The Road to Testament

by Eva Marie Everson

  “Hunk-a-junk.”

  “What?”

  “We call them ‘hunk-a-junk.’ If you want to say it right, you say ‘hunk-a-junk.’ ”

  “How enlightening.” My eyes burned from needing to blink, which I dared not do.

  Will chuckled. “That hunk-a-junk has been down this road more times than I care to count, so I hate to disappoint you, but . . .”

  I elected to say nothing in response.

  “You’d best hope it doesn’t rain.” He leaned forward, pulling the seat belt with him, and looked out the windshield. The brim of his hat touched the glass. “Looks promising . . .”

  My choice to ignore him only seemed to further stir his mirth at my expense.

  “How much farther?” I finally asked.

  Will leaned back. “Another few miles.”

  “Define ‘few.’ ”

  “Great-granny, girl. I dunno. Five. Six.”

  The bones in my neck cracked as I whipped my head to the right. “Are you serious? How far out did Miss Helen live?”

  His lips pursed. “About fourteen, fifteen miles, I reckon. I’ve never really measured the distance.”

  “I have a question for you . . .”

  “Another one?” He closed the manual and returned it to the glove box.

  I bit my lip and counted to ten. “Yes, another one.” I glanced at him. Surprise jolted me physically; his attention was solely on me. “Have you worn a cowboy hat your entire life or is this something new?”

  His index finger rose to the brim and pushed against the felt, exposing more of his eyes. Mine locked on them, for the first time really seeing the chocolate and amber that, when mixed, built a fire of their own making. “I see you got some new duds.”

  I ever-so-briefly glanced at my lap. For the party, I’d chosen an outfit purchased at Bubba O’Leary’s—a lightweight cotton scoop-neck top and a pair of slim-leg denim jeans. “I did. This morning.”

  “You look nice.”

  My head whipped toward him again just as the front wheels of my car hit a bump. The car pitched to the right, the back tires swung to the left. The steering wheel took on a mind of its own, spinning with such force, my hands flew back.

  Will reached over. “Hold on, hold on,” he said. His hands gripped the wheel and spun it to the right, the left, back to the right. “Ease into the brakes!”

  I did as he ordered, my hands pressing against the leather at my thighs. His elbows jabbed my chest, pushing me farther into my seat. When the car slid to a stop, we faced the wrong direction. Heavy breathing filled the inside of the car, lessening until Will twisted the gearshift to park. “You hit a pothole.”

  I pressed a hand to my chest, felt the thudding of my heart. “A what?”

  Will let out a deep breath through his nostrils. “Do you want me to drive the rest of the way?”

  I shook my head. “I can do it. I’m not completely inept.”

  He pulled his hat from his head, raking his fingers through his hair, and replaced the hat. “Just when it comes to fishtailing.”

  Potholes and fishtailing. “To what?” Gram should have told me I’d need an English-to-Southern dictionary to survive six months in Testament.

  “Nothing. Turn the car around. And for pity’s sake, drive slowly.”

  “Slowly? I’ve barely been crawling. The last thing I want to do is beat my car to death.”

  The fire in his eyes met mine again. “I told you.”

  “I know!”

  “Do you want me to drive?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  I clenched mine in response. “I can do it,” I ground out.

  “Then do it!”

  I growled at him, turned the selector to drive, and eased the car in the right direction.

  “Your car,” he said, with no lead-in, when we’d inched a few yards forward.

  “What about it?”

  “How much did it set you back?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Just thought I’d ask. You being so protective of it.”

  “And I’m going to answer you so you can criticize my spending habits?”

  “Doesn’t matter what it cost you. It’s extravagant. You going to deny that?”

  “No. But I earn enough, and I don’t have children to spend my money on . . .”

  “What about other children? Children who are less fortunate? Ever think about what the money you spent on this one car could do for them?”

  I took several deep breaths before answering. And, even though my breathing returned to normal, my heartbeat had not. Where had his anger come from, this intense emotion inside him? He’d made his unnecessary remarks before about my car, but now to blame me—practically—for the unmet needs of children?

