Dance With Me
-Letting Go-
July 1932
There was a great sadness in all this. An injustice; men conquering men. Taking advantage of the weaknesses of others in a strive to launch themselves up the social ladder. In a desire to be loved as great men. When the conquered accepted their defeat, it was as if that suddenly defined them in all that they were. They'd been subjected to an authority greater than their own, and there wasn't any use trying to fight it. Not now, not ever again.
I was scheduled to leave for Charlottesville at the beginning of September, but I may as well have already been gone. The only reason I continued my lodging at the station was because Agent Lehman thought it'd look suspicious if I didn't. Forrest was done with me. And he made that real clear when he started spending his days up at the sawmill and most nights there, too. The station was left an empty shell of what it had been only a month ago. People came round once every two weeks to trade liquor, but it was only Everett left to make sure the property didn't disappear behind a thicket of tall grass and weeds. He tried to keep the inside as tidy as he could, but dust accumulated on everything and only grew thicker without Forrest's careful dedication to the cleanliness of each and every surface.
I spent as much time at the hospital as I could, coming in the early morning and leaving in the late hours of the night. I couldn't be on duty that long – the hospital couldn't afford it – so I stayed on my own time, cleaning spare rooms and reading the books on the shelves in the Doctor's office, lending some company to the patients who wanted for it. I don't think I'd seen Forrest's face in weeks. I mean, really seen it. He wasn't much more than a ghost floating around the property these days; the creak and clunk of footsteps on the floor, the shadow in the doorway in the early hours of the morning. Sometimes the smell of tobacco smoke would waft into my room and pull me out of sleep, but I'd be too nervous to see for myself if he was there. When I would finally gather the courage to leave my bed, it was because he'd be gone.
I wasn't really sure how I was supposed to be feeling about this whole thing. I wondered if this is what my mama felt like when my daddy up and died on her for no good reason. Nothing made sense. I was mad at God and mad at the world for setting me on a twisted, jagged path like this. I never killed anyone. I never cheated someone, never stole, never did anything I could think of that would have karma coming back to bite me like it was.
Sometimes I thought that this was Forrest's punishment for all the wrong he'd done in his lifetime. But Forrest was impenetrable, which meant all the torment thrown at him deflected back and sunk right into me. Franklin was beginning to feel like a strange place again, like it did when I first arrived, before I knew of Forrest Bondurant, and what he'd mean to me. It felt like I'd overstayed my welcome. The sun was still shining, but no birds were singing. I still woke every morning to a new day, but I didn't know what to do anymore with the time God was granting me.
I rose before dawn could spear the thinning night, still spinning with the heaviness of sleep as I climbed out of my bed in search of a shawl. The world was quiet, the air crisp with an early morning chill. I felt my way down the stairs in the darkness, managed to find the chain for the light, squinted against the glaring brightness after a tug. I set to brewing coffee, hands on my hips as I watched the liquid drip idly into the pot. I thought about fixing something to eat, but after some consideration found I wasn't all that hungry. I just wanted coffee.
On the bar in front of the grill rested a stack of loose leaf paper and a pen. I put those items there the night before, and they hadn't been moved since. My intention had been to write my affidavit – the statement that was the whole reason behind me having to leave this place. But last night, like many nights before, those pages were left empty of any words. It was like I'd forget how to form them, like I couldn't remember anything of my life. I'd have my facts and my memories strung together in a coherent, consecutive timeline. Then I'd sit down to put it all on paper and everything would fall apart. I couldn't remember why I ever ended up in Franklin or how I got mixed up with the Bondurants. It was a jumble of words and feelings and half-remembered events, and it always required a lot more energy than I was willing or able to put into it.
I slid onto a barstool, and set my coffee cup lightly on the counter as I looked down at the paper. This was it. If I wrote this damn statement – which for some reason would mean a whole lot more to everyone than I think I'll ever understand, if I wrote it, then it was all over for me. I'd sign it, I'd hand it over to Agent Lehman, and then I'd go.
It was already all over for me. That was becoming clearer with each passing day. There was absolutely no reason to be putting off the statement any longer. No hope that maybe, just maybe a miracle would rise in the prosecuting attorney's sudden desire to save me from my strife, and he'd find a way, albeit a tricky one but a way nonetheless, to keep me from having to testify to prove the Bondurants' legitimacy.
It was like finding an earring once dropped in the middle of the ocean. It just wasn't going to happen.
Agent Lehman told me of all the things I had to include in my statement. I had to state my full name and my age, where I was from and why I came to Rocky Mount. What I did here and how I ended up meeting the Bondurants. How and why I started housing at the station. What a normal day was like at the Station. I couldn't flat out say the boys weren't involved in any racket, and I couldn't give my opinion about the kind of men they were. I had to be real specific in my observations without being poetic. "No adjectives," Agent Lehman said, and I repeated it to myself in an internalized mantra.
It was easier to keep going once getting started. I wasn't sure how long it needed to be, but I supposed it didn't really matter. Agent Lehman told me it'd be typed up with a type writer and distributed to all the officials for the trial. It'd be chopped up and summarized and come the actual day when I had to testify in court, I would only be asked questions based on what I said in my statement. So I remained real vague in the recounts of my acquaintance with the Bondurant brothers.
