From a Distance

J.E. Seymour

Cindy Wilson started out living what she considered a normal life. Her father was a doctor in a small town in Northern New Hampshire . The town consisted largely of trees, most of which were eventually due to be cut down and processed at the paper mill in Berlin . Her mother stayed at home, worked on committees, organized things.

The family attended the local Baptist church every Sunday. Her mother sang in the choir. She went along with them, found herself believing what they believed. She taught Sunday school to four and five-year-olds, or watched the littlest ones in the nursery. She really wanted to believe, she threw her heart into it, yet she would find herself with pangs of doubt. She heard people talking about other people behind their backs, saw them hitting their kids, heard them talking about cheating on their taxes, saw them breaking rules. It made her wonder what it was they really believed in. Still, she managed to hang on to some faith of her own.

That faith was shattered abruptly in the summer of 1967. The pastor sought her out on a Sunday evening after a youth meeting. Cindy was flattered that he would even talk to her. He was a handsome man, almost fifteen years older than she was, married with two small children. He was new at the church, too. Their old pastor had recently died, and an exhaustive search had brought in new blood, a young man with strong, somewhat strange ideas.

It was his idea to start a youth meeting, to give the teens a place to go. They would gather in the cool of the church basement and play games like Scrabble and checkers, eat snacks, drink bottled soda, talk about God. The pastor even played the guitar. There were usually as many as ten kids there on any given Sunday, which was no mean feat in such a small town.

That steamy night, Cindy was cleaning up with a friend of hers, a sixteen-year-old blond named Ellen. The pastor had been outside, talking to somebody else's parents. He came back and leaned in the doorway, watching them.

“Hello girls.”

Cindy turned to look at him. Ellen giggled. Cindy gave her a quick glance, smiling herself. Every young girl in the church had a secret crush on this man. He looked like Elvis, all dark hair and dimples. His southern accent added to the mystique.

“Your parents coming to pick you up?”

Cindy shook her head, not trusting her voice.

“Well then, how are you ladies going to get home?”

“Cindy has her driver's license. She borrowed her dad's Ford Falcon.” Ellen giggled again, patting her stiff hair. “My parents will be here soon. I should go wait outside.” She scurried past him.

He walked further into the room, shut the door behind him and smiled at the remaining girl.

Cindy was wondering what was going on.

“How old are you, Cindy?”

“Seventeen, sir.”

“You're going to be a senior in the fall?”

“Yes sir.”

“What are you going to do when you graduate?”

“I'm going to nursing school.”

He nodded his head, still smiling. He was crossing the room now, coming towards her.

“I should go,” she said, not looking at him.

“What's your hurry?”

She looked at him now.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

Where was this going? “No sir.”

“Your father is overprotective, isn't he?”

The man was close enough now that she could smell him. He smelled of Old Spice, the same as her father. She shuddered slightly as she looked past him towards the closed door. Then she looked back at him, and gave him a smile, although she wasn't sure she felt like smiling. Trying to keep it light, keep things friendly. “I don't know, Reverend Farnsworth.”

“Call me Don, okay?” He backed up a little, sat on the edge of a table, swinging his long legs. He was wearing neatly pressed tan chinos, a button-down shirt and a narrow blue tie. His feet were in loafers, with white socks showing below the pants.

She shrugged her thin shoulders inside her sleeveless blouse, smoothed her skirt. She didn't want to look at him anymore, she wanted to go home now. She picked up a pile of board games, clutched them to her chest and carried them towards the cabinet.

“Let me help you.” He leapt down from the table and reached for the games. His hand brushed across hers.

She looked up at him again. She was fairly tall at five nine, but he was a good six feet, and she had to look up to find his eyes. She couldn't read what was there, didn't understand the glint in those brown eyes. She tried to hand him the games, and they fell on the floor. She was instantly embarrassed, bent to pick up the pieces. “I'm so sorry.”

“It wasn't your fault. You thought I had them.” He crouched down, right at her level, as she reached for the flat wooden disks that were used in Parcheesi.

Before she knew what was happening he was touching her face, running his fingers along her chin, tipping her mouth up towards his, bending down, putting his lips on hers. She panicked. The feelings it brought out in her were wrong, she knew that, but they were hard to fight. Something in her liked it, she could feel an attraction, but at the same time she was sure that this was a mistake, he couldn't have kissed her. Still, he kissed her, and she wanted him to do it again, only she didn't want him to do it again. She pulled away from him, stood up, hoping that maybe it was an accident, maybe he hadn't meant to kiss her.

