Текст книги "Swelter"
Автор книги: Nina G. Jones
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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
Copyright © 2015 Nina G. Jones
Cover design by Nina G. Jones
Interior design and images by That Formatting Lady
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishment, organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chatper Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Special Thanks
More from Nina
Dear reader,
I have created a playlist that references the songs and artists mentioned in the book. It's a great way to hear what the characters are hearing.
https://open.spotify.com/user/12135215332/playlist/16Fa5e0nrXxwY96YCnW5os
Happy reading!
Nina G. Jones
Summer 1957
The shadows of an oak tree swayed along the ceiling as the grandfather clock ticked down the hall.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
My nightgown gripped at me, adhered to my skin by a layer of sweat. The occasional snort from Rory, dozing beside me, punctuated the rhythmic sound of the clock. On a night like this, when the heat was so stifling that I couldn't escape it through sleep, I welcomed anything to break my attention from the counting of the clock. It didn't feel like the tracking of time. It felt like a countdown to the inevitable. To a fate I couldn't escape. But every morning when I rose out of bed, there was no catastrophe, no earth-shattering revelation. No, what I faced almost seemed worse: a nothingness that could be neither quantified nor identified. A sadness I could not trace back to one single thing, but a series of choices. A life that had everything, but nothing.
The midnight blue sky began to give way to shades of indigo. Rory huffed in his sleep as he turned, exhaling the stench of alcohol from the night before. I couldn't help but cringe. He had been doing this more lately. Not every night. But a few nights a week he would stay out late after work and come home drunk. Sometimes he would go to bed, but other times, he would demand his desires be met. Sometimes I gave in. It was easier to do that than have the inevitable argument and tension that ensued if I denied him. I could just lie there and let him pump into me until he was finished. Then Rory would roll over and sleep. No matter how hot the temperature, the alcohol allowed him to sleep peacefully. It was I who stayed awake wrestling with the shadows on the ceiling and the taunting of the grandfather clock his mother had given us.
Last night was one of those nights I felt was worth the fight. He was too sweaty. Too hot. Too pathetic. And he told me how cold I was, and I told him he needed to stop drinking, and he told me he only drinks because he can't bear to come home to a wife who's such a drag, and I told him I was a drag because I had a husband who had a life out in the world while I stayed here to cook and clean and repeat. Repeat. That's why it was sometimes easier to offer my body than to have the same argument over and over. The monotonous cycle of the things that never changed was more torturous than the discomfort of letting my husband push his way inside of me.
Feeling Rory beginning to stir, I sensed he might want to make up like he often did. He'd roll over and kiss me. Tell me how he was sorry and how he loved me. Then he'd offer a concession—his morning erection—and I would relent, because I wanted things to be better. I really did.
But this morning I didn't want to relent. I didn't want the smell of sweat and musty alcohol hovering over me. So, I silently rose and tiptoed out of the bedroom.
A dull thud at the front door alerted me to the delivery of the newspaper. I opened the front door to find that the normally accurate paperboy had missed his target, leaving it sitting on the dewy grass. I rolled my eyes, annoyed by the slight inconvenience as I walked out barefoot onto the prickly, yet moist, lawn. I hadn’t done that in a while—walked barefoot outside. It was something I used to enjoy, a feeling I associated with carefree summers with my family. But now, I had become accustomed to artifice. My skin touching the bare earth in that way had reminded me of how much my life, and I, had changed.
I unrolled the paper. The top headline read:
MERCURY HITS 95.9 TO TIE 7 YEAR RECORD
That wasn’t really news to me. I scanned the smaller front page articles as I roved towards the kitchen. The senate was set to vote on putting the Civil Rights Act on their calendar. I skimmed the article, something about this vote being used to bypass the senate committee. While the topic was important, the political minutiae lost my attention quickly.
Another feature caught my eye: An accomplished academic had committed suicide rather than be publicly questioned by the House Un-American Activities Committee. I was surprised to see that he too, was born and raised in the Milwaukee area, and that sparked my interest to read on. I shook my head with pity as I read that his wife blamed his suicide on the persecution of her husband by this committee. He seemed like a harmless man, and I already had a distaste for these all too common public witch hunts.
I sighed, placing the paper on the kitchen table for Rory’s consumption. The problems society faced were too overwhelming for someone who couldn’t even face her own. These were tough times: war after war, fear of communists, violence towards black people for wanting equal rights. It seemed change always required violence of some sort. Maybe that’s why I found it easier to stay here.
