“I honestly don’t know, Tom.”
“I said I was sorry for walking out. You hurt me. You have to own that.”
“There are things you don’t understand, Tom. Things I need to work through.”
“I can help you work through them.”
Closing my eyes, I saw the gravediggers shovel one, two, many clumps of soggy soil onto Doro’s casket. I saw Grace’s closed casket being carried out of the church where I hid behind sunglasses, behind Doro. Buried with them was a secret grief I could not explain, could barely name, even to myself. “No, these things you can’t.”
A sigh from Tom. “You won’t let me try. You won’t let me in.”
I ran my finger across a rough spot on the wooden arm of the swing, back and forth until a splinter pierced my skin: a metaphor for my life. “You and I are different people, Tom. You’re always happy, always ready to be happy. Me, I’m scared all the time.”
“I’m not happy right now.” A pause and then, “Scared of what?”
Of being murdered. Of dying. Of being a mother. Of being a wife.
Of myself.
“Just … scared, Tom. Overwhelmed. You take things—deaths, losses—and move on. I, I can’t move on.” I continued to talk against Tom’s silence. “You don’t understand how Grace’s murder affected me—it changed me.”
Finally he spoke. “You need someone you can talk to. I want to be that person.” He cleared his throat. “I expect to be that person.”
“I don’t know if you can be. You weren’t there; you didn’t know Grace.”
Tom was quiet again, measuring his words before his question. “And what about Tuck?”
“Tuck? What does he have to do with this?”
“Can you talk to him? Are you talking to him instead of your husband?”
Tuck. Those arms that made me feel like I could fall asleep and take the longest, sweetest nap. That mischievous grin. All the history, all the days we had spent together. He was my past; he was a part of my history, my foundation. I loved him like the good friend that he was, like a brother. Was there something more? Something I was hiding from myself? I knew the answer, and perhaps Tom could sense it.
“Tuck has been very supportive. He knows me well.”
“I thought I knew you well. I know the girl I married.”
I closed my eyes, wishing to be a cricket, chirping and bouncing through life.
“I’m tired, Tom.”
“Then you should go to bed.” He paused. “I want to tell you I’ll wait forever, Jo. But the truth is that I’m not sure I can.”
“You’re walking away again.”
“Good luck with your decision, Jo. Keep me posted.”
Never had I heard such thick sarcasm from the man with the sunny eyes and dimples.
“Don’t be like that Tom. I, I just need some time.”
Sighing, “I don’t know how you want me to be.” And then, “Goodbye, Jo.”
The receiver went dead, and I sat perfectly still, staring at the obnoxious dial tone until an operator’s tinny voice came on.
There amidst the night crawlers, under the crescent moon and surrounded by a million murmuring leaves, I realized I was totally alone.
27
THE STRANGER
I DIDN’T TALK TO TOM FOR ALMOST TWO WEEKS. Schools opened and stores posted their school supply sales. Outside the temperature dropped ten degrees—as if on cue—and the burgeoning fall sky painted itself the purest of blues.
Each time the phone rang, I imagined it to be Tom. With each passing day my flat stomach expanded and along with it my knowledge that I had pushed too far, had held Tom at arms’ length for too long: I had lost him.
I stopped drinking and substituted chocolate as a new vice. I also made an appointment with Dr. Overby, the ob/gyn who had delivered most of Mt. Moriah and passed up retirement three years running.
It was looking into his cataracts that I heard the heartbeat for the first time. I began to cry.
Holding out a tissue, “JoAnna, are those tears of joy?”
“They are tears of I-can’t-believe-this.” I dabbed my eyes. “I guess I’m a little overwhelmed.”
He held up my ring finger. “And your husband? What does he say?”
“He, he’s in Chicago. He’s very happy.” I wondered how many pregnant women with their bellies exposed had lied to Dr. Overby. I wondered if seeing someone’s vagina gave him the omniscience to read minds.
Dr. Overby smiled. “Good. Women with support often have easier pregnancies. From what I can see, all is well. Strong heartbeat. I’d like you to start pre-natal vitamins.”
I took the prescription from his hand.