“I'm sorry.” He looked embarrassed, stared at the floor, rubbed the toe of his shoe back and forth on the linoleum. Then he lifted his eyes, looked directly at her. “You're just so beautiful.” He touched her hair. “I love your black hair.”

That frightened her. “I really have to go now.” She ran for the door, not caring that the board games were still mostly strewn across the floor.

After that day, she did her best to avoid him, but he pursued her. He tried to make sure they were alone whenever possible. She didn't know who to turn to. Her mother actually encouraged her to spend time with him, telling her that it was great that the pastor showed such an interest in her spiritual growth.

It started small enough. Whenever they were alone, he would touch her, run his hands over her, try to kiss her. She would pull back, fight him, run off, but it was getting harder to do. She was torn between the strong feelings it raised in her, the physical attraction she felt, and the revulsion, the knowledge that he was a married man, that he was so much older than she was, that it was all so wrong.

One afternoon she walked over to the church after school, thinking there was a meeting scheduled for the Sunday School workers.

“Hello?” She walked down the dark hallway in her school clothes, a long skirt and cotton blouse, her feet silent in white Keds.

Reverend Farnsworth stepped out of his office, in his usual chinos and oxford shirt. “Cindy? Didn't you get the message?”

“What message?”

“I had to cancel the meeting. Mrs. Robinson was sick.”

“I came straight from school.” She hugged her books to her chest.

“Well, since you're here, let's go downstairs and inventory the supplies so I can order what we need.” He turned and headed for the basement stairs.

She hesitated.

“It's okay. I'm not going to bite you.” He smiled, showing his teeth. “You can leave your books here.”

She followed him to the basement room where the supplies were kept on shelves, in the same room where the huge ancient oil furnace hunkered down in a pit in the floor, sending its hot-air pipes out like octopus arms. She'd always been afraid of this room as a child, and she felt her heart racing as she entered the cool darkness.

He shut the door, slid the bolt, and turned towards her. “Do you know what you need?”

She felt her jaw go slack. What did he mean by that? She wondered what she was thinking, of course he meant supplies, but then he was pressing against her, and maybe he didn't mean construction paper and mucilage.

“You're a virgin, aren't you?” He was touching her breasts now.

She couldn't answer him, that question brought to mind pictures of Mary holding the baby Jesus and she wanted to throw up. She backed away until she hit the concrete wall.

“You know you want this. You need it.” He slid a hand down her body.

“No, please don't.”

“Don't say that.” His voice was still silky, still purring, quiet. He sounded friendly, even as his actions became more deliberate. “You don't need to say anything.”

She knew there wasn't anything she could say. He was bigger than she was, they were alone. Nobody could hear her scream. She held her breath, shut her eyes and waited for it to end. When he unlocked the door she wobbled up the stairs and walked home, fighting tears the entire way.

***

She began to make up excuses. She was sick on Sunday evenings so often that her father began to suspect some sort of weird environmental cause in the church building. She could not tell him or her mother what had happened. She couldn't tell anybody.

Cindy began to hate church and anything that had anything to do with organized religion. She still had some faith, somewhere down deep in her soul, she knew that, but she also knew that you couldn't trust people, that no matter how religious they appeared, they were still horrible. What was it? White and pure on the outside, filthy as a sepulcher on the inside. Hypocrites. To cope, she threw herself into her schoolwork and avoided church as much as possible, sitting in the back row when she had to go. Reverend Farnsworth seemed to have lost interest in her, which made her feel even worse, if that was possible. She fought with her parents, something she had never done.

Still, her grades were unquestionable, she graduated at the head of her class, and informed her parents she wanted to go to nursing school in Boston , which was as far away from small town New Hampshire as she dared to think about. They said no, and they compromised on a school in Manchester , where her dad had an old army buddy who could keep an eye on her. Ernie owned a small diner off of Elm Street .

She was supposed to go to church, but didn't. She'd had enough and she was determined never to go to church again.

