Lesson That Taught Love, page 18
For a while, we spoke of my father and how maybe I overwhelmed myself with being my mom’s sole provider because of the guilt I carried around for not being there when her health had worsened. For a long time, it was just the two of us. Then it was just her. I couldn't imagine how much easier it would've been had I been around before it got this bad, but it was becoming clearer that in more ways than not, I was like my father. Now that I was aware of it, I didn't want that fate. I wanted to be better. For my mother, but most of all, I wanted to be what Beck needed.
“I think it's healthy that you have a fantastic relationship with your mom but I also believe your obligation to care for her adds to a lot of your ongoing stress. Sometimes it helps to take out more time for yourself. Maybe get some round-the-clock help to free up your schedule a bit to take a portion of the load off. A friend of mine works in social services, specializing in state-funded elderly care. I can refer you to him if you'd like.” I nodded, thinking that might be a good idea in the next few months. I was getting by just fine for now, but eventually I knew I would need someone stepping in. Not even solely for my sake. I couldn't be in ten places at one time, and sometimes that's how often she needed me. I wanted to be sure she’d always have someone to help when I couldn't drop everything to be there.
“So now, off to be spending your time. Have you had a chance to date since you've come home?” I laughed to myself as I bit my lips closed, debating on whether to answer truthfully. It was one thing to be put on the spot, another to corner me in it and bleed me dry for a reply. From our first session I’d clarified that Beck's opinions meant a lot to me, but she’d never gotten me to admit it was anything more than that. Not until now.
“Yea, come to think of it, a week or two ago maybe. With Beck,” I stuttered. “It was with Rebecca.”
“Oh.” The collective sound of her seven or eight bracelets clinking and clanking as she clasped her hands together reminded me of one of those wind chimes folks used at the door whenever someone came or left. She stared back at me with passive, dark eyes.
“I assumed as much. You two seem very close, and she cares a great deal about your health.”
“Yea, only thing is she holds back from me. She uses me as an excuse sometimes, but I don't know. I know it's not just me” Her full lips thinned into a line. Something told me she had more insight than I did on Beck's inability to let me through that first wall she built up. But with all that patient/doctor privilege mess, I didn't bother asking what had made her so closed off. Whatever it was, it frustrated the hell out of me. You want to talk about added stress, well there you go right there.
“Just seems like she and I will get to a really good place and then I'll do something or say something that'll make her shut down. Certain things that she don't talk about, certain subjects she won't talk about. It throws me for a loop because when we're talking about topics that interest her, she can go all day where it’s hard to keep up with her sometimes. She's real smart, like you are. Maybe it's a woman thing.” At that, she gushed. I leaned back in my chair, satisfied with myself that I'd gotten at least that out of her. She was warm, and she was kind, but she was good her job. She didn't joke much and was immune to my charm. That was, until just then.
“Look, if it were up to me, I’d convince her to go back to school. At least finish up her studies in whatever field she was aiming for. I know she doesn't want to work at that diner her whole life. I only want what's best for her. Frankly, I'm not sure if I’m it but of all the things that give me grief, loving her as the easiest. Which might even be a first for me.”
For a long time, I’d been a master at making people feel loved but had never been invested in actually being in love. I suppose I convinced myself there was never really a difference. Now, with Beck in my life, she’d opened my mind and my heart to something that I wanted to fall deeper into without the caution of looking down first. Every step I took edging myself towards that side, I only seemed to be faced with a door that for the time being, appeared to be forever closed.
Chapter 13
Kit
It seemed like I would never get out of that diner. I'd been too hungry to wait until I got home, even if just for a bite. There wasn’t anything more convenient than a 24-hour diner on the way home. I passed it every day on the US-460 E. but had never gone inside until today. They must’ve had of event going on because for a hole in the wall it was the most packed I’d ever seen it driving home.