“Dr. Overby, I drank some—before I knew. Before I realized … I drank alcohol. Will that affect the baby?”
He sat on the stool, pushing his glasses to the top of his head and running his hands over his eyes.
“You’re, what, twenty-four?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Right. Well, I can tell you that your mother probably smoked when she was pregnant. And if she was a drinker, she probably drank. Most of that generation did. All that to say we have learned the best ways to make a healthy baby, but babies are very resilient. Chances are slim that you have damaged your baby,” he paused and put his glasses back on his face. “Unless you have gotten drunk every day—really drank to excess.”
A vision of myself in the mirror at the Addys flashed in my mind.
“No, not really,” I said quietly.
“Good. Then let’s concentrate on that February due date and on eating healthy from here on out.”
When I got back to the Inn, I dialed Sandalwood & Harris and asked for Tom’s extension. Heart pounding, I waited through the voice mail greeting that told me he would be out of the office for a week. A minute later, I redialed and pushed zero to be transferred to the operator—a plump Hispanic woman named Rita whose raspberry nails curled over at the tips. I knew that on Rita’s desk sat a picture of her and her son Julio taken at Christmas. She was wearing a hot pink apron with “Kiss the Cook” stretching across her breasts, and the somewhat-hot Julio was planting a kiss on her cheek. I knew the pen cradled in her left hand had a sunflower on the cap, and that she was chewing on at least three sticks of gum.
“Sandalwood & Harris.”
“Rita, hi, it’s JoAnna Rivers.”
“JoAnna, girl, how are you? We missing you around here. When you coming back?”
Her years in the US had not erased Rita’s Puerto Rican accent, nor had her verb tenses improved. Closing my eyes, I could see myself walking through the glass lobby doors and greeting her. Rita smelled like vanilla. I knew little about her life, didn’t see her outside of work. Yet she was a new definition of friend, a familiar face that greeted me on my comings and goings. I was suddenly homesick for Chicago.
“I’m not sure, Rita. I tried to call Tom but got his voice mail. Have you …” I paused, wondering how I could explain I didn’t know where my own husband was. “Has he checked in today?”
“Yes, lucky dog. My Roberto always tell me we would go to River Walk and see the Alamo. I ask your Tom to bring me little statue. But when you coming back?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Cruella has been asking.”
Like so many at S&H, Rita shared a contempt for Candace who clearly did not approve of Rita—her dress, her voice, the way she spilled coffee on phone messages. Often, as Candace walked away, barely acknowledging Rita’s existence, Rita let loose with a litany of Spanish slang that made Tom chuckle. It made me wish I had studied Spanish, instead of French, in college.
“Well I speak enough Spanish to know what she’s saying would curl your hair up a bit tighter,” Tom once chuckled.
“I’m not sure, Rita. What’s going on there?”
“Hold a minute, girl.”
While I waited, I thought about Tom in San Antonio. Was this a big shoot? Was he excited? The thought that he had gone without telling me was an arrow
to my heart. He truly had left me.
“Sorry, girl, this phone crazy today. JoAnna, I sorry about your aunt. You okay, girl? Tom tell me you not feeling good.”
So Tom had not told her about the baby. He knew I would want to tell her that myself. At least that. Or maybe he didn’t want anyone to know. Maybe he wanted to walk away and pretend like I didn’t exist—like we didn’t exist.
Rita told me what I had missed. Much of it I tuned out, although the names and stories were comforting in their familiarity. One detail I did note was the hiring of a second Copy Manager.
“Where is she sitting?” I asked.
“It’s a him. And in your cubicle.”
Closing my eyes, I pictured my work space at the back of the twelfth floor, positioned against the glass wall so that half a window was mine. Casting my eyes to the left, I could glimpse the Michigan Avenue Bridge. Across the cubicle was another desk where I stored file folders.
“Okay, girl, it almost noon so I need to go.”
Noon was Rita’s lunch break, when she could escape to the break room and watch Days of Our Lives. “Ah, mierda! Susan Lucci que canalla!” she would hiss at the nineteen-inch screen. I knew Rita would not miss a moment of her break.
