A Long Winter for Willie Loomis
by
Mary E. Overstreet
PART ONE
- 1 -
Thanksgiving 1971
Willie stared out the front window of the Old House toward Collinwood. He could not see it through the thick trees and darkness, but didn't need to to know that all the lights would be on, the Collins family drinking and celebrating, sharing. . . Julia was there, too, and some of the rest of their friends. Willie knew he was not considered one of their "friends" or he would have been invited to join in. He would have been flattered if someone had asked him, but he knew he wouldn't go. Too awkward—Willie didn't fit in, he had a bad past.
Still, it wasn't altogether fair, and he was so bored with his life. It had been quiet around Collinwood for months. No trouble for anyone, and he was glad of that. But Willie was restless even in his relatively secure position with Barnabas. Continuing repairs on the Old House could only hold his interest for so long. Barnabas didn't exactly need him. He wanted more. Going on business trips for his employer and friend had become more and more welcome, even if it was not particularly interesting. It certainly gave him more "status" than working at a hospital doing maintenance and other odd jobs.
He turned away from the window and sat in one of the worn wing chairs by the softly glowing fire. Willie considered quitting and going back to New York, maybe Boston. His trips there had made him realize how different things were now. You couldn't go back, he thought. At least he couldn't. Something in the trip to New York had scared him, shaken up his identity. He hadn't been comfortable anywhere. He had avoided all his old haunts, somehow knowing he could no longer cut it on the street. It wasn't so much that he had crossed over to the "other" side as it was the feeling that he wouldn't last a day. He'd known he was a changed man the minute he'd stepped out of the airport.
The feeling of familiarity had been strong as he sat in the back of an ancient yellow cab. And he told himself when he got to his Manhattan hotel that he'd check out what had changed, the bars, the shops, everything, maybe look up a few people or even see if Roxanne was still in New York. But he didn't go out that evening, instead watched TV in his room—a plush single where there had been mints on the pillows with the bed turned down, and fancy little bottles of shampoo, a shoe polishing glove, even a phone in the bathroom. He'd put on his three-piece suit the next day and went to meet with another man in a three-piece suit to discuss Barnabas' business venture and gather information for his employer. They had lunch at some expensive restaurant, and Willie had found himself thinking he was only watching someone who looked like him—it wasn't Willie Loomis conducting this kind of business, discussing large sums of someone else's money with the intention of investing it for that person. Willie wondered how he had seemed to the other man. He only found himself on shaky ground a few times. Barnabas had spent hours training him how to deal like this. And Willie knew somehow that he would not have difficulty. He drew on past experiences without knowing it, and his days as a con man didn't fail him then.
Later, he had gone back to the hotel again and changed clothes, donning chinos and a turtleneck sweater and his light suede jacket. He started walking and after a long subway ride ended up at the Bronx Zoo—a reasonably neutral place. It had been years since he'd been here, he thought. The Zoo had never been a favorite hang-out, the sight of animals in cages had always oppressed him. His urge to get out had been strong, however, and here was a place he would not likely be known by anyone.
He was looking over at two brown bears romping around their enclosure when a voice from his past brought his mind swiftly to the present.
"Willie, is that you?"
He spun around, taking a step back from the small figure of a woman. He stared at her. Light brown eyes stared back from a pretty oval face surrounded by dark brown hair. She was in jeans and a dark knit blouse and pea jacket. Feeling rushed into him, trailed closely by memories. "Cherrie?"
"Yeah! Hey, man, where the hell've you been?" She didn't smile yet. "It's been years!"
"W— I— Uh, say it sure is good to see ya." He smiled, letting warm memories flood his mind.
She responded, a slow, gentle smile spread across her features. "It's good to see you, too."
She was studying him, and it made Willie uncomfortable. He knew she would wonder at the change in him, whether or not she asked. She was sensitive to him, and they had always shared something special. Maybe she wouldn't ask. "How ya been?" he asked lamely.
"Pretty good." She looked steadily up at him, and Willie had to look away. "You been in trouble?"
He looked down, shrugging. "A while back, but it's all over now." He was startled by her touching his cheek to turn his face back to her.
"You sure?" She dropped her hand, letting it slide to the open edge of his jacket.
"Oh, yeah." He still couldn't meet her eyes, now because he was embarrassed.
"Nice." She indicated the suede of his jacket.
"Thanks." He ran a hand through his hair, not knowing what to say or even what he wanted to say.
"You movin' up in the world?" she asked sardonically.
He half-laughed. "I dunno. Maybe."
"Don't tell me you an' Jason hit it big?"
"No." Willie shook his head.
"Wanna sit?"