Cindy settled in Manchester after she finished school, and got a job at one of the hospitals. Manchester was a big city to her, the biggest city in the state, even though it wasn't much more than an old mill town, with big old brick buildings, mostly abandoned, lining both sides of the Merrimack River . The apartment she found was on the second floor of an old wooden triple-decker, within walking distance to her job.

he dated a few men, but she didn't really like any of them, so clean cut and cookie-cutter perfect, so hypocritical. All short hair and chinos, all Old Spice and ginger ale. They all wanted the same thing. What she wanted was an honest man, a man who didn't have any false pretenses, a man who didn't care about appearances. It wasn't in her to go searching for this kind of man, she was willing to admit to herself that she might have been a bit afraid of what she would find. In the back of her mind the memory of the older man who had robbed her of her innocence overwhelmed all of her thoughts, kept her constantly on edge.

It was in the fall of the year she turned twenty-three that she met someone who didn't fit the mold. She ate at Ernie's diner every day, and one day there was a new kid there. She considered him a kid anyway. He looked like he was about eighteen, except there was something about him, something in his blank eyes, that made him seem like he was a hundred, as if he was tired all the time. He was washing dishes, but sometimes when she came in, he would come to the kitchen doorway and stare at her, give her a small smile, then turn away. He was different from the other guys she had seen around. This guy was not trying to make a good impression on anybody, that was obvious. No chinos here. He had tattoos on his arms, including a Grim Reaper that frightened her, but interested her too. He wore tight blue jeans, combat boots, tight tee shirts, often in drab armed forces green, and always with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in one sleeve. His dirty-blond hair was just a little too long, too messy. He was a thin guy, but not skinny. Not conventionally handsome either, with a nose that was on the large side and that seemed to have been broken.

She asked Ernie about him, but the big man just shook his head.

“Kevin? Stay away from him. He's not a nice guy.”

“He doesn't look so bad to me.”

Ernie shrugged. “Appearances can be deceptive.”

She was left to puzzle it out on her own. She added things up fairly quickly. He wore an old field coat and combat boots, sported a Marine Corps tattoo. He was young, which meant he had probably just come back from the jungle, and the war that nobody liked to talk about.

She went out of her way to smile at him, but never spoke to him, until the day he was leaning against the wall of the diner when she arrived.

“Hey.” He was smoking a cigarette.

She coughed politely, but he didn't get it. She stopped a few feet away from him. “Hi.”

“You're Cindy, right?”

“Uh huh.”

He reached out a hand. “I'm Kevin.”

“I know. Ernie told me.”

“Oh yeah?”

She looked into his eyes as she shook his hand, seeing them up close for the first time. They were a bluish gray, the color of thick ice. “Yeah.”

“So, you want to go somewhere, get a bite to eat or something?”

“You and me?”

“Yeah.” He dropped the cigarette on the sidewalk and ground it out with the heel of his black boot.

“I was just going to eat here, at Ernie's.” She thought she could see the old man, leaning on the counter, watching.

“You don't want to eat here. The dishwasher didn't show up today.”

It took her a minute to get that, then she laughed. “Okay. Where do I want to eat?”

“Follow me.”

***

It wasn't long after that when Ernie pulled her aside just as she was about to leave the hospital.

“Cindy, can I talk to you?”

“Here?”

“Anywhere but the diner.”

“Okay.”

She stepped into an empty room. “So what's the problem Ernie?”

“It's about Kevin. You know, the kid who works for me?” He looked at her for a moment. “The kid you've been seeing.”

She nodded. “But I'm not exactly seeing him, Ernie. We're just friends.”

He waved away her denial and pushed on. “Cindy, I promised your dad I'd watch out for you. Do you like this kid, Kevin?”

“Yeah. He's an interesting person, very sweet.”

“He drinks pretty heavily.”

“He's had a rough life.”

“I'd stay away from him if I were you.”

“Why do you say that?” Cindy asked. “Just because he drinks? Lots of people drink.”

“You don't.”

She shrugged.

“You know anything about his past, his background?”

“Not a whole lot. He told me his father threw him out of the house when he was 16, he went into the Marines at 17.”

“I do know about him.” Ernie jerked his thumb towards his chest. “Take my word for it, Cindy. He's just not a nice guy.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I think I can take care of myself.”

Ernie sighed, looking away. “I don't know what I should tell you. Just be careful, okay?”

“Okay.”

***

Six months later, while Cindy watched Kevin as he played basketball with some of his buddies from the VFW, her friend Susan Long sat down next to her.