  In junior high I’d believed—albeit briefly—that my family’s money, that living where we lived and how we lived and being who we were, would buy me into the hearts of little girls I’d wanted to be like. When that turned out not to be so—when it worked against me rather than for me—I learned to accept what I could afford for what it was. A means to whatever end I wanted. And I’d told myself that there was nothing wrong with having what I wanted. I was a nice person, after all. Deep down. Whether anyone recognized that, was not my responsibility.

  Still, if I were to be honest with myself, even for a millimeter of a moment . . .

  “I admit,” I said finally, “that I’ve not really thought much about children who are less fortunate.” I glanced at him. Disappointment registered on his face. “You’re shocked?” I asked, the anger returning. “You think so little of me, and you’re shocked?”

  He drew his teeth over his bottom lip. “I don’t think little of you.”

  “No?” I flexed my fingers and regripped the steering wheel.

  “No.”

  “Then . . . what? Because you’ve done nothing but prejudge me since I got here. I have somehow managed to live through the longest week of my life, thanks in large part to you.”

  “Not very Christian of me, is it?”

  His voice had filled with grief. I recognized it easily. This had been the sound Gram made, shortly after Papa’s death, when she realized she’d live the remainder of her life without him. This had been the sound of grief I’d heard when Leigh’s twin brother, Lawson, had died. When she called to tell me. When we sat huddled in a corner of her bedroom, with our knees drawn up to our chests, my arms wrapped awkwardly around her shoulders. Leigh had buried her mouth in the palm of her hand and wailed. In agony at the loss of her brother. In anger at the drug that had stolen him.

  And this was the root of emotion that had come from my gut when the girls in seventh grade hadn’t accepted me the way I thought they would. Had expected they would.

  How odd the same sound of sadness should come from William Decker. Different, but the same.

  I stopped the car.

  “What are you doing?” he asked me.

  “Stopping.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you okay?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’m fine. Why?”

  My mind ran over the words we’d spoken in the last five minutes. “It grieved you that you didn’t—as you say—act very Christian.”

  His face jerked. “Yeah,” he said between lips that barely parted.

  “And?”

  He looked to his lap, pulled the hat off again, and turned his face slowly toward mine. “It’s not really you. Okay?”

  “So Rob indicated.” At least, sort of indicated.

  Will’s jaw flexed. “Oh, yeah? What did Rob tell you? Exactly.”

  The anger I’d felt earlier had left me and settled on him. To such extent it frightened me. Not that I thought Will might hit me, but more that it seemed to come from someplace so deep and so controlled, it would consume him.

  “Nothing, really. He told me nothing.” I kept my voice barely above a whisper. Something Mom had taught me. Keep the voice calm and the situation will remain calm as well. “Just that he
understood why you’ve acted like you have, but that it wouldn’t be right for him to talk to me about it.”

  He said nothing, just fingered the rim of the hat’s brim. But his eyes remained narrowed and only short breaths came in and out of his nostrils.

  I tried a new tactic. “Rob indicated it should come from you.”

  He chuckled then. “Nice try.” And just like that, the anger dissipated.

  I tried to smile, but confusion wouldn’t allow for it. “Does that mean you aren’t going to tell me why you’re such a bully?”

  “I’m not a bully.” He returned the hat to his head.

  “You’re an enigma, that’s what you are.”

  Will looked at me again. The glint in his eyes told me he liked hearing that. “In what way?”

  “One minute you bark at me for coming in late when I didn’t even know the starting time. The next minute you’re doing something like removing the goo from the seat belt of your truck. You open doors for me—which is nearly unheard of these days—but don’t introduce me to people in anything that remotely resembles a proper fashion. You brutally tell me what you think of me but won’t allow me to tell you what I think of you. You work with children on your time off, and you go to church on Sunday.”

  “I do.” He paused. His eyes searched mine as if they were trying to gaze into my soul, to see what I might truly be made of. As if to say that maybe he didn’t know my “type” as well as he thought he did. “What else?”

