Authors: Catherine Madera
Jacob’s fingers returned to the keys and the music rippled in waves. It felt good to be carried along and not fight anymore. Tears dribbled to the carpet and when the playing stopped twin damp spots marked her place.
For a long moment Jacob sat quietly. He looked to the ceiling then pulled the piano key cover down.
“That song is calle
d
Thanksgivin
g
. I thought you might like it.”
Taylor said nothing.
“They say music is processed by the emotional part of the brain, the amygdala. Stored forever like a giant iPod. Even for people with progressive diseases like Alzheimer’s the music is there. It can be a way to reach them.” Jacob hesitated before rising, as if waiting for her, then continued. “When I first got your mare she was practically unresponsive. Some of it related to her injury, but she was traumatized emotionally, too. I sang to her. She like
d
Amazing Grac
e
.”
Taylor pictured Rain, unable to communicate in words, the refrain of a song reaching into her horsey amygdala:
Amazing grace how sweet the sound,
that
saved a wretch like me,
I once was lost but now am found
was blind but now I see.
Blinded, but found; how sweet the sound.
“Ready to go home?”
“Yeah, I’m tired. Thanks for the food and entertainment.”
“I consider it a success if I can make a lady cry.”
Taylor giggled. “I know I’m probably freaking you out. Sorry. I just, I can’t … ” She let the thought trail away.
Jacob simply smiled, “You can make me cry next time, okay?”
“If I cook for you that’ll be guaranteed.”
Chapter 30
A
gentle breeze lifted the hair from the back of Taylor’s neck, chilling the sweat that trickled down her back. She shivered and watched a cloud momentarily block the brilliant May sun. She felt the tingle and itch of overworked leg muscles and though she knew it meant pain later on, it felt good to be alive.
“Will you go to a wedding with me?”
The question startled Taylor, jerking her away from thoughts of burning calf muscles and the remaining mile left to run.
“Kinda early in our relationship for a proposal, isn’t it?”
The broad grin that stretched across Jacob’s face revealed nearly every one of his teeth and a lone dimple high on his cheek. She watched the fine lines at the edges of his eyes wrinkle into the smile and felt her own face warm beyond simple physical exertion. She looked away and, without thinking, rummaged in her pockets for a cigarette.
Jacob raised an eyebrow. “Rain’s watching.”
Taylor glanced sideways, straight into Rain’s one-eyed stare. Somehow the mare had managed to maneuver herself less than six feet from where Taylor rested. She had stopped grazing and a mouthful of grass poked out either side of her whiskery muzzle. Taylor sensed disappointment.
“Damn. I just need something … in the worst way.”
“Here,” Jacob rocked to the side and pulled a disc from the back pocket of his shorts. “Protein Bar.”
The package was compressed thin from 200 pounds of muscular backside pressing it into a saddle for half a day. Taylor took it, immediately recognizing that the only thing remotely appealing about the snack was its recent intimacy with Jacob’s body. She unwrapped the bar and took a small bite, jawing it like a geriatric chewing on a piece of steak.
“Mmmm, this satisfie
s
exactl
y
like a shot of nicotine.” Taylor looked at Rain. The mare bobbed her head once and resumed grazing, moving away toward more promising forage.
Jacob laughed loudly. “I swear, I’ve never seen such intelligence in a horse!”
Taylor frowned. “Right now I find animal intelligence overrated. Now, about that wedding … ”
She discreetly stuck the rest of the bar in a hole at the base of a nearby tree and brushed her hands together to remove the crumbs and dirt.
“Yeah, here’s the deal: an old friend from vet school is getting married next week. If I don’t bring a date he’ll set me up with every single girl at the reception.”
Taylor raised her eyebrows. “I’d have to wear a dress. That’s, like, a serious favor, bested only by helping you move or something. I don’t know … ” She broke a twig in two and picked at the tread of her hiking boot.
“I did say I’d collect fees for that farm call one day … ” Jacob winked.
Taylor dropped the twig. “God, I forgot about that! Guess a dress is the least I can offer you.”