“Hi Sue.”

“Hello.” There was something in her voice that bothered Cindy.

She glanced at her friend. “What's the matter?”

Susan wrinkled her nose. “I'm worried about you.”

“Why?”

“That man.” Susan lowered her voice and inclined her head towards Kevin as she spoke.

“Kevin? He talks big, but he's harmless.”

Susan reached over and grabbed Kevin's hooded sweatshirt off the bench. She handed it to Cindy. “Here.”

Cindy was surprised by the weight. “What?”

“There's a gun in the pocket. I saw him put it there earlier.”

“So?”

“What do you mean, so? Cindy, think about it. He's carrying a gun.”

Cindy shrugged. “Maybe he's a cop.”

“Yeah, right,” Susan snorted, “And I'm the President. He's a hood. Not just a hood, but a New York hood.”

“He's a good guy. I don't think he's a hood.”

“He never smiles. Plus, he walks around like he's ready to kill somebody if they look at him funny.” She shuddered. “He looks at me, and it's like he's looking right through me. What do you see in him anyway?”

“I don't know.” Cindy looked away from Susan and watched as Kevin intercepted a pass and tossed the ball effortlessly through the basket. “I guess I see a man hiding his feelings, hiding a lot of pain. He's really very sensitive. He just doesn't want to show that side of himself to anybody.”

“Has he shown it to you?”

“Hints of it.”

“And you want to help him don't you? You're a healer, and he needs healing. Right?”

Cindy shrugged.

“It doesn't work, you know,” Susan said, her voice turning hard. “Men like him can't be healed. He's one of those guys with a stone where his heart should be.”

“That's not true.” Cindy watched him as he came towards them, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his shirt.

“Hello Susan,” he said without looking at her. He leaned over and kissed Cindy on the cheek, then grabbed his sweatshirt. He fished a pack of Camels out of the pocket, pulled one out and lit it. “You ready to go, Cindy?”

“Yes. See you later, Sue.”

Kevin walked beside her, holding her right hand with his left. When they arrived at her apartment he dropped the jacket on the floor and headed for the bathroom.

While he was showering she felt in the pockets of his jacket, searching for the gun. When she found it she pulled the weapon out and studied it. She had never even held a handgun before, and had no idea what kind it was, or if it was loaded. It was fairly small, black, with a checkered grip. It didn't look like the guns she'd seen in western movies. Would that make it an automatic, was that the right term? Her father had a shotgun, and he'd almost certainly kept a pistol, but she'd never been allowed to handle it.

An odd thrill ran through her body. She put the gun back in the pocket and dropped the jacket on the couch.

When he came out of the shower she was in the kitchen, fixing lunch. She turned at the sound of his footsteps, and her mouth dropped open. He was wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. She had never even seen him without a shirt on.

He leaned against the side of the doorway and grinned. “What's cooking, baby?”

She turned back towards the stove, her cheeks burning. “Spaghetti.” His chest was well developed, not overly hairy, just a smattering of dark blond hair across the top and down towards his stomach. She shivered as he touched her shoulder.

“How long have we been going together, Cin?”

“Five months.”

He gently turned her to face him, and kissed her long and hard. The feelings that welled up in her reminded her almost immediately of that other man, the pastor. She had to force the bile down with a hard swallow. This was not the same thing. This was a good thing.

When they broke, he said, “I love you.” He pulled her close to him and kissed the top of her head. “I've never felt before the way I feel about you.”

“I know how you feel.” She rested her head against his chest and touched the long red scar on his stomach, wondering what it was from. She figured it probably had something to do with the war. She took a deep breath through her nose. No Old Spice here. That was a good thing. She didn't think she could have stood to be with him if he'd smelled like that. One of the things she liked about Kevin was the fact that he didn't wear any kind of cologne, he just smelled of soap, and some kind of sporty deodorant, and occasionally of sweat.

He reached for her chin and lifted it so she would have to look into his eyes. “I have to go back to New York . I want you to come with me. I want you to live with me.”

“I can't. I have a job here.”

“So you'll find a job there. What's the big deal?”

She pulled away and began stirring the pasta.

“There's more, isn't there?” His voice changed, sounding almost suspicious.

“Yes.” She refused to meet his eyes. “I can't just live with you. That would be wrong.”