"Okay." He didn't know how to say no, or that he wanted to leave. He followed her to an empty bench, sitting on the edge of the chilly planking. He looked into her eyes briefly, smiling amiably.
"Somebody did a number on you." She stated matter-of-factly. "And you still got it." Cherrie stopped his protest with a quick gesture, raising her hand in a stopping motion. "I'm not gonna ask ya about it."
Willie watched his thumbnail as he scraped with it at the peeling paint on the bench. "I'm okay. It don' matter."
"It matters to me, Willie. I don't forget you."
He looked up at her. "I don't forget you either."
"I know." She put her small hand over his, stroking it gently. "I gotta new place. You wanna come see it?"
Willie pressed her hand, taking it in both of his. He knew he couldn't hide the anguish from his face when he squeezed his eyes shut briefly. "I'd like to, but I. . . I'm kinda short on time. I. . ." He knew she knew he was lying.
"You got somebody," she said.
"No. No, I don't." Willie couldn't explain. Of all the people most likely to understand, Cherrie was one he could not tell. Willie knew in those few moments more than at any other time that he was changed, no longer the man he used to be. He could never survive on the street, he'd lost the edge, the confidence, all that it took to get by, to bluff, to out-think everyone else. It was gone, and he knew it wasn't coming back. He felt helpless. Besides all that, he was afraid of what she would say to him, how she would react if she went to seduce him and he didn't respond. Willie was so ashamed of himself he could not face having her know the man he was not any more. She would be kind and sympathetic, and not surprised that he didn't try to make it up to her. Oh, it would be nice to be close physically—he was tired of the aching loneliness, but he had to keep what self-respect he could. The thought of letting her down, of being that vulnerable was unbearable. It hurt more than the loneliness. He would rather crawl into a hole and die than have her know.
He let the silence drag on, acute and painful. He released her hand and stood up. "I should be goin'."
"Willie," her tone was soft, sympathetic. "It could be like old times." She wasn't begging. Willie knew Cherrie never begged. He turned and looked down at her. "I missed you."
"Yeah. I missed you, too. I. . . I'm sorry." He couldn't look her in the eyes now. Their friendship had been good, spiced with sex, crazy exploits, and long gaps. The gaps were what had made it so nice when they got together. Willie wanted to remember it that way, not with the pain he felt in this moment.
"It's okay," she said after a moment. Willie felt a huge gulf suddenly open between them and had to turn his face into the wind to cool his burning eyes.
"I'm sorry you're hurt."
"I'm not," he protested unsteadily.
"Like hell." She stood and touched his arm, moving in front of him. "Willie, look at me."
He complied. "You're still pretty," he said, feeling terribly guilty for rejecting her and meaning his words sincerely.
"I just wanted to say so long for now. You're not stayin' long in New York, are ya?"
"No. I leave tomorrow night, an' I got. . .things to do tonight and tomorrow." He was trembling from nerves and embarrassment. "I need to go." Willie looked down at her a moment, and with a cool, shaking hand, touched her cheek. He bent his head down and pressed his lips softly against hers.
He found her gentle response to him made him kiss her more than he wanted to. It was reassuring and warming to his battered, aching heart. It had been a long time since he kissed anyone, he thought, not knowing when their arms slid around each other. And being held. . . Not since Roxanne. How it hurt to think of Roxanne.
They ended it slowly, and Willie felt nervous again. "I gotta go, Cherrie." He moved to release her.
"I know." She slid her arms from him. "See ya, Willie." She backed away from him, smiled once and turned away.
Willie had watched her disappear around an exhibit, not considering till later that she had made it really easy on him by leaving him. It hurt that he hadn't said a parting word. But words wouldn't come, only unbidden tears in his hotel room that night.
Willie shook himself from his reverie and got up from the chair. He threw another log on the fire and went to find the bottle of whiskey he had stashed away in the kitchen cupboard.
He settled down again in the wing chair, very depressed. He had tried not to think about his encounter with Cherrie barely over a month ago. It was like a slap in the face to his ego. And Roxanne. . . That was too. She hadn't waited for him. But he'd spoiled that himself. He'd stayed around to help Barnabas and Julia and had neglected her. She couldn't stay at the motel forever and had gone on back home. He had not gotten to the phone as much as he should've, especially after he'd had to destroy the vampire Megan Todd. How could he blame her? But he missed her still when he thought of her. Smart, pretty Roxanne. Her loving him had made him feel so good inside, made him realize how lonely he had been. But how easy it had been to throw himself back into the situation with Barnabas and Julia. And how stupid. He thought he knew why he'd done it; he was afraid. Roxanne had been so pure and naive—he knew that now—she had thought he was being a gentleman because he was willing to wait till they were married. He'd been lonely and desperate. By the time it had happened it had almost been a relief when she'd given him that ultimatum—leave Collinsport or leave her. Barnabas had needed him and Maggie had needed him. He never had to face that shameful moment, but Roxanne's words still stung. She'd told him she loved him, but if he didn't love her enough to come back to her and get married or at least to let her come see him in Collinsport, she wasn't putting her life on hold. Willie had heard the emotion in her voice, knew she had been crying over it and. . . And he wouldn't face the rest. He felt he was a coward about some things. Facing his feelings about giving up Roxanne was one of them. He didn't even know what else she'd told him in that final phone conversation, and he didn't try to remember. He only tried to forget.
