The last peace in that house was on Sunday after church. They had decided to take the car, not walk, and Carlisle had stalled out on East Main in front of all the pastor’s kids waiting to cross. He just knew Mary would be going on about this for weeks – their first Sunday together after the wedding and just about everyone saw Carlisle with his car stopping traffic on East Main after church. While Mary said, her hands over her face, “Carlisle, I was right and I told ya we should’a walked but we had t’ take the car,” Carlisle smiled and restarted the car, throwing a sheepish wave out the open window. The kids just stared at the shiny Plymouth, this hulking thing made for motion dropped into stasis.
The sermon hadn’t even been particularly good, being mostly about how love is faith that the world is good and all that “God shall return your love unto you in time.” Mary had smiled chastely, hopefully, at him, touching his hand with her lacquered fingertips, her bones like willow branches under her skin. The pastor had mentioned the wedding at the end of the service, eliciting congratulatory remarks and the like when everyone was walking out. Mary was wearing her best lilac hat and the awful rose perfume her mother gave her, beaming like she’d won a prize with Carlisle holding her arm.
It felt good, sure. It was real good to have a place of his own and people always smiling at him and whatnot. And the wedding was nice.
Of course, Mary didn’t cry so much anymore. She had cried so much before the wedding. There’d been that awful night, with him, all swagger and dark hair, following Carlisle out of the bedroom, and Mary was washing dishes, her back to the both of them. Carlisle could remember so clearly the diamond ring glinting under all the soap. Then, her face: hot and wet. An overripe strawberry of a woman. It hurt him like hell.
When it was just them, Mary was real upset, and Carlisle proposed they move the wedding up, regardless of the fact. She swept up her hair out of her face with her pink hands and of course said yes, exasperated like there wasn’t any other option for her. He didn’t promise anything, and some kind of unspoken agreement, then, fell between them like a fence.
But it was noon, and Carlisle was sitting on the little porch out front, having another cup of coffee that he’d made himself. In the beginning, when Mary found out he liked both milk and sugar, she grimaced and started making it with less of both each day. It wasn’t something she was likely to mention. He’d get right back in the kitchen to fix it up how he liked. There was something so terrific about drinking hot coffee on a hot day, like a rebellion or something, sitting in the sun and refusing the easy sweet respite of something cold to drink. The richness of the milk coated his tongue, and he savored it.
It was noon after church, and he was in the middle of his coffee, and he wasn’t thinking about much, when Dawson came sauntering down the sidewalk, wearing a suede hat with some big buckle on the front like a headlight, his dark hair tucked under it. Carlisle could imagine the curls that sat beneath the red shells of his ears. Dawson moved aimlessly, his eyes half-lidded and a certain look on his face like he knew what he was doing: like the world owed him something, in the way that a young unmarried man feels like everything’s really just starting. But sure enough it wasn’t aimless.
“Morning, Dawson,” Carlisle called, his voice catching in his throat, on account of the milk. “Didn’t see you this morning for service.”
Dawson turned to see Carlisle, cocking his hat back and his other hand slung, easy, in his pocket. He grinned sideways. “Hi, Carlisle.” He peered down the street as if there were anything worth looking at. “Yeah, I been home this morning. Sitting around. Just came out here, ah, to see you.”
Carlisle glanced at the porch door. “That’s kind of you. Mary is just inside.”
Dawson nodded, took a few steps toward the porch but stopped at the walk. “I gotta tell you, Carlisle. I’m engaged to marry Amelia Katherine at the end of the month.”
Everything got real quiet then.
Carlisle felt the weight of the August air, that deep, hot humidity, on his skin. The sky begged for rain. A warbler cried out.
“Anyways, just thought I should tell ya. I shouldn’t be – I won’t be comin’ around so much anymore. Y’know.” Dawson kicked at something on the walk.
“That’s just terrific, Dawson,” Carlisle said. He swallowed his coffee, thick and suffocating in his throat. “I’m real – I’m happy for you.”
Dawson looked at him, those dark eyes searching his face for something Carlisle knew wasn’t there. “Yeah. I figured – I guessed I should’ve told you. I thought we could – figured you’d wanna have some kind of conversation around the subject. You bein’ the married man. Knowin’ better and all.”
Carlisle said nothing.
Dawson stepped up the stairs and onto the little porch, sitting real gingerly next to him. The white wicker creaked a dry breath. He took off the big suede hat, resting it on his knee. That’s how it was with him. “You knew it weren’t gonna last, Car,” Dawson said softly, looking out at the street, his hand rubbing his top lip. “It weren’t gonna be nothing.”