  “You love your grandparents enough to come back from Chicago—”

  “Let’s not talk about Chicago, shall we?” He looked forward. “Enough about me. Come on. Drive. We’ll be later than we already are.”

  I returned my hands to the wheel. “And the moment is gone,” I muttered.

  Helen Baugh lived in a sprawling farmhouse at the end of a narrow dirt road with grass growing between the ruts. Vine-wrapped brambles grew on both sides, intermittently entwining with skinny trees whose leaves appeared lifeless. When I first saw the house, I blinked at the size of it, then frowned at how badly it needed a new coat of paint. “Tell me about Helen Baugh,” I said to Will as I parked at the end of a mammoth row of cars and trucks, and one old school bus with “Testament Nursing Home” painted on the side. “Other than that she is the birthday girl.”

  “She’s ninety years old.”

  “I know that part.”

  We both opened our doors and got out, me not willing to wait for him to come around. After all, I had been in the driver’s seat.

  From over the roof of the car, Will said, “Be nice.”

  I gawked at him. “I’m being nice.”

  “Then don’t be smart-alecky.”

  I lifted my eyes to heaven. “Okay. Whatever you say. Tell me whatever you can about Helen Baugh, please, sir.”

  He shut his door with a grin. I grabbed my new suede purse and did the same, but without the smile.

  Will came up beside me and we started to the front porch steps. “When Helen Baugh was fairly young,” he started, keeping his voice low, “she married the man whose family had owned this farm. He was older than Miss Helen and—it was often rumored—into one thing or another. He’d already been married once before. For reasons no one ever talks about, the previous Mrs. Baugh had taken off for parts unknown.”

  I looked at Will and he shrugged. “I have no idea where she went,” he said, answering my unspoken question.

  “Did they have children?” I asked. “The first Mr. and Mrs. Baugh?”

  “Three. They were all grown by then—early twenties—and older than Miss Helen.”

  I stopped. “You’re kidding.”

  Will stopped too. “That’s the way of some things, you know? Back then?” He looked down, his face shadowed by his hat.

  “I reckon.”

  One side of his mouth turned up. “If you’re going to fit in around here, you might as well say it right and not half right.”

  If I were going to fit in? I swelled at the statement—it meant that the one person I was trying hardest with and gotten the least far with, had opened a door. “What did I say?”

  “I reckon.”

  “Wasn’t that how I said it?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you did. But you said it wrong.” The lopsided smile grew larger. “Try: Shoot, I reckon.”

  “Shoot, I reckon.”

  Will shook his head. “More emphasis on the ‘shoot.’ ”

  I took a deep breath. “Shoot, I reckon.”

  His eyes widened, but his lips broke into a full smile. “Not that much emphasis. Try it again; this time give the ‘shoot’ a little more attitude but not so much emphasis.”

  I couldn’t help but smile back. “But you said ‘emphasis.’ ”

  He pulled on the hat’s brim. “Never mind what I said. Try it. Add some sass. You know how to do that much, right?” The right half of his lips came up again. “Right?”

  I cocked my head as my eyes locked with his. “Shoot, I reckon.”

  Will clapped his hands together once. “There ya go!”

  “Hey!” Rob’s voice came from the front porch, causing us both to turn. He stood on the top step and waved his arm in greeting. “Glad to see you made it,” he said, then trotted down the steps and over to where we stood.

  I smiled, happy to see him, yet, strangely, felt put upon. I’d enjoyed talking with Will in those few moments between the car and where we now stood. Even though earlier he’d pushed every button inside me, I wanted to reach something inside him. If he’d let me. For a second—the tiniest of brief seconds—I thought perhaps I could get close enough. Closer, perhaps. We’d had a moment back there on the road. Another one here. And I wanted it back. Long enough to see what lay on the other side if we pushed through.

  “When did ya get here?” Will asked Rob as they shook hands.

