WITHOUT A WORD
ONE
Catherine
Leaving isn't always planned. Mine certainly wasn't, not in the beginning at least. Not that I hadn't thought about it from time to time. Would turn it around, taste it, then spit it straight out. The bitterness of even the idea of it would linger like the aftertaste of spoiled food. Would shove the notion away hard, but it would creep back in, kind of like it was hearing my cries and his bellowing as some sort of summons. When the thought came back that last time, it was with a vengeance. Just tore in like a storm. That dark cloud seeped into me; overshadowed any ounce of reason that remained. Was like I was possessed by a demon. Strange part was I didn't see it that way. Saw it more like an angel that was there to rescue me.
God, how I needed to be rescued. Felt so trapped by his anger and those fits of violence. Can’t believe that I really thought those fits would somehow disappear. Never did. Only got worse and worse. Took me under like a ferocious wave. Ironic, isn't it, that my way out was water? Grew up around rivers and lakes. Learned to swim real young, too. How I loved the water! Never would have expected it would be my way out.
What I regret most is leaving the children. Wish I could say I didn't stop to think about them except that would be an out and out lie. Truth is, I did consider them. Convinced myself I wasn't much use, not in any way that would protect them from him. But I will tell you that my mind was playing games with me. Convinced me that I was to blame for his anger. Maybe if I left, he’d have space to cool down. Maybe he'd be a better father without me there to provoke him. Besides, the baby was gone and she had been such a thorn in his side, her incessant wailing fueling his frustration. The two remaining kids would be fine without the baby and me there to set him off. Now, looking back, I know that was pure nonsense. I was panicked, desperate to escape him and the beatings, desperate for a small bit of peace. Like I said, I felt trapped. Didn't see a soul I could turn to. Certainly didn't see anyway for me to make it alone with two children.
Leavings, different forms and shapes like the leaves on a tree. When our leave-taking comes, when we reach out and grab hold of it, we sometimes fool ourselves into believing that we're the only ones who have to deal with the consequences. Truth is, though, there's no such thing as being the only one. Everything we do connects to someone else. We leave our mark on them. Our actions, our thoughts, our words … it all matters. And that's the sadness I can't let go of — that my leaving left its mark on those children, my children. It played out years and years after that cold winter day down by the river.
TWO
Libby
My father said little during the drive to the church. His attention was riveted on navigating the road that ran through town and rambled out past orchards and small ranches. Mom talked in lengthy remembrances, soothing me and my sister, with memories of Jason. Dad didn't join in the exchange. He kept his gaze locked on the road; his stony expression strongly suggested that he wanted to be left alone.
It was strange to be riding in the backseat of my parents' car as if Gale and I were kids again accompanying them on a weekend outing. That phase of our lives had been over decades ago. Looking over at my father, I studied the mane of white hair. I resisted the temptation to reach out and touch his shoulder, rest my hand there for a moment in acknowledgment. Of what, I wondered. His anger? His sadness?
The voices of my mother and sister pressed in on me. I huddled further into the corner of the seat and surrendered to my own thoughts.
Tarot cards were spread across the family room table. Large hands with long, tapered fingers rested next to the spray of colors and figures. Faded denim shirtsleeves rolled just below the elbow exposed Jason's lanky forearms.
Intent on remembering every word he said, I listened to him interpret the array of cards. He strung the words together in a melodious chant, as if reading Tarot was a religious experience. His voice was hypnotic and seduced me with the mystery of the occult. For Jason, this was no parlor trick. Rather, throwing the cards was a sacred activity reserved for those in his inner circle. It wasn't done with strangers and was certainly never done for money.
I shifted my gaze from the medieval images to Jason's face and caught the fleeting look of concern that vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
“That's all I can make out,” he said. He forced a smile that seemed contrived, maybe pained, and gathered up the cards with an abruptness that startled me. “Tell me about school. How's it going?”
“You saw something in the cards.”
“Tarot's an art form, Libby. One I'm only beginning to understand.”
“Finish the reading,” I insisted.
He shook his head and stroked the broad mustache that always seemed to me one of his most enticing trademarks. “Your folks are right, you know. You ought to be a lawyer, the way you argue about everything.”
“Don't change the subject.”
“I'm tired of the cards. We'll do this another time.”
“You can't just quit in the middle,” I objected.
“You're bossy. You know that?” He secured the cards in a silk cloth, the deep purple of ripe eggplant, and deposited the deftly wrapped package in a drawstring suede satchel. It was pointless to argue with him. My stubbornness was no match for his. It never had been.
Pushing down my annoyance, I surrendered. “You win.” I shoved my chair away from the table. “So, if you have me pegged as a future attorney, what is it that you're going to be?”
“That all depends on when you ask me.” He reeled me in with one of his engaging smiles. “I'd love to say I'm going to make my living with music, but who knows? It may have to be something else. Guess I'll need to decide one of these days.”
“Guess so,” I laughed. “With eleven years on me, you're getting up there.”
“Yeah, yeah. I'm not an old man yet.”
“Seriously, Jason, couldn't you do both — have some sort of career for the money and play music for your soul?”
“You're pretty damn smart, Libby, at least for a kid who is barely twenty.”
Barely twenty--a lifetime ago. How had the years brought us to this point?
THREE
Ina
I felt old, so very old as we traveled to Jason's funeral. Despite my protestations Nathan insisted on driving. I would have been so much more comfortable with one of the girls behind the wheel given the long drive and how upset Nathan was.
“It's only an hour and a half,” he argued. “Besides, I'm fine. It will give me something else to focus on instead of him.”
By him, of course, he meant Jason, but my husband was so hurt and angry about Jason's death that he couldn't even bring himself to say his name. I considered pointing that out to him, suggesting that it would be healthier for him to speak Jason's name and talk about his feelings instead of burying them so deep inside. But saying that to my husband would have aggravated the situation.
We were all so distraught when we heard the sad news about Jason. Each of us in our own way had loved him for years, decades in fact. My girls had known him for far more than half their lives. Libby was sixteen the first time she met him and Gale only fourteen. All of us adored him. The fact is, most everyone took a liking to Jason with his striking looks and charm and that mind that was always searching, questioning, never settling for simple answers. I told him once that he was a very old soul. He enjoyed that, I think. He smiled and asked me why I thought that.
“It's your eyes,” I responded. “They make me think of deep pools of water, so deep you can't see the bottom. Even when you're happy, there's a wistfulness there and a touch of sadness.”
He kissed my cheek. “I think you're an old soul as well,” he said before leaving.
Who knows? Perhaps if I there hadn’t been thirteen years between us and if I hadn’t had two children and a husband, I would have made a play for the man. He was that seductive, not just sexually but emotionall as well. Jason could reel people in without even trying. He certainly had that effect on us. It was quick, really, the way he became such an integral member of our clan. Brother, son, friend — Jason filled all those roles. He was part of the family, the whole mishpakhe.
It seemed to me that he served as much of a purpose for us as we did for him. He needed a family, needed people to love him. And that's what we did—loved him and gave him a family, at least until it all stopped working. Then Jason, the girls, Nathan, and I were left with this gaping hole. Jason had been a part of us and then he wasn't. That was the price we ended up paying for loving each other and then refusing to work through the hard times.