Untaken Paths
by
Pioneer
Woman
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction and may include adult language and
experiences; you have been warned. © 8/2006 by Pioneer Woman
The chilly December wind made him
shudder as he stomped out his cigarette and leaned against the old
green
Ford. The gas pump
ticked off the
gallons and fell silent. One
of his big,
strong hands closed over the handle of the nozzle and put it in place. His leather coat rustled
as he strode inside
to pay at the register.
The wind that combed his chestnut hair
made him squint his hypnotizing green eyes.
He glanced at the sky as he got in his car and figured it
would start to
snow any time. He
could see it now --
one of those 20-inch storms of ‘no accumulation’. Oh well.
He wasn’t in a hurry anyway.
Not
really. He’d
just find a motel room to
wait it out.
*
It was later that evening when he turned
on the TV set in his room and glanced out the window.
Sure enough.
Flakes as big as quarters were coming down by the bucket
full.
He opened the door and stepped
outside. He held
his hand out and caught
some flakes in his palm. Smiling
as he
watched them melt, he remembered that day, so very long ago.
There she was …sitting in a school
desk,
her brown hair curled back, and her big brown eyes laughing. He was dripping wet, and
she had his hand in
hers ….
“You’re all wet!” She was saying,
“Oh! And
your hands are cold!”
He shook himself out of the trance and
went back inside. The
TV droned on as he
sat down on the edge of the bed, muttering, “Why’d
I do it? Why’d
I let her go?”
He shut his eyes and shook his
head. Who was he
kidding? He knew
exactly why. Because
he just had to go to his parties and
have his fun. Had
to hang out with his
buddies and have a ‘good time’.
Oh well. It
was too late now. Besides,
she’d been better off without him.
He flipped the TV off and stared at the
phone. No, he
couldn’t call her. ‘Charles
who?’ she’d ask …or she’d hang
up. No, it was out
of the question. Still
….
“Stewart
…Stewart,” he thumbed through
the directory. “Not
there. She’s
married! Amber?
Married?! Well,
I’ll call Lynn
…Lynn’ll
know …Brock …Brock …no, wait
…what’s that jerk’s name she married? Masters!
Let’s see …yeah, here
…yeah, hello?
Is …uh …Lynn
there?”
“Just a minute,” a
masculine voice
replied.
“Hello?”
Lynn’s
voice seemed full of life, as she picked up the phone.
“Hey, Lynn!”
Charles laughed.
“Charles!”
She exclaimed, “Is it really you?”
“Sure …listen
…I was …,” he stumbled for
words. “Well,
Lynn,
how’s …everybody?”
“OK,” Lynn
remarked. “Are
you in town? For
how long?”
“I dunno,” he shrugged, as
if she could
see him. “Listen,
how’s Amber?”
“She’s fine. You ought to go see her if
you get a chance.”
“Should I?
I mean, really?”
Eagerness crept into his voice.
“Yeah, why not?”
“Well,” he swallowed the
lump in his
throat, “she’s married, isn’t
she?”
“So?”
*
It
was late the next morning, after the snow had stopped and the plows
were in business when Charles ventured forth to try his luck. The
going was slow, but he finally pulled into a drive. It was a nice
home, with trees in the yard, chain link fencing, and a station wagon
in front of the double garage.
He got out.
There were tracks from the front door to the
garage. Good. Maybe he was at work
…or …. Oh,
God!
What if it was her who
was at
work? What if he answered the door?
He’d
say his car was stuck, and he needed the phone!
No, his car was in the drive …oh well,
he’d think of something.
He rang the bell and heard someone
coming. Last chance
to run. He clenched
his fists and drew a deep breath
as the door swung open. Charles
was
stunned to see the little boy no older than four standing before him. So, Amber was a mother.
“Yeah?”
The small boy with wavy brown hair and brown eyes
resembled her.
“Is your …uh
…mom here?” Charles
stuttered.
“Yeah, come in.” The child shut the door
behind Charles.
“Who is it, Michael?
I told you ….”
She was there. Right
there.
She came in from the kitchen, and now she was no more than
ten steps
away. Her hair was
the same brown, her
eyes not quite as lively. The
blue
sweater looked soft, and the ring on her finger looked big.
Charles finally broke the silence. “Hi,
Amber.”
“Michael,” Amber ordered
her son, “go in
the other room.”
Charles took a step toward her and
stopped. She
wasn’t his anymore and
neither was that boy …he couldn’t hold her.
“Sit down,” she motioned. “Why are you
here?”
“Cute kid,” Charles sat
next to her on
the couch. “Any
others hidden away?”
“Yeah,” she nodded,
“very hidden, as a
matter of fact.”
He glanced questioningly at her stomach,
and she nodded. He
felt a sharp jab in
the pit of his heart, as something in him died.
He let out a sigh and looked around the room.
“That him?”
He pointed toward a picture of a tall, sturdy
man in his thirties. He
had short brown
hair and blue eyes.
“Yes,” she answered. “Mark Thurman,
in case you don’t know …I’m
sorry. I
don’t mean to be snappy.
Believe it or not, it’s good to see
you.”
“Not half as good as it is to see
you,”
Charles smiled. “Guess
you’re … uh
…doing OK?”
“Yeah,” she reached out and
took his
hand in hers, “I’m OK.
I could be
better, but ….”
“I’m sorry I ran out on
you.” He
sounded like a child begging forgiveness.
“I am, too,” Amber looked,
almost
coldly, into his eyes. “But
that’s how
it was supposed to be. Now,
tell me what
you’ve been up to all these years.”
“There’s not much to
tell,” he looked
away. “I’ve
just been on the road.”
“What happened to
…what’s her
name?” Amber
wondered. “Nancy,
wasn’t it?”
“Who cares?” Charles’ eyes
met her, “She never was you
…nobody was.”
Amber bit her lip then changed the
subject, “Have you talked to Lynn? Do you remember when
…?”
*
They
talked, reliving all the years gone by. Their laughter rang
through the house as they recalled the happy times, and their smiles
warmed the room with a reminiscing glow.
Then, glancing at the clock, Amber
marred the perfect day. “Mark
will be
home soon, you’d better go.”
Charles obediently stood up and walked
toward the door, then turned. “You
don’t
love him, do you?”
“No,” Amber stated,
matter-of-factly, as
she followed him.
“Then why?”
He took her hand.
“Because I’m fond of
him,” she
justified, “and he takes care of me.”
He glanced at the delicate hand, the
diamond ring glittering with harsh reality.
He shook his head and left.
Too bad, he told himself.
She deserved better.
But then, he couldn’t give it to her, could
he?
