31
Delilah
When I reach Gray, I take the seat across the table from him, tucking my legs up under me. “You busy?”
“Mostly banging my head against the wall. You need something?”
“Company, I guess.”
He watches me like he always does. Not so much to figure out what I’m thinking, although he sometimes does that too, but to give me time to right my emotions, and to square them with my thoughts. I burn hot inside. Everything moves lightning-fast. I often need extra time to shape my reflections into words fit for civilized discussion.
Gray understands this idiosyncrasy—in a way that no one has ever bothered to before.
But it doesn’t matter how much time he gives me today, because the words, like the reality they describe, are inelegant, with rough, jagged edges. And time won’t change any of it.
“I grew up differently than you,” I blurt gracelessly.
“Is that right?” he drawls, one corner of his mouth tipping up. “Tell me about it.”
“My mama wasn’t like yours.”
Clouds descend over his brilliant blue eyes. Not the white puffy cotton ball ones, like those outside the window, but stormy ones, bleak and hopeless. Gray never talks about his mother, and I probably shouldn’t have brought her up.
“The Marshalls lived across the street,” I continue, hoping that my sad story will make him forget about his—at least for a few minutes. “They had a son, Richard, who was born after they had given up all hope of a baby. Mrs. Marshall stayed home to take care of him, and out of the goodness of her heart, she took care of me too.” I glance at him and the clouds are gone, but they’re likely to return because this isn’t the retelling of a fairy tale. “She patiently combed knots out of my hair and taught me how to bake a flaky biscuit and fry catfish without stinkin’ up the house—” I smile sheepishly. “That part didn’t work out so well.”
“It worked out just fine,” he murmurs. It’s soft and gentle. He’s careful not to spook me, so that I don’t stop talking.
But what he doesn’t know is that no matter what he says, I won’t stop. I can’t.
“Mrs. Marshall invited me to supper regularly, Friday movie nights, and to the carnival when it was in town. In exchange, I entertained Richie while she fixed supper or cleaned cupboards, or when she visited with a friend.”
This was the best part of my childhood. It might be trite to the listener—but not to me. It’s part of my story—and the end can’t be fully understood unless you know the beginning.
“As the years went on, I spent more and more time with the Marshalls. They insisted on it. When I was old enough to understand, I realized they were the shield between my developing teenage body and the men Mama brought home.”
Gray comes around and takes the seat next to me, twirling the chairs until they face one another, with nothing between us. He runs a gentle hand over my hair. I want to hang onto it, because the saddest part of the story isn’t yet told and I’m already feeling shaky inside.
“Did one of those men hurt you?” he asks, the wariness seeping around the edges.
I shake my head. “No. There were a few close calls.” One in particular that still makes my skin crawl. “But it never came to that.” I hear the air leave Gray’s lungs.
He brings my hand to his mouth and places a kiss on my knuckles.
“Tell me more.” He kisses my hand again, then rubs small circles with his thumb on the inside of my palm. “Tell me about your mother.”
My mother. She’s both a central figure and inconsequential at the same time.
“She was weak, and I don’t doubt for a second she would have traded my innocence for her survival, or perhaps even for a piece of jewelry or a pretty dress.”
I hear the words as they emerge, and the events are achingly familiar, but the thin, detached voice isn’t mine. It’s as though someone else is telling my story.
Gray is outwardly calm—for my sake, I’m sure—but rage flickers in his eyes.
“While they never let on in front of me,” I continue, dispassionately, “I’m sure the Marshalls knew it too.”
The clouds are back, obscuring his vision. This time they’re dark and angry, threatening an eruption that would rival anything Mother Nature might summon.
“Mr. Marshall was a math teacher at the high school. He tutored me in algebra, and helped me fill out college applications. We cobbled together enough financial aid and scholarship money so I could have a fresh start. Like his wife, he stepped in to help whenever he could. But I was a huge burden.”
“I sincerely doubt that.” In his rush to protect me, he’s dismissive. “You were a little girl. I’m sure they were happy to help.”
“You don’t understand.” I jerk my hand away. “They were black. I was a cute little blonde thing. It was rural Mississippi. They were harassed by the sheriff, social services. Even the principal called me into his office one afternoon to question me about the untoward relationship I had with Mr. Marshall. He almost lost his job. No one gave a goddamn that my mother left me alone for days on end without a morsel of food, but they lined up one after another to accuse the black man of diddling the pretty white girl.”
I pause to rein in some of the skyrocketing emotion. “But you know what? The Marshalls never blinked. They never once turned their backs on me, not even when the association threatened their reputations.
It wasn’t my mama who saved me from a life of poverty, barefoot and pregnant, with a brood of young ones chasing me through the weeds. It was the Marshalls. I owe them everything. Everything.”
The clouds are gone again, and there’s a sparkle in his eyes.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“Not funny. Sweet, actually. You barefoot, running through the fields with blonde babies trailing behind you.”
“More like a nightmare,” I grumble.
“Do you still keep in touch with them?”
I squeeze my thighs so hard, Gray takes my hands, gently prying my fingers loose.
“What happened, Blue Eyes?”
This is the wretched part of the story, where my brain requires additional oxygen to churn through the sludge. I draw a large breath, and then another, to sustain me. “When I was in college, there was a scandal at the church in town. The priest was accused of molesting little boys.” The passion has crept into my voice, accompanying the dull ache inside my chest.
“Richie was one of them,” Gray says with the utmost care, as if helping to unburden me of the especially difficult parts.
I nod, my heart breaking like it happened yesterday. “He was fifteen when it became public. It was humiliating. No matter how many times we explained that he was a little boy when it happened—a victim—it didn’t help. He was bullied at school, called all sorts of names that were too hard for a teenage boy to bear.” I shield my face, because I don’t want him to see the anguish twisting through me. “He shot himself with his daddy’s gun.” I let out a small, strangled sigh.
“Delilah.”
Gray pulls me onto his lap, and I let him. Because I still need to finish, and I can’t stop to argue or it’ll never all come out. And because I feel safe there—safer than anywhere I’ve ever been.