The Painter:

She’d been waiting her entire life for an apology. The unsaid words writhed in the silence of years from sunrise to sunset, an open wound treated with resentment. She wondered if death would eventually bring the solace she sought from this Purgatory of moments without end.

“Helen.”

She turned away from the window where freedom ran along sidewalks free of memories. Shutters fell across her eyes as she went to the bed, a prisoner forcing concern into her voice.

“What do you need, Mother?” Helen fluffed the pillows around the old woman, smoothed the covers of creases. “It isn’t time for tea yet, but I can fix you some if you want.”

“What do you take me for, you girl? An idiot?” Sarah Eveningclaw gave her daughter a withering stare.

“Of course not.”

The old woman was not convinced. She regarded Helen with the same hostility one reserves for the worst of enemies. “Bring me my address book. I need to make a phone call.”

“Yes, of course.” The bureau was a scarred and battered affair picked up from the curb a few years before. Like much of the house, it was just another random item amid a pile of bric-a-brac with no coherent style or theme. This was a stark contrast to the life Helen remembered as a child, where everything had a proper place she’d been required to know. Perhaps the house was old and a mess of disheveled fashions now, but she still made sure it was clean.

Helen tucked the loose strands of her dark brown curls behind her ears before grabbing the address book, which contained little more than incoherent ramblings. Her mother had not made an actual phone call in years. “What did you want to look up?”

“I can do it myself. Hand me my glasses.”

Helen did. “I have to get the laundry. I’ll be back in a while.”

The old woman only glared with more hostility. The heat of it burned into Helen’s back as she left the room. She ignored it and closed the door.

The hallway beyond was a rosy peach, the only walls with color in their home. The other doors led to a bathroom, a spare room full of boxes and another that had once been her bedroom before she’d taken over the parlor downstairs for its light. The relocation afforded her short reprieves from the shouts and curses erupting from her mother’s bedroom. Yet the hallway reflected Helen’s personality more than any other aspect of the house.

Painting the walls had come at a price, of course. Helen did not regret the weeks of punishment she’d received over it. Each Tuesday, she lovingly polished the eight large square frames adoring the walls and the oak banisters of the stairwell with Old English oil. After she cleaned the stairs, Helen would then place new watercolors in each frame and set aside the old ones for future sale. Her latest series of abstract trees sparkled behind clean glass.

She descended to the first floor, entering a kitchen of sterile white with an ivy border. In quick succession, she placed a white kettle adorned with roses on the stove to heat, then set out a white cup and a saucer. A single earl gray tea bag was placed inside.

While the water simmered, she went through the dimly lit pantry to a narrow door leading to the basement. She descended a flight of creaky stairs, then tugged the cord attached to the ceiling light bulb to illuminate the cramped cinder block abode. It was just large enough to fit a washer and dryer in the opposite corner from the water heater and an old furnace.

She took her mother’s clothing out of the dryer first, filling a pink laundry basket. It took her a few moments to sort the rest of the laundry she’d piled on the floor earlier. She decided to wash the darks first. But just after she placed the last garment inside the washer, a muffled cry rose from somewhere in the house.

Helen’s hand stilled over the washer’s dial. She waited. When no more noises came, she switched the machine on and carried the laundry basket back up to the kitchen. She would fold them after she’d given her mother afternoon tea. By the time she prepared the beige serving tray, silence reigned on the upper floors. The stairs creaked as she ascended heavily to let her mother know she was coming. There was nothing Sarah hated more than being startled.

Years ago, Helen had accidentally scared her while she was sleeping. Furious, Sarah had snatched the tea cup from the tray and flung the contents in Helen’s face. It had taken two days for the worst of the burns to leave from around her left eye. But she had learned.

Helen discovered a long time ago she was always learning.

She peeked into the room with trepidation. Her mother was asleep. She placed the tray on the battered dull blue nightstand next to the bed. It sported a yellowish tinge from her mother’s cigarette smoke.

Helen stepped backwards three steps, then lightly touched her mother’s leg. “Tea time,” she announced..

Her mother cracked open bleary eyes, rolled them once or twice. “I fucking heard you,” she snarled. “Now get the hell out!”

“Yes, Mother.”

And that was the start of the afternoon.

___________________________________________________

Jack drank the last of his coffee at the kitchen table. He heard his father outside puttering around in the yard and smiled to himself. He was back home. The idea of it amused him.

Jack Ruckins coming back to Carnish, Massachusetts after he retired wasn’t something anyone would have predicted. Hell, he certainly hadn’t. But he was here all the same.

It had been about thirteen years since he’d left. Barely grown, but he’d been determined to make his own way beyond the perimeters of the small town he knew. His mother had called him a damn fool at the time. The family thought he’d end up as a lawyer in Boston. Or maybe something exotic like a pharmacist. But a Marine? His parents thought he’d lost his mind.

Now he was back home after closing the chapter on that world. Jack wanted to keep it simple while he waited for a phone call on a new job. Nobody said anything about his return. His father just opened the door as if he’d seen Jack yesterday instead of six months ago. His parents continued to give him their silent unwavering support as always, sensing he would tell them his plans when he was ready.

His mother was currently visiting his aunt in Springfield, a far cry from their town up in the mountains that time forgot. At least it wasn’t cold yet, he reminded himself. Summer was still lingering in September, giving him just enough time left to enjoy the foliage as it began to turn into those beautiful colors.

“Still daydreaming, boy?” his father asked from the doorway. Paul Ruckins was a tall reed of a man, but strong. His ice blue eyes danced with affection in a face creased with age and laugh lines.

“Nah, old man. I was just wondering when you’d get up the energy to climb the porch stairs.” Jack got up to put his mug in the sink, then opted to wash the few dishes lingering there.

Paul laughed. “Always a smart ass. Good thing your mother didn’t hear that or she’d have cuffed you with the dish towel.”

“Yeah, I think I got that the last time I was here.”

“How long are you in town for?” He’d long grown used to his oldest son drifting in and out of town unannounced. Time between deployments was a treasure. They asked no questions unless he wanted to talk, accepted when he didn’t. But even Paul had to admit that he’d shown up on the doorstep to their tidy Colonial Friday looking more than a little lost.

“A few days. I’ll be here long enough to see Mom when she gets back..”

He grunted as he brought his tools inside the house. “Well, if that’s the case, why don’t you come down to the store and help us out for a few hours?”

“Sure. Just let me finish up the dishes.”

“Alright. See you at the truck in ten?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

His father started out of the room, then stopped. “I'm damn glad you’re home, son.”

“Me, too,” Jack replied. Then he helped himself to a second cup of coffee while he waited for everyone to get ready to go.

___________________________________________________

Jack had been at the general store for about two hours when he saw her.

There’d been plenty to do. A shipment of supplies arrived that morning. So he helped his father and brother stock the shelves of the modest general store their family had been running for nearly twenty years. It used to be Manny’s Store, but old Manny Delaney died back in 1989 without any family to take it over.

