She had no answer, nothing to tell him. Even if she could speak, what would she say? Loving you makes me sad.
Then the music did stop. There was an odd little pause before he stepped away from her, letting his hands fall.
“Hello, Tyler. You haven’t forgotten our dance, have you?”
Spring Mueller’s radiant smile and china doll eyes were dazzling. Carrie blinked in their brightness, backing up fast. Mr. Dattilio was announcing something called the “Cumberland Reel,” and parties of dancers were starting to form on the floor in some complicated pattern that dismayed her. Without waiting for Dr. Wilkes to say “Good-bye” or “Excuse me,” Carrie spun around and escaped into the crowd.
Eppy caught her at the edge of the dance floor, before she could reach the door. “I can see you’re having a good time now,” she laughed, “because your cheeks are red as apples. Did you enjoy your dance? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you dance before, now that I think of it. That Dr. Wilkes, isn’t he an interesting man? I’ve invited him for supper next week. Did you see Frank waltzing with Erma Stambaugh? I told him he had to, so she’d take out another ad for her restaurant in the paper.”
She kept on gossiping about her friends and neighbors, cackling at her own jokes. At last she ran out of talk and craned her neck over her shoulder. “Lord, Erma’s setting out the pies already, and I said I’d help. See you later, Carrie. You have fun!”
The minute Eppy was out of sight, Carrie turned and hurried out of the fire hall.
The night air was fresh and almost chilly after the hot closeness of the dance floor. She paused in the middle of the street and looked up at the sky. Tomorrow night the moon would be full; tonight it nearly was. A scuffling noise behind her made her whirl. There—a figure came away from the dark side of the building. She heard the fast crunch of gravel as the figure scrambled away and ran down the alley toward Wayne Street.
Broom—she knew him by his height and his rail thinness, but mostly by his peculiar jerky gait. She wanted to call out, tell him to stop. He’d been standing under the window, watching the dancers inside the hall, too shy or too scared to come in. Well, maybe it was just as well; he wouldn’t have liked it. She knew people who would have stared at him—at best. Laughed at him and made run of him at worst. But the thought of him standing out here by himself for who knew how long made her feel like crying.
She started up Broad Street, walking toward the moon. It was rising over High Dreamer tonight, outlining the gentle curve of the summit with a silver glow. Almost always the sight of the moon coming and going behind wispy clouds could take her out of herself and make her forget all the little worries and sorrows she might be carrying. Not tonight. She was full of some strange, unnamable feeling, bursting with it, and it was so heavy on her that even the beautiful night sky couldn’t touch it. She heaved a troubled sigh and turned her face up to the moon, eyes closed. If she could bathe herself in its cold silver rays, as if it were the hot golden sun, maybe it could make her feel peaceful.
“Hey, Carrie, hold up!”
She whipped around. Eugene stopped running and walked the rest of the way toward her. Swaggered, more like, hands in his pockets, chin jutting at that smart-aleck angle; but when he got to her, he was still breathing hard. She could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“You going home so soon? I saw you before, but I was with somebody and couldn’t talk. I’ve never seen you at a dance before. You didn’t come with anybody, huh?”
She guessed he meant a man, and she shook her head. He looked “spiffy,” as Eppy would say, in a checkered jacket with a vest, and his thick brown hair slicked down with oil.
“You look good tonight, Carrie. What kind of flower is that?”
Eppy had pinned it to her dress—she’d forgotten all about it. She held up two fingers, then touched them to her lips, to tell him it was a tulip.
“Huh?”
She put her hand in her pocket for her notebook.
“Never mind, it don’t matter. Come on, I’ll walk with you a ways.”
Before she could nod all right, he took her hand. She was surprised, but she didn’t draw away. They were friends, after all. Sort of. They went along quietly for a little ways. She began to think there was something he wanted to tell her, because he was so silent and alert. His huge hand squeezed around hers hard, and she could feel the nerves jumping. She was more than surprised when he pulled her to a stop under the street lamp at Truitt Avenue and took hold of her other hand, too. She’d never seen this earnest, watchful look on his face. His eyes were black, and for once there was no mischief or goading in them.