She felt her face flush at the suggestive connotation. “I mean, well, you know what I mean.”
Jacob chuckled. “It’s going to be worth the sacrifice. I guarantee you’ve never seen a ceremony like this one.”
“Why?”
“The pastor is a ventriloquist. She’s giving the entire ceremony with the help of a dummy.”
“You’re serious?”
“Oh yeah. Pat is odd enough on his own, but he married a ventriloquist comedian. Her idea.”
“Sounds awesome.”
Ventriloquist/pastor
.
That was one her father hadn’t heard before.
“Okay then. Pick you—and your dress—up next Saturday at one.”
~ ~~
The search for something suitable to wear to a wedding began several days before the event. Finances being what they were, a brand new dress was out of the question. Instead of mall shopping, Taylor found herself in front of her own closet, staring at the dismal contents. There were really only a couple possibilities.
She withdrew a trim black suit and considered it in despair. Her mother had purchased the suit on sale at The Loft and mailed it to her in California hoping, no doubt, that her daughter would put it on and morph into her namesake: Ann Taylor. S
o
no
t
happening. Even with controlled-top panty hose there was no way her thighs were fitting into a size six skirt.
Taylor brushed dust from the jacket’s shoulders. It was a spare, classy suit. She could see it on her mother, a matching pair of heels and colorful scarf knotted at the neck for accent. She held the suit away from herself. Why had she kept it? It had only been worn once, to a job interview. Now the suit, in all its classiness, regarded her with contempt. It seemed disappointed in the woman she had become.
“I don’t like you, either,” Taylor said to the suit. “Off to Goodwill with you.”
Taylor threw the clothing on the floor and removed the other feminine object in her closet, a colorful broomstick skirt. Just looking at the skirt made her feel sick to her stomach. Definitely an article of clothing that deserved disposal. She fingered the creases in the fabric and remembered how they brushed crinkly against her legs: Solana Beach with Ian on one of their first dates. She had aged a lifetime since driving down Pacific Coast Highway, radio blasting, the sun toasting her arm as it rested on the window of his truck.
After walking the beach and jumping waves, Ian had made a fire to dry the bottoms of his jeans and the skirt that was wet half way up
her legs. They sat on beach rocks, tired from the sun, and watched the fire flicker as a fog rolled in. The air between them hung heavy, an intoxicating
mix of salty ocean, waning sunshine, and smoke. Ian had an intense look in his eyes, hungry. At that moment Taylor sensed a power she had never imagined wielding over a man.
“You’re so beautiful,” he had said. And for the first time in her eighteen
years, Taylor felt that it could be true.
Looking back she could see clearly that the signs were there from the beginning of the relationship. Ian desired her, but from a measured distance that kept his true, vulnerable self protected. He loved her in the way he loved looking at a painting in a museum, one that would never hang on the wall in his own home. As their relationship progressed the nagging feeling of distance increased along with her need for him. She would think of his fiancé, Leah, at those times and worry it all would abruptly come to an end. And so it had.
“Join Miss Priss for a journey to the Goodwill.” Taylor pulled the skirt from its hanger and threw it on top of the suit. She had no desire to keep clothing that reminded her of women she would never be, of things she could never have.
Walking to her chest of drawers, Taylor pulled open the bottom one and rifled through looking for something to inspire an outfit. Stuffed under a too small pair of jeans she spied a long rayon skirt and pulled it out. It was fitted and nearly ankle length with a pattern of large flowers in shades of blue scattered on a creamy background. Her father had given it to her shortly before she moved back to Washington.
“I found something that just looked like you,” he’d said, and passed her a shopping bag.
“You don’t buy clothes for me.”
“I know. But this had your name on it. I thought ten was about your size.” He smiled and Taylor recognized regret in his eyes along with many unspoken words. She removed the skirt for inspection, amazed at the choice of gift from a man she feared didn’t know her and never would. It was perfect. Even now, as Taylor smoothed the fabric of the skirt, she felt the warmth of being known.