There had been talk of getting somebody outside of town to expand the building or lure a chain store to the area, but the sole contractor with an interest in the project had grander ideas. He’d wanted to turn Carnish into a gigantic winter resort for the wealthy. The older residents made sure those plans were snuffed out quickly. After the city council voted it down, his father stepped in with a bid. Then the building became Ruskins’ General and that was that.

The other people in Carnish treated them like natives, but they weren’t. His parents had been there just long enough to acclimate. Jack supposed that was okay. He’d watched a steady stream of customers come in all morning. He shook hands with old classmates baffled as hell to see him unpacking boxes of flour. Apparently, his nickname was “Mr. Military.” It was slightly embarrassing, but at least none of them followed him with guarded suspicion or the hero worship he typically encountered in civilians. He was just Jack, nothing special.

Around 4pm, he spotted a woman coming up Dillu Street. At first, he just glanced at her. The smooth toffee skin paired with a riot of dark curls falling past her shoulders and toned legs got his attention. Then he really started looking. He noticed freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks below enormous chocolate eyes. She wore a simple mauve skirt just past her knees and a T-shirt with violets all over it, yet looked better than any of the women throwing themselves at him for the last six months.

Jack went over the register and nudged his brother before she got to the door.

“Mike,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Who’s that?”

His brother glanced at the door, then back at Jack. “Shit, Jack. You don’t remember Helen?”

Jack scratched the two-day stubble on his cheeks. “Helen who?”

“Helen with the batshit mother off Mulberry.”

That Helen. He gave a low whistle. “John’s daughter sure as hell grew up.”

Mike laughed, running a hand through his sandy hair. “Yeah, well, good luck with that, bro. She’s an Ice Princess.”

“Says the voice of experience.”

Mike shook his head. “Nah, this is the voice of brotherly affection. We used to go on fishing trips with Dad and her father all the time. We’re still friends.”

“I’d forgotten about that.”

“You were too busy riding your motorcycle and chasing skirts to notice her much. Doesn’t matter anyway. Nobody sniffing after her gets too far.”

If there was one thing Jack liked, it was a challenge.

But when she actually came into the store, whatever words he had in mind disappeared. Instead, he could only stare at her and pretend to shelve flour. Then he could only stare at the flour. A damn odd thing.

“Excuse me.”

He turned and there she was. For once in his life, Jack was speechless. Maybe it was her aura or something. He sure as hell didn’t know. She just seemed to exude some kind of special people approaching him always thought he had. He didn’t. He was just good at pretending he did.

“Hi. Sorry. Am I in your way?”

“I just need a bag of flour.”

He handed her one. “You’re Helen, right?”

It was like watching Fort Knox arm itself. Jack watched her eyes go blank and steady. Her shoulders visibly squared.

“Yes. Do I know you?”

“It’s alright, Helen. That’s just my screwball brother, Jack,” Mike said from the register. “It’s been a long time since he’s been here. You probably don’t remember him.”

She smiled, but stayed tense. “Nice to meet you, Jack. I would like to chat, but I am sort of in a hurry.”

“Sure, sure. No problem. See you around, Helen.” He backed into the shelves to let her pass, catching the scent of amber on her skin.

Helen grabbed a few more items, then paid for them while bantering with Mike. She glanced at Jack just once before she left.

Jack stood there, staring off into space.

Mike laughed. “Bro, are you stoned or something?”

“Maybe,” he said.

Two seconds later, he went after her.

___________________________________________________

“Helen.”

She glanced back and saw him jogging towards her. The wind blew his honey-colored locks back from an angular face. He was lean and fit with eyes the color of arctic glaciers.

As Jack approached, he watched the shields come back. Impenetrable.

He smiled anyway. “I needed some air. It’s a nice day and all.”

“Is that your pickup line?”

He shrugged. “If you want it to be. Otherwise, I’m just taking a walk here.”

Helen felt an answering smile tug at her lips despite herself. “I come to the store pretty often. I don’t remember seeing you much. Mike said you left right after high school, is that right?”

“Something like that.” He waved to Mrs. Hershel as she drove past in her battered gray Buick. She beamed at him through the windshield, a woman a decade older than his mother with badly dyed red hair. “I had almost four years on you guys, so it’s no surprise you don’t remember me. What else did Mike tell you?”

“That you’re some kind of big shot in the military.”

“In the military, yes. Big shot, no.” He took the bags out of her hands. “Let me carry those.”

“What if I don’t want you to?” Although she’d waved at Mrs. Hersel also, the woman was the town’s biggest gossip. The last thing Helen wanted was to attract attention to herself.

“Too late, slowpoke,” he said. “I remember your father. I went hunting with him a few times with Dad. He was a cool guy. You still live around here?”

“Yes. I’m still up at the Eveningclaw house.”

“Heard that place is haunted.” Even when he was a kid no one wanted to go up there. It screamed bad vibes for the usual reason: it was an old house in the back of the woods nobody visited. Classic ghost stories abounded.

“It is. Just not in the usual sense.”

Jack waited for her to elaborate. She said nothing. So they strolled in companionable silence for a quarter mile before they reached the narrow path leading up to her house.

“I can handle it from here, Jack.” Helen reached to take the bags from him.

He held onto them for a few seconds, looking down into her eyes. “You’re beautiful, you know.”

To his amazement, her cheeks took on a ruddy hue as if she were blushing. “I have to go now.”

He handed her the bags and watched her start up the gravel lane.

On impulse, he said, “Walk with me in the morning.”

“I can’t.”

“In the afternoon then.”

Helen stopped, appearing to war with herself. “1 o’clock,” she said eventually.

“I’ll be here.”

She continued on towards the house hidden by New England trees. Jack stood at the bottom of the lane for a long time, wondering why she seemed afraid.

___________________________________________________

After her mother finished supper and slipped into sleep from her evening medications, Helen went into the old barn behind the house. The last legs of sunlight crept across the lawn, getting ready to tuck themselves beneath the belly of the moon. She lit five lanterns hanging on various shelves throughout the space. Within seconds, her studio bloomed to life.

Canvases of innumerable sizes rested against the walls. Not all of them were hers. Her father painted often in the years before his death. It was a hobby they'd shared together. Her mother never approved, of course. It had taken a sheer effort of will on Helen’s part to save the barn after he died. Her mother wanted to toss the rest of his belongings into it and bulldoze the entire thing into oblivion. But Sarah Eveningclaw had always been hateful that way.

It was more Helen's nature to conserve, honor and worship. As such, her father's studio was just as it had been when he was alive. The supplies were neatly arranged. She made sure the industrial sink was always carefully scrubbed. And during those solitary moments she spent within the barn, she painted all she could never say out loud.

Once a month, Helen drove to Boston with a stack of canvases to The Ayashee Gallery, which specialized in Native American art. She’s been one of their top artists for the past seven years, which helped keep the house afloat. Sarah’s meager disability payments meant she required Helen's financial support to keep her out of homelessness. Besides, not a single home health aide or care facility in the entire town would attempt taking care of Old Lady Eveningclaw. It was like asking someone to look after a dragon.

