Rose Gold （2015） #4
Sunday, September 13, 2015, Janus—Reverend Jack is dead.
Jackson’s mother called to tell him. The mighty warrior for Christ—her words—is dead, felled by an apparent heart attack in the middle of one of his fiery and thunderous sermons.
The congregation had sat still for several minutes as he lay on the cold terrazzo floor, assuming he’d been overcome by passion and was gathering his strength before mounting the next sally against sin and fleshly corruption.
A deaconess fanning him to cool his passion noticed his large, usually florid face and neck were turning blue and sounded the alarm.
“Are you going to the funeral?” I asked.
“Yes,” Jackson said. “I need to see his lips sealed, his body removed from this earth.”
I nodded. I too wanted to see him consigned to the darkness he’d wanted to condemn us to.
But I knew Jackson’s mother would object, and the gossip about Jackson and me would play like a bassline at the funeral.
I didn’t want to put Jackson in an awkward position, so I said, “I can’t bring myself to go back there. ”
“I know,” Jackson said. “You know, he never once hugged me? He said that’s what made boys grow up to be sissies.”
After we’d moved to the farm, I hadn’t been touched without violence until I met Jackson. That’s the kind of place we grew up in. Jackson and I hugged. Reverend Jack was dead. Though he had always been far away, it felt as if the air we were breathing had been cleared of a noxious gas.
Saturday, September 19, 2015, Janus—Jackson came back from Locust Hollow today, his father buried and his mother firmly in the care of the church deaconesses.
He’s only been gone a week, but I see a change in him.
When he walked in the door, he seemed thinner, drawn, almost gaunt.
And sad, which I would expect if anyone in his life other than Reverend Jack had died.
He hugged me like he’d never let go. I eased him onto the sofa, making sure to sustain our physical contact.
“How did it go? How’s your mother?”
“She said I shouldn’t have come, that I was too late, that he, like Christ, had given his life to atone for my sin.”
“She was talking about our marriage?”
He nodded. “I told her marrying you was the most natural thing in the world—the thing I wanted most—and that I wouldn’t, couldn’t change, even if I wanted to, which obviously, I don’t.”
“You never tried, though, did you?” Kitt asked.
Jackson started and so did I; he hadn’t noticed her, and once I saw Jackson’s state, I’d forgotten she was there.
“Tried what?” Jackson asked.
“To change.”
Jackson pulled away from me and reeled back against the sofa’s cushions as if Kitt had slapped him. “What?”
“I just mean…you and Oren were just teenagers when you…got together. Surely, it must have occurred to you at some point that there were other paths available to you?”
“What?” I asked.
Jackson, more tired than I’d ever seen him, asked wearily, “Haven’t you said enough, Kitt?”
“I—I—I just meant—”
“Kitt,” I said. “Please just…go.” I’d tried to forgive her outburst at our reception and accepted at face value her excuse that she was a little drunk and still reeling from her recent breakup, a tad envious of our relationship and marriage but that she’d meant no harm.
Now, I just wanted her gone, away from us.
She looked at me pleadingly. Frankenstein watched us with his crooked eyes. I jerked my head at her. Just go.
She turned to leave. Frankenstein, mewling unhappily, followed her.
“Kitt,” Jackson said, surprising us both and stopping her in her tracks. When she turned around, her face was a beacon of hope. “You should know,” Jackson said, “all paths lead to Oren.”
She looked…vanquished.
Sunday, September 20, 2015, Janus—I threw my overnight bag in the back seat and climbed into the passenger seat next to MJ. “Thanks for the ride,” I said by way of greeting.
“Anytime,” MJ said, putting the car in gear and backing down the driveway. “But, where’s Jackson?”
“He’s in the house, sleeping. He just got back from Locust Hollow last night. He was there all week.”
“Locust Hollow? Why on earth was he there? I didn’t think either of you would ever go back there.”
“His father died.”
“Reverend Jack?”
I nodded.
“How do you feel? she asked.
“I’ll quote Moms Mabley when she was asked how she felt about her ex-husband dying. ‘I was raised to only say good of the dead. He’s dead; good.’”
MJ chuckled and punched me in the arm. Turning serious, she asked, “How’s Jackson?”
“Upset. Out of sorts. Evidently, his mother told him he killed his father.”
“Let me guess, they saw the wedding story.”
I nodded. “We didn’t realize it was a national broadcast.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “It’s fine. I hate to leave Jackson like this, though. But the client is threatening to cancel the contract, so I’ve got to go do damage control. I asked Jackson if he wanted to come with me, but he said no. It’s only a couple of days.”
