A Long Winter for Willie Loomis
by
Mary E. Overstreet
PART THREE
- 14 -
Willie still could not believe it, though it ran through his mind a hundred times. It hadn't happened yet. He'd gotten away with it so far. Barnabas didn't know.
He stared at the ceiling of his hotel room. It was a little after eleven at night. He and Barnabas had gone to a club after dinner. Willie thought the live entertainment and loud music would be enough to distract Barnabas' attention from him and his own mind from the coming day. But Barnabas had not liked the place and suggested they return to the hotel and get a good night's sleep.
That was an impossibility for Willie. The tension during their meetings had him wound up like a spring. Putting off the inevitable only made his anxiety grow worse. Tomorrow he'd be caught. They were going to review past records and make future projections. His tension continued to build.
Willie sat up. He could feel pain from his memories coming up to haunt him. If he stayed in bed much longer, he thought he would start losing his mind in that awful place where everything was a nightmare. It was a fight to keep from thinking of the bad things that were real or that he dreamed, or that would happen when Barnabas found out.
He got out of bed and went to the closet. Willie had been careful to keep the casual clothes he'd packed hidden. He changed into jeans and a light shirt and jacket. He was shaking all over as if chilled. But he wasn't cold, he just had to get out before the walls closed in on him, locking his mind in insanity.
He left quietly. The night air might help, he thought, and Barnabas would never know he had gone.
It was cold outside, but not unpleasant. There was still a lot of traffic and people could be seen walking their dogs. Willie stood near the hotel doors and hugged himself once briefly, closing his eyes in misery. He knew he couldn't keep this up much longer. It was getting so hard to stay in control.
"Willie."
He looked down, startled. Cherrie stood a few feet away, looking up at him, her dark eyes full of feeling, ready for anything. "Cherrie," he breathed. Everything around him faded into the distance. He was only aware of her. He moved as if in slow motion and stepped up to her, his arms open to wrap around her. "Cherrie," he repeated, his voice cracking and his face twisting in grief.
She held him tightly, almost as oblivious to the activity on the street as he. His face was in her hair, and she could feel his head pressed up against hers. He was shaking all over, even his legs trembled against hers.
He felt so much he thought he was going to burst. "I'm scared," his voice creaked. He didn't care how he seemed to her in that precarious moment. He needed her arms around him to steady his pounding heart, to pick up the pieces if he fell apart. One sob leaked out, and he held her closer, trying to keep the rest in. His emotions were a tangled, writhing mess. The feeling of her warm, soft body close to his, against his chest was a comfort and fed him strength in his heart, but at the same time, in order to truly benefit from their embrace, he had to open his own heart. Being vulnerable was almost too much. Yet he could not have asked for more, and held onto himself because she didn't push him over the edge. She was just there.
Willie relaxed a little and rubbed his head against hers and his hands over her back firmly, feeling her physical presence as a reassurance. "Cherrie," he whispered, his voice trembling like his body. "I'm so scared."
She didn't say anything, too grieved at his present state to be able to speak. And she knew there was nothing she could say to make everything all right. She didn't really know what was wrong. Cherrie stroked down his back with one hand while the other smoothed his hair, pressing his head against hers.
He pulled back after a minute, only far enough to be able to look down into her face. His eyes had spilled tears down his cheeks, and they still flowed. He looked into her eyes, unsure of himself, not knowing what to do next.
She had never seen him cry, and it tore her. He needed her to lead him, she knew. "Let's walk," she suggested quietly, and shifted to put her arm around his waist underneath his jacket.
Willie slowly let her out of his arms, not taking his eyes from hers until they were turned sideways to each other and started to walk. He kept her against him with his arm across her shoulders. He didn't say anything.
Cherrie leaned against him because he needed it, not because she did. He was still shaking, but his face was dry now when she looked up at him.
They walked several blocks down the avenue without speaking. Willie was hopelessly confused about what he should do. His thoughts were such a jumble he could not finish even one. To be walking down a Manhattan avenue with Cherrie beside him was the only thing that was real. Everything else was confusion and pain. She was escape, he knew that.
He looked down at her, starting to speak, but his question would not form clearly in his mind.
She returned his gaze, slowing their pace a little. "What?" She could see he wanted to say something.
"W— W—how. . .?" he began, then looked ahead again.
"How'd I know where to find ya?" she said for him. "You know. Word gets around." She gave him a gentle hug with the arm she had around him. "I didn' know if you'd be in your room or not. Kinda thought you might be out, so I was gonna wait for ya."
He nodded. "I jus' came out." His mind was a little clearer now, enough to know that each step he took put Barnabas and his own fall further away. But what did it mean to stay with Cherrie? She'd find out everything. How could he leave Barnabas thinking he had not ever really changed? "I'm sorry. I didn' wanna do it."
"What?" She looked up at him, wondering what he meant. By the look on his face, she realized he did not know he had spoken.
"Hunh?" The sight of her pretty face in the street light washed out his immediate thoughts of guilt.
"Nothin'." She smiled a little at his boyish handsome face marred with lines of worry and pain. They had stopped walking and she reached up to touch his cheek. His expression of confusion was at once guarded. "Willie, you still look so good to me."