For the most part, Helen had not minded. There would never be something for her outside of Carnish. She'd spent her life living with her small secrets. They were demanding company and made no room for outsiders anyway.

It didn’t take her long to set up despite being distracted by a pair of icy eyes hovering in her mental space. It was rather silly to fantasize about Jack Ruskins, but she imagined many women did just that all the time. Even so, she had no idea what the man wanted with her. She was nothing special.

Helen told herself she would paint and forget about him. But an hour later those eyes were staring back at her from the canvas. Jack sat on an old porch in the painting, deeply contemplating a flower he held in his right hand. She brought the petals to life with the final strokes of her brush, blending vermilion and golden yellow with expertise to produce a vibrant wild lily.

Her canvases, more than anything else, were a barometer of her feelings. Studying the work, Helen concluded Jack was trouble of the worst kind. Prior to that evening, Helen had never painted any man except her father.

___________________________________________________

The following afternoon, Sarah slipped into her usual nap after lunch without issue. Helen placed three large envelopes and two 20” x 20” flat boxes into a sturdy metal cart. According to her gallery, last week’s hallway art had already been sold to collectors before it could even be formally listed in their catalog. She supposed she should have felt happy to know her work generated such strong interest. Yet she was always a little sad to sell a piece. It was like losing a memory.

After slinging her purse strap over her head and across her chest, Helen hefted the cart off the front porch. She prepared herself just in case Jack flaked out on her.

But he was there waiting for her as he said, completely at ease with his hands in the pockets of a pair of battered jeans. Though he’d rolled up the sleeves, she knew his olive button-down was an attempt at formality. It intrigued her that he’d made an effort. Her fingers itched to paint him with those same sprawling oaks and sycamores across the street as a backdrop.

Jack had been watching a pair of squirrels scramble up a tree when he caught sight of her and grinned. Helen didn’t know why his smile made her face so warm. Off kilter, she forgot to smile back.

Jack didn't let it bother him. “Looks like we're taking a trip to the post office,” he remarked as he fell in step beside her. “What's in these big boxes?”

“Paintings.”

“Antiques you're getting rid of?”

“No, my work. I'm shipping them to a gallery in Boston.”

“I didn't know you painted, Helen. That's great.”

When she didn't respond, he tried again. “Would I recognize any of your work?”

“Doubtful.”

“What name do you paint under?”

She peered over at him. “Noshe.”

Jack gaped at her. “You're joking, right?”

Helen bristled at his tone. “I don't joke about art. It's what I do.”

“Noshe.” He said the name with reverence. “You painted ‘Still Life with Thorns.’”

She stopped walking, just as shocked as he had been. “You know my work?”

“I saw it in MOMA when I was deployed for a training exercise in New York last year. I can still see that woman sleeping in the thorny branches of a dead fig tree. You could almost touch her skin on the canvas.” He shook his head at the memory. “They gave us some spiel about the artist being an elderly recluse living in a rustic mountain cabin.”

Helen thought of the old barn. Her lips twitched. “So I embellished the bio a bit,” she replied.

Jack threw back his head and laughed. After a moment, so did she.

___________________________________________________

They walked together every day for a week. Much of the time, neither of them said anything. She would make an appearance at the store, then he would go with her back to the Eveningclaw house.

On Saturday morning, Helen met him before dawn. It was something she suggested the previous afternoon. He raised his eyebrows at her, but didn't question it. But for some reason, it still surprised her to see him standing at the end of her driveway at 4:30am just the same. They both wore jackets and jeans to ward off the early morning chill.

“This better be for a good reason,” he grumbled as they walked.

“Somebody didn't have their morning coffee.” She reached into her shoulder bag, then handed him a thermos.

As Jack unscrewed the top, fragrant steam rose up to greet him. He downed a capful, enjoyed a flash of instant nirvana, then paused with an epiphany. It was actually the best coffee he'd ever tasted. Ever. It also occurred to him that the reason he felt that way was because she'd made it for him.

“Marry me,” he said suddenly.

Helen laughed for the second time in his presence. And in that moment, he knew one day she'd be his wife.

___________________________________________________

They traveled in silence up the steep path. Around them the woods woke from slumber. The sleepy clamor of birdsong erupted. Lazy calls rang out from lonely cicadas. They heard the occasional tussle among the squirrels. Eventually, Helen called his attention to an enormous rock blocking the path ahead.

“Are we going around it?” Jack asked.

“This is our destination.” With that, she began to climb.

It wasn't difficult. The natural erosion made it brisk work to get to the top. Once there, Helen sat down. Jack followed suit. After a couple of minutes, he started to say something. She pressed a finger to his lips and nodded to the horizon.

He watched the sun rise over the trees with her. The shadows ran after the lingering tail of the night. Then, the day arrived. From where they sat, the entire valley below them was ablaze with gold.

Helen had never felt so calm with anyone. “Do you feel this, too?” she asked.

He knew what she meant. A beautiful kind of peace existed between them. “It's the reason why I followed you out of the store,” he murmured.

“I don’t know how to let anyone get close to me.”

“Let me show you.” Jack leaned in and let his lips slide over hers. The slow duel of needs began.

But Helen pulled back first, shoving at his chest. “Aosi seoi seoi,” she muttered.

“And what does that mean?”

“A flatterer is a flatterer.”

“It's too damn early in the morning for flattery, Helen.”

“I don’t trust a lot of people.”

He stared at her for a long time. “It shows.”

She got up without replying.

Jack followed, troubled by her silence. “Helen, I didn't mean to hurt you when I said that.”

“You didn't.”

“Then why won't you talk to me?”

When she met his eyes, her gaze was direct. “It's the silence that matters, the pulse that speaks. It can hold all we don't have the strength to say or the will to share.”

Jack grabbed her hand and placed it on his chest. “You speak like a poet, you know. But if you really believe what you just said, then tell me what my silence says to you.”

Helen listened to the sound of his spirit as her father taught her.

Her eyes filled with tears. “It's too soon for this.”

“Not when it's right.”

His hands spanned her waist, pulling her forward into another kiss. When she moaned against his lips, Jack took it as a sign of encouragement. He deepened the kiss, sliding his fingers underneath her jacket and shirt to caress the bare skin just above her jeans.

But the touch was more alarming than any gunshot he'd ever heard in the deserts of Afghanistan. Where smooth flesh should have been were knots that could only be scar tissue. He'd seen enough friends sent home wounded to know. Jack explored further and found there wasn't a single smooth place on her back anywhere.

They stood locked in the moment for tense seconds. Torn between horror and sympathy, Jack didn’t know what to say. His silence spoke for him. Shattered, Helen removed herself from his embrace without meeting his eyes.

This time when she walked away, he let her.

___________________________________________________

Jack followed Helen through the woods without comment. She had the expression of an angry woman, but that wasn't what he sensed from her. It was all fear. For this reason, he didn’t leave when they reached the driveway. He started up the gravel drive to the house instead.

“What are you doing?” Helen hissed once she realized his intention.

“Walking you home.”

“You have to leave.”

“Why?”

“You can't be here.”