“I’ll let you go, Rita,” I said, then, thinking I might never see her again, “take care of yourself.”
“You too, girl. You want I transfer you somewhere?”
“Yeah, actually, can you transfer me to Candace?” I spoke quickly, getting the words out before my courage evaporated.
“Oh girl, I can’t. She’s in San Antonio too.”
With Tom. With her pink bras and tight pencil skirts. With her ability to tie neckties and the delicate, polished fingertips that she used to flip lint off men’s jackets. With that flirtatious giggle and fuck-me-pumps. With my husband.
After my conversation with Rita, I moved to the swing, swatting away mosquitos and watching Maddy on the lawn mower, riding around in circles until the high grass was all gone.
The phone rang, and I almost tripped myself running for it.
“Hi, Jo, you’re out of breath.”
Tuck’s voice had never sounded so good to me. My lifeline.
“Hi yourself. I was just swinging on the porch and wishing you were here. I’d really like to talk to you.”
“Everything okay?” Tuck sounded concerned.
“Yes, I just, I need to talk to someone.”
“Well, it’s going to have to wait two days. I’m headed to Birmingham to take the boards. Can it keep?”
“Of course, Tuck. Good luck on your boards. I’ll be crossing my fingers.”
“Toes too, please. Okay, see you Friday.” And then, “Love ya.”
“I love you too,” I said to the dead phone line. And at that moment I knew I did. I had loved Tuck forever, and I wanted him back. I cherished the swing and the land the Inn sat on, treasured the creaking floorboards in the foyer and the magnolia trees that curled around themselves. I loved the fact there was no Thai food within thirty miles, and I coveted the predictability of life on the mountain. And suddenly I knew what I had to do. Quickly, before I lost my nerve, before I lost my way.
I logged on to Doro’s computer and typed in Candace’s email address. My resignation letter was polite but short: I hoped she’d understand and appreciated the opportunity. Ten minutes later her reply came through. It, too, was cordial and polite. So abbreviated that it told me the new copy manager was already sitting in my chair, craning his neck to see the Chicago River.
Candace didn’t mention Tom. I wondered if they were sitting in a riverfront café, sipping wine. I wondered if my name ever came up. I wondered if Tom had ever existed at all … if any part of us had been real.
I wondered whether I had just said goodbye to Chicago forever.
The days passed in a haze. I was sure Tom had heard of my email to Candace, but he didn’t call. He was gone, and if I stood still for too long, fear of the future clinched me like a vise. And so I didn’t stop moving. Increasingly withdrawn, Maddy took more naps. I knew he was grieving but I had nothing to give. All I could do was clean. Putting order to the splendid chaos of Doro’s things became my focus.
With the drop in humidity and passage of time, my energy level returned—to the point that one Tuesday I decided to walk the mile to the library with a satchel on my shoulders. The path I took was so familiar my feet seemed to move by instinct. It was the route we had taken weekly, Doro and I, when we first moved to Mt. Moriah. Down the Inn’s long driveway, onto Birkham Street, crossing the bridge at Woodbury Avenue, and cutting across the Family Dollar parking lot. The library outpost was a small cottage wedged in between a bank and a Sonic that was new since my departure four years ago.
Mature white crepe myrtles flanked the narrow structure, and the building’s mossy green shingles seemed incongruous with the elegant Palladium window in the front. I remembered that the children’s section was in the front, with a maple table and coloring sheets in front of that window. I remember passing hours there, losing myself in a book as the world outside marched on.
A bell rang as I pulled the wooden door open. I immediately noticed that there was now a loveseat and two arm chairs in front of the window. The walls had been transformed from sunny yellow to soothing gray, and the card catalog files had acquiesced to two computer kiosks.
But the checkout desk greeting me was comforting in its sameness—same position, same blonde wood, even same dusty potted plant, or so it seemed. I set my satchel on the desk and waited as the librarian finished the last bite of a sesame bagel.
“I need to return these books for my aunt,” I stammered. “I have a feeling they might be overdue.”
The woman named Nanette excavated readers from atop a messy gray bun and pulled the books across the desk.