Chapter 31
“Y
ou look different.” Jacob leaned against the hood of his truck and watched Taylor lock the front door. He wore khaki pants and a button-down shirt with narrow green stripes.
“
Differen
t
can be good or bad.”
Taylor walked to the car and waited for Jacob to open the door. “Be careful with that word.”
“You look beautiful; how about that kind of different?”
Taylor felt her face flush from the compliment and immediately tried to joke. “So, I’ve never looked beautiful before?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Actually, you looked the most beautiful after stumbling into that
mud puddle a couple of weeks ago.” Jacob laughed, his hazel eyes teasing.
Taylor punched him in the arm. “I did that on purpose, making noise, you see, to ward off bears. I had you and Rain in mind the whole time.”
“Right.”
Taylor considered Jacob’s profile as he turned out of the driveway and sped toward town, shaking his head. Easy, that’s what their relationship had become. A friendship
“
like an old pair of shoe
s
” her dad would say. Yet Taylor wasn’t sure Jacob should be compared to old shoes. Not when she had to admit she felt something more, something she felt certain was not reciprocated.
Jacob felt sorry for her and needed a Ride and Tie partner. He liked her for her horse and that was that. She was too young, too damaged; he was too Catholic and too married, at least technically. Taylor watched Jacob’s long fingers shift the truck into third gear. She suddenly wanted to tell him all her secrets—even The One—and discover she still had his friendship. But that could never happen.
Taylor turned her attention to the broad countryside that quickly evolved from a scattering of farms to the outskirts of Bellingham. She wriggled on the seat, feeling the fabric of the skirt that draped gracefully around her newly toned legs. Jacob made her feel beautiful, inside and out. She clutched at the feeling even if it could never mean anything more.
The church was small and wooden and very white. It had a graceful age and character that was missing from the more popular and anony
mous warehouse churches around town. With no saint listed in
the title, Taylor felt sure it wasn’t Catholic but “Good Shepherd Community”
didn’t offer too many clues as to denomination. What sort of denomination would allow a ventriloquist wedding? It was absurd and hilarious and enviably creative.
Jacob led her to a pew adorned with tulle and pink roses and they sat down. A pianist coaxed a gentle melody from the depths of a large piano and Taylor relaxed against the seat. Jacob draped his arm behind her. It brushed the edges of her shoulders and made her skin tingle. The pews filled as the brilliant May sun cut through stained glass windows that flanked the front of the church. Multi-colored collages danced on the white walls. The scene was traditional and classy until a woman dressed in a black suit marched to the front carrying a toddler-sized doll, its wooden mouth carved into a huge smile.
Taylor stifled a giggle, leaned into Jacob’s shoulder, and whispered in his ear, “I sort of thought you were joking. This is hilarious.”
He grinned and squeezed her shoulder.
The woman pastor spoke first. “Welcome friends and family to the joyous occasion of the wedding of Pat and Carla. Today the service will be performed by Carla’s closest friend, Eleanor.” She looked at the dummy and swiveled its head toward the audience.
“Hello friends,” said Eleanor the dummy, “welcome to this most happy day. I always told Carla that men were animals. She finally finds one I approve of and come to find out he spends all his tim
e
wit
h
animals.” The dummy shook her head and the audience snickered.
Throughout the ceremony—complete with a deliberately fumbled ring exchange that drove Eleanor crazy—Taylor and Jacob laughed and elbowed each other. The act was outrageously funny positioned next to the solemn formality of lifetime vows. Taylor’s sides ached from suppressed laughter by the time, “Oh go ahead and kiss the bride, you animal,” was commanded by Eleanor. Jacob sat, elbows on knees, his shoulders shaking. Taylor avoided looking at him for fear she would lose control completely. She wiped at her eyes, cheeks strained from a continual smile.
Finally the pastor left with Eleanor and the pianist began the recessional march. It took only a few notes to wipe the smile from Jacob’s face. Taylor watched his shoulders stiffen. He dropped his head and laced his fingers together a
s
Pachelbel’s Canon in
D
swelled and filled the church.
