Beneath the Apple Leaves(94)
He stepped forward, leaned her against an invisible wall, moved his arm under her and lifted her to him. She wrapped her legs around his hips, wanting him, opening for him. They were bound by the depth of emerald stalks and by creasing fabrics and Andrew swiveled again, lowered her onto the soft ground between the bending corn.
Lily fell into the rhythm of his hips between her, to his soft kisses and the sureness of his touches. She pulled at his belt, plucked the last two buttons of his shirt, the heat rising quickly throughout her body as his shirt opened, showing the line of dark hair from his navel and the muscles at the stomach. She pushed him upward and straddled his thighs, his hand at the small of her back as he kissed her neck.
A man’s face flashed in her mind, but she stomped it away, held tight to Andrew’s lips, kissed them harder to keep the face away. She wanted to lose herself in his body, make the other memories go away, purge the old with their lovemaking. Replace one with the other. She pushed the shirt off his right shoulder. He tightened. His movements stopped and he looked at her, his eyes wide and waiting, scared. Slowly now, she slid the shirt off his left shoulder, saw the ragged scars that lined the tissue. Andrew closed his eyes and turned away.
The scars broke her heart, the pain he had suffered. She looked at his beautiful face and her throat closed. He was so perfect—so very perfect.
The other face came back and shot through her mind, cut at her with razors. She twitched her head to get the image out of her brain, but it was there, stuck and glued and bringing the sickness and degradation to her like the fire that had burned the barn.
A tear formed in her eye and dripped unmolested down her cheek. Andrew was so perfect, had suffered so much. And here she was, tainted and impure, made of filth. She shuddered with the memory that was beating its way to her present, to her now. She bit her lip, forced blood as she punched the past away.
She looked at the scars upon Andrew’s shoulder and she covered her mouth, wished it were her arm that was gone, that both of her arms were gone, just to remove what she had to see in her mind every day, to know what she had done.
Andrew looked at her, watched the pain in her face as she cried. He glanced at his arm and the shame came quick and hot. She couldn’t bear to look at it.
She watched his eyes turn cold against her. He saw through her. He was starting to really see her. Whatever veil he had seen her through was now gone. He could see what she had done, could see that she wasn’t good enough. “I’m sorry,” she wept.
He pursed his lips. Don’t pity me. He thought Lily had come to know him, had seen beyond his scars. But she couldn’t and he knew this now. She would never be able to see him as a whole man, not after seeing it with her own eyes. She would never be able to look upon him without pity, without disgust and horror.
Lily pulled back, turned from him. He was so perfect. She was all that was opposite. He had been hurt enough. She would only bring him pain and humiliation. He would grow to hate her and what she was, what she had done. She possessed only one gift she could give him—freedom.
Andrew watched her turn away. She couldn’t even look at him anymore. He nodded. Felt such a fool, the hatred of his form making him angry. Bitterness settled deeply. Bitterness that she couldn’t see past his deformity, bitterness that she couldn’t see to his heart and his love for her that made a mere limb pale in importance.
He wiped away the memory of her kiss, of her touch. Crushed his wanting of her, buried it in the grave next to his father, the twins and Wilhelm. He pulled on his shirt roughly and jerked away, stormed through the waving corn.
CHAPTER 47
A month passed before Lily was ready, her preparations finalized. “Claire,” Lily hushed, jostling the woman’s shoulders. “Wake up.”
Lily knelt by the bed, peeked next to Claire to make sure Frank still slept. The Veronal she had laced in his whiskey would keep him knocked out to noon the next day, but she didn’t want to take any chances. This would only work once.
“Claire, wake up.” She shook her sister again and she finally stirred, sat up on one elbow.
“What’s wrong, Lily?” The voice was loud and magnified in the still room.
“Shhhhh!” Lily’s heart pounded in her chest, loud as Frank’s snoring. She took her sister’s hand. “Come downstairs with me.”
“Why?” She yawned and laid her head back on the pillow. “I’m tired.”
“No, Claire,” she hurried her, grabbing the shoulder again. “I need to talk to you.”
Claire wiped her eyes. “About what?”
Lily pressed her palm to her forehead. “Listen, Claire. We need to go on a little trip. Just you and me. Okay?”
“A trip?” She was awake now, but the confusion stuck.
“Yes. A little trip.” Her pitch rose, broke the whisper with the tinge of panic. “It’s important, Claire. I need you to do this for me.”
Claire turned to her husband, turned back to Lily. “He won’t want me to go, Lily. You know he doesn’t like me leaving the house.”
“It’s okay.” She tried to smile through the urgency, the anxiety poking like pins. “I left him a note.” She hoped her sister didn’t remember that Lily couldn’t read or write.
With Claire’s indecision, the clock mocked her, each second of delay twisting the hands to daylight. Frank stirred and tossed onto his back. Lily froze.