Scanning the top book, she peered at the screen and then looked directly at me and smiled sympathetically. “Mrs. Blair. I was so sorry to learn of her death; she was quite a woman.”
“Yes, she was. Thank you.” I pulled my wallet out of my satchel. “Do I owe anything to settle the bill?”
“Well it looks like they were all two months late, but how about we just erase that balance?”
“Are you sure? That’s very nice.” I put away my wallet and turned to leave, when Nanette put her hand on mine.
“You’re Mrs. Blair’s niece, right?”
I nodded.
“And you were friends with that girl Grace, right?”
My heart beating faster, I nodded again.
She took off her readers and leaned forward. “You don’t know me; we never officially met. I’m Sam Snelling’s sister.”
Indeed I never met her, but I’ll never forget the night Grace and I met Sam Snelling.
Grace and I were sixteen, and I was in my first month of driving alone. Doro’s rule was that I had to drive with either her or Maddy for six months before I could venture out alone. And so Friday night, October 4 was a night I had looked forward to all summer, not for the reason that the rest of our high school did—because it was the football game with our rivals—but because I could drive myself and Grace there and back alone.
It didn’t matter that our rival’s Hail Mary pass knocked us out of championship contention. Keys in my jeans pocket pressed against my thigh. Our sweatshirts were not heavy enough against the chilly fall air, yet still we kept the windows down on the drive home, as Billy Joel belted his ballads in Doro’s Chevrolet. The brisk breeze blew cherry-colored leaves across our path, and lighted pumpkins scowled from every house. We made the turn onto Birkham Road and sat idling at the bottom of the driveway, waiting for “She’s Always a Woman” to end. Grace and I had not talked during the drive home, simply enjoying our independence.
Tuck and his friends were coming over after they showered. We knew they would be in bad moods from the loss, but also knew that Doro’s brownies and pizza would bring them around. The air blowing through our car felt like Friday nights: youthful
, free. Full of possibilities.
I started to continue up the driveway, when suddenly I saw lights behind me and heard an awful noise: the sick cymbal of steel against stone.
Birkham Road was bordered by a stone wall marking Doro’s property. The wall continued for over a half mile before the sharp turn into the Inn driveway. The green Nissan had collided with the wall, compacting the hood almost to its windshield, a sizzling noise seeping from its engine.
Jumping from our car we ran toward the accident; pinned inside was a boy, blood caking the side of his face, windshield debris on the road.
“Is he, is he alive?” I was frozen at the sight. But not Grace.
“I don’t know. Go get Doro and Maddy.” Grace moved to the driver side window, cracked but not broken. She turned and yelled at me once more. “Go, Jo.”
I got back into Doro’s car to go up the drive, but Maddy’s truck met me. Doro jumped from the truck, relief on her face that I was not the one in the wreck changing to horror as she saw the mangled car and the blood spattered window. She pulled me to her in a hug that told me what she had imagined in the moments since she and Maddy, watching from the kitchen window for my return, had seen a car airborne and heard the crash.
“Maddy’s calling the ambulance,” Doro called to Grace who was at the window, pulling on the door. “You should back up, Grace. That car might go up in flames.”
“Is he dead?” My voice quivered.
“I don’t know. He’s not moving.” Grace’s voice was shrill with the tears. “Mister, can you hear me?”
Styx crooned from the radio, piercing the deadly silence of the night, as Grace continued to talk to the stranger.
“Help is on the way. Hang in there. Can you hear me?”
Billy Joel transitioned into Air Supply, but nothing from the driver. And then Air Supply changed to Aerosmith and to a weather report and then Kiss. And back to Air Supply. Over and over, a constant change. With only his fingers free, the stranger was pushing the radio buttons to tell us he was alive.
“You’re alive! Keep pushing the buttons. My name is Grace. Don’t be scared. We’re here.” Grace, who almost needed sedation to get a flu shot, seemed immune to the blood and the glass and the smell of anguish in the air. She continued a stream of conversation, as Tuck and his buddies arrived.
Mt. Moriah's Wake Page 26