I didn't want to ruin my appetite completely, but I figured a sandwich would tide me over in the meantime. Every hostess, counter clerk, and busboy kept pushing me to try the maple bourbon sweet potato pie. Claimed it was the best sweet potato pie in Kentucky.
I've had some decent attempts disguised as the best sweet potato pie in my lifetime, but despite my bias, most people in Wheelwright wouldn't argue that my mama made the best. Or at least the best they'd ever tasted. She couldn't make them anymore, on the count of her MS, but I was still alive. If she didn't want it to die with her, she’d have to teach it to me sometime.
I reckon the maple bourbon sweet potato pie wasn't the best I’d ever tasted, but it’d been made by the right person. Just in case it wasn't there the next time I strolled by, I swiped a few slices for my mama and Beck to try.
I’d been on my way to Beck’s place anyway, as I'd meant to drop off some gardening tools my mama couldn’t use anymore. Seemed like a decent time if any. If I were lucky, I could keep her company a little while before I made it home to dinner.
Parking at the side of her house, I grabbed the tools out my trunk and tried to place them neatly on the back porch. I nearly forgot the styrofoam container on my passenger side. I backtracked from her front door to my passenger side to get it.
Even though I’d knocked on her door with no answer twice, I remembered where she mentioned having a spare key if I ever needed anything when she wasn't home. I didn't want to chance being selfish and eat her piece before she got to try it, so I pushed a new set of numbers on her door to the side, and the key dropped into my hand.
The plan was to leave it in the fridge with a note asking if it were Kentucky's best, but that was when I thought she wasn't home. From a distance, I could hear music, but I couldn't tell which artist so far away. I assumed calling Beck’s name once or twice might gain her attention, but I wasn't sure how loud the music was from my point in the house.
Southern soul, maybe? There was a distinct blues and gospel sound to it, but it also held a little country with a slight rock and roll vibe to it, too. It could've very well been someone like Barry White, only a little bit more country. But the closer to the music I got, the more I realized where it came from.
I didn't give it a second thought as I approached the bathroom. I didn't reckon anything would be going on inside with the door wide open. My eyes hadn’t registered how low the light coming from the room had been until I saw the candles sitting on the sink. Now I know why Beck hadn't heard me. The radio was up to full blast, setting one of those moods.
My vision set on the scene in front of me, a beautiful body dressed in suds, rubbing herself down with her hand between her legs. I'd only had a moment to realize it was Beck.
“Oh my God."
She opened her eyes wide and screamed, “Jesus Christ Lucky, what the fuck?" Before pulling back the shower curtain, as I excused myself out the door.
“I’m sorry, Beck."
“What the hell are you doing here?" She asked as the sound of water hitting the floor suggested she'd gotten out of the tub.
“I was just on my way home. Thought about you when I stop by a diner on my way off of work." It was quiet for a second, until she swore out the blue. “I would ask what's wrong, but I'm not trying to get on your bad side."
“I forgot my towel. Lucky, I'm going to need for you to be a gentleman for the first time in your life and give me a towel out the hamper, so I don't have to risk running past you naked. Could you do that, please?" She asked with a real bite to it.
I resented that. I’d been only a gentleman in her company. She’d never had much to worry about when it came to that. But man, getting shot had messed with my hearing, but it sure hadn't messed with my vision.
A better man would've forgotten it by now, but between wide hips, ample breasts, and curves with a little muscle to it, she had the most beautiful body I’d never laid eyes on. If we’d been dating, there's no way I wouldn't have grabbed her out of the tub made love to her right on that sink. But at least I had my memory of it if nothing more.
Her hamper wasn't far so I grabbed the biggest towel I could find to place in her hand reaching out the door. “I’m just going to sit in your kitchen. Don't be afraid to see me off when you're decent.”
When she finally met me back in the kitchen, she’d come out in a dark blue bathrobe that came just up to her thighs. I watched her as she devoured what I'd come here for in the first place, ignoring me until she was ready to speak.