He blinked nervously, unable to smile. "S-so do you." What was he doing? He was running away. Away from the problem. Into what?
She hugged him, and he automatically returned the embrace. Again his emotion swelled. She never pushed, he told himself. He needed her, he wanted her help. But how could he run out? He was guilty. He had whatever would happen coming to him. It was a matter of integrity to accept judgment.
But Willie didn't want to be hurt again. The tears came back and the pain. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding her. "Cherrie," he sobbed, distraught, "I don' know what to do."
He had never appealed to her like that before. "Come with me, Willie."
Yes, he thought, yes. He nodded, letting her start them walking again. But each step down the quiet side street they had turned onto, beat like a drum in his head, guilty, guilty. . .
He stopped abruptly. "I can't run out," he said hoarsely, taking her by the shoulders. "I just can't."
"Willie—" She looked into his blue-grey eyes, seeing the agony he was in.
"God, I'm sorry, Cherrie," the words tore from his throat. "I can't. I want to—" he wanted to hold her again but it was so hard already, "—but I can't." He ripped away from her and ran, bolting back down the long block. He was crying, sobbing with each hard breath till he was too exhausted to run any more. He walked, oblivious to everything except the pain in his heart, the turmoil in his head. He still cried, quietly and raggedly, and hung his head down, one hand on the back of his neck, the other hanging dejectedly at his side.
The intensity gradually faded, leaving him to realize he was a long way from his hotel. He thought that he should not have left Cherrie alone. She could take care of herself, he knew, but she was still a woman in a dangerous city. He could do nothing now. There was nothing left but to face tomorrow. And if he never faced another one of his problems, at least he would know he'd stood up to this one with no hope and only a little integrity for having done it.
He did not hurry back to the hotel, and when he reached it he was so wrapped in his misery, he again did not notice Cherrie till she spoke his name.
She had known he would go back to his hotel eventually, and so she returned there to wait for him. Ordinarily she would not have tried to see him again after he had rejected her help, but she knew he needed someone. She could not let him go without trying to help even if it bordered on pushing herself on him.
He looked at her quickly, then down at the ground as they approached each other. "I'm sorry," he said.
"You know, I wouldn'ta come back here, but. . . I thought ya might need a friend." She slowly took his hand. "Willie, you don't haveta come with me."
"I can't. I can't run out on this." He looked her earnestly in the eyes, his own full of anguish. "Don'tcha know I always ran out in the past. But this is all I got." He held both her hands tightly. "If I give this up, I'll be less than nothin'."
"I'm not askin' ya to run out. I jus' wanna be with ya." She moved closer, speaking softly though there was no one around to hear. "You're real special to me, Willie. I love ya, man."
He let her hands go to embrace her, feeling the tears starting again. "Cherrie, I. . . Oh, God."
"We could go up to your room if you want?" She said, hoping to forestall any mad dashes away that he might make.
"No," he said quickly, pulling back to look at her. "M-my boss is next door."
"We can be quiet." She disliked the way trying to persuade him made her feel, but she was afraid to leave him alone. He looked so uncomfortable she didn't know how to react. "I'll leave early."
"No." He shook his head. "I mean, I-I appreciate what you're sayin', but I. . . I. . .don't. . . I-I—" he faltered.
Cherrie did not understand his reluctance. She doubted he had another woman with him. "It's all right, Willie. I don' even know what's wrong, but. . .whatever you want." She looked down. "I wanna help ya."
He held her close again, thinking about what would happen if she went upstairs with him. He wouldn't be able to avoid some intimacy, and even just lying in each others' arms would be too much. Her expectations. . .he thought. To be close like that, it would be so good. But he'd open up like flood waters through a crumbling dam. He'd lose it all—if he didn't scare her off, he'd be a terrible disappointment. He thought he already was. And that gave him another reason to despise himself. He couldn't bear the rest. Cherrie had seen enough to already spoil her memories of the man he had been. She was too good to let him know that, he thought.
"It's not you," he said finally. "It's me. I-I gotta go." He started to tear himself away, but looked down at her, hands on her shoulders.
"Willie," she said, deeply wounded by his pain.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry," he whispered. Hands shaking, he ran his thumbs over her cheeks below her eyes where tears had made their way down. He had never caused her to cry before that he knew of. "Here," he dug into his pocket for his wallet and took out a twenty. He tried to hand it to her. "Take a cab."
"No, Willie. I don't need that." She took a step back.
"Take it!" he nearly shouted, holding the bill out to her with a tense arm and shaking hand. "Oh, oh, no, I'm sorry, Cherrie. I didn' mean ta yell. You'll be safer if ya take a cab."
She reached out slowly and took the money. "Only 'cause it's somethin' you want." She barely held onto her own emotion and turned away. It was unbearable to see him like this. She walked to the corner and stepped off the curb, hailing a taxi.
Willie watched her till the cab she got in drove away. He went into the hotel, considering going to the bar, but deciding against it because he needed all the control he could get. He went to his room instead and took a hot shower. But it didn't wash away any of his pain. It just made him weep because he was alone now, with only the memories and feelings locked up inside him, some spilling out, some eating at him from his subconscious.
He wanted it to be over. He wished he were already dead.
*