He looked at the whiskey bottle. Barnabas wouldn't approve, but he wasn't there. And it was none of his business anyway. He opened the bottle.
*
"I think Carolyn has had too much to drink," Quentin Collins said smoothly, cradling his own drink in his hands. "Too much eggnog has gone to your head."
"Look who's talking," she responded curtly. "And I think you're not being fair." She looked across from her chair by the hearth to the couch where he sat.
"Quentin is right, dear, you have had too much," Elizabeth Collins Stoddard put in. "You know very well what kind of man Willie Loomis is."
"Forgive me, Elizabeth, but I feel I must speak up for Willie." All eyes turned to Barnabas sitting in the plush chair next to Carolyn's. "He has done very well lately."
"You should've invited him," Carolyn said petulantly. Willie had feelings, too, after all, she thought.
"I, for one, am glad he didn't," Roger said. "The man cannot be trusted."
"On the contrary, Roger, I trust him completely," Barnabas countered. "He has served me very well."
"But look at his record, Barnabas," Liz said. "He was put in Wyndecliffe for kidnapping Maggie Evans. And you remember what he was like when he came here. You certainly should, Carolyn. The man is unstable. He may suddenly become dangerous even while he seems normal enough." She stood up from the couch and walked to the drawing room window. "I don't want to discuss him."
"Mother, you're wrong. And Willie didn't kidnap Maggie."
Dr. Julia Hoffman entered the discussion. "I don't think he kidnapped Maggie, and neither did she when he was released. Willie does tend to be nervous, but he isn't dangerous."
"Tell that to that poor Parker girl's family," Quentin said.
"That accident was not Willie's fault. Even the sheriff agrees." Barnabas wondered why Quentin was being so negative about Willie. "And Willie feels terrible about it. He's been reluctant to drive anywhere since."
"Then why didn't you bring him along? It might've cheered him up." Carolyn dared Quentin with a withering look to say anything.
"He wouldn't've been welcome, dear, and I'm sure even he knows that," Liz said quietly.
"I don't think he would have come, Carolyn." Barnabas looked at her, wondering also at her apparent sudden interest in Willie. Maybe she had had too much eggnog.
"Just as well," Roger put in, poking the dying fire into a blaze. "I don't want to see him. Every time he comes into this house, which fortunately isn't often, I wonder what he's walking out with."
"Roger, your suspicions are completely unwarranted," Barnabas said, feeling annoyed. "I assure you, Willie has never stolen from you. I trust him implicitly, as I told you. I've even entrusted him with sizable amounts of money to invest for me in Boston and New York. And he has never given me the least worry over it."
"You entrusted him with a large amount of your money?" said Quentin incredulously. "You must be. . ." He cut himself off before completely insulting his "cousin".
Barnabas had had enough. "Really, Quentin. I should hardly think it's any of you concern." His gaze almost held some of its old power as his eyes narrowed on Quentin who quickly looked away.
"That's right, cousin," Carolyn told Quentin. "You have no right to judge Willie. Besides, it's Thanksgiving, and most of you are being completely uncharitable." She stood up too quickly and sat back down. "I think we should all go wish him a happy Thanksgiving."
"I don't think that's necessary, Carolyn," Barnabas said before anyone could protest. "But I do think I should be going along." He was no longer in the mood for company, he was tense and annoyed.
"Barnabas, I hope no one has offended you," Elizabeth said with a meaningful look at Quentin.
"We have all known each other too long for that. I just think I should be going. Thank you all for a lovely evening."
After turning down Julia and Carolyn's offers to come with him and exchanging parting words, he went out and got into the car. A short ride brought him to the Old House. The door was unbolted, and Barnabas went in, and hung his coat and cane on the stand near the door. He was surprised to see one of the wing chairs in the drawing room turned facing the low fire. His temper flared at the sight of a mostly empty whiskey bottle lying on its side on the expensive Turkish rug. A brownish stain spread from below the bottle's neck in the lighter colors of the rug.