Eggs, bacon, pancakes and fresh coffee—Rory's favorite breakfast. I knew the scents wafting into the bedroom would wake him up when he was ready. And that this hunger for food might override the hunger for make-up sex.
“That smells good,” a sleepy Rory said, peering into the kitchen. For a moment, with his hair a mess like that and his boxers sliding down his hips, I saw the boy who asked me to junior prom—blushing, shy, gleeful. I knew he was still in there, but life has a way of adding layers like callouses. The softness that Rory possessed had hardened. I never saw it happen; each thin layer formed so slowly, and suddenly one day he had concocted a shell and I had no way to get past the rough barrier.
“Good,” I replied. “There's some coffee over there if you want.”
“Of course,” he said. There was a tentativeness to his tone, like he was waiting for the knife to appear in my hand. But I didn't want to battle. I was tired emotionally, but also physically. A heatwave hit the previous week which made sleep for me a near impossibility. I'd get an hour here or there, but the constant weight of the high temps made me feel like I was drowning in the humid air, and everything felt more laborious, including holding grudges.
Rory poured himself a coffee and walked up beside me at the counter, brushing a lock of hair out of my face.
“Didn't sleep much?”
“No. It's just so damned hot.”
“I know. They say it's going to last another week. But this whole summer is supposed to reach record highs.”
I wiped my brow. Even this early, the heat had already begun to creep in as I labored over the range. “Yup. Maybe I'll go to the pool today or something.”
“That sounds like a good idea.” The faint whiff of his activities the night before snuck over the potent smell of bacon. I was always impressed with how no matter how hard Rory drank, he was always up and ready for work the next day. Rory was a serious man. He wanted to work hard and provide for his family. That was so much more than many women had.
I plated our breakfasts and we sat at the table together.
Rory seemed to notice me picking at my food. He gestured as if he was about to ask me about it, but stopped himself to say what was really on his mind. “Lilly, honey. I'm sorry about last night. It's just with work, and I keep getting so stressed, like a coil, and the only way to unwind is to go to the bar.”
“I know.” But I knew it wasn't just work. There was something else tightening the coils he released with booze. I could never say it outright, though.
“I'm sorry, okay? I just need to get through this quarter and everything will be better.”
“Mmmhmm.” I had learned by then it was better to stay level, not to get too excited or act spiteful. My response was not to seek greater concessions; in fact, it was a concession itself, but Rory didn't see it that way.
“How can I make it up to you? Want me to take you out to Giovanni's tomorrow night?” he asked enthusiastically.
Whenever he did that, it made me feel like a pet. Like he could throw me a bone and I'd chew and forget all the wrong he ever did.
“Rory, I'm not asking for anything. I just want you to take care of yourself,” I conceded.
He sighed. “I need to hop in the shower. Long days ahead planning for the trip.”
“I forgot about that,” I admitted. For all the contention we had suffered lately, I didn't like him being gone on these long business trips.
“Two weeks and then I'm back. Though depending on how busy things are, I might have to hit the road again,” he reminded me.
A subdued panic hit me, knowing I would be alone all this time. My life had come to revolve around Rory's every move. We had no children, and so my role as housekeeper was to wake up and make sure all of Rory's needs were taken care of. If there was time, I could gather with the neighborhood women for a luncheon or tea, but most of them had children too, and I had become tired fielding the inquiries about when Rory and I would have our own. At first I was envious of hearing their discussions about little Susie or William, but after a while, I had just become bored with them.
The panic pushed me to ask a question I had learned would always get the same answer, but Rory had asked me what I wanted, so this was as good a time as any.
“Rory?”
“Uh huh?” he asked, turning to face me on his way out of the kitchen, leaning his arm against the entryway. If I could just freeze him right there, with the morning sun pouring in on his long frame, the question in his sleepy green eyes, I could love him forever.
“With you being gone all these weeks, and if you get the promotion . . . maybe I should finally get a part-time job. You know, when you're not home, I'm just here.” I gestured to my little kitchen, decorated like something out of a dime store magazine.
Rory dropped the arm leaning against the doorframe and sighed. “Lilly, I don't want my wife to have to work. We've discussed this before. The entire reason I go out of town so much and work so hard is so you don't have to,” he pleaded.