He ignored her. After he rounded the curve, the house itself came into view. The last of the summer grass grew wild around the sagging edifice of Helen’s home. A massive tangle of ivy vines covered the front lawn untamed, engulfing parts of the wide wrap-around porch. Even in the daylight, the aging Victorian gave off an air of foreboding that gave weight to all the crazy stories the kids of Carnish came up with each Halloween.

He started up the front steps, but she pulled on his arm.

“Jack, it's almost 8am. You have to go.” She gave another frantic tug on his sleeve.

This time her insistence angered him. “What else are you hiding?” he snapped.

As if summoned, a bellow erupted from the bowels of the house that had Jack snapping his gaze up towards the second floor. An apparition stood there, staring at Helen with hateful eyes. It took him a second to realize it was not something otherworldly. The old woman’s hair trailed in greasy gray tendrils down the front of an old fashioned white nightgown. Her skin was a deep brown with the grayish undertone of illness.

“That's my mother. She’s awake now.”

Jack listened to the escalating blast of obscenities being hurled from the second floor window in disbelief. The woman called Helen an ungrateful slut and a stupid bitch all in one breath.

“I need to tend to her,” she said over the ruckus.

And suddenly, Jack knew where the scars came from. “She did that to you.”

When Helen said nothing, Jack felt the blood in his veins turn to ice. He remembered this feeling. It was the same one he'd had staring into the eyes of the dead women and children in war zones. Something clicked inside him. He sprinted up the stairs, intent on entering the house.

Helen blocked his way, shoving at his chest. “You don't need to talk to her.”

“I'm not going to talk,” Jack said. “I'm going to fucking hurt her.”

They tussled in the doorway, neither giving ground to the other. When another shriek of hatred burst from upstairs, Helen stopped pushing and slapped him with all the force she had. She watched rage darken his face, freeze his eyes. Terror had her bringing up her arms to ward off a blow.

Instead, he took two careful steps away from her before stalking off the porch. Helen watched him leave, deaf to her mother's screaming. And he was long gone before the sound of her hand striking his face stopped ringing in her ears.

___________________________________________________

Jack sat outside on the back steps. Dusk settled over the land, casting shadows with mysterious skin over the quiet landscape. He stared at the outlying fields until they lost their contours in the dimness, yet noticed none of them. Every now and then, he raised a Samuel Adams to his lips and drank without tasting it.

After some time, the door creaked behind him. He recognized his father’s presence as he settled down into the ancient chair by the door.

“Beautiful night,” Paul said.

After a while, Jack said, “Yeah, it is that.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“A lot of things.”

“I heard the message on the house phone. I know they offered you early retirement. Is that what’s got you out here depressed?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “That’s the least of my issues. I got that offer a year ago. Took me a little over 9 months to say yes. Another three to complete the process. ”

“Were you ever going to tell us? I’m glad and all, but you’ve always been the secretive sort.”

“To see the things I’ve seen, I had to be. It’s just a habit, Dad. I’ll work on it now that I’m a civilian.” The word still felt funny rolling off his tongue, though.

“So what will you do for work?”

“If I were less restless, they would have been able to sweet talk me into one of those cushy desk jobs at the Bureau. But I’ve been waiting on forestry and a few other divisions to get back to me. I think I’d be better outdoors working with my hands.”

“Forestry would suit you. Desk jobs are for pansies anyway.” When the joke elicited no reaction from Jack, Paul knew the reason for his ills was a woman. Few other things besides a female could make a Ruskins man humorless. “So what’s really on your mind, son?”

He sighed. “I had it all figured out once. Now I don’t know what to do.”

Paul chuckled. “Do any of us?”

This only irritated Jack further. He shoved off the steps, raked a frustrated hand through his hair. “I don’t understand why Helen’s been living here all this time with that horrible woman. I can’t wrap my head around it.”

Paul rubbed his palms together, stared at them. “Well, everybody knows Sarah Eveningclaw is not in her right mind. She’s disabled. Unfortunately, it’s a daughter’s duty –“

“Fuck duty.” The words were full of the acid that had been churning in his stomach since the day before. “Did anybody in this town have any clue what the hell was going on in that house?”

“What are you talking about?”

He closed his eyes, replaying yesterday morning in his head and unable to do anything about it. “Mike told me Helen never dates. I asked around. Well, I know why she doesn’t date. It’s because that woman beat her so badly that her back is…my, God, the scars.”

For a moment, his father was silent. Then: “What kind of scars are we talking about?”

“The kind that comes from being beaten with some sort of stick or cane. They go all the way to her waist, I think. I didn’t see more because she didn’t let me. I…didn’t take it well.”

“I can imagine. I’m not taking it well and I didn’t even see them.” Paul blew out a breath. “That girl has been an angel here. You hear me? Any time someone is sick, a child needs a babysitter, somebody dies, she’s right there. Doesn’t say much, but she’s there. There’s something about her presence that soothes the soul if you’re hurting, you get what I’m saying?”

Jack knew that feeling. “I know what you mean.”

“Do you remember that she was there the night old Manny died? He’d fallen out right in his living room one afternoon from a stroke. The neighbors saw Helen running into his house screaming. So they go over there and find Helen sitting next to Manny on the floor crying, brushing his hair with her fingers and singing him a lullaby while he died.She was just a little thing then. I remember John used to call her ‘Denoshe.’ Said it meant ‘daughter of light.’ And it’s the truth. That’s probably the reason why she’s up there with her mother. She just doesn’t have enough hate in her to leave.”

Jack scoffed. “What kind of man would let his wife do that to their daughter?”

“All that had to happen after John died.” Paul rubbed a hand over his face, lost in old grief. “You left for the service the summer he drowned, remember? No way John would have stood that shit. He was my best friend. I would have known.”

“But people don’t just turn abusive overnight. There had to be some sign.”

“Oh, Sarah was always a bitter woman. She wanted more than Carnish. But John loved his land. It had been in his family for generations. He wasn’t ever going to leave.”

“How did they meet?”

“John was down there for two months for some sort of mandatory training. That was some years before he became fire chief. He met her at one of the little clubs. She’d been visiting relatives, I think. Anyway, Sarah thought she could get John to move to Boston. It was all she ever talked about. Didn’t work. Sarah told us one day during a visit that John had convinced himself he was a white redneck and wanted to live like one. She said it was our fault. Your mother stopped going over there after that. I just ignored her.

Paul paused to listen to the wind through the trees, remembering how John always said you could hear your own spirit best through the echo of the leaves. He took a deep breath and said the first thing that came to his mind: “I think you should ignore her, too. Convince Helen to leave with you when you go. It's never been in you to stay here. We all knew that when you were a boy. And we knew Mike would end up running the store with me one day.”

“You make it sound like I abandoned the family,” Jack snapped. “I’ve never let any of you down.”

Paul stood up, put off by his son’s tone. “The way I figure it, we don't have the security clearance to ask where you’ve been or what you've done to protect our country. So we don’t bring it up because you’ve made us proud a thousand times over before they gave you medals for it. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you push me into a silly argument just because you can’t get your head out of your ass. So take her with you when you leave.”