Willie had nearly slid out of the chair, his legs were straight out, feet apart, propped up against the hearth. Angry, Barnabas stepped behind the chair and pulled it back, dumping Willie onto the floor.
He came awake with a start. "Get up," Barnabas said. "Now."
"Huh?" Groggy and nauseated, Willie had a hard time figuring out what had happened.
"I said, get up!" He bent down, furious at Willie for proving himself unworthy of his earlier praise, and hauled him up by his shirt. "Look what you've done." What if the others had decided to join him here? he thought furiously.
Willie didn't look; he was aware of his employer's anger now but was still too intoxicated to care. He felt his stomach give an alarming heave and put a hand to his mouth, twisting away and going down on his knees.
"Willie, no!" Barnabas protested vainly as the other emptied his stomach onto the rug. He turned away, sickened. "You are going to clean all this mess up."
Willie was trying to catch his breath and didn't respond.
"Did you hear me?" Barnabas said, turning back to him.
"Yeah. I'm sorry, Barnabas." He wiped his mouth with a hand and looked up. "I'll clean it up."
"Yes, you will. And I don't ever want to see you do this again. You may have ruined the rug. Now get up."
Willie struggled to his feet and stood, swaying. He could see that Barnabas was really mad.
"I don't want you drinking any more, do you understand me?" He held the other in a piercing stare, determined not to be made a fool of again.
Willie balked. "Hey, I don't drink that much." He couldn't hold it any more, and there was usually no time to indulge.
"Just look at this! I almost invited guests down here, Willie. I will not chance this kind of embarrassment from you. You're not to do it again."
"I'mssorry about the rug, but it's—it's a free country; I'll drink if I want to." He wanted to add something about how Barnabas could just go up to Collinwood with his family and drink whenever he got lonely, yet Willie didn't have anybody. But it remained just a thought and feeling, too complicated and too personal to voice.
Barnabas could not stand his belligerent look. He found he didn't hesitate to give Willie a hard slap across the face, making the younger man stagger back against the mantel, his hand going quickly to his burning cheek. "Clean up this mess now."
Willie's feelings were hurt far more than his stinging face. He thought of walking away, out of the Old House forever but something inside held him back. He didn't say anything and stepped away, not looking at Barnabas. He started for the kitchen.
"Willie, the bottle." He pointed to it and stepped back.
With as much sullenness as he could manage, Willie bent down and got the bottle. He staggered into the hallway leading to the back of the house and would have spitefully finished off the remaining liquor if the smell of had not been nauseating to him.
It took him several trips to clean up the spilled whiskey and his own vomit. It was embarrassing to have Barnabas standing over him the entire time.
"You'll have to take the rug up tomorrow and do a more thorough job," the tall man said after watching Willie scrubbing futilely at the two darker spots where the material was wet.
Willie was angry still and didn't respond. He was thinking how much he would like to tell Barnabas off, then quit, but knowing he wouldn't. He didn't have the nerve to risk another humiliating slap.
"All right, Willie," Barnabas said at length. "Why don't you go on to bed and sleep it off."
Pushing himself up, Willie held onto the rag he had used and without a word or look at the other, walked unsteadily toward the stairs. Upstairs, he washed his hands and face and rinsed his mouth out. It made him feel somewhat refreshed physically, but did nothing for his state of mind. Instead of numb drunk, he was now depressed and emotional.
He threw himself down on his bed, exhausted but unable to let go of his thoughts and sleep. This is what he had come to, Willie thought miserably. Barnabas was mad at him for the first time in a very long time, and it really bothered him. And at the same time he thought to hell with Barnabas, he wasn't important anyway. But that was not true to him and he knew it. He didn't want him to be angry with him, and found himself saying a silent, "I'm sorry, Barnabas, I didn't mean to do it." Then he felt the heat from his cheek, and his feelings grew ambivalent again.
Downstairs, Barnabas positioned the chair as much over the wet spots on the rug as possible. The sound of a knock on the door startled him, and he went to answer it.
"Carolyn!" he said, and opened the door for her. "I wasn't expecting—"
"I know," she said dreamily, gliding into the house, followed by Julia, then Roger.
"Hello, Barnabas," Julia said as she entered.
"I hope you don't mind this intrusion," Roger began, "but Carolyn had us all feeling guilty. . . Liz didn't feel up to getting out in the snow."
"I understand, it was very thoughtful of you." He shut the door behind them and asked them to sit down, silently thanking God he had already taken care of the mess with Willie.
Carolyn wandered aimlessly around the room as the other two took seats. "You know, it's hard to believe you've lived here almost five years, Barnabas."