“I understand, but—”
“And what about when you get pregnant? You can't work and raise my children. No child of mine is going to have a mother gone at work.”
“I'm not saying something huge—”
“And where are you going to work? Are you gonna commute to the city? Work at a grocery store here? People will think I don't provide for you.”
“I'm sure they'd—”
“Listen, I gotta get ready. Let's table this for now.” Table this. That's what he always said when he didn't want to talk about the topic anymore.
My face must have displayed a visible sadness, because Rory walked up to me and kissed me on the forehead. “The mother of my children will never have to work.” It was a proclamation of affection towards me, but his words felt like the vocal equivalent of a lock clinking on a prison cell.
I felt a sense of pity for Rory as he exited the kitchen. His certainty of my future motherhood was almost too strong. Rory was a go-getter and he always believed he could achieve whatever he set his mind to. He dared not even entertain the idea that we might not become parents. And yet, over the course of this past year, he had changed. While he never expressed his doubts aloud, he brought them home, soaked in the scent of liquor a few nights a week.
Rory and I had been trying for years to no avail. Not a single pregnancy. The battle for a child had become a festering sore on the relationship. And part of what I didn't and couldn't say to Rory was the longer we went without having one, the more I was certain I did not want him to be the father of my children.
I wandered down the aisle of the grocery store, relishing the coolness of the produce section. The bright lights stung my tired eyes, but I appreciated the rare relief from the heat.
What to make for dinner today? The question I asked myself daily. One I was sick of answering. I flipped through the pages of a Ladies’ Home Journal I picked up from a rack, looking for an idea. Jello molds, trifles, some sort of complicated lamb dish.
Rory's words as he left the house cycled through my thoughts.
“Ok hon, I'll call you if I have to stay late.”
“Sounds good.”
“What are you thinking about for dinner tonight?”
“Not sure yet. I was going to run to the grocery store and see if there were any meats on special.”
“Well, that meatloaf you made last night. I wouldn't make that again,” he said, stabbing my cheek with a sharp kiss before heading to his car, his baby—an orion blue Cadillac Coupe DeVille with an alpine white top. He still had a little piece of tissue on his chin from when he nicked his face while shaving. Rory always kept a baby-smooth face. I thought about telling him it was still there, but I let him leave with it instead.
I stared at the steaks, chicken and other meats on display. A bright orange sticker advertised a sale for rack of lamb. I glanced back down at the recipe in the magazine, then at sticker. The bright starburst felt like another passive-aggressive attack. Do what your husband wants. Make HIM happy. Be the good wife. Make babies. Make food. You're not allowed to want more than that.
“What'll it be ma'am?” the man behind the butcher counter asked.
“I'll take a pound of ground beef and a half a pound of ground pork, please,” I asked triumphantly.
He slid the perfectly wrapped lumps of meat over the counter once he was finished, and I headed towards the aisles to find some breadcrumbs.
I wrangled the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter as the phone rang, leaving the back door to the house open.
“Lightly residence,” I answered.
“It's your mother.”
“Hi, mom,” I rolled my eyes as I wiped sweaty hair off my brow. “How are you?”
“Okay, sweetie. How are you? I heard the heatwave is still going strong over there.”
“Yep. Hotter than ever. I can barely even get a wink.”
“Why doesn't Rory just get an air conditioner already?”
I leaned against the wall supporting the phone. “He thinks they make you weak. And he wants to save for a bigger house and put all our money in that. I could either have a car or the air conditioning. It makes no sense, but Rory does what he does. If this summer doesn't convince him, I don't think it ever will. He promises to get it with the new house though.”
“You need babies for that bigger house.”
“Yes, mom. We're working on it—How's dad?” I tensely raveled and unraveled the phone cord around my index finger.
“Well, he's the way he always is, but going strong.” My father had a stroke months ago, which left him in a wheelchair with severe speech impairments. My sister in Portland volunteered to have them move into her guest house so she could keep an eye on them. It left me with little responsibility pertaining to them, except for the almost-daily phone calls to keep my mother company.
The screen door slammed behind me.
“Lilly! It's me, Barbie!”
I was grateful for the company and I quickly ended the call with my mother.
“Hey Barbie,” I said, turning to face the tall, rail-thin blonde, her hair perfectly pinned up. Even she had gone easy on the makeup this week however, as everything seemed to melt off within minutes of being outdoors.