He groaned. “Sometimes you drive me crazy. You and your goody-two-shoes upbringing. Don't you want me?”

She wanted him so desperately it made her ache, but she shook her head. “I can't.”

“I'm not the marrying type, sweetie,” he said and turned and walked out of the kitchen.

She fought back tears as she continued to fix lunch. She wanted to give in to him, wanted to give in to her own desires. She had never even allowed him to go beyond kissing, although she knew he wanted more. She wanted it too.

After lunch, he filled his duffel bag and headed for the door.

“I'll see you around.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Good luck.”

“Sure.”

She listened to his heavy boots clumping down the stairs and went to the window to watch him walk away, wondering if she would ever see him again.

#

She got a note from him months later, along with a huge bouquet of flowers. It surprised her. It wasn't just that he would write to her that caused her to feel that way, but also how much she realized she missed him.

#

Walking through the park with Susan, kicking at the fallen leaves, Cindy finally got up the nerve to talk about what was on her mind.

“I heard from Kevin.”

“What does he want?”

“He says he loves me.”

Susan frowned. “You know I never liked him.”

“Do you really think he's rotten?”

“I don't know, I just don't trust him.”

“At first I thought all he wanted was, well, you know.” Cindy felt her cheeks get hot as she continued. “But he stuck around even when I told him I wouldn't do that. He never pushed, never forced himself on me. And now he's writing to me from New York , sending flowers. I do love him Sue, even if he is a hood.”

“See, you feel the same way I do. Is that part of the attraction?” She stopped walking and looked at her friend. “Do you even know what he does for a living?”

“No.” She paused, remembering the warning from Ernie.

“Well, Cindy, just watch him okay? I'd hate for you to end up murdered or something.”

“Murdered? That's a little far out, don't you think?”

“Just be careful, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks Sue.”

***

She decided to talk to Ernie again, sitting on one of his red-leather covered stools as he prepared to close the diner.

“Ernie, tell me more about Kevin. Tell me everything you know.”

“He's gone, Cindy.” Ernie didn't look up from the rows of bottles in front of him. “He's gone back to New York , right? You don't need to think about him anymore.”

“He wrote me a nice letter and sent me some flowers.”

Ernie sighed and poured ketchup into a bottle.

“He's pursuing me. And I think I like it.”

“He's killed people.”

“So have you, Ernie. I know he was in the war.”

Ernie shook his head. “That's not what I mean.”

“You mean he still kills people?”

Ernie stopped pouring but didn't look up. “I didn't say that.”

“I wouldn't believe it if you did.”

“Well, then there's nothing I can say to you that would change your mind, is there?” The ketchup bottles rattled slightly and she realized his hands were shaking.

“Probably not. Not unless you think he goes around killing people every day.”

Ernie looked up at her and bit his lip, but didn't answer. She should have picked up on that, should have understood the unspoken warning, but in the end, she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

It took her a few weeks to write back to Kevin. Her letter was short and simple, telling him how she felt.

#

It was hot for October, Indian Summer, and she was sitting on the landing outside her apartment when she saw a tiny red convertible drive up and park on the street. A tall man unfolded himself from the car and walked towards her. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized it was Kevin. He came up the stairs two at a time. She was on her feet by the time he reached her and grabbed her in a bear hug.

“I missed you so much,” he breathed into her hair.

“I missed you too.”

He sat on the stairs and motioned for her to sit beside him. “What do you think of my car?”

“It's nice.”

“It's a Jaguar.”

“How could you afford it?”

He smiled. “I'm not washing dishes anymore.”

“Oh.” She wondered what it was he was doing. Her thoughts went back to the small gun in his sweatshirt. Did it matter?

“Are you working tonight?”

“No.”

“Good, let's go out to dinner. How about that steak place in the old mill? The Millyard.”

“Are you sure you can afford it?”

He laughed. “Can I stay here to save the hotel bill?”

“As long as you don't mind sleeping on the couch.”

“No problem.” He bounded down the stairs and brought up his duffel bag, kissing her on the cheek.

As they ate their steaks, and he drank his way through several glasses of Jack Daniel's, she marveled at how different he looked. He was wearing an impeccably tailored suit, although he still had on his boots. His hair was longer, still pulled back in a ponytail. But there was something else, something beyond the physical appearance. He had always had a certain amount of confidence, but now it radiated from him. It was as if he could clear a path through a room with one look, and he knew it. He looked healthier, happier, as if he had a purpose in life. His eyes weren't as blank as they had been. He almost scared her, but she couldn't say why.