Without thinking, Taylor reached her hand under Jacob’s arm. She rested it briefly on his thigh and squeezed gently. Jacob did not look at her. Instead, he stared at her hand as if he did not recognize it. Then he took it, clasping it tightly between his own warm palms.
Taylor’s heart pounded and she was certain Jacob felt the throbbing deep within her fingers. But he did not look at her or seem to notice, lost in another time and place, the music breaking his heart with every note. She decided she did not care that he thought of his own wedding or imagined holding his wife’s hand and promising Till Death Do We Part. She only waited and focused on a cross that hung on the wall at the end of the pew.
Jesus hung there, as He hung in thousands of churches, face frozen in suffering as He looked heavenward. A cheap paint job positioned His pierced side higher up, almost to his shoulder
.
Probably made in Mexico by six-year-old
s
, thought Taylor. The sort of thing tourists bought as they waited at the border crossing in Tijuana, where garish ceramic
statues were sold and packs of Chiclets were hawked by dirty Mexican children.
The last time she’d visited Mexico it was purely as company for her father. He made a trip to buy medicine at the much cheaper Mexican pharmacies. That and large bottles of whiskey for the hard nights when he couldn’t sleep. Anthony had been up most the night, coughing so hard it sounded like his lungs would break into small jagged pieces, his frail body deflating like an old balloon unable to hold oxygen.
Taylor had put the pillow over her head as fear clutched at her. In the darkness, Anthony’s death loomed inevitable and she felt guilty for her own life—the vitality of her physical body—and frustration that nothing could be done about the sadness of her brother’s existence. When her father had asked for company on his trip the next day, she had jumped at the opportunity to be alone with him and have the chance to be normal.
Instead, her very private father had spent the trip distracted and
sad, lost in a world she couldn’t penetrate. Taylor finally gave up attempts
at conversation and instead concentrated on the shabby Mexican venders that clustered beside the road. They remained persistent, ever
hopeful that their worthless kitsch could extract a few precious American
dollars from the plump wallet, they imagined, inside each air conditioned car.
Garishly painted ceramic statues tumbled together on Mexican blankets where dumpy women in tattered clothing flashed toothless grins and gestured toward giant Disney characters painted in otherworldly hues so bright they were probably visible at night. Ugly. Taylor closed her eyes and laid her head back against the seat as the car inched its way toward California.
“I’ve always wanted one of those.”
Her father’s deadpan voice came as a surprise, breaking a silence between
them as solid as stone. Taylor opened her eyes and turned her
attention outside. Her father pointed toward a huge ceramic hamburger,
at least four feet tall, on display beside a vendor’s shack. The bun was painted yellow, the hue of traffic lines on a roadway, with dark brown spots on top for sesame seeds. Stop-sign red and primary green paint had been smeared haphazardly in the middle, indicating, one might guess, tomato and lettuce. A section near the bottom painted black was no doubt intended to resemble a burger patty.
“I like my burgers well done.”
Taylor began giggling. She imagined the ceramic burger towering next to her father’s majestic Mister Lincoln roses that bloomed under the living room window. The roses were the only thing accenting the neat green lawn he took pains to keep weed-free and irrigated. Her giggle turned into a belly laugh that invited a chuckle from her father.
Soon they were both laughing so hard Taylor had a hard time catching her breath. Her dad wiped his eyes, his shoulders shaking. When they finally got control somewhere on I-5 north of Mexico, he squeezed her knee.
“Thanks for coming today, Love.”
Laughter and tears were strange twins, opposite sides of a coin. Sharing either of them created an instant bond.
The Mexico trip, and ridiculous ceramic hamburger, remained one of a handful of memories Taylor cherished from her time in San Diego, rare snapshots of connection.
As she thought of her father and the origins of the cheap Jesus on the wall, light through the stained glass warmed the figure, highlighting the painted blood. Taylor stared at Jesus, considering his bloody shoulder, and thought of Rain—viciously wounded, but blessed by God.