  “Half an hour ago.” He looked at his watch. “And boy, you’re late. Most folks have eaten, the cake has been cut, and your grandfather is frothing at the mouth.” Kind eyes found me. “I’m glad you came, but . . . did you drive your car?” And then to Will, “I can’t believe you let her drive that Jag out here.”

  “Believe me,” Will said, “you don’t want to go there.”

  “We’d better go in,” I said, more to Will than Rob. “Before your grandfather fires me.”

  “Like that’s going to happen.”

  The three of us continued forward. “Will was just telling me about Miss Helen,” I said to Rob.

  “About her marriage to Old Man Baugh,” Will supplied.

  “What a horrible thing to call someone,” I said.

  “You didn’t know the man. Well, I didn’t know the man. But my grandmother told me enough stories . . .”

  “And most of them are probably true,” Rob concurred.

  We climbed the front porch steps. Laughter and conversation poured from inside. The aroma of fried chicken mixed with the sweet scent of a flowering vine wrapped around the porch posts. “Sounds like quite a crowd,” I said.

  “Oh there is. And let me go ahead and warn you—hot as blue blazes in there.” Rob’s hand found mine. “Hey,” he whispered. “I know you’re here to work . . .”

  “You’ve got that right,” Will said. I cut my eyes toward him and gave him my best “Don’t you dare” look. The same look I’d given my father not so many days ago in Gram’s office.

  “Come on now, boy,” Rob said. He pulled me along the left side of the wraparound porch. “I was just going to say that I have some people I want to introduce her to.”

  “I’d love to meet them.”

  Will chortled. “You don’t even know who they are.”

  “If they’re friends of Rob’s . . .”

  “More than friends,” he said. “My mom and dad are here. My sister and her family . . .”

  I looked up at Will, whose eyes held a mixture of “I told you so” and amusement.

  I took a moment, just long enough to swallow apprehension. “Oh,” I sa
id. Nothing more. Just “oh.”

  20

  We neared an old, decorative screen door. The rusty screen buckled. The gray paint was more off than on. But ferns spilling out of wicker planters placed between antiquated rockers gave a cheerful hello and the aroma of Southern food only enhanced the welcome. I made out silhouettes and shadows of the crowd inside. “Is the entire town here?”

  “Near ’bout,” Rob said. “Miss Helen is a bit of a legend.”

  Will opened the door. It squeaked in resistance.

  “There you are,” his grandfather boomed before we’d even crossed the threshold where warm, thick air met us. The house, old as it was, had never had air-conditioning added. This, plus the number of people inside and the cooking, made for instant heat.

  “Hey, Big Guy. We had some . . . car—uh—problems.”

  “You’re here now,” Shelton said over conversation and the clatter from the kitchen. Then to me, “Come on in, girl. Come on in. The birthday girl is excited to meet you.”

  “Me?”

  Rob beamed beside me. “She remembers your grandparents,” he said.

  I felt my smile travel all the way to my toes. “Really? She knew Gram and Papa?”

  Bobbie came up beside her husband. “Come with me, dear.”

  Rob released my hand and I followed Bobbie out of what appeared to be a small den with outdated furniture into a larger family room. Certainly not a formal living room. The furniture was just as archaic, but not as old. None of it matched and none of it seemed to matter. The birthday “girl,” who sat in an overstuffed recliner, commanded the room and stole the show.

  Even sitting, Helen Baugh appeared short but ample. She wore a pink suit that looked new and stylish, and a pink feathery tiara atop her carefully coiffed silver-white hair. Large eyes met mine from behind oversized glasses. “Is this her?”

  “Miss Helen,” Bobbie Decker said, her voice rising a decibel, “this is Ashlynne Rothschild. She’s Connie and Richard’s granddaughter.”

  Helen Baugh shooed away a young man sitting on an ottoman in front of her. “Skedaddle,” she said. “And go get me some more punch. I’m so hot in here I could die.” She beat the ottoman with a walking cane that had been resting against her chair. “Come sit, girl.”