I am pretty sure it was a Thursday when my mother died. Yes, it was. Valentine’s Day was a Thursday that year. I know that because I remember that when Tom came over the next day, he mentioned that Friday nights used to be the busiest nights for him.
We were on the couch at my mother’s place. They had taken away the body last night, but after some restless sleep filled with the anxiety of what would happen, I was glad to see Tom arrive at my door in the morning. Once he arrived, he made breakfast for lunch consisting of some oatmeal since he didn't know how to cook many other foods. Then we moved onto the couch. He was lying down with his feet dangling off the end and using his left arm as a pillow for his head against the arm of the sofa. His right arm was around my waist as I laid on top of him, pressed stomach to stomach. There was just small conversation at first. Mostly it was how I was coping and wondering what we would have for dinner since he obviously wasn’t going to leave me alone for any time soon after. It made me wonder what he did for dinner most nights before I came along and when I was not with him. He explained that he usually just went out to eat, once again reminding me that he was swimming in green. There was a small silence after that. That’s when he said it.
“You know, Fridays were always my busiest nights before you wedged yourself into my life. I should be working my ass off at this moment.”
I propped myself up on my elbows against his firm chest and raised my eyebrow at him. It had never occurred to me before then. He didn’t have a job as far as I knew at the time. To me, after I left his company, he just ceased to exist. But when he said that, it struck me; of course, he had to have had a job, right? Before I came, he had to have been doing something with his life. I knew he liked to get drunk and have wild nights out with other men and probably younger boys, but what man functions in society by just getting drunk? No man. So, he had to have had a job, and I never missed an opportunity to ask him about it.
“Say, what did you do?”
Tom just looked down at me with a sad smile. “Ah, something I shouldn’t have, but don’t worry about it, okay?”
And it was always that same reply. Always, he told me not to think about it. He always said it was something he didn’t miss and never explained further. I could never coax him to do so either. Sometimes I even went as far as thinking he was lying about everything—that he didn’t actually have work previous to our relationship—but that couldn’t have been reasonably true. There are sometimes places that you can’t lie, and even in those places, he admitted to having been doing something. I thought maybe he was just afraid or secretive or regretful, but none of that fit him though. Tom was incredibly shameless and audacious, and he shared everything with me … except for that particular subject.
I gave him a concerned look before lying back down across his chest. I put my hands on his sides and ran them up and down, feeling the soft fabric of his vest under my fingertips. I heard him sigh and felt him start rubbing his hand in circles on my back. I liked that. It was nice. Just me and him holding each other; nothing sexual about it. It was good, but our silence let my mind wander.
"My mother died, and I felt nothing,” I mumbled, staring at the wall across from the settee.
Tom’s hand faltered for a moment while grazing over my spine, but he didn’t say anything in response.
I continued, "Why aren't I crying? Why don’t I care?"
"I don't know what to tell you. I can't say I've been in your situation."
"And I'm not asking you to tell me anything. Of course, you don’t know. No one could possibly know."
"I know. I know," he muttered, tucking his head into my shoulder. He kissed my neck softly and gave me a supportive squeeze.
A tear slipped down my cheek, but it wasn't grief that made it. It was for a reason I didn't want to admit right then. The truth is that I didn't care about my mother dying; I cared about not having an excuse for staying in New York. I cared about having to go back to Mississippi … without Tom.
I didn't want to leave him, but I had no reason to stay. My sister was dead; my mother was dead. My only family was back in Vicksburg, so that was where I was needed. Though, Tom couldn't come with me. He had to stay in New York because he was not a good enough reason.
I feel like it was all my fault. Maybe if I had chosen to stay anyways, brought my sister up to New York, and sold the farm, it all would have been okay. Maybe if I had told him sooner that I was leaving or maybe if I had just left, then, just maybe, it wouldn't have had to end the way it did. I kept telling myself that I wouldn't really be leaving Tom—that we'd write letters, meet halfway, and somehow stay with each other. I was so stupid. So fucking stupid.
Tom brought his left hand from behind his head to my back. He curled his arms around me, squeezing me into a sympathetic hug, and kissed the top of my head, assuring me, "It'll be okay. I promise. This is something that will get better. Not to be too harsh but you'll forget this ever happened; I promise."
What he said only brought me back to the day before. Thursday was beautiful. I mean, aside from the fact that both my mother and sister died, it was beautiful; the marketplace was beautiful. It reminded me of something though.
“Tom?” I asked for his attention through a sniffle.
“What?” he whispered back as he started rubbing my back again.
“Yesterday, where did you go when you said that you’d be right back?”
He didn’t answer, so I propped myself up again to look at him but found that his eyes darted away from me. “Tom?”
He coughed awkwardly. “I’d rather not—”
“Tom,” I scoffed. “Do you really not trust me?”
I sat up on his hips, still straddling him. He, who had an expression of shame on his face, still wouldn’t look at me.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, because I do;” —he bit his lip before finally locking eyes with me— “I love you. It’s just that it has to do with my past, and I really don’t want to get you involved with that.”
By the end of the sentence, Tom’s voice was but a tender whisper as if he was scared to continue. I gave him a soft exasperated scoff and looked away, moving my tongue across my top teeth in vexation. I could sense how contrite Tom was over the lasting silence, but I wasn’t about to break it. If he wanted it to end, he had to speak first, and surprisingly, eventually, he did.
“Okay,” I heard him whisper, his voice shaking. “I went to go collect payment. I saw someone that I recognized as someone who owed me, so I went to collect payment.”
I turned back toward him, almost crying from frustration. “On what, Tom? I don’t get it. What are you so ashamed of? Why don’t you ever answer me?”
He responded calmly and quietly, easing me as he rubbed my thighs, “John, I’m afraid. I’m afraid you’ll look at me differently for my mistakes.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he shot me a glare and continued, “And I’m not going to take that risk. That life is behind me now, so it doesn’t matter. What matters to me is you, and if telling you what I did compromises that, I’d never forgive myself for being so stupid. I never plan to get back into that old way of life, and I never will. I regret so much. And as much as you think that you’d still treat me the same, I’m not betting my entire well-being on that, so let it go. I don’t want to lose you, so let it go.”
“Tom, just—”
“No,” he asserted himself, pressing me into submission.
“Okay,” I mumbled, looking down at my hands.
“Okay, now come here,” Tom offered, holding his arms out for me to lay back on his chest, so I did.
“I love you, John. I love you so much, and I never want to lose you. You know that’s why I do this, right?”
“I know, and I love you too.”
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