrow bone is prominent and harmonious with his bump nose, generous lips and rounded chin. My gaze lingers a minute too long on his features but he doesn't acknowledge my examination.
A while later Phil is gone and my mother smiles up at me, hoping for me to join them. I comply although I have to force myself to raise my eyes from my hands, my mother's knitting needles, the rim of the tray or my cup. The seniors are enjoying this tea. My mother is in high spirits and my father chatters animatedly. Dixie fires her opinions, as she always does, and refills cups. Mr. Thornton quips and smiles, making my father merry and my mother pleased. Everyone is having a good time.
Everyone but me.
Mr. Thornton looks as he always looks and sounds as he always sounds, but when I dare to look up at him I feel like I'm seeing him for the first time. Not as an overbearing man with an unquenchable thirst of power over everything and everyone, but as a caring individual aware of his dues. The night of his party springs to my mind, and I realize that back then I didn't catch an extraordinary glimpse but his usual self. This is how most people see John Thornton everyday: a remarkable yet pleasing man.
"I don't want to see any more than I have already seen of you", I said in this very room only fourteen days ago. "Why would I want to?" I went on, and then there was the cherry on top, "Who do you think you are?" Mr. Thornton's grey eyes don't flicker as my own wandering eyes follow the current conversation.
Two weeks ago I knew Mr. Thornton wasn't a smooth talker. Now I also know he isn't slick or given to feign nonchalance. It would seem that he ignores me, but what he actually does is to avoid me with the dedication and energy a marathoner focuses on the final line.
As I shut the door after him I let my gaze rest on his broad shoulders for a moment, and I make myself accept two certainties: that I truly offended him and that he didn't deserve it.