Jack blinked at him. “What?”

“You're in love with Helen. It's all over you. So she’s mad that you know her truth now. She’ll get over it because that girl hasn’t said boo to anybody in years except you. Now get the hell off my property and go fix it. Watching a Marine whine about his love life is too damn sorry for words.” With that, Paul went inside the house and closed the door behind him.

Jack stood there in the growing darkness for a while after he left. It was rare for his father to lose his temper. He figured part of it was over Helen, but the rest of it was grief over John. The two of them had been like brothers. He’d gotten the news about his drowning just after he’d finished basic training. But then he’d been deployed overseas with so many other things to keep his attention. Daily life in Carnish wasn’t one of them.

Jack had a sudden flash of Helen on the first day they spoke. Her eyes had been mistrustful, nervous. His heart twisted thinking about what must have been going through Helen's mind. She had probably expected him to leave for good after he found out about her scars. And hadn’t he done just that?

His old man was right: he needed to fix it.

Guided by the light of autumn’s last fireflies, he made his way to the Eveningclaw house with his shame to keep him company.

___________________________________________________

In the confines of the old barn, Helen painted. She’d been at it relentlessly since the day before, attacking canvases with bold swirls of red and gold and black. She hadn’t even bothered to sleep in the house last night. Instead, she’d cried herself to sleep in the tiny room in the back of the barn she’d converted into a spare bedroom years ago. There were many times when she could no longer withstand her mother’s abuse. The barn was her refuge then as now.

Her smock was a haphazard mess of paint streaks and charcoal. A few drops had found their way onto the legs of her jeans, but she no longer cared. A haunting violin played from the stereo by the wall, weeping notes into the air that echoed the tempest inside her.

Helen didn’t blame Jack for leaving. A few kisses didn’t make a relationship, after all. She didn’t trust him enough to even give him her phone number, never mind allowing him into the house. She knew she’d never truly be with anyone.

She would spend the rest of her life in that house, dying minute by minute until her mother passed away. Isolated in the New England mountains, all she had were canvases and even they would mean nothing in time. Her father was gone. She was the last of her line. There was no other way her story could end.

She took a step back from the painting. The white canvas bled with shades of gray. The outline of a woman peered from the midst of the chaos, hair askew with a blank face. It angered her because that outline was of herself. She was just as blank and gray and lifeless as the painting.

“Helen.”

She whirled. Jack stood just outside the open door, his figure half lost to the night. He took a hesitant step forward, then another.

Helen dropped the paintbrush as she backed into the canvas. “Just go away.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Her eyes were naked and full of sudden tears. “Why are you here?”

He slowly rounded the table filled with supplies, skirted mid-sized barrels on the floor full of containers of varnish. All too soon, he was standing in front of her with those ice blue eyes filled with tears of his own.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said.

Jack reached for her. Helen started swinging at the contact, screaming with feral tones. “Don’t you touch me! Get away from me, you bastard!”

Jack took her slaps and hits without notice. He simply hauled her into his arms until her movements ceased. She cried against him, soul deep sobs that broke his heart. Still, he held on, murmuring that he wasn’t going anywhere.

They stood there, swaying to the music for a moment before his mouth found hers. She tasted of primrose and dreams. He drank deep, cupping her face with his hands as her arms wrapped around his torso.

“Let me love you,” he said against her lips.

“Koshad sema sahelo,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to do this, Jack.”

“I won’t hurt you.” He swept Helen up in his arms and carried her into the adjacent room. He set her down near the bed, kept his eyes on hers.

“I won’t hurt you,” he repeated.

“Asheno. I know.”

He touched the hem of her beige shirt, lifted slightly. “Can I?”

She squeezed her eyes closed and nodded. Jack lifted the shirt over her head. It fell to the floor without notice. The lamplight was merciful. It glanced off the scars on her upper arms with barely a glimmer and highlighted the rest of her unmarked skin. Eyes still closed, she presented him with her back.

The scars covered her in a haphazard network of grisly knotted flesh. There were even scars on top of scars in some places. His stomach clenched imagining the pain they must have caused her.

Jack lightly trailed his fingers just under the white lace bra she wore. Helen’s shoulders began to shake. He knew she was crying again, but he just pulled her closer to him. Then with exquisite care, he kissed the back of her neck. The light caress caused her to sigh. But when his lips brushed the top of the scars, she tried to scramble out of his embrace.

“I can’t do this.”

He held on. “It’s alright, Helen.”

“I’m a monster,” she sobbed.

“I don’t see any monsters here.”

She covered her face with her hands. “How can you stand to look at me? How can anyone?”

“Helen, I love you.”

“No one can love me,” came the pained whisper.

“You’re wrong about that.” Jack spun her around, fisted his hands in her wild curls.

His kiss was smoldering, electric. He felt his breath mingling with hers, and heard his heartbeat roaring in his ears. He yielded to her softness, gliding his hands over her body with abandon. Flame roared through her system, wild and sensuous. She burned from quiet muse to siren in seconds. They fell upon the bed in a tangle of limbs, urgently shedding clothing as the fire raged with a force all its own.

Skin to skin, body to body. Scars were a forgotten memory left in the lamplight’s dust. Sensation rose in waves of sexual tension, released by the mingling of lips. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he removed her bra to feast on her breasts. Her sighs rose and fell with the violin pouring from the speakers. The night fell around them, engulfing the room beyond the bed in shadow.

“Haushenon aeshesno oh,” she breathed. “You are mine.”

“Yes,” he answered, his face buried in the curve of her neck.

Jack entered her, going wild when she gasped his name. Helen moved beneath him fluidly, surrendering thought for the smoldering heat of his loving.

The pulse of their heartbeats mingled. Submerged in each other, they floated on a tide of wonder. The waters of pleasure swept them away towards their own island. Two naked souls collided on the shore with every scar inside and out washed by the sea.

Clean.

___________________________________________________

“Don’t the scars intimidate you?” she said eventually.

“What intimidates me is knowing I’m not as strong as you are.”

She’d had her head resting on his chest, but sat up to look at him. “What?”

“I wouldn’t be able to look after a woman who'd done that to me. As it is, I’m barely able to keep myself from going in there and beating her to death right now.”

“She’s sick,” Helen murmured. “She can't help it.”

Jack remembered the shadow standing by the window and thought otherwise. “Sometimes people are just evil. And that’s exactly what your mother is.”

“Maybe I deserved it.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

She shook her head. “You don’t know who I really am or what I’m capable of.”

“Tell me, then.”

Helen climbed over him with lithe movements to stand, wrapping herself gracefully in a sheet. Beside the bed was a blue nightstand with a single drawer. She opened it and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, which surprised Jack.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t. I’ve had this pack for well over a year. But when I get upset or stressed, I smoke one.”

“What about when you've had really great sex? Do you smoke then?”

A smile nipped at the corners of her mouth. “Maybe.”

“So what makes you think I don’t know you?” Jack settled back against the headboard to listen.