“You look so good, Carrie,” he repeated, in a voice she’d never heard before either. “You’re really pretty.” Before she could think about that or anything else, he put both arms around her and kissed her on the mouth.
She was too startled to do anything except stand there and let it happen. Her first kiss. It didn’t seem quite real; her brain wouldn’t settle down enough to let her feel it. It’s not too bad, she decided. His arms felt good around her, strong and secure, and it was nice to be hugged. His lips pressed too hard, though; surely a kiss ought not to hurt. His mustache was scratchy, and she could smell the wax he’d put on it. He had her arms pinned to her sides, but she managed to free one and lift her hand to his cheek, pulling her mouth away.
“Carrie,” he muttered, still in that funny voice. He looked like he wanted to devour her. She pushed against his shoulder with her free hand, but he shifted his grip and kissed her again, and this time he opened his mouth wide over hers and licked her with his tongue. Her eyes widened in amazement. Then she felt his hand close over her breast, and amazement changed to shock. She started to struggle, pulling on his wrist and twisting her face away. He slid his wet lips along her cheek, making her shudder. Finally she got her other arm loose and pushed at him with both hands. With a grunt, he let her go.
His face changed from glazed to cocky while she watched. He put one hand in his pocket and jingled his change, grinning like a fox. “That’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it? I been saving it up for you.” He stepped toward her again, and she moved back quickly, realizing he wanted to do it again.
“Evening.”
They both whipped around. Dr. Wilkes was sauntering toward them down the middle of Broad Street. Carrie flushed hot as fire and hugged herself. Had he seen them? He must have! Lord, take me right now, I’m ready to die.
“Evening, Doc,” Eugene said, casual as anything. “On a call or something?”
“Not tonight.” He was watching her carefully. “Everything all right, Carrie?” he asked, just as casual.
“Everything’s fine.” Eugene stepped sideways, closer to her. Their arms touched, and she shied away. “Anything we can do for you?”
“You could let Carrie speak for herself.”
Eugene gave a fake-sounding laugh. “Well, that’d sure be a good trick, wouldn’t it?”
Maybe it was the light, but she thought Dr. Wilkes looked angry. What was happening? Some emotion between the two men eluded her. But he sounded nothing but pleasant when he said, “You left the dance so quickly, Carrie, you didn’t give me a chance to ask if I could walk you home.”
She could not believe her ears. Eugene couldn’t believe his either, because when she glanced at him his mouth was gaping open like a carp’s. Both men were looking at her, waiting for her to do something. She put her hand on top of her head, staring between them, floored by Dr. Wilkes’s offer—and aware that if she accepted it Eugene’s feelings would be hurt. Even though he hadn’t treated her in a gentlemanly way tonight, and even though he’d hide the hurt behind nastiness and bad temper, she didn’t have it in her to embarrass him. But she couldn’t go with him, either.
He solved her dilemma for her. Maybe he saw her answer in her face before she knew what it was going to be herself, because he didn’t wait to hear it. “Yeah, you go on with the doc, that’s a good idea. I got somebody waiting
for me anyway, so I better get going.” He smirked at her, and winked at Dr. Wilkes. “You know how women get when you keep ’em waiting.” He backed up a few steps, gave a cheeky salute, and slouched off down the street in the direction of the fire hall.
Carrie didn’t know where to look or what to do with her hands. Dr. Wilkes wasn’t feeling very comfortable either, she could tell. Sometimes it was a blessing, not being able to talk. She couldn’t decide if this was one of those times or not. Something needed to be said, but even if she was the chattiest girl in Wayne’s Crossing, right now she didn’t think she’d know what it was. She was relieved when he said, “Well, Carrie,” whatever that meant, and started walking toward the mountain.