“How about this heat, doll?” she asked, lighting the fresh cigarette that rested on her lips before taking a seat at the white Formica table that sat at the center of my kitchen.
“You have no idea. At least Stan got you an air conditioner for the bedroom. I have to sleep in this.”
“Ugh.” Barbie sympathized. “We have to use it sparingly anyway. The utility bill is through the roof with that thing.”
“Lemonade?” I offered.
“Please! You know I only visit for your special lemonade.” She gave me a sly wink.
I dipped my face into the cool fridge for an extra second before I brought out the ice-cold pitcher and poured us both tall glasses. Barbie opened her purse and pulled out a small glass bottle of vodka.
“It's too early.” I waved off the bottle.
“In this weather, there's no such thing. We need to take the edge off.”
“Well, fine.”
She poured some in both of our glasses as I grabbed a long spoon to stir.
I sipped out of my glass and winced. “Dear lord, how much did you put in?”
“Oh Lilly, quit it! Drink up. You'll thank me in a few minutes.” She leaned back, with the glass in one hand, cigarette in another. The long trail of ash was something she had mastered. I used to hassle her about using the ash tray before it fell on my floors or table, but she had a way of knowing exactly when to tap the cigarette and free it of its burden. Her little cigarette butts had her signature pink lipstick rimming them. Rory and I didn't smoke, so the one ash tray I had only had little butts with little pink kisses circling them.
She was right, after a few sips, I felt looser. I felt like talking.
“What are your plans for today?” Barbie asked.
“I don't know. I got the groceries out of the way before it got too hot. Do some cleaning. I might go to the pool. You?”
“I have a meeting this afternoon to plan for the twins’ annual church outing. Then I'll have to grab them from school. Stan promised to take them out for custard at Kopp's after dinner, so they are just tickled.”
“That's nice.” I said through a tired smile.
“How's Rory?” Barbie asked, whispering like he was a secret. She lived about five houses down the road, and we had formed a friendship when she moved here a little over a year ago with Stan. In many ways, Barbie was like everyone else, but she had a little extra flavor to her. A little bit more tang, like the lemonade she so loved. We weren't best friends, but I had grown to trust her with tidbits of the issues I was having with Rory.
“Same old. He wants to take me out to dinner.” For some reason, even with Barbie, I sugarcoated the issues.
“Well, that's great!” She finally flicked her cigarette at the ash tray before resting it on my hand sympathetically.
“He still won't let me get a job though.”
“That I will never understand.” She darted the two fingers supporting the cigarette in my direction. “That's a good thing.”
“But Barbie, you have the twins. I just want to have something more.”
“You're gonna make a family! I told you about my friend back in Skokie who took years and then it just happened! She has three now! The less you worry about it, I promise, it will happen.”
I nodded my head. I had heard all the unwelcome wives’ tales and stories about miracle pregnancies. What I should rub on my stomach, all the positions I should contort into post-coitus to ensure a rapid pregnancy. I had even tried some, but had grown tired of trying to make magic happen. And worrying less, ignoring it, whatever that meant, had gotten me and Rory where we were now: not talking about much of anything.
“Anyway, is Stan going to be traveling soon? Rory's got a lot on his plate.”
“Yeah, he'll be gone for a week or two later this month. These salesmen,” she complained as she rolled her eyes. “By the way, have you gotten the new Sears catalog yet?” she asked, with the enthusiasm of a kid who had just walked into a candy factory.
Just then, my doorbell rang. Not expecting any visitors, I perked up. “Speaking of salesmen,” I snickered, rolling my eyes as I grabbed my spiked lemonade for the trip.
I walked through the kitchen and to my living room, attempting to make out the shape through the sheers. The generous amount of liquor mixed with the heat and lack of breakfast had me feeling a little airy.
All I saw was the shadow of a man—tall, broad-shouldered, the shape of a bag slung over his shoulder. Salesmen came in all shapes and sizes, but this one was different, that was certain.
I crept the door open, and when I laid my eyes on the person in front of me, I gasped. Those light brown eyes, like the honey my grandmother used to bottle, framed by an intense, flirty glare. No matter how serious he was, it always hinted at playfulness, carelessness. A jawline that had gotten more pronounced since the last time I saw it. Wavy light-brown hair, long enough to form careless waves and licks along his neck, and face full of stubble—that was new.
“Bobby?” I asked, as the sweaty glass of lemonade slipped out of my hand and shattered on the floor.
