Nancy Bartholomew - Stand By Your Man

When I remembered to look for Weathers, I found him watching me, leaning back against the hood of his car and smiling to himself.

"Now that's quite a picture," he said slowly. For a second I thought he meant the view from the hilltop, but no, he meant me. I looked down at myself. My jeans were soaked, my sweater was a balled up mass of fiber, and my hair was drying into a solid mass of red tangles. I shivered and he moved.

"Come on," he said. "You're gonna get sick standing out here, and besides that, you might harden up and not be able to move." He reached me and touched my shoulder.

"It's beautiful," I said. "I had no idea this was out here." I turned a little away from him and looked back at the valley. His hand stayed on my shoulder, warm and firm.

"I like it right much," he said. "Now come on inside."

I followed him up the steps, across the wide blue-gray porch and through the thick front door into the house. I squinted, waiting as my eyes adjusted to the inside. We were in a wide foyer. A big mahogany sideboard took up the far wall, holding the day's mail and a worn Braves cap, his cap, I thought. Marshall walked past me, leading me down the center hallway, past the wide staircase with its worn-smooth steps, and into the kitchen. It was a woman's kitchen.

I stood there, taking in the gleaming vintage white appliances, the spotless black and white checkered linoleum floor, and the cast-iron skillets that hung in a neat row along the far wall. A red towel hung from the oven door. The teakettle had a little bird on the spout. African violets bloomed along the windowsill and jars of home-canned vegetables lined the open shelves next to the refrigerator. My heart fell. Here was the kitchen of my dreams and it was most certainly her kitchen.

"Sit down," he said, indicating a chair at the light pine kitchen table. "Want some coffee or tea? It'd warm you up."

He wasn't waiting for me to answer him. He was filling the teakettle with water, his back to me.

"I'm fine. No thank you."

"Suit yourself." He went on bustling about his kitchen, opening the refrigerator, reaching in for milk, then walking across the room to the pantry and pulling out bags that crackled and boxes that opened with a soft popping sound.

I sat there and felt good and sorry for myself. Marshall Weathers probably still carried a torch for his wife. What was I thinking, hoping we could have a relationship? I watched him make the coffee, carefully measuring it into the carafe, pouring steaming water in a thin stream through the filter.

He still loved her. He wasn't ready for anything serious. Hell, he'd told me that. What was I thinking?

Marshall walked toward me, setting a plate of cookies down in front of me. They looked homemade. I figured she brought them over to him, feeling sorry maybe. I decided her name was Wanda. Wanda Weathers. She was a big-haired, big-boned woman who sang in the choir every Sunday. She wore fake eyelashes on New Year's Eve and didn't like to spoil her makeup by fooling around. I figured her for a cross-stitcher, sewing away on cold winter evenings.

"You don't look right," he said, materializing in front of me, a steaming mug in his hand. "Too bad you're not hungry." He sat down across from me and shoved the cookies in my direction. "Sure you won't have any?"

"I don't think so," I said, my voice almost frosted. "I'm watching my figure."

"Uh-huh," he said, his eyes wandering up and down my torso. "Looks fine to me."

"Nope," I said firmly, "no cookies."

Marshall Weathers shook his head ruefully. "Too bad, my Aunt Lou made these. Won the county fair one year with this very recipe."

Aunt Lou? His aunt made the cookies? I snuck another peek and felt my stomach rumble. I hadn't even stopped for lunch after I'd dropped Bonnie back at the salon. Now I'd denied myself cookies.

I scratched at my stomach, then behind my ears. I was about to lose my mind sitting right here in Wanda Weathers's kitchen.

Marshall lowered his mug and frowned, then leaned closer. "Maggie, you're breaking out in a rash."

I looked down at my stomach. Flat red splotches had sprung up everywhere.

"Hold on," he said, jumping up. He was moving across the room, opening cabinets and grabbing at stuff. But he'd opened the Pandora's box to my ailment and I was too busy scratching to pay attention to the particulars.

"Hurry up," I called.

Marshall crossed the room with two pink pills and a glass of water. "Take this," he said. "It's an antihistamine. It'll help the itching."

He didn't need to finish the sentence. As soon as he handed me the pills, I downed them.

"Might make you a tad sleepy," he said, "but that's better than clawin' yourself half to death."

I didn't care. I was in agony. He grabbed my hands, pulled me up, and started back down the hall.

"What you need is to get those clothes off and take a shower. Those chemicals are probably irritating your skin."

He was all business. Not rushing, but not his usual slowed-down self, either. I was up the stairs in no time, headed to the right and into a huge open room anchored by a large antique bed. A family heirloom, I guessed.

"Oh God," I moaned. "I'm going nuts! It's burning!"

"Okay, come on now, calm down." He spoke quietly, all the while leading me forward into a white-tiled bathroom. A claw-footed tub stood against the far wall of the room, surrounded by a white shower curtain. Marshall leaned over, turned on the taps and turned back to me.

"Maggie," he said, "I don't mean a thing by what I'm about to do." And with one fluid movement he leaned toward me, grabbed the bottom of my sweater and pulled it off over my head. He reached for the button on my jeans, popped it efficiently and pushed the wet denim down around my ankles.

He straightened, looked me in the eyes, and reached his hands around behind my back. My bra slid down my arms and onto the floor. My panties followed them, and before I could really put it all together, I was in the shower. Alone.

"Are you all right?" he asked. He was moving around the room and I heard a cabinet door open and close. "I'm getting you something for the itching. Hang on."

The water ran over my skin, quenching some of the fire, but not enough. I moaned and he crossed the room instantly. "Maggie? You all right?"

"No," I said, my voice sinking about as low as my spirits.

"I itch everywhere. I look like Bozo the Clown, and now you've seen me naked and looking like a critter in a freak show." A sob caught in my throat, and my voice trailed off as I indulged in even more self-pity. I would have wallowed in my situation, but the burning seemed suddenly worse and I shrieked.

"Maggie?" his voice was louder, closer to the curtain and filled with concern.

"I'm on fire!" I was losing it. The itching was unbearable. I couldn't stop myself from clawing at my body. "Make it stop!" I yelled. "Help me, Marshall. Do something! Get me something! Oh God, it hurts!"

I could hear him rustle around outside the shower. I heard a clunk as something metallic hit the floor. A few seconds later the curtain opened. Marshall Weathers stepped into the tub behind me, completely naked, holding a box of baking soda in his hand.

"Turn back around and don't move," he whispered. "I'm putting baking soda on you," he said. "Old family remedy." His hands moved softly over my skin, caressing my back, and touching me like a cooling breeze. I sighed as his fingers moved down my arms.

"Feels better right off, doesn't it?" he said, his tone neutral but his voice a thready giveaway. Marshall Weathers wasn't feeling a bit like Harmonica Jack.

He stopped for a second, grabbed the box and poured more baking soda into his hand. When he turned back, he slipped his arms around my waist and began rubbing the powder onto my stomach. The water sluiced down my belly, melting the baking soda into a slippery liquid as his fingers moved across my torso. It was heaven. Wherever his fingers touched, the burning stopped and the pain eased.