They went along for a long time in silence, even after the street lamps gave out and there was nothing to light the way except the moon. Try as she might, she couldn’t fathom just what kind of silence it was. She’d gotten used to Dr. Wilkes’s easy, lighthearted conversation, designed, she knew, to set her at ease. When she shot secret glances at him, she saw him frowning and looking straight ahead, and all she could think was that he’d seen her and Eugene kissing, and it had put him in a bad mood. She still wanted to die—that he might think her a light sort of girl made her burn with embarrassment—but she also wanted to know why, if he disapproved of her now because he thought she was loose-moraled and easy, why he’d gone to the trouble of walking her home. No man had ever done such a thing before—Broom didn’t count. What was he thinking of her right now?
The track they were walking on curved between long pastures and fragrant fields; the smell of turned earth mingled with the faint scent of a distant skunk. The sky to the east was invisible now; Dreamy Mountain blocked it out, dark and somber and lovely. The fields gave out, and the last of the wild cherry fencerows; the scents of bittersweet and elderberry gave way to honeysuckle and pine. When they came to the bridge over South Creek, Carrie stopped.
Resting her notebook on the handrail, she wrote—hard, so he could read the message in the bright moonlight—I’ll go on by myself now.
“No, I’ll go with you,” he insisted—rather shortly, she thought.
No, but thank you. Too far for you. I’m used to it.
He scowled. “You shouldn’t be out by yourself this late. What does your stepfather think? Doesn’t he mind it when you’re out alone at night?”
She almost laughed. She sent him a look, but in her notebook she just wrote, No.
He muttered something, one side of his mouth twisting in disapproval. She thought he looked disgusted, and her spirits sank even lower. “I’ll go with you,” he repeated.
She shook her head vigorously. No. Thank you. You might get a call—somebody sick.
He read that, and put the notebook back on the railing. “All right, then,” he said after a long time.
Another pause. The low, bubbling rush of the creek below the wooden bridge sounded cheerful and indifferent. A scuffling in the brush along the far bank might be a ferret, or maybe a weasel, and in the distance she could hear the eerie wheeze of a barn owl. Gradually the realization struck her that Dr. Wilkes had something to say, but for some reason he was having trouble saying it.
She wrote in her notebook, What?
He bent close to read the word, and when he’d read it he almost smiled. “I’m not sure how to ask you,” he said.
She scribbled again.
“ ‘Just ask,’ ” he read out loud. He pulled on his earlobe. “All right. I saw you with Eugene, just now. I thought—I couldn’t tell if you were in difficulty or not. I didn’t mean to interrupt—something. If I butted in where I wasn’t wanted, I apologize.”
Carrie went pink again. How to explain? What had happened was new to her—a man’s touch, a man’s interest in her as a woman; she didn’t know the words to describe it even to herself. She wrote, Never mind. Lord, what a stupid thing to say! Eugene, she wrote—then crossed it out. She handed the notebook over, feeling idiotic, knowing that “Never mind” didn’t really get to the bottom of things.
He set the notebook down with a little slap. “Did you like it when he kissed you?”
She felt so relieved by the directness of the question, she shook her head violently—and was astounded when, for the first time since he’d found her in the street, Dr. Wilkes smiled. For the life of her, she thought he looked glad. An amazed warmth spread through her. A miracle might be happening. Dr. Wilkes might care for her.
She smiled back, lit up with hope and a fledgling joy. She couldn’t write what she was thinking. So instead she showed him. She put her finger to her lips, then reached out and touched it to his.
He looked floored. “You want me to kiss you?” he guessed.
Every ounce of her courage went into the slow nodding of her head, with a little left over to keep her from burying her hot face in her hands.
“Carrie. Listen.”
But he didn’t say anything after that, and the awful truth of what she’d done hit her like a fist. She got one long, panicky stride away before he caught her, first by one arm, then the other, and turned her back to face him. She’d never thought he could do a cruel thing, but he was making her look at him, making her show all the stupid, stupid shame she felt. Let me go, she begged him, don’t look at me.
“Carrie, wait. No, listen.” Now he had her face in his hands, holding her still. “Believe me, because it’s true—there isn’t anything I’d rather do than kiss you.”