The Sunday heat stung Carlisle’s eyes. “I knew that. But it weren’t fair. Not to you.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It weren’t. I had Mary, and – it weren’t fair to you.”
“Sure it were. I knew what I did.” Dawson ducked his head, trying to look at Carlisle’s face. “You knew too. Now I guess we just know it happened. Ain’t that all that matters.”
Carlisle swung his heavy head to look at Dawson. This man, engaged to be married to a woman like Amelia Katherine. The family had owned some mine and been settled around here for generations, even employing Mary’s father for a time. Carlisle reached out and gently placed his hand on Dawson’s stubbled cheek, rich with clove oil, and Dawson leaned into it, wearily closing his eyes for a moment. Resting.
“Carlisle? Who is out there?” Mary’s holler from the kitchen.
Dawson blinked, and Carlisle brought his hand to his coffee.
“Just Mister Dawson, Mary.” Carlisle studied him, Dawson’s firm expression and somber eyes and wet eyelashes, like a little boy. He turned away, toward the street.
That warbler called again, and a hot breeze moved heavily over the porch, a cool wind catching up.
“We know it happened, don’t we, Car,” Dawson breathed, his voice hitching a little. “Ain’t that all that matters?”
“It weren’t ever gonna be enough. I knew that. Not how things are.”
Dawson searched his face. “You think it weren’t worth it? That what you mean?”
Carlisle stopped. “Course it was worth it. I’d do it again. Hundred times over and I died every time, I’d do it again.”
Dawson closed his eyes real tight. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do, Dawson. Don’t pretend I don’t. You know I do.”
Dawson opened his eyes again. “Damn if it isn’t tough, Car. We know it happened. We knew what was there.”
Mary pushed open the porch door, wiping her eye with the back of her small hand. “Mister Dawson, how are you?”
Dawson stood, brushing his hands on his jeans and clearing his throat. He twisted his face into something of a charming grin. “Mighty fine, Mary. Don’t you just look lovely this afternoon.” He looked at Carlisle with that old flicker in his smiling eyes. “You sure did end up okay.”
“Mary, Dawson’s bein’ real shy. He is engaged to be married to Miss Amelia Katherine by the end of the month.”
Mary sighed as though relieved, glancing for less than a breath at Carlisle. “That’s just wonderful! She is a mighty firecracker, that Amelia Katherine. I’m real sorry to think she’ll keep you busy and I won’t be seein’ you so much, is that right?”
Dawson paused and chuckled. “I suppose that’s the institution of marriage for ya, Miss Mary. Idle hands being kept busy. No more idlin’ for me, I suppose.” He whistled through his teeth. “No, I’ll be workin’ more, and fixin’ things up and whatnot. Should suit me fine, makin’ us a home.”
Mary laughed politely, wringing her hands. “Carlisle, weren’t you plannin’ to fix up the clothesline for me this afternoon? Mr. Dawson, you wouldn’t believe the state of the house, I’m real embarrassed, linens everywhere dryin’ out like a laundromat.”
Carlisle, unable to speak, nodded and stood obediently.
Dawson tipped his hat back over the crown of his head and stuck his hand back in his pocket. “I’d best leave you to care for your lady, Carlisle. Thanks for the advice about the, uh, car and whatnot. I should hope to see you both real soon. Good afternoon, ma’am.” He turned on his heel and sauntered back down the walk, headed back the way he came, back toward the woman who was expecting him.
Carlisle pushed by Mary and went to the kitchen and began to furiously wash his hands.
“Ain’t it lovely to hear about Amelia Katherine – more married young people in the neighborhood. Isn’t it just lovely, Carlisle.” Mary called, her voice small, the porch door slamming shut behind her. He heard her hopeful smile, all turned up at the edges, and felt his stomach sour.
“Sure is.”
She came in the kitchen and leaned her back against the counter next to the sink, looking past his shoulder. “Too bad Dawson’ll be so busy tending to her — she’s a real high-maintenance gal, or so I hear.” She sighed and circled him, standing behind and tangling her thin arms around his waist. She rested her face on his shoulder blade, and Carlisle felt a small wet spot above her cheek, seeping into his shirt. “Shame. I knew you two were spending time together. Gettin’ real close ‘n all that. Now I’ve got you all to m’self, Carlisle.”
Carlisle turned off the sink and nodded again, letting her words get caught in the air.
Out the kitchen window, Carlisle could see the hood of the Plymouth parked in the driveway. That warbler was sitting on the bumper. With a hurried, feathery motion, it flew out of sight.