"Has it been that long?" Roger looked about. The drawing room had been maintained exactly as it had been restored. Other parts of the house had been restored also, though progress was slow. "Did you ever estimate the time it would take to complete the house?"
Barnabas had been staring thoughtfully into the fire, his mood now improved and rather mellow. "No, I didn't."
"But you've worked hard," Julia put in, smiling fondly at him. "You and Willie both."
"Thank you, Julia. You've been a great help."
"Where is Willie?" Carolyn said, taking a sudden interest in the conversation.
Barnabas became instantly alert. "In bed, I believe."
"Well, I want to wish him a happy Thanksgiving." She headed for the stairs.
"Carolyn, wait, he's probably asleep." Barnabas went after her. "You—"
"I won't wake him if he is." She continued on her way.
"I don't understand what's gotten into her," Roger said as soon as she was out of sight. "She hasn't been interested in anyone in months, and now this."
Barnabas just looked at him, concerned.
Carolyn quietly pushed the door open a crack and peered in. Willie was lying fully dressed on his brass bed, staring at the ceiling. An old oil lantern and several candles lit the small room. A small blaze in the fireplace warmed it.
He turned his head the slight sound of her feet on the floor and practically leapt out of bed. "What?"
"Willie, can I come in?" Carolyn asked softly.
"Oh, Carolyn, I didn't know what. . . Sure." He felt light-headed, much as she did, if a little queasy still.
She stepped in, leaving the door partly ajar. "Thanks. Happy Thanksgiving, Willie."
He nodded, even though he didn't think it was very happy. "Same to you, Carolyn."
She stared at him through the yellow light for a long, awkward moment, but she did not seem to notice his unease. "I—I've been meaning to talk to you for a long time." Before he had a chance to say anything, she added, "I'm not keeping you up, am I?"
"No, no," he answered, not wanting to be impolite even if it was a lie. He doubted he could sleep now anyway.
"Willie," she turned away from him, walking a short distance further into the room. "I. . .I want you to know, I. . .know certain things." She looked down at her hands, wishing she had another drink.
Curious but apprehensive, he asked, "What do ya mean?"
"Things about Barnabas."
"What?" He nervously, without thinking about it, began unscrewing the brass ball on one end of the headpiece of his bed.
"Did anyone ever tell you what happened after you. . . After you'd been taken away that time you were shot?" She hated bringing up what was doubtless painful to him.
"What're you talkin' about?" Still, he did not approach her. "What happened?"
"Julia's—well, the experiments she was doing backfired." She pressed her hands together as if for strength.
"I dunno what you're talkin' about." He watched the heavy brass sphere descend as he screwed it back down.
"Of course you know. She was trying to cure him. Maybe you don't remember," she said as that possibility occurred to her.
"Look, I'm kinda tired, Carolyn. I ap—"
"Willie, I know Barnabas was a vampire," she said, turning around to face him.
"You must be crazy," he said, unscrewing the ball again.
"Willie, I—I don't want to explain it all now, but in a way I was your replacement. I know all about him kidnapping Maggie—the way he was cured just before he brought you back—everything."
He stared at her, almost incredulous that she knew. "Well. . . Well, why are you telling me now?"
She turned away again. "I know I should've come to you a long time ago, but, well, I hadn't decided if it really happened to me."
Willie was too numb from his whiskey to be as shocked by her news as he could've been. "He didn't hurt ya, did he? I mean, you're his cousin, he wouldn't hurt you, would he?" The slap was still fresh in his mind.
"No, he was really very good to me. I would've done anything for him."
He heard the tremor in her voice and found he was a little jealous that Barnabas had been good to her and not to him. And the recent indignation from being slapped in his face, made him feel it more acutely. "Well, I'm glad he didn't hurtcha."
"Willie, I'm sorry you were hurt." She went up to him, and he backed against the wall by the head of his bed, the brass knob almost loose in his hand.
"I'm okay." He looked away from her, unwilling to think of that part of the past—the times Barnabas had "dealt" with him.
"Don't you see, Willie?" Her emotions were at the surface. "I've known all this time, and it wasn't until that accident that I realized I might've been able to help you."
He winced at her mention of the car accident in which a thirteen year old girl had been killed. It had been her father's fault—he had run a red light just as Willie was pulling into an intersection on a green light. The ensuing collision barely dented the car Willie was driving, but the other man lost control completely, and his car demolished a telephone pole, killing his daughter and leaving him bruised and bleeding lightly. Willie had been shaken up physically, but more so inside. He blamed himself for not looking carefully enough. He relived the wreck over and over in his mind, making it work out the way it could have where no one was hurt, and tormenting himself because he knew he could not change what happened.
