Free Whisper Hollow by Chris Cander Page B

will take me in.
And of course, there was always Ruth.
    She had finished Jesus’s Last Supper and was well into the Agony in the Garden when there was an unexpected knock at the door.
    John Esposito was standing, not perfectly upright, on her porch. “Evening, Myrthen.” He thrust a handful of flowers at her. She hadn’t seen him at all since sometime after the stock market crashed and before Thanksgiving, after her relentless unwillingness to flirt or even converse became obviously uncomfortable for them all. He’d stopped coming, finally. “It’s dark,” he said, pointing at the flowers. “Might be a few weeds mixed in by accident.”
    “What are you doing here?”
    “I came to see you.”
    “Why?”
    He cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking about you is all.” He cleared his throat again. “Do you think I could have a glass of water?”
    “My parents aren’t home.”
    “No offense, but we’re adults.” He cleared his throat a third time. “And I could really use a glass of water.”
    She sighed, and pulled the door open to allow him in. “Wait here,” she said, and went into the kitchen. That’s when she caught her reflection in the window above the sink, and realized she wasn’t wearing her veil. It had become her habit,covering her head — hiding herself from other people — and now she felt exposed without it. Still, something made her smooth down her hair, tuck in a piece that had gone astray. Was it that mole on his cheek? The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled? She shook her head against such silly thoughts, and the stray lock of hair came loose again. Filling a glass, she rushed into her bedroom to put on the dark lace under which she could hide.
    “Here.” She offered him the glass of water, and he drank it all in one long gulp. He smiled and handed it back to her and she could see by the way he rocked on his heels that he wasn’t in his right mind. “Have you been drinking?” For some reason, it didn’t occur to her that he’d come all the way inside, and wasn’t waiting at the door as she’d asked.
    “Not much,” he said, shaking his head. “Just a couple sloe gin fizzes down at the Speakeasy with Pepper Pollock and some other fellas.” He raised his eyebrows and blinked a few times. “Maybe three.” He reached down for the armrest of the couch where he’d sat in her polite company the previous autumn. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked, not waiting for permission as he sank onto the cushions.
    “What if I do?” She stood in front of him, holding the empty glass, uncertain of what to do next.
    He patted the couch. “Come on and sit a minute.” She took a breath, and shifted her weight. “Aw, come on, I’m not gonna bite you,” he said, and smiled. The thoughtful way he looked at her was more than she could bear.
    The lamp flickered behind him and cast a thick glow in Myrthen’s direction. John propped his head against his fist, leaned back into the corner, and looked at her. She sat down at the other end and stared intently at her mother’s sewing basket. They stayed that way for several minutes. The chill that had kept her company earlier, she noted, was gone.
    “It’s actually nice sitting here with you, quiet like this,” he said.
    In her mind, she heard herself begging her mother,
I can sit quietly with you.
Her mother saying no. Always no. It was a torment, not being wanted. She looked up at John.
    “You know, you shouldn’t wear that thing all the time. Nobody can see your face that way.” His voice was gentle, soft.
    “That’s the idea,” she said, not unkindly.
    “Can I see your eyes?” he said. “I just mean so we can talk. It feels like I’m in the confessional with your face all covered up like that.”
    She didn’t move, but neither did she decline. Instead, she tried to recall if anyone had ever asked her to remove her veil. She’d been wearing it in public for years. Her mother may have chided her in the beginning, but that