I was lost in retrospection, reflecting on dates and events and scribbling them all down onto paper. It was only when I paused to take a sip of my coffee did I realize there were footsteps falling outside on the porch. I froze and listened, my heart jumping painfully as I knew there could only be one person who'd be here so early in the morning. I wasn't ready to see him. I had a statement I was finally able to write; there wasn't any finishing it if he was here.
Keys jingled and the bolt on the door slid open. I heard the door open, followed by the creek of the screen door, but I didn't hear any footsteps.
In my head I'm a strong woman. In my head, I can look at a man I loved and I can smile and be courteous because that's what a strong woman does. I can acknowledge that our time together was over, but that didn't make him any less of the man I fell in love with, and I can still appreciate him for everything he was. Forrest was a good man. Wasn't anyone's fault what was happening to us; just an inconvenient coincidence coupled with bad timing. And as a strong woman, I could accept that.
But that all went away because I knew he was standing there. Because my heart was broken and part of me did blame him even though I knew, I knew he'd change all this if he could. Maybe I blamed him for letting me love him so easy. Maybe I didn't think that'd ever happen, but then it did, and now I was left with this tearing in my heart, little by little when I relived my time with him and imagined a future that had been so real only weeks ago. It all seemed so good, too good, but then maybe I was only remembering what I wanted to. Things were always sweeter when they were lost.
Boots clunked dully across the boards of the floor and the screen door shut with a slam. The scratched ink blurred on the paper in front of me as I clutched the pen tighter in my hands. He'd stepped behind the counter, pulled a mug from the cupboard to pour himself a cup of coffee. I kept my eyes on the paper. I couldn't look at him. In my head I was strong, but not now, not when he was there, when the hurt was so fresh, and I had to acknowledge that he wasn't mine to look at anymore, or touch, or hold, or anything.
I tried to focus on my writing again, but I couldn't. The words were gone, and he was there. I glanced up, but averted my gaze again with a wince. Forrest stood with his back turned to me, gazing out the window over the sink. His head dipped, wide shoulders hunched, stretching the fabric of his sweater as he sipped on his coffee. I bit back the urge to call out to him. To speak his name, or utter a quiet greeting – anything that might make him turn to me. I wanted to. I wanted to hear him speak sweet words to me, to touch me, to tell me that somehow everything would be all right.
But he wouldn't. Forrest was stubborn as a mule, and once he'd made up his mind, there wasn't any changing that. I guess the trick to letting someone go was to start early. He made it look so easy. I wondered when he'd started with Maggie; when he started with me.
If I was as smart as they said I am, I would've gone. I would've left that room to save me the suffocating ache of being in the same space as him. His presence was a sensation all in its own, wrapping around me, an inundation of memories and desire and a little regret. Out of all the men in the world, I had to love Forrest. A quiet, humble lover. A protective, prevailing force of a man. He was my rock, my shield, my pillar of strength. He kept me appreciating the things that mattered most. He made me want only for the simple things in life. He kept my world quiet.
Footsteps traveled around to the other side of the counter and stopped again behind me. I shook with the effort to keep still, muscles aching with the stress of his proximity. I stared at the paper, but only registered a haze of color, and I bit the inside of my cheek to remind myself to breathe. I wondered what he was doing. If he was looking at me, or trying to read what I had wrote. If he was turned to me at all, or rather was surveying the room casually as he continued to sip at his coffee.
Then he touched me. My whole body tingled at the lightness of his touch. He rested his hand at the back of my head, gently stroked down my hair to the nape of my neck. I shut my eyes tight, fighting to stay still. But I couldn't. I turned in the stool and faced him for the first time in weeks. His hand still reached for me, eyes drooping and clouded with some unknown emotion. He didn't break his gaze with me, hell I don't think he even blinked once. He exhaled a deep huff through his nose, then took a small step forward to stroke my hair once again.
I wanted to know what was going through his head. I wanted to know why he decided to touch me and if he ever considered what that might do to me. But the questions were stunted in my brain, and there wasn't a chance that I was going to be able to vocalize a single one of them. His calloused fingers hooked the back of my neck in a solid grip and pulled me forward. My body obeyed his command while my mind was far away, and I felt as he pressed his lips to my forehead, along my hairline.
I slid off the stool and folded into him. I buried my face into his chest and wrapped my arms around him, hooking them together with my hands behind his back in what I hoped was an unbreakable grip. After a moment, I felt his palm slide down my back, the other hand rested gently against my head. I wanted to cry, but I didn't. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't. I could only hold him to me, and pray that this very moment would be worth a lifetime of stolen moments.
Dawn broke across the sky, and soon rays of morning light shined through the windows, warming the day and waking excited families of birds from their slumber in the trees outside. We never moved, and wouldn't move, not until the low, melodic tones of Everett's gospel signaled his arrival as he hiked into the lot.
"What fascinated me about [Forrest] was the contrast between his calmness and his internal torment." –Tom Hardy
Hello! Sorry about the delay on this chapter. Would've had it out last night, but you know...Thanksgiving...and then Black Friday. I'm a slave to the sales. Damn you, Corporate America!
We're coming up on the final chapters. I don't know how many more there will be, but I have the end all planned out. In the next chapter, I'm going to do something to Forrest that is technically by the book's timeline supposed to happen the following year (in 1933). I know that annoys some people, to stray from a proper timeline, it annoys me too...but it's necessary!
All right. Let me know what you think about this one. I know it was sad, but I tried to at least make it pretty. Hope it worked! Love you guys :)