Willie wondered what Carolyn meant by saying she could have helped him. "I didn't need any help."
"Couldn't you have used a friend?" She looked up at him through a mist of her own tears.
He couldn't stand it. "Sure, but I did okay." He slipped past her, still unsteady, to stand with his back to her.
"Don't you realize you were framed for Maggie's kidnapping? If you hadn't been needed around here, you'd still be at Wyndecliffe." She stood behind him and very lightly touched his arm. After an initial flinch, he didn't move. "I'm so sorry, Willie. I knew you weren't crazy—after I was in Barnabas' power. I should've tried to get them to release you sooner."
"Wouldn'ta done any good. I. . .I was sick for a long time, an' I couldn't remember much for a while." He also thought that there were probably things he still didn't remember—the doctors had told him that, and it was one of the few things they'd said that he believed. But the things they thought he couldn't remember, he did remember but would never have told them. He would not let himself dwell on it.
And here he had said more about Wyndecliffe to Carolyn than he had anyone else. He had never told Roxanne that Wyndecliffe was a sanitarium. Willie had only suspected he had been framed, being told it was definite just depressed him.
"But, Willie, it has been a rough couple of years since then. I'm sorry I didn't even try to make it easier for you."
He turned and looked down at her. "I don't understan'. Why should you? You don' owe me anything." He saw her tears and felt moved that she could cry for him. That anyone would surprised him. He felt his own throat tighten. He noticed how her unshed tears seemed to magnify the deep blue color of her eyes and had to blink to keep his own from welling up.
"Oh, Willie, I can't help it. I kept remembering how changed you were after Barnabas came here. You seemed so. . .so hurt, and I felt terrible when I knew why and what you must've gone through."
"Please, Carolyn. That's all over. I don't even care anymore. I don' wanna talk about it." He had turned his face away. But suddenly her small hand was on his cheek, turning him to face her again.
She looked down a moment. "You may not understand this," she moved her hand away, looking up, "but I can't stop thinking about you."
"Carolyn, I. . ." He thought she was trying to make a fool of him. He just knew she couldn't possibly really want him.
Inhibitions buried under quantities of alcoholic eggnog, Carolyn quickly put her arms around his neck and raised up to kiss him.
Willie didn't know what he should do. Her soft lips were warm and gentle, pressing against his for a brief moment. He felt a multitude of emotions, not the least of which was desire. But his own mind was muddled enough for the same reasons as hers. He didn't try to pull away when she just held him, her cheek on his shoulder.
Hesitantly, he returned her embrace, feeling uncertain and awkward when she turned her face to kiss him again. He closed his eyes and let it happen.
Carolyn was touched by his tentative response. She was lonely and had come to the conclusion after her short marriage that there was no man around who would want or need her. And then she had heard about the terrible accident and started thinking about Willie. And here he was, gently holding her, his soft mouth only beginning to lead their kiss. She melted against him, wanting him to want her the way she wanted him; a companion, a friend, more if possible.
She felt him run a hand through her hair, his almost shy hesitancy seemed to be leaving. She stroked his back, hoping she could not hurt him that way.
Willie was reluctant to end their kiss. He was afraid of what would happen next when they did. And it was unexpected, and it was good. She felt good to him. His heart thudded in his chest, soothed by the comforting sensation of being embraced. He could feel her warmth against him, and though her arms were small, they still held him, hands caressing his back, easing the permanent ache there. . .
Downstairs, Barnabas half-heartedly listened to Julia and Roger arguing over local politics. He was inexplicably concerned about Carolyn's sudden interest in Willie and how that might make the other man react. "Would you excuse me?" he said to Roger and Julia. "I'll be back in a moment."
"Certainly," Roger told him, almost relieved for a break the conversation.
Barnabas went upstairs. He loathed the idea of spying on or eavesdropping on them. But he was not expecting what he did see when he silently walked past Willie's open door and looked in. Willie had Carolyn in his arms and was kissing her what appeared to be quite intensely. He looked for only a moment, enough to convince him that Willie in his own drunken state was taking unfair advantage of Carolyn's similar condition. Barnabas felt his face grow hot with rage and had to force himself to calm down before he rejoined the other two. He wanted to find a way to stop Willie.
Willie's feelings had grown intense, but not in the way Barnabas thought. He was panicking, his mind now barely on what he was doing as he tried to think of a good excuse to put Carolyn off. She had grown passionate, pressing hard against him. He slowed her down, taking over their kissing again by deliberate, firm, but gentle movements and loosening his embrace.
