Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [38]
She looked sideways at him. He was far away. “Matt.” She brought her body around to face him. “Matt,” she tried again. “I’m happy when I’m with you. I believe you’re happy too. I can feel it right here.” She tapped her chest lightly with her fist. “But see, when we’re together, half the time I think it’s just like we’re in another world. We’re livin’ a fairy-tale life, the two of us; no real plans, not even for the comin’ winter. I worry about that, Matt, and Father is anxious too.”
“We’ll be all right, Peg, don’t you worry. The garden this year is fairly good. I’m getting to know the ground here now and what to expect from the season. Later on I’ll take a few birds so there’ll be plenty of meat, and Pat Tobin asked me the other day if I’d be interested in going caribou hunting on the mainland. So we’ll be all right.”
“I’m not talkin’ meat and potatoes, Matt. I’m talkin’ about us.”
Alarm swept across his face. His eyebrows shot upwards, making deep runnels across his forehead. Then, just as quickly, they disappeared and he became pensive.
She reached for his hand. It felt limp. With her index finger she began to trace the outline of each fingertip. She felt no strangeness now, only the warmth of his skin against hers. She turned his hand over and laid it against her own, palm to palm, as if for a handshake. Hers were good hands, she decided, strong and well shaped, but his were beautiful and she loved that. On an impulse she brought his fingers to her lips and touched them lightly. “I love you, Matt,” she said simply.
The whole world, she was sure, was listening, for at that moment she could hear no sound: not the surf below, not the breeze in the tall grass all around, not their breathing. She looked at him then, feeling happy and confident that at last she had spoken her mind. She waited, expectant.
“Thank you,” he said.
At first she wasn’t sure that she had heard correctly except that the words kept repeating in her head over and over again … thank you … thank you … like she’d handed him some foolish gift.
She stared at the top of his head, her eyes penetrating, demanding that he look at her. When finally he did look up she saw what she dreaded most of all: that lost sad look that put fear and dread in her heart. It was a look she could not penetrate. At times like this she felt as if he had drawn an imaginary circle on the ground all around him; it meant: keep out. She could not approach him now. Whatever was going on inside had to be settled first before she could try again.
She got to her feet then and walked away, leaving him sitting alone on the grass.
“I can’t,” he said, his voice just loud enough to reach her and stop her in her tracks. “I can’t. I’m a married man.”
It was as if someone had just punched her between the shoulder blades and knocked the wind right out of her. She felt unable to move, unable to respond. She heard his step behind her.
“We’d better be getting back. It’s late,” he said.
He looked ridiculous, his mouth smeared with all that purple juice, and in a flash she realized that she must look the same; the two of them, just a pair of stupid fools. She turned away. “You go on, I’ll be down later.” She could hardly speak, her tongue felt that dry and thick in her mouth.
“It’s getting dark. You might need help around the rough spots.” He had begun to move away.
“I’ll manage,” she whispered. “I’ll manage on my own.”
She watched the bobbing figure as he made his way down over the hill. Every so often he turned side on to find a better footing. Then she could see his pale profile beneath the black head of curls. Soon he disappeared from sight. She continued to stare down over the hillside, knowing the exact spot where he’d come back into view. He was moving quickly now, almost running on the lower slope. She thought he had stopped once to look back, just before disappearing into the grove of alders, but in the moonlight it was hard to be sure.
She looked around, feeling utterly desolate. The bags stood propped against the rock. He had forgotten