She sat on a stool by the table. “One night when I was about 16, I was preparing dinner. She didn’t cook back then. That was my responsibility. She asked me what I’d done with the cheese sauce. I had my headphones on. So when I finally heard her, I just motioned with my hands instead of talking. Her response was to chase me through the house with one of my father’s machetes in the front room, screaming that she shouldn't have to ask me more than once about anything. Then she beat me with it. That’s where the first of the scars came from. But that wasn’t even the worst one. The beatings with the brooms were worse. I didn’t want my arms or legs broken, so I would turn away from her. All she could do was hit my back. But one night she went too far.”

Helen paused to extract a cigarette. She reached over to the lamp and picked up a lighter Jack hadn't noticed was there. She lit up, then took a steadying drag. “She beat me until something in me snapped. I don’t even remember cleaning myself up, but I do remember that I waited until she went to bed. Then I went into the kitchen and got a butcher knife. I held it to her throat while she slept for a long time.”

She finished off the cigarette, stubbed it out on the table itself. “I know what I’m capable of more than most people. I know that I can kill someone.”

“I’m still waiting to hear the part where you’re a monster.”

“I just told you.”

“That doesn't make you a monster. It makes you a miracle.”

“Have you killed before?”

“Yes.”

“How did it feel?”

“It felt wrong,” Jack said without hesitation. “And if it ever stops feeling wrong, then you have more problems than whatever is at the other end of your weapon.”

“I would have enjoyed killing her. That makes me poison.”

Jack got off the bed to wrap his arms around her. They stood there naked in the silence, listening to the birds and squirrels rustling in the tree limbs hanging over the barn.

“I can’t listen to you beat yourself up over your mother anymore tonight,” he said after he pressed a kiss to her temple. “It twists me up inside.”

She stared at him. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

At this, he grinned. And in that moment, he was breathtaking.

“Of course you do,” he said easily. “Come back to bed.”

This time, she laughed and did what she was told.

___________________________________________________

Dawn blushed against the sky with rosy hues. They lay entangled in each other’s arms, watching the light illuminate their faces.

Jack’s fingers ran along her toffee skin.

“What is your actual heritage?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious as to how you came to have this lovely shade, my dear.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

Helen laughed. “My mother is black, but I don’t know much about her family history. My father was Pegan, part of the Nipmuc tribe. As far as I know, he was the last one in this area.”

“How is that possible?”

“His people mostly died from smallpox and were driven into a reservation outside of Dudley. When the area was settled, the townspeople began attacks on the ‘savages’ even though there were less than a dozen Pegans at the time. My father told me only three of our relatives survived that last raid in 1795. Another died on the trip to what would one day be Carnish. The land and this house were passed down to him.

Jack began to toy with her silky curls. “So that was a native language I heard earlier.”

“Yes. My father raised me in the old ways because my mother had no interest in teaching me about her culture. She acts like her family ceased to exist the moment she left New York with him. I know she has a brother in Harlem who plays saxophone and teaches at one of the colleges in the city. He came here to visit once when I was ten. It didn’t go well. My mother kicked him out.”

“So you have no ties to Carnish other than your mother.”

“I suppose. The land will come to me when she dies, but I don’t love it like my father did. Too many memories.”

“Then come with me,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m waiting on news for a job. When I leave, I want you to come with me.”

Though her heart leapt at the thought, her mind recoiled. “I can’t just leave her.”

“Yes, you can. You don’t have to sacrifice your life to take care of that woman. You’ve resigned yourself to a life of suffering on purpose.”

“It’s my responsibility.”

He tightened his arms around her. “What about the responsibility you have to yourself?”

“If I go with you, you'll end up leaving me. I’d have to come crawling back to her penniless and broke.”

He took in a breath, surprised at how much her words hurt him. “I wouldn’t do that to you. It’s not in me. Besides, my family wouldn’t stand for it. My father isn’t even speaking to me right now because I made you upset.”

This shocked her. “Really?”

“He told me to get the hell off his property and not to come back until I fixed it.”

It made her giggle, the thought of Paul Ruskins talking to Jack that way. “That’s hilarious.”

He frowned. “No, it’s not. It’s just our way. I will do right by you. I’m not just saying that. I mean it. So I’m not going to have you waiting hand and foot on that woman for the rest of your life. If you want, I’ll hire someone to care for her out of my own pocket. But you aren’t going to stay in this house another day if I can help it.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Uncomfortable, she rose to get a cigarette from the side table with shaking fingers.

“Helen—”

“Maybe you should leave and just let me think for a while.“

At that point, Jack figured they were done talking. He pulled her down to the mattress and made love to her again.

An hour later, she reached out for an unlit cigarette she’d dropped on the floor. Thinking of what Jack had been doing to make her drop it caused her cheeks to grow warm while she smoked. It would have been lovely to linger there with him all day, but she could already hear shouts from the second floor.

“You don’t have to go,” Jack told her as she dressed.

“Yes, I do.” She pressed her forehead to his. “When I’m ready to talk again, I’ll come to the store or your house.”

Then Helen slipped out of the barn, leaving Jack to brood with his thoughts.

___________________________________________________

For three days and three nights, Jack made himself wait. He kept himself busy by fixing the radiator on his brother’s truck and installing the shelves his mother wanted in the kitchen. Agreeing to help fix a busted pipe in Mrs. Heschel’s basement turned into an impromptu meetup with four of his old high school buddies. After hanging out with them for an evening at Donovan's Pub, he reclaimed his former title of being the last man standing after a drinking contest.

But mostly, Jack walked.

He snatched up his backpack before dawn and hit the trail before the first streak of light brightened the sky. The glaze of fresh sunlight always struck the horizon with the same dazzle Helen’s face gained when she genuinely smiled.

The paths were more worn than they’d been when he’d been a teenager, but Jack was more knowledgeable. The first day, he found the boulder they visited easily. He sat there at the top, amazed by the view in the valley below. Jack had left Carnish as a smug, self-absorbed kid with the attitude that the little town of his birth had nothing left to show him. In the space of one morning, Helen had shown him more about the place he’d grown up than in all the days he’d actually lived there.

His town had secrets, little pockets of hidden beauty alongside minute hells in plain view. He wondered how often he’d passed by the Eveningclaw house while Helen was being beaten. Her scars flashed in his mind, the horrific intricacy of them. The image chased the peace away from the boulder. He rose and wandered through the woods for another hour more before heading back home. For two days after that, his pattern remained the same.

On the fourth day, Jack overslept due to his rowdy night of drinking. He woke to an empty house and a note from his mother to stop brooding.

The phone rang just after he emerged from the shower. With water dripping in his eyes, he spoke for twenty minutes with candor. That was the amount of time it took for Jack to accept his new position with the forestry service. He had a direction now and more immediate plans than he initially thought possible. The new job required relocation to Isela, Virginia with on site housing and training set to begin on Monday. That gave him about a half a week to get everything together.

Jack had been hired without a formal interview for the same reason why he’d be on the road driving out of Carnish within a day or two: he was a man of action. His service record said as much. And because of this same trait, he was already dressed and out of the door ten minutes after the phone call.