He spent the meal scanning the room, staring from the high wood ceilings to the polished wood floor, watching the traffic go by on the highway, coming alert every time anyone came near the table. He'd chosen the seat at the back of the small table, against the wall.

As they were eating dessert, he took a box out of his pocket, and cleared his throat. “Cindy, you know I love you, and I know you love me. I also know I told you I'm not the marrying type.”

“I remember,” she said softly, thinking of his bare chest as he stood in the doorway that day.

He cleared his throat. “Cindy, if anyone can get me down the aisle, it's you.” He paused and her throat tightened. He opened the box to reveal a beautiful diamond ring. “Will you marry me?”

She had never seen such a large stone. The candle light bounced off the diamond. “Oh, Kevin. I don't know what to say.”

“Say yes.”

“I do love you. But I'm not sure I can marry you.” She saw a flicker of pain in his eyes, just for a second. She didn't want to hurt him. “Give me some time to think about it, okay?”

He nodded, closed the box and put it back.

He drove her home in silence. She made several attempts at conversation, but it was as if he wasn't even there. He wasn't being deliberately rude, she realized. He had just checked out. When he pulled up in front of her house he said, “I've got something to do. I'll be in later.” His voice was flat.

She nodded and went upstairs by herself, tears starting in the corners of her eyes. Sitting on the couch, watching Mary Tyler Moore and Bob Newhart and Carol Burnett and not laughing, she wished she could do it over, say yes to him now. She wanted so desperately to make it better, to hold him close and make the pain go away.

She woke up in the early dawn, with the TV showing static, and realized he hadn't come back.

He finally showed up at ten. His suit was wrinkled, he smelled of whiskey and cigarette smoke, but she was happy to see him anyway.

“I was so worried. Where have you been?”

“I got a little drunk.” He pushed some loose strands of hair out of his face. “I was embarrassed to come back here, so I went to a hotel.” He sat down on the couch and held his head in both hands. “Clear the area, my head is about to explode.”

She laughed.

“Don't shout.” He gripped his ears.

“Listen,” she whispered, kneeling down on the floor. “I want you to meet my parents.”

“Why?”

“Because I want them to meet the man I'm going to marry.”

“Run that by me again. I'm a little hard of hearing.” He cupped his hand around his right ear and leaned towards her.

“I want to marry you,” she whispered into his good ear.

#

It was six months before they got to the wedding, a civil ceremony with nobody either of them knew attending. That was okay with her. That night, though, she realized how much damage the esteemed Revered Farnsworth had done.

Kevin took her hand and led her towards the bed. She was nervous, nearly overwhelmed. She knew what was going to happen. This was, after all, their honeymoon, their wedding night.

He touched her face, gently. She shuddered.

“What's wrong?” he asked, letting his hand drop back to his side.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? You're acting like you think I'm going to kill you.”

“It's just, well, you know.” She stared at the floor. “I've never …” She'd never lied to him before either.

“I know that.” He smiled at her, reached for her again, his mouth seeking out her mouth.

She took a deep breath, turned her head. “I'm just a little scared.”

“You understand the mechanics of it, right?”

She laughed. “Yes.”

“Then come here and let me show you how it works, okay?” He took her hand gently, brought her closer to the bed, put his mouth on her mouth, put his hand gently on her breast. He was amazingly patient, taking his time, letting her get used to the idea. But she still resisted, the revulsion of the older man still fresh in her mind after all this time.

She stiffened and whispered, “No.”

He stopped what he was doing, took his hand away from the small of her back, rolled back to his side of the bed.

“I'm sorry.”

“It's okay, really it is.” He touched her hand. “We've got the rest of our lives. There's nothing that says we have to get it right tonight.”

She was ashamed. “But we're married.”

“Yes, we are. Which is why there's no rush. I can wait.”

“Have you?” She couldn't finish the sentence.

He raised his eyebrows. “Cindy, I've had a different kind of life than you've had.”

She nodded.

“Does it bother you?”

She shrugged.

“I've never loved anyone before, not like I love you. I never married any of the others. And there weren't that many.” He smiled, opened his arms.