“You better be lucky this is some damn good pie." She said with a full mouth. “I got half a mind to peep in on you unannounced."
“With all due respect Beck, I can't imagine you finding half the enjoyment watching me as the other way around."
Beck was one piece away from finishing her slice before she pointed her fork at me in a menacing manner. “First of all Kit, you ain't funny, and you ain't cute. Next time, knock. And wipe that dumbass look on your face." I'm sure I’d been hiding a smile but failing miserably. The whole situation was kind of sexy, but funny if nothing else.
“I'm just hoping you got where you need to go. Can't imagine all that going on and you still being wound up."
She finally finished her last piece of pie before saying an emotionless, “Goodnight Lucky." As she stood, pushing me out my seat for to force me to stand.
“Just before I go Beck, I want you to know I'm real sorry. If you ever need any help or an extra hand—”
As Rebecca laughed, pushing me close to her back door until I was up against it. “Get out. Before you wear your welcome out even more." She pointed to the rest of her front door, as I was halfway down the back door steps. “And put my key back where you found it, please?"
I stuck my arms out wide, walking backward in the direction of her front porch. “How about we make it even. Next time, you can walk in on me, only you can help!"
She stuck her middle finger up at me and yelled. “Help that, Kit,” as she waved me off before she closed the door behind her.
Beck
It was bad enough Kit always had me thinking of him. Now I have to worry about how every time I’m around him, he might be thinking about my tits. It ain't like we’d never done anything before. But I felt pathetic knowing that was the very thing I was masturbating to. I couldn't help fantasizing about how he’d been able to make me feel the first half of our first date. Ever since I met him, it seemed like I’d never found time to be with another man, not that I’d want to.
Everyone kept asking “was we?" or “wasn't we?" a couple, and if I’d had any say in it, we would be. But I kept remembering how our date ended. How I just…overreacted.
All the things I was thinking about weren't the right things to be thinking about when it came to being with the one you wanted. I wasn't comfortable with all my memories popping up, forcing themselves to the surface when I was just trying to forget them.
I wasn't trying to have them mixing with how I feel about today, and it's why I stopped anything from happening that night. In hindsight, it seemed juvenile but I couldn't help how I felt.
Over the years, it had been easy keeping company with someone because they’d never been someone I liked as much as Lucky. He was the first time in a long time I felt something this strong.
Kit was a good man, but I know he had his problems. With all that he’d been going through, even when he asked, I wouldn’t give him more to carry worrying about me. So he can what? Treat me like some damn butterfly?
I wanted to him to treat me like a person. Like a woman. Not afraid to be touched. Not afraid to be kissed, and definitely not afraid to be made love to. With every passing day I got more and more ready to take that step with him, but he kept wanting to know about my past.
And I just wasn't ready to share that.
On a hot day, it was a long walk anywhere, but even more so when you were holding a bag of dirty clothes. My shirt had pools of sweat on it; they forced me to carry my bag over my shoulder half the way. Somehow, I carried a trash bag full of dirty clothes from my house to Kit’s in both arms, but by thirty minutes in, my arms were about to fall off. If I hadn’t alternated between shoulders, I would've dragged my bag of clothes the rest of the way.
The door was protected by the screen, which I assumed was already open since I called ninety minutes ahead. But the rule of Murphy meant when things were going good; something must go wrong. I was at home, halfway into washing my clothes when my washer went on the fritz, soaking wet and all. I was on my last bit of laundry detergent and needed these clothes for my next shift. I couldn't finish them in my tub, but then it came to me that Kit’s house had a working washer and dryer.
All it took was one phone call and Ms. Shepard invited me over to finish them up. She was sitting in the kitchen when I arrived, sitting at the table. “Don't mind little old me. I won't be in your way at all." Ms. Shepard said, pushing herself to the table.
“You're not in my way Ms. Shepard. You're doing me a favor. You wouldn't believe how heavy wet clothes are when you have to walk."