___________________________________________________

The Eveningclaw House appeared rather decrepit during the day. The sunlight streaming through the trees was particularly harsh to its peeling facade and sagging porches. Some of the gutters swung away from the house like loose teeth hanging from a skull. Jack thought about Helen’s mother standing in the second floor window and felt the house resembled its occupant more than anything else.

Jack was quiet as he approached. Used to doing reconnaissance missions, his shoes made no sound against the overgrown swatch of lawn. Within minutes, he learned that Helen was in the barn painting. The smooth alto of her singing along with Ella Fitzgerald’s “Blue Skies” struck his ears long before he peered through the window to see her sitting on a stool in front of a canvas.

Jack inched away from the window, circled back to the front of the house without being seen and went inside. Helen’s mother would no doubt be furious to see him, he knew. It wouldn't be a pleasant visit with afternoon tea. But he had an idea that the only way to get Helen to leave this house hinged on Sarah Eveningclaw giving her permission. Where this instinct came from, he had no clue. But since his intuition had saved his life more than once during his career as a Marine, he was inclined to listen to it.

Jack had to admit that he was surprised by the interior of Helen’s home. The stark disrepair and decay outside were nowhere to be seen. Each room was free of dust and decorated with the kind of country furniture he’d expect in a Southern home rather than a New England one. He even spied a decorative plate set with roosters lining the wall in the living room.

Poking his head into the kitchen revealed a neat little space with ivy-patterned accents and the kind of delicate dishes that made his hands instantly feel stupid using them. He stopped in the parlor, and saw that it had been converted into a bedroom. This was a “Helen” room. It smelled like her, that little hint of amber and lavender special she exuded. The rest of the first floor felt empty.

The first hint of the old woman’s dark presence didn’t hit him until the stairs. This growing sense of dread led his footsteps to the end of the hall. The heavy oak door was already cracked. Jack pushed it aside.

Sarah Eveningclaw stared at him from the bed with such malice he was surprised the heat of it didn’t incinerate her. Emaciated, she lay propped up against a small armada of white pillows that only emphasized the unhealthy parlor to her dark skin. She seemed animated only by the force of her rage.

“Don’t think that I’m so far gone that I don't know you’re fucking my daughter,” she spat at him.

Jack didn’t respond at first. Instead, he let his eyes travel over the room he knew Helen polished and cleaned while listening to the bile being flung at her from the bed. His gaze settled on the floor, which he was also sure she’d bled on after the beatings that caused her scars. He wondered if the old woman had made her clean that up, too.

“Does she know?” Jack said softly.

“Know what, you son of a bitch?”

“That you’ve done all this to her because you enjoy it.” His eyes whipped back to hers with a fury that made her flinch.

“I have my spells. She knows that,” the old woman said.

Jack crossed the room and put his face inches from hers. “I’ve seen people like you before. They exist in every hellhole I’ve ever been deployed in. A bunch of soulless voids that exist only to feed off the living.”

He watched the sweat pop out on Sarah’s forehead. Few people were ever exposed to this side of him. It was the part of him that had seen too many horrors, heard too many lies, and knew too many evils. During his service career, Jack had been told more than once that it made him terrifying.

“Do you know what my nickname was in the military?”

Sarah said nothing.

“It was ‘Rag.’ One of our buddies told me I reminded him of Raguel, the angel of Vengeance, because of how lethal I can be in the field. It stuck because it pissed me off. They thought it was funny, but I never did. The people I took out were lost causes. Their eyes were soulless like yours. They’d get guns and kill to get their jones. You play crazy to get yours. The way I see it...the only difference between them and you is how long you take to kill.”

He picked up the cup of tea on the side table and pressed it to the old woman’s lips. His eyes never left hers. She drank nervously.

Just as it had days before, something clicked for him. “You beat her because she lived.”

“My parents made me marry John because I was pregnant. They let him move me out of New York to come here.” Sarah’s eyes filled with tears. “They were both supposed to die that day. I-I fixed the boat. John loved his fishing. But he’d been in the barn showing off his artwork to Helen that morning. I didn’t know she stayed behind to paint. I would have been free of both of them and this horrible little town. This isn’t the life I wanted.”

The confession didn’t surprise him. Jack knew he’d hear something like this the moment he stepped over the threshold. He’d heard many such explanations from people during the course of earning his nickname. Some of them felt the need to unburden themselves when faced with an imminent threat of their demise.

What did surprise him was the fact that he no longer wanted to harm Sarah Eveningclaw for what she’d done. She deserved it, no doubt. But life was already enacting a more thorough punishment than he could ever give. The creak in the hallway before Sarah’s little speech told him as much.

“Are you going to kill me now?” Sarah stared at him with her bottom lip quivering through her tears.

“My days of delivering with death are done. I’m going downstairs to get Helen.”

“Where will you take her?”

“As fucking far away from you as possible,” he replied.

Jack stepped into the hallway. As he knew she would be, Helen stood there holding a serving tray with her mother’s lunch. He didn’t have to ask to know that she’d heard it all. The grief on her face was plain enough. Slowly, Helen went around Jack and into the room.

Sarah grew indignant seeing her. “How much did you hear?” she shrieked.

Helen did not respond. Nor did she meet her mother’s eyes. She simply placed the tray on the nightstand, removed the morning dishes and left. Jack closed the door on the woman’s indignant screeches.

___________________________________________________

When Jack didn’t find Helen in the house or the barn, he had a good idea of where she’d gone. He went back into the kitchen to grab a couple of bottles of water before venturing into the trees. She would be thirsty, especially if she ran there.

The woods were different at midday. What seemed dreamy and ethereal at dawn now seemed vibrant and alive. Plants and trees shimmered with sunlight. He watched a chipmunk dash into a cluster of plants at the base of a sycamore, safe from the hawk circling overhead.

Jack found her at the top of the boulder. She stood with the wind blowing those glorious curls about her shoulders while tears ran down her face.

“Helen,” he said once he was standing beside her.

She held up a hand to ward him off. “Don’t touch me.”

“Okay.” He offered her a water bottle. “Take a drink. We’ve got time.”

Helen swiped at her face, took the water. But she stared at the bottle as if she didn’t know how to open it for a long moment. “I always knew she hated me. She used to say as much even before my father died. I just didn’t know she hated him, too.”

“Some people are just made wrong,” he said.

“I came from that.” The sob was locked in her chest, forcing her words out in whispers. “Is it any wonder that I held a knife to her throat? I am my mother’s daughter.”

“Stop,” Jack told her. “Just stop. She’s the monster. She’s always been the monster haunting you, but now you know it.”

Her breath hitched. Her face crumpled. Jack held onto her while the first storm of sobbing struck. He was still holding on when the last one abated. Eventually, Helen curled up against him when they sat down together on the large stone.

“I received the call I was waiting for today,” he said, breaking the silence.

“So you’re leaving? When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t.” He stroked her hair. “The job is in Virginia. Come with me.”

The silence stretched until Jack cupped her chin in his hand to force her to look at him. “I love you,” he murmured. “Let me give you the life you deserve, Noshe.”

