Duet for Three Hands by Tess Thompson Read Free Book Online
Authors: Tess Thompson
“Your eyes are remarkable, Lydia, and make you a great beauty. Use your beauty for good, as it’s a great responsibility.” A great beauty? This was not true to anyone but her mother. Lydia suspected that women never saw themselves as they truly were, no matter how they stared at their own reflections. And their mothers? They surely did not see their daughters as they truly were, for love distorted their view. At the time, she’d dismissed both her mother’s compliment and her advice, knowing her face was long, her lips thin, and there were the freckles—they covered almost every inch of her almost pointy nose. Simply awful. There was the problem of her height, as well. She was tall, way too tall for a woman.
Tall women could not be beautiful, Lydia thought, so she put aside her mother’s words and became accomplished and educated instead, not worried over her appearance until the day she met William.
She was in Atmore during a break from college with a friend from school who was born and raised in Atmore. The second evening of her visit they’d gone to a dance at the Grange. There he was, looking at her from across the room, with a slight smile on his face. His name was William, she learned later, and he worked at the bank. But at that moment she knew only that he was tall (taller than she) and handsome in a no-doubt-he-was-of-English-descent kind of way, blond and fair-skinned, with dark blue eyes. He raised his hand in greeting. She quickly looked away but not before she saw him grin wildly at her. A blush started from her toes and ended at the top of her head.
Later, waiting on the porch for her friend, she heard the door creak, and when she looked up he was there again. She watched as his breath caught and he smiled at her once more. He thinks I’m lovely, she thought. How wonderful it was. The way he looked at her, really looked at her, as if she were truly beautiful, made it true. For even with her height and unusually large hands, he’d thought her a great beauty, just as her mother had. During their years together, he’d been a man of a thousand compliments, with a rebuttal to every self-criticism she might utter. Now she would be no one to any man. She would no longer have the privilege of feeling beautiful in the particular way that love brings. William, who will help me decide which hat to wear?
She moved to the bed, bone weary. The room consisted of a simple wooden bed frame, a quilt in a pattern of red stars over the bed, and, in the corner, a rocking chair where she’d nursed both her babies. Perching on the side of the bed, she imagined slipping under the cool sheets but somehow could not move. It was the prospect of sleeping alone in their marital bed—impossible. Her fingers traced the outline of a star on the quilt, and she pulled his pillow onto her lap. Had she been a good wife? Please, God, let it be so.
She wept silently into his pillow. After the tears stopped, she made the bed up again, her strong hands halting their work only long enough to breathe in the scent of her husband from his pillow. Tobacco and shaving cream. At the window, she peered into the backyard. Fireflies had come to the dark, sparks of undaunted light. They never ceased to delight her. Often William captured them in a jar for the children, tiny gifts that were really only a loan, for they were let out into the world before bedtime. None of them could keep anything beautiful trapped for long.
William’s voice came to her again. Sleep with the children. Nodding, as if he were in the room, and holding the pillow close to her chest, she crossed the hallway to her daughters’ room. Pushing Birdie gently into the middle of the bed, she climbed in, placing William’s pillow under her cheek.
Birdie shifted in her sleep, making the purring noise of a kitten. Lydia snuggled closer. She stayed in the same position for most of the night, the yearned-for yet elusive sleep thwarted by the hollow, fearful pain in her chest
Tall women could not be beautiful, Lydia thought, so she put aside her mother’s words and became accomplished and educated instead, not worried over her appearance until the day she met William.
She was in Atmore during a break from college with a friend from school who was born and raised in Atmore. The second evening of her visit they’d gone to a dance at the Grange. There he was, looking at her from across the room, with a slight smile on his face. His name was William, she learned later, and he worked at the bank. But at that moment she knew only that he was tall (taller than she) and handsome in a no-doubt-he-was-of-English-descent kind of way, blond and fair-skinned, with dark blue eyes. He raised his hand in greeting. She quickly looked away but not before she saw him grin wildly at her. A blush started from her toes and ended at the top of her head.
Later, waiting on the porch for her friend, she heard the door creak, and when she looked up he was there again. She watched as his breath caught and he smiled at her once more. He thinks I’m lovely, she thought. How wonderful it was. The way he looked at her, really looked at her, as if she were truly beautiful, made it true. For even with her height and unusually large hands, he’d thought her a great beauty, just as her mother had. During their years together, he’d been a man of a thousand compliments, with a rebuttal to every self-criticism she might utter. Now she would be no one to any man. She would no longer have the privilege of feeling beautiful in the particular way that love brings. William, who will help me decide which hat to wear?
She moved to the bed, bone weary. The room consisted of a simple wooden bed frame, a quilt in a pattern of red stars over the bed, and, in the corner, a rocking chair where she’d nursed both her babies. Perching on the side of the bed, she imagined slipping under the cool sheets but somehow could not move. It was the prospect of sleeping alone in their marital bed—impossible. Her fingers traced the outline of a star on the quilt, and she pulled his pillow onto her lap. Had she been a good wife? Please, God, let it be so.
She wept silently into his pillow. After the tears stopped, she made the bed up again, her strong hands halting their work only long enough to breathe in the scent of her husband from his pillow. Tobacco and shaving cream. At the window, she peered into the backyard. Fireflies had come to the dark, sparks of undaunted light. They never ceased to delight her. Often William captured them in a jar for the children, tiny gifts that were really only a loan, for they were let out into the world before bedtime. None of them could keep anything beautiful trapped for long.
William’s voice came to her again. Sleep with the children. Nodding, as if he were in the room, and holding the pillow close to her chest, she crossed the hallway to her daughters’ room. Pushing Birdie gently into the middle of the bed, she climbed in, placing William’s pillow under her cheek.
Birdie shifted in her sleep, making the purring noise of a kitten. Lydia snuggled closer. She stayed in the same position for most of the night, the yearned-for yet elusive sleep thwarted by the hollow, fearful pain in her chest