“Want me to check on him for you?”
“No. He wants to be alone, I think. And Kitt said she’d keep an eye on him.”
“I bet she will, that viper.”
“MJ…”
“OK, fine. You know I don’t trust that Amazonian heifer as far as I can throw her—”
“That’s our exit!”
Sunday, December 6, 2015, Janus—I should have known today was going to be one of the worst days of my life this morning.
Jackson was moodier and more distant than when he first came back from his father’s funeral.
This morning didn’t start with sex as it usually does.
In fact, our sex life dropped off about three months ago.
I’ve tried to chalk it up to a combination of grief over Reverend Jack’s death and age.
Maybe I should try harder to restart our sex life, but he’s rebuffed me the few times I’ve tried to initiate.
I don’t like asking anyone for anything.
Not even Jackson. Not for that. No matter how lonely and horny I am.
I’ve tried not to let sex’s sudden absence chaff me.
We postponed grocery shopping yesterday because Jackson didn’t feel like it.
He didn’t feel like it today either, even after I said he could ride in the cart, so I said I’d do the shopping alone.
Hoping he’d change his mind, I pottered around the house and dragged my feet all day, so it was already dark when I left.
Shopping, I soon realized, was no fun without Jackson and his antics, so I decided we’d order pizza for dinner and headed home.
I walked into the kitchen and discovered him and Kitt talking tensely at the kitchen table, heads together.
Frankenstein was sitting placidly at Jackson’s feet; over the last few months, they seem to have reached détente.
He hissed at me, though, when I leaned down and kissed the top of Jackson’s head.
“We have to tell him,” Kitt said insistently.
“Tell who what?” I asked, setting my bags on the counter. They both jumped a little at the question.
“What are you doing back so soon?” Jackson asked. “I thought you were going shopping.”
“I was, but I changed my mind. I picked up a couple of bottles of wine. I figured we could order pizza. So, what’s up?” I asked, pulling a bottle out and hunting for the corkscrew.
“I’m pregnant,” Kitt said.
“Jackson, where’s the corkscrew? You’re pregnant? I never knew you wanted kids.”
“I didn’t. This was an accident.”
“Oh. Have you told the father?” I noticed Jackson squirming in his seat and staring at the tabletop as if it held the secret to the meaning of life.
“Yes. He knows.”
“Oh, OK. Who is he?”
“Jackson.”
“Jackson?” I repeated, pulling the corkscrew out of a jumbled drawer in triumph.
“Jackson is,” Kitt blurted.
I returned to the table with the open bottle of wine and two glasses. “No wine for you, Missy, not in your condition,” I said teasingly, waggling a finger at her. “Jackson is what?” I asked sitting.
“The father. Of my baby. Jackson is the father of my baby.”
“You donated sperm to her?” I asked looking at him. “Without telling me?”
“No,” Kitt said, even though I hadn’t addressed her.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “You’re pregnant and Jackson is the father? How did that happen?”
“Oh, sweetie, I know sex ed was lacking back in Smallville, but surely, they managed to cover the basics of how babies are made—”
“Jesus Christ, Kitt!” Jackson snapped, then to me, “Oren—”
“You’re sleeping with my husband?” I asked Kitt in disbelief. Then to Jackson, “You’re sleeping with her?”
Jackson moved his hand suddenly as if out of reflex he was reaching out to steady me.
I stared at the rose-gold Breitling on his wrist—his “everyday” watch—the one I’d given him for his fortieth birthday.
I can’t explain why, except I felt if I concentrated hard enough, I could not only stop its Swiss movement but force it back in time five minutes, to the time before life as I knew it ended, pushing us to the other side of this apocalypse.
I’ve always disliked winter when everything warm and colorful has gone and there is nothing but frozen ground below and windswept sky barren of warmth above; it had never occurred to me that I would die on a winter evening and be left to rot on a pyre of ice.
Jackson caught himself, pulled his hand away, then excused himself to go to the bathroom. He looked like he was about to cry or vomit. I watched him leave then, turning to Kitt, said, “I don’t understand how this happened.”
“Of course you understand how this happened,” Kitt said. “You’re not that na?ve.”
“I thought you were supposed to be a lesbian.”
She shrugged. “I sweat with women. I sweat with men.”
“So, you’re what you young people call fluid now?”
“I guess. You know I’ve always wanted what you had.”
“I knew that, yes. But I didn’t think you literally wanted what I had as in my husband.”
She shrugged again. Jackson returned.