Her throat tightened hearing her secret name fall from his lips. Helen could only nod. They hiked back through the woods to visit Jack’s family. It was after 3 by that time, but he called the store to ask for a family meeting. Paul closed up and was home within a half hour, no questions asked. His mother fussed over them, serving tea and slices of the apple pie she’d baked the day before. And over spoonfuls of sweetness, Jack recounted his job offer and what had taken place that afternoon. Paul took the news the hardest.

“John was one of my best friends,” he said, swiping at his eyes with a napkin. “I always wondered how he could have drowned.” His face went hard. “He was good to Sarah. She didn’t have a reason to do this. If I had known—”

“She didn’t want anyone to know,” Helen interrupted.

“We should have known. We could have helped you,” Paul insisted.

“We’re going to help her now,” his mother said, talking over everyone. “Jack wants to leave tomorrow. There’s no way I’m going to let Helen go back to that house with that battleax for another night. We’re going to load up Jack’s pickup truck right now.” Those hazel eyes met Helen’s. “You’ll stay here tonight.”

The simple acceptance in her gaze drove Helen to tears again. “Why are you doing this?”

Jack watched his mother go around the table to frame Helen’s face with her hands. “Because my baby loves you. That makes you family.”

___________________________________________________

With three additional people, it only took an hour to load up the supplies from the barn. Jack’s mother went with Helen into the house. The men heard screaming at several points during their task, none of which made them want to intervene. From the sounds of it, his mother was giving Sarah Eveningclaw enough words for all of them.

They’d just put the last of the canvases in the bed of the truck when Paul took out a rag and began to mop his face in the glare of the late afternoon sun.

“It was like this with your mother, you know,” he said, nodding up at the second floor.

“What do you mean?” Jack asked.

“I saw her walking down the street one day with her girlfriends. Didn’t know her from Adam, you understand? But life just snapped into focus. We were hitched six weeks later. It was a helluva uproar with our families, but I just knew she was the one.” His face beamed with approval when he heard another righteous yell from his wife over Sarah’s rantings. “She still is.”

Jack remembered his grandparents on both sides recounting the same story at family gatherings growing up with fondness. “Is that why all of you are being so supportive?” he asked.

Mike chuckled as he sat on the back of the old pickup truck smoking a cigarette. “Shit, Jack, I think all of us knew the deal after you ran out the store that day like your ass was on fire. Never seen you tongue-tied over a woman in my life. It was funny as hell.”

He shot his brother a look. “One day I’ll be ragging on you over the same thing.”

Mike just shrugged. “I’m enjoying my bachelorhood. I’ll leave all this commitment nonsense to you.”

Another bellow of rage had them glancing at the second floor again. Paul shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Are you sure you can handle her?” Jack asked for the fifth time, frowning.

“We’re not going to handle anything,” Paul replied. “The sheriff will.”

___________________________________________________

“You think I’m going to let some skinny bitch come into my house and boss me around?” Sarah bellowed from the bed.

“I’m not the bitch you have to worry about,” Gwynevere Ruskins shot back. “If I had known what you were doing up in this house all those years, a bunch of white coats would have been up here to haul your sorry ass away a long time ago.”

Sarah sneered. “I’m not afraid of you.” But when Gwynevere got in her face, Sarah realized where Jack had gotten his fire and cowered inside.

“You should be,” she replied. “I’m the only thing standing between your one-way ticket to a jail cell. There isn’t a statue of limitation on murder, Sarah. John was a good man. He deserved better.”

“John deserved what he got.”

The sound of Guinevere's hand striking her mother’s face down the hall startled Helen so bad she dropped the blouse she was folding. For a moment, she pressed trembling hands against her cheeks as the screaming match resumed.

“Don’t you dare speak of him.” Fury transformed Gwynevere into a salt-and-peppered haired avenger in a gingham shirt and jeans. “My Paul loved John. We all did. Now we’re going to do what we should have done back then and take his daughter to a real home.”

“Fuck you.”

Gwynevere smiled. “When I come back this evening, it’s going to be with the sheriff and an ambulance from Turner Psychiatric. We signed all the paperwork this afternoon. And there’s not a person in town who will disagree that you aren’t batshit insane. So save your energy for screaming at them. You’ll need it.”

She left the room, slamming the door behind her. Only then would she allow herself to press her fingers to her eyes for a second just to regroup. Sarah Eveningclaw was not just an angry woman. She was a demon. Gwynevere was worn out dealing with her, but there was still one thing left to do.

She found Helen in a room down the hall sitting on a bed covered with a lilac pattern next to a half-packed suitcase. “Sorry you had to hear all that,” she said. “I figured it was better to have her yelling at me instead of you while you packed.”

“I’m almost done. There’s a suitcase by the back door with all my stuff from downstairs. Just this room left.”

Gwynevere pulled her in for a hug. “I’m going to take it to the truck. You take all the time you need, honey. We’ll be right outside. And remember: you’ve got a real family now.”

Alone, Helen stared at the room for a minute. She’d started sleeping downstairs once her mother became a recluse who confined herself to the second floor of the house. But years ago, this tiny alcove towards the front of the house had been her bedroom. She could still remember waking up in the morning to see her father loading up his truck on the way to the fire station in town, his fire chief badge clipped to his shirt. Now the windows faced an overgrown yard where Sarah’s aging Buick sat rusting over the cracked driveway.

It should have been easy to leave, but it wasn’t. The house creaked in mourning around her as she packed the last items from her old dresser, little keepsakes she collected over the years. The final thing to go in the closet was a notebook she’d kept in ninth grade. Her father drowned a month and a half after the last day of school. That was also the summer that the beatings began.

Helen lost her passion for words that year in the months between June and September. Only silence could ever express the loss of the one man she’s loved more than anything. Heart pounding, she flipped to the last page of the journal, tracing her father’s familiar scrawl with trembling fingers:

I wasn’t snooping, Densohan. I just found this on the floor when I brought your laundry in. I want you to remember that you’re my noshe, my heart. No matter what happens, I’ll always be proud of the woman you’ll become. But secretly? I hope you’ll be a painter. You’ve got the eye and the talent for it. But you’ve also got the wings that I don’t. One day, baby girl, I hope you fly.

Love, Dad

Helen wiped the tears from her cheeks, then placed the notebook in the suitcase. It was light enough that she could carry it in one hand. In truth, she’d lived in the barn for years. The house just held memories. Now even those weren’t enough to keep her there anymore.

Her footsteps were light as she made her way to her mother’s room. She stood in the doorway, a silent specter with her suitcase in hand, watching the dustmotes hover in the sunlight streaming from the windows between them.

Sarah refused to look at her. Helen waited for a minute, then two. Then she abandoned the husk on the bed.

“I’m sorry.”

The words struck her back just as Helen reached the end of the hall. Somewhere inside her, she heard a lock opening as she descended the stairs one by one.

Jack was waiting on the porch, glacial eyes full of love and watching her through the screen door. And when she pushed it open, she emerged from the house for the last time.

Free.