His face blurred because her eyes were swimming, but she was acutely aware of the soft brush of his lips on hers and the warm whisper of his breath on her cheek. She closed her eyes, feeling her heart pound and her blood race. A minute passed and she pulled back, thinking it must be over now. But he kept his hands on her face, touching her cheeks and her lips with just the tips of his fingers, and then he put his mouth on hers again.
This one was different. Better. He held her closer and his mouth pressed harder; she thought of Eugene’s kiss for half a second, then forgot about it. Dr. Wilkes stroked the back of her neck and slid his fingers into her hair, cradling her head while he kissed her and kissed her. She held onto his arms and tried not to shake, all the while a million different feelings streamed through her. His mouth glided to her jaw and then her throat. “What is that?” he whispered. “That sweet smell. It’s right here.” She felt his lips move at the back of her ear; his deep inhale sent a delicious shudder through her whole body.
She couldn’t stop trembling. She made a blind, one-handed grab for her notebook, to answer his question.
A low laugh rumbled in his throat. “Tell me later,” he murmured, and kissed her mouth again.
She slipped her arms around his neck and pressed into him. Her lips parted under his. He drew his breath in with a sudden hiss and pulled back.
Oh—now it was over, she realized, and tried to steady herself, get her feet on the ground again. Breathing hard, she gazed up at him, searching for a clue to what it had meant to him. But his face was a mystery, she couldn’t read it. She took his hand from her shoulder and laid it against her cheek; she kissed his fingers, then his warm palm.
He pulled his hand away—gently—and she understood that kissing was all right with him, but cherishing was not. She took a step back.
“Yes,” he said in a low voice, “you’d better go. It’s late.” She started to turn. “Carrie.” He rubbed his neck with one hand. “I—” She waited, watching him. “I beg your pardon. That should not have happened. It was entirely my fault. I’m very sorry.”
She fumbled for her notebook, wretchedly aware that he must be sick and tired of waiting for her to write her little notes. She shouldn’t write anything—she should run—she’d made a fool of herself tonight as many times as she could stand.
She scribbled in haste, tore out the page, and thrust it into his hand. Without waiting for him to read it or—worse, worse—say anything back, she turned and walked off fast. But she thought of her message all the long way home. I’m sorr
y you are sorry. It was so lovely to me. Good-bye.
8
“YOU’RE SAYING BRING ’EM all?”
“All.”
“All six?”
“And bring your husband, too.”
“Willis? Hah! Now I know you’re kiddin’ me, Doc.”
He wasn’t, but he could see her point: Willis Haight was snoring on his back in a patch of sunlight on the Haights’ falling-down front porch, passed out from corn liquor, and apparently it was no uncommon occurrence. Getting him and his six children to come down off the mountain for diphtheria inoculations understandably struck Mrs. Haight as a joke.
Tyler gave her a bracing pat on her mammoth arm. “I’ll see you next Tuesday afternoon—that’s when I’m doing vaccinations. In the meantime, speak to Willis again about the new well. As long as you’re using the old one, you can expect Bad and the others to get these intestinal ailments again and again. And they might not recover as easily as Bad did.”
He bent over the sleeping two-year-old with the unfortunate nickname. Bad was quiet now, but a few hours ago he’d been convulsing with a temperature of 105. Castor oil, two enemas, and continuous bathing had settled him down; salol and bismuth had finally put him to sleep.
“I can ask ’im till I’m blue in the face, and he’ll still say we ain’t got money for a new well.”
“He’ll have to find it somewhere.”
“And we can’t keep askin’ Carrie for spring water.”
Ty straightened. “How’s that?”
“Carrie Wiggins brings buckets o’ water from her place sometimes, but if her pa found out she’d catch it. Heck—if Willis found out I’d catch it.” Mrs. Haight hitched seven-month-old Gracie higher up on her huge, apron-covered hip and blew a flutter of dirty hair out of her eyes. “I reckon we could use the crick till Willis thinks of something. And that’s just what I need, Dr. Wilkes, one more extra chore to do around here.” Her baleful glare conveyed the clear implication that this was all his fault.