her. “At least he didn’t burn your beautiful face” had been the hushed confidence from her friend, Nita May Ginter. “You could have ended up like him.”
Delora had gotten god-weary sick and tired of hearing that. She wished Louie had burned her face. Then at least she would have no excuses. Her life really would be over. Actual scars hidden, she could move among regular people with little trouble. They didn’t know what lay beneath her clothing. They didn’t know she was disfigured, dysfunctional, less than a woman. If it had been her face burned in the fire, they would know right away, would have no doubt. She wouldn’t have to say with body language and voice, no, you can’t come near me. I’m not whole.
The healing had been bad—weeks lying flat on her back, a gel-coated pessary preventing her vagina walls from falling inward and healing together. She would never be able to have children now, they’d told her sadly. The delicate tissues there would never be able to take the stress. Then there had been the infection and the hysterectomy and it was a done deal. It was okay by her; she didn’t need children now anyway. How could half a person give the whole love a child required? She had enough to take care of as it was.
Louie was awake. He had his face turned toward the slanting, early morning sunlight, and the weak glow from behind gave his shiny, scarred face the topography of coal. She paused, hand on the doorknob, to study the almost appealing landscape.
“Well, ain’t you gonna say anything?” he asked after a few long minutes of silence. He turned his ravaged face toward her and was no longer beautiful. “It’s gotta be you, Delora. Ain’t nobody else in the state of Alabama can stand still as a retard like you can.”
Delora moved into the room and touched his arm. Grasping and pulling on her arm, he pivoted his large frame on the bed until his feet touched the floor. He sat there a long time, a hacking cough shaking his shoulders, while Delora moved to the bureau and lit a cigarette for him. Back at his side, she pressed it between his fingers and heaved him to his feet, his wooden walking stick pinching the flesh of her forearm.
They made their way out into the hall and to the bathroom where Louie pissed long and hard. He lifted the cigarette to his lips as he leaned over the toilet and took a deep drag of the tobacco smoke. Delora let her gaze roam across his back, now hidden beneath the white cotton of his T-shirt and had a hard time imagining her hands gripping that back as he pounded his flesh into hers. She had a hard time imagining that she had even sought his company at every break and lunch period at Tyson County High School. Those days seemed a long time ago, especially as each of the two years they’d spent healing from the fire had seemed like it lasted ten.
Lost in reverie, Delora squeaked in surprise when Louie’s hand fumbled hard on her shoulder. She lifted his cane from the rim of the washbasin, and they lumbered along the hall together toward the bright light of the kitchen.
“Mornin’, Louie,” Rosalie said. She stood at the stove frying a large pan of bacon and sausage. Eggs in their little nests on the counter patiently awaited their turn in the pan.
“Smells good, Rose,” Louie said as he felt his way into his chair. He fixed sightless eyes on the window and Delora knew he could feel the heat on his skin.
She fetched plates and silverware and set the table, folding napkins into neat triangles next to each setting. She moved to the toaster as Rosalie broke more eggs into the sizzling frying pan. They moved together in a well-rehearsed routine as Louie sat at the table smoking, lost in thought. Some mornings he would talk about the job he had had before, driving a tractor-trailer for Ebbler Trucking . His cross-country time had been the best in eight years they’d told him. He also acquired fewer tickets in three years than any of the other drivers.
Delora
Delora had gotten god-weary sick and tired of hearing that. She wished Louie had burned her face. Then at least she would have no excuses. Her life really would be over. Actual scars hidden, she could move among regular people with little trouble. They didn’t know what lay beneath her clothing. They didn’t know she was disfigured, dysfunctional, less than a woman. If it had been her face burned in the fire, they would know right away, would have no doubt. She wouldn’t have to say with body language and voice, no, you can’t come near me. I’m not whole.
The healing had been bad—weeks lying flat on her back, a gel-coated pessary preventing her vagina walls from falling inward and healing together. She would never be able to have children now, they’d told her sadly. The delicate tissues there would never be able to take the stress. Then there had been the infection and the hysterectomy and it was a done deal. It was okay by her; she didn’t need children now anyway. How could half a person give the whole love a child required? She had enough to take care of as it was.
Louie was awake. He had his face turned toward the slanting, early morning sunlight, and the weak glow from behind gave his shiny, scarred face the topography of coal. She paused, hand on the doorknob, to study the almost appealing landscape.
“Well, ain’t you gonna say anything?” he asked after a few long minutes of silence. He turned his ravaged face toward her and was no longer beautiful. “It’s gotta be you, Delora. Ain’t nobody else in the state of Alabama can stand still as a retard like you can.”
Delora moved into the room and touched his arm. Grasping and pulling on her arm, he pivoted his large frame on the bed until his feet touched the floor. He sat there a long time, a hacking cough shaking his shoulders, while Delora moved to the bureau and lit a cigarette for him. Back at his side, she pressed it between his fingers and heaved him to his feet, his wooden walking stick pinching the flesh of her forearm.
They made their way out into the hall and to the bathroom where Louie pissed long and hard. He lifted the cigarette to his lips as he leaned over the toilet and took a deep drag of the tobacco smoke. Delora let her gaze roam across his back, now hidden beneath the white cotton of his T-shirt and had a hard time imagining her hands gripping that back as he pounded his flesh into hers. She had a hard time imagining that she had even sought his company at every break and lunch period at Tyson County High School. Those days seemed a long time ago, especially as each of the two years they’d spent healing from the fire had seemed like it lasted ten.
Lost in reverie, Delora squeaked in surprise when Louie’s hand fumbled hard on her shoulder. She lifted his cane from the rim of the washbasin, and they lumbered along the hall together toward the bright light of the kitchen.
“Mornin’, Louie,” Rosalie said. She stood at the stove frying a large pan of bacon and sausage. Eggs in their little nests on the counter patiently awaited their turn in the pan.
“Smells good, Rose,” Louie said as he felt his way into his chair. He fixed sightless eyes on the window and Delora knew he could feel the heat on his skin.
She fetched plates and silverware and set the table, folding napkins into neat triangles next to each setting. She moved to the toaster as Rosalie broke more eggs into the sizzling frying pan. They moved together in a well-rehearsed routine as Louie sat at the table smoking, lost in thought. Some mornings he would talk about the job he had had before, driving a tractor-trailer for Ebbler Trucking . His cross-country time had been the best in eight years they’d told him. He also acquired fewer tickets in three years than any of the other drivers.
Delora
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