She snuggled against him and they slept like that, with her wrapped in his strong arms, knowing she had married the right man.

#

She started to get used to the whole gun thing. He had a pistol on him most of the time. She'd see a gun every now and then, on the nightstand, or in his coat pocket, or tucked into the small of his back. She avoided the subject. Then one afternoon, she came home early, walked into the apartment, and saw him sitting on the floor with newspapers spread all over, holding a long gun in his lap. He jumped to his feet as she came in, raising the weapon, pointing it at her. This was fairly normal for him, he was always on edge, always jumping sideways like a skittish horse.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He lowered the weapon, settled back onto the floor, went back to work. “Cleaning my gun.”

“What kind of gun is that?” She'd never seen one like it. Her father had an old shotgun, but this was different.

Kevin looked up at her. “You know anything about guns?”

“Not really.”

“It's a Remington 700 Varmint special, heavy barrel, in .308. I've got a variable scope mounted on it.” He shrugged his shoulders slightly as he went back to pushing a metal rod down the barrel. “It's a five shot bolt action rifle. Very accurate.”

“What do you do with it?”

He replied without hesitation. “Target shooting.”

“What do you do with the other gun, the handgun?”

“Same thing.” He looked up at her, meeting her eyes, daring her to disagree with him, daring her to question him further.

She turned and headed into the kitchen.

#

It wasn't until after they had been married for a good six weeks that she finally told him about the pastor at her parents' church. It had taken her this long to get to the point where she felt she could tell him, even though she knew she owed it to him, he deserved an explanation. Her throat was tight as she explained it, her heart was pounding, but it still felt like the right thing to do.

They had been in bed together, but Kevin was on his feet in an instant, pacing. The anger in his face frightened her, the first time she'd ever felt fear in his presence.

“This was how long ago?”

“Eight years,” she replied, watching him cover the room in long strides.

“How old were you then, seventeen?”

“Yes.”

“Statutory rape.”

“No, Kevin, the age of consent in New Hampshire is 16.”

“He probably knew that, the fucking bastard.” He stopped pacing. “Sorry.” He stared out the window now, looking at something a thousand yards away. “Does he still live up there? Is he still at that church?”

“I don't know.”

He looked at her without seeing her. There was something in his face, in his eyes, that she had never seen before. Something that really scared her.

“I'll kill him.”

“Kevin ...”

He gave his head a shake and focused on her, the hatred disappeared from his eyes. Just like that, he was the man she loved again.

“It's okay,” she said softly. “I survived.”

“Why didn't your father kill him?”

“I never told anyone. You're the first person I've talked to about this.”

“I understand now. I understand why you were so scared.” He sat on the bed, put his head in his hands.

She touched him lightly on the back. He turned to her, and she thought she saw tears glistening in his eyes.

“Kevin.”

“He hurt you.”

She could see the cords in his neck standing out. His eyes glazed over again as he turned his head away.

“You don't need to do anything about it. It's over.”

He turned his head towards her again, the eyes coming back into focus.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded.

***

It was probably six months later that her parents sent her a clipping from the newspaper. There was a hand-written note attached.

“Cindy, I remember how much you liked this pastor. Just thought you'd be interested in seeing this. Isn't it terrible?”

She unfolded the clipping and scanned the article. Somebody had killed the Reverend Donald Farnsworth, out in the woods. The State Police ruled it a hunting accident. He had been out hiking, alone, as was his custom. He was wearing a blaze-orange vest, but the troopers pointed out that even that was no protection from the idiot city-slicker hunters with their high-powered rifles. Nobody had come forward to admit the mistake.

The pastor's body had been found after he had failed to return that night and his wife became concerned. The shot hit him in the head. The local police chief found it strange, pointing out that whoever did that must have known what he was shooting at. “One shot, from a distance, right through the head.”

The reporter said that the police chief shook his head at this point. “I haven't seen shooting like that since I got back from Vietnam .” The state investigators disagreed with the local police, and the shooting was ruled an accident. They didn't expect to ever catch the killer.

Cindy sat and stared out the window for a moment, taking in the brick wall on the other side of the airshaft, but seeing the face of an older man who looked a little like Elvis. Then she carefully folded the clipping, put the bit of newspaper in a little cedar box she kept on her dresser, and never looked at it again.