She pointed to my white shirt, then pointed to the wall or what I'd assumed was another part of the house. “I’ve got some dry blouses if you want to wash what you got on. I'm sure between the sweat and your damp bag that you could probably use it."
“Thank you, Ms. Shepard, that's real sweet of you."
I would've washed my shirt anyway, but it would've been rude if I only planned on staying downstairs. Anyone driving by didn't need to see me in my bra, but now that I had an offer to cover up in something else, I didn't need to.
I knew the house well enough to know the only room I'd never been in must've been her room. It was just past Kit’s, past the only bathroom. I didn't acknowledge it much, but I still got nervous walking by Kit’s room.
The therapy was helping him, but only when I put what happened in the back of my mind, did I fail to get nervous. I trekked quickly to Ms. Shepard's room, mindful not to borrow anything too nice just to case she planned to wear it soon.
As I pulled my shirt over my head and threw it in my bag, I opened the door to the basement, dragging my bag down the stairs to dump it in the machine. But my mind was still racing a mile a minute on the way back upstairs. I wasn’t afraid of Kit’s room, but I’d arguably never been inside it by myself ever since.
I wonder what I was so afraid of. You couldn’t predict it never happening again, but Kit was strong. If anyone could get through something the way he did, it’d be him. I had a bunch of fears, but I wouldn’t be able to face them all in one day. But Kit’s room was just a few inches away, the least I could do was face this.
I pushed the door open, and little had changed. Kit was simple; clean but organized. A made bed with plain sheets, a desk and a chair, one lamp and two dressers. I opened the closet, as it brought back the memory of Kit closing himself off in there. It seemed like I'd been in a whole other world apart from him, standing on the outside of it. But I was standing here now, and now it was just a closet.
Back stepping my original steps, I noticed the drawer on his desk that wasn’t closed all the way shut. When I tried to push it in, I was met with resistance. I pulled out the drawer an inch or two, it looked like he’d stuffed it to capacity, but only one item was keeping it from closing.
It was a vintage box with a smooth wood finish. Almost like a mini treasure chest, the ones you might find in a book like Treasure Island. I was just about to put it back when the sound of crutches dragging across the floor brought me out of my daze. “His shadowbox," Ms. Shepard admitted.
That made me even more nervous to hold it, let alone look inside. A shadowbox could hold next to anything, but I've never known a veteran not to stashed their medals and badges of achievement in them. I couldn't imagine what I find in Kit’s.
Ms. Shepard made her way inside the room, dragging her crutches with her until she was close enough to the bed to sit. She slipped out of them and held her hand out for the box, as my shaky hands placed them in hers. I sat in the spot next to her, as I anticipated her opening it.
“Has he ever shown it to you?" I smiled.
“He did when he first came home. He hides it, though; he don't like to flaunt it in front of me."
I couldn't imagine why he'd want to hide something so…so amazing. Unless there wasn't much in there, which wasn't a contest on how much you've earned or anything. “I can't see why he'd want to hide something like that."
She pushed open the top and revealed some medals and badges, knickknacks, crumbled pieces of paper, with pictures at the bottom. “Kit doesn't like to flaunt in front of me. I got a long line of reasons why he wouldn't want to."
According to Ms. Shepard, serving the military was part of his blood. His grandfather on both sides had served, but only one had lost his life serving his country. “My daddy died when I was real young. It's hard enough being a single mother now, imagine what it was like back then. I’d always loved my daddy, even though I never really knew him," she said, flipping through some of the pictures.
It surprised us both that he’d had a few old pictures of both his grandfathers in uniform. “But I thought things would be different when I became a mother."
Ms. Shepard admitted she could never resist them in uniform, and looking at a picture of Kit’s father, I could see why. Kit was handsome like his daddy; only he’d gotten his ginger hair from his grandfather. But to see the three generations of men in the military—possibly more, it seemed like it ran in his blood.