She knew he was about to pull away and didn't try to stop him. Carolyn was disappointed but chided herself for trying to rush things. She looked into his blue-grey eyes, seeing an expression she could not read. He was guarding his feelings, she realized, chagrined. Instead of being closer, he was putting up barriers between them.
Willie half-smiled. "I'm sorry, I gotta little carried away," he said, giving himself an excuse to apologize, and so make it seem what had occurred should not have. He slid his arms completely off her.
"So did I," was all she could think of to say, and removed her arms from around his shoulders. She prayed he would not say that it would never happen again.
He did not want to be vulnerable to her. He was afraid of being hurt. Willie was not ready to face himself yet. Turning away, he took an unsteady step toward the bed. "Carolyn, I. . . I really appreciate your concern." He turned and looked at her, guilt settling in at the look of rueful pride on her face. "But I'm okay."
"Don't shut me out completely, Willie."
"I—I'm not shuttin' you out. I just. . . Well, your family doesn't like me. . ." Lame, he thought.
"I don't care what they think." She paused, looking at him with a sort of desperate hope. She didn't know why he was rejecting her—whether it was because he just did not want her, or because of some personal reason of his own. "I would like for us to keep being friends."
"Oh, sure," he agreed quickly, hating that he had hurt her.
"Good." She smiled. "I guess I'll say goodnight then."
He looked down. "G'night, Carolyn."
Carolyn went down the stairs, barely giving anyone a look of acknowledgment. She did not notice Barnabas eyeing her closely. She was depressed now, wanting to go home to her room in Collinwood and deal with her feelings alone.
It was not long before the three bid Barnabas good night. The tall, dark-haired man stood by the door watching them go, seeing Carolyn's pain with knowing eyes. He tried to rationalize the situation, give Willie the benefit of the doubt, but some immovable part of his will, something deeply ingrained in him would not let him accept any possible cooperation upon Carolyn's part. He was convinced Willie was guilty of wrong-doing. And if not that, then Willie was nowhere good enough for his cousin, his family.
He tried to shake off his anger, but it would not go and was reinforced by the incident earlier when he'd found Willie drunk. How dare Willie let him down like that, he thought. If anyone knew they would certainly laugh at him. And that Willie would dare touch Carolyn. . . Long ago he had forbidden Willie to touch any of the women at Collinwood; perhaps he had forgotten. He would have to be punished. Barnabas could not let this go.
He bolted the door with a hand shaking in fury and snatched up his cane. He knew he shouldn't want so badly to punish Willie, but the blood pounding at his temples fueled his rage. He went slowly up the stairs, attempting to make his heating temper dissipate. Instead he grew more angry and agitated, thinking about Willie hurting Carolyn. He knew rationally that this should not bother him as much as it did, but he was unreasonably furious.
Willie had changed into pajamas and gotten into bed. His head had begun to ache, and he was down about Carolyn. Her attention to him was so surprising. She must be pretty desperate, he thought disparagingly. If only he could have welcomed her interest. But it was back to the same old problem. And he was afraid to face it with anyone, no matter how much he needed love and acceptance, no matter how well her affection had seemed to fill the aching emptiness inside him.
He looked up, startled, when his door was wrenched open suddenly. Before he could speak, Barnabas had come over to the bed in two strides and roughly jerked him out of it to his feet.
"Wh—what!? What is it!?" he said, stomach twisted into a lump of fear. "Barnabas!"
"How dare you!" Barnabas said in a deep, threatening tone.
"What'd I do?!" Willie caught himself as the other flung him to the floor. "Barnabas? What. . .?" He saw the cane held tightly in his hand and started to actively move away, a half-crawl, half-stumble.
"How dare you." Old memories of the intoxicating high that power could give were in Barnabas now, feeding his anger, overcoming his rational nature. He could never shake the curse completely, he felt inside. He wanted satisfaction.
"Barnabas! Don't. . . Please, I didn't do anything!" He saw it coming and turned his back, trying unsuccessfully to dodge. It felt like he had been shot again when the black shaft of the cane impacted against his shoulder blade. Tears starting, he lurched away, but there were really no places to which he could go in the small, confining room.
Barnabas felt justified as Willie let out a sharp cry and tried to get away. He followed, bringing the rod against Willie's back side wherever he could reach. The thin material of his bedclothes did little to take the sting from the blows and did nothing to cushion against their bruising impact.
