We courted on long walks home from school and across a nicked and varnished table at the Mourning Public Library. He asked what I was reading and, almost every time, would say he’d read the book as well. He strolled around the library, came back to the table and slid a book across to me. I began to think that all he’d done up to that point was read books. He was training to be a writer. Grandmother sent me to the post office on Saturday afternoons and I was out the door like a flash, anticipating a moment with Edward who worked there with Mr. Cooper, sorting mail, delivering packages, sweeping up.
And then there were those dewy mornings we met just beyond the shotgun cabins of Lizzie’s people. I’d walk along the dirt road fronting the shack where Lizzie had grown up and wave to Miss Della and Fern, Teeth and his missus if she was on the front porch with him. In a meadow of lavender and black-eyed Susan, the tall grass and trees kept us hidden and cut off from the world. Blades as soft and fine as hair brushed my bare shoulders and the view of the foothills in the distance, so pale green and gray with blue sky above, reminded me of the mural over the library’s circulation desk. I can still recall the scent of lilac caught on a breeze and carried like a kite, and what the earth smelled like after a light rain.
Now, I don’t mean to say that what happened between Edward and me in that meadow was anything other than what two young and curious people might get into naturally. No, our wedding night in the Chisca Hotel was new to me. But I won’t say it wasn’t a start, either. Back in Mourning, we held hands and talked, mostly about school and the stories he was writing. Sometimes we’d just sit and take in the view, feel the sun on our faces. It was I who leaned in for that first kiss. He already had the faintest whiskers and they tickled my face. It was the meadow and the foothills in the distance I was thinking about as Christine and I sat across from one another during a lull in our shift at the Arcade. We each had coffee and she smoked a cigarette, and she told me about the mountains of Arkansas. Her mystery man had taken her to Hot Springs for the weekend, telling his wife he had business there. Christine gushed about the horse races and the hot spring baths (“We were bathed and massaged together, Amelia! Naked as jaybirds right there in front of the attendants.”) and the food they’d eaten in the finest restaurants. She finally had her time as the sole woman, the wife-for-a-weekend that she’d always dreamed about. And it had gone better than she could have hoped. I didn’t see any bruises this time, no black eye. He behaved like a gentleman, she said. “He truly does love me, I believe that.”
“Where did you stay?” I asked, trying to stay engaged though I wanted to tell her she should have just stayed there while he came back. Arkansas had been her home, after all. “Why, the Arlington, of course. Finest hotel in the Ozarks. His boss has business in Hot Springs and keeps a suite, so we took advantage. It was like a honeymoon.”
“The problem is honeymoons never do last.” I don’t know why I said it. The way Christine’s face fell told me it was as hurtful as a slap across the cheek. Edward and I never had a honeymoon. Unless you count our night in the Chisca before he shipped out, we never experienced what so many married couples are blessed with. I suppose I resented her a little, spending a luxurious weekend in a beautiful hotel with massages, champagne, entertainment, sex for days on a whim. I never had that with Edward and never would. I had a train ride, a wedding night in a strange city, and then the gift of a hotel stay with the entire weight of the unknown in bed with us. And we had those moments in the meadow. I clung to those memories even as Christine’s tales of her Hot Springs weekend washed them out like house paint in the sun. I could sense the color of those moments, but they would never be as vibrant as they’d once been.
RICHARD J. ALLEY is an award-winning reporter, columnist, and editor from Memphis. His work has appeared in Memphis magazine, Oxford American, and Humanities Tennessee, among others. He is the author of the novel, Five Night Stand, and a story contributor to the anthology, Memphis Noir. richardalley.com
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SHORT AND SWEET (or not-so-sweet), the Very Short Story Contest welcomes entries of up to 750 words, maximum. Writers are encouraged to incorporate the city into their work. Winning stories will be published in Memphis and archived on memphismagazine.com. Whereas the fiction contest was in the past a once-a-year event, the Very Short Story Contest will recognize ten winning entries annually, every month except February and August. The Very Short Story Contest is presented by Novel, Memphis' newest independent bookstore, where each winning author will be honored with a $200 gift certificate. To submit your story, send it via email, accompanied by a brief bio, to fiction@memphismagazine.com.
