The Songs She Never Gave Him

Alvin didn't break stride. He turned sideways to let him pass, and walked on.

Luke didn't come back to himself until the man was far down the path.

He crossed the yard in a few quick steps, just as Mama came out carrying a bowl.

"Auntie, who was that just now?"

Mama didn't answer the question. "Mr. Weiss, you should go home."

"Aria's business is no longer yours to worry about."

She called him Mr. Weiss.

She used to call him Luke.

He stood in the yard, and the color drained slowly from his face.

"Auntie, can I say a couple of words to Aria? Just two."

Mama planted herself in front of him. "Whatever you want to say, she doesn't want to hear it anymore."

"Mr. Weiss."

"Alvin's family comes tomorrow to seal the betrothal."

"Go."

For a long while there was nothing but quiet outside.

Then came the sound of his footsteps moving toward the gate.

Slow. Every step like wading through water.

Later Mrs. Lambert came by to visit and said a few low words to Mama.

Said Luke's phone had rung over and over at the inn, always the same girl calling.

Martin had caught the voice on the other end by accident: "If you don't come back, I'll wreck the signing."

"There's been nothing wrong with my voice for ages, and you know it."

"What are you still doing in that rundown little town?"

Mrs. Lambert dropped her voice. "That Pruitt woman, her voice was never ruined. Not once."

Mama glanced at me.

I kept folding the laundry. My hands didn't stop.

Her voice was never ruined.

So the first year, when he said he'd take her to the state capital to see a doctor. The second year, when he said she couldn't get through a recording without him. The third year, when he said her tour needed him.

All of it lies.

And he believed it for seven years.

No.

He didn't believe it.

He was willing to go.

Mavis needed him, called for him, came crying to find him.

I only said, I'll wait for you.

He said all right.

The one who waits doesn't call, doesn't make a scene. So the one who waits is the easiest to put off.

I folded the clothes and put them in the chest.

The next morning, Mama went to Alvin's family and gave them my answer for me.

By the old custom, once the woman's family has spoken, the match is sealed.

There's no taking it back.

When the news spread through the town, I was down at the creek washing vegetables.

From far off I heard a dull sound from the direction of the yard.

Like clay breaking on stone.

Later Martin told Mama that Luke had crouched in our yard the whole morning.

He picked up the seven empty jars one by one and looked at them.

When he got to the last one, the one with the broken seal and my handprint on it, his hand shook as he lifted it.

The jar fell to the flagstones and broke into pieces.

He crouched down to gather the shards, and one of them cut his hand. Blood dripped onto the muddy handprint.

He just stayed like that, crouched, holding the broken pieces.

When Alvin came through the alley with the betrothal gifts on his shoulder pole, he didn't look at him.

The pole creaked under the weight. Among the gifts were two sets of bedding and a pair of wooden chests he'd made with his own hands.

He walked steady.

Luke crouched in the shards and didn't lift his head.

When Mama told me all this, I was rubbing tung oil into the wooden comb.

The oil soaked into the grain, and the color went a shade deeper.

I wrapped the comb in cloth and put it under my pillow.

Moonlight came through the window.

There were no empty jars in the yard anymore.

There was nothing left to wait for.