Willie couldn't control his reaction. Barnabas' brutal violence, causing him such intense pain and fear and more fear of more pain, hurt him down inside, crushing the fragile fragments of his shattered, pieced-together spirit. He had no defenses against pain and none especially against anything Barnabas did to him. And it had been so long since Barnabas had hurt him—not since before Wyndecliffe. Willie had forgiven him for that because Barnabas had been crazy then. But Willie thought they were friends now, somewhat unequal, but friends. He could scarcely accept that Barnabas was doing this to him after all this time. But he could not ignore it or pretend it didn't hurt. And he could not keep from crying or trying to evade Barnabas' hard strokes with the cane. His immediate misery was physical, a temporary hell that would leave temporary scars, but it was in his heart that the worst damage was done. He had trusted Barnabas, had helped him, had been as loyal a friend as he could be, still maintaining his own sense of right and wrong. He depended on Barnabas so much—he didn't know how to cope with this.
He raised his arms up, turning his side to Barnabas to protect his burning back, and reached for the door knob. A partial blow to his hand made him bring it down fast, sobbing hard. He scrambled away and tried to wedge himself in the narrow space between his bed and dresser, begging Barnabas to stop. He twisted his body around convulsively, experiencing the terror in some of his worst nightmares. He ended up on his side, past hysteria, in a hell he was all too familiar with.
When Willie had ceased pleading and lay curled up and sobbing, crying out only from the blows, Barnabas stopped them. He looked at the young man's tense, shaking body and propped his cane up against the bed.
Willie was aware of what the other was doing, but he was too consumed by the sometimes dull, mostly sharp throbbing pain in his body to look past his hands. He hurt everywhere, and it was as if all the throbbing was in sync, each pulse led by his pounding heart. He whimpered to himself like a confused, hurt child, and gave a startled yelp when he felt Barnabas grab his arms, pulling him up.
Willie didn't resist, afraid the punishment would continue. But he could barely stand; his muscles were bruised in so many places, and he was exhausted. His tears and his trembling didn't stop as he stood with Barnabas' hands entwined in the collar and shoulder of his shirt, more or less holding him up, with his back against the dresser.
Fearfully he searched Barnabas' face for a clue as to what he would do next. He said hoarsely, hurt welled up to an extreme, "Why?"
Barnabas could not quite shake his indignant anger when he thought of why he was punishing Willie. But seeing the other so devastated bothered his conscience more than a little.
He could feel Willie's uneven, almost gasping breathing below his hands. "If you ever touch Carolyn again, it'll be far worse," he said at length, meaning it but not sure he would actually carry out a worse punishment.
Willie looked Barnabas in his dark eyes, his own vision blurry through his tears. "C-Carolyn? But—" He was as shocked as he possibly could be in his present state—underneath all the physical and emotional feelings with which he was being bombarded.
"No, Willie. I won't have it." He shook him once for emphasis.
Back already hurting from leaning against the dresser, Willie felt his knees buckling at the additional pain. "No!" he said desperately. "Don't hurt me anymore. P-please."
Barnabas would not let him slide to the floor. "You must let Carolyn alone."
"I-I. . .I was." Willie meant his future intentions.
"You're lying—I saw you."
"But, b-but that. . .it. . . You don' understand."
"I know all I need to know." Barnabas released him, and he fell to his knees. "Stay away from her, Willie."
"I-I will—I w-was anyway." He sobbed, sinking closer to the floor, bending over.
"Very well." Barnabas just stood, looking at him, wondering if he had made a mistake. "You should get into bed," he said, hoping Willie was not injured.
"Oh-kay," he managed haltingly, but didn't move. He was bent over, one hand on his face, the other on one thigh. His body still hurt so much he did not want to move, and the fear lingered on even though the most harrowing part was over.
Barnabas grew concerned. His fury was gone now, and he regretted his harshness. He had forgotten how much more pliant Willie had been the past few years. Such extremes weren't necessary to get his cooperation. Barnabas became more worried about himself—such an easy return to violence scared him. It was like some ugly premonition. He was suddenly afraid of what he might become.
The quiet sound of Willie's painful sobbing impinged on his thoughts. "Willie, can you make it up?"
"Yes," he said clearly so Barnabas would hear him. "I'll get up." Shaking, he pushed himself up with difficulty. The bed was so close he had climbed onto it before Barnabas could try to help him. Willie lay on his side, his back to Barnabas, and put a hand over his face to cover the tears that still came, although he knew it was far too late to spare himself the humiliation of letting Barnabas see him cry. He just wanted the pain and everything else to go away.
"I. . ." Barnabas wasn't sure what to say. "If. . . I'll have Julia look at you if you think it's necessary." He picked up his cane.
"No," Willie choked out. "I'll be okay."
Barnabas didn't say another word and left to brood over the possibility of his curse returning.
Exhaustion eased Willie into sleep after a tearful hour of intense aching. He lay in one position the rest of the night, his body somehow knowing the pain would wake him if he moved. He so desperately needed the healing rest that he had no dreams.
*