The Thunder Rolls

by Bethany Campbell

  “You keep your dirty thoughts off my wife,” Gordon retorted. “I’ll kill the man that comes between me and her. You understand?”

  “Understand this, you pinhead,” Bubba snarled, and crashed the receiver down so hard that the desk shook.

  He looked at Mary, his face suffused with rage and humiliation. “That punk is talkin’ about killin’ people. I’m gonna report him. I’m gonna call the sheriff. I’m gonna tell Dottie—”

  “Leave Dottie out of this,” Mary returned, tears flashing in her eyes. “That poor woman has had enough problems. So you just be quiet and take your medicine like a man, Bubba Gibson. You brought it on yourself.”

  She turned her back on him and closed the door between them. Bubba stared at it, feeling guilty and helpless.

  The phone began to ring again, impossibly shrill. It rang and rang. He sank back into his desk chair and put his head between his hands.

  “ALL RIGHT,” Dottie told Nora, nodding at the coffee shop’s phone. “I unplugged it because Gordon was calling. And that’s why I had the phone turned off at the house. But it has nothing to do with you. Absolutely nothing.”

  Nora glanced at the phone warily, then back at Dottie.

  Dottie shrugged and tried to keep a poker face. She hated lying but felt she had no choice. “All he wants is money—I told him we’d reached a dead end on that subject, and he knew it. We went through that fight last year.”

  Nora nodded and began to look less suspicious. She knew about Gordon’s borrowing. Since the divorce, Dottie had loaned him hundreds of dollars, actually thousands—he’d never repaid so much as a cent.

  Gordon would be fine for a while, then he’d go off on a spree and be back, begging for money. Dottie had kept paying because she didn’t want him to get in trouble.

  But at last Dottie, driven to distraction and an ulcer, had talked to her doctor, Nate Purdy. She’d also talked to her minister, Howard Blake, and her lawyer, Martin Avery, whom she trusted implicitly.

  They’d all told her the same thing. Gordon didn’t need money. He needed what Howard Blake called “tough love.” If he was ever to grow up, he must control his own behavior, learn to solve his own problems, clean up his own messes. Dottie shouldn’t yield another inch to him.

  “Well,” Dottie went on with her story, “this time he wanted five hundred dollars more than he’d asked for before. Imagine—after the way he’d been acting! Believe me, I told him what was what.”

  Nora shook her head in disapproval. “Is it gambling again? Did he say it was gambling?”

  “Yes,” Dottie answered, glad that at least that much of what she said was true. “He said he’d ‘slipped’ again.”

  “Why can’t he learn his lesson?” Nora asked with a sigh. “Did he take it well?”

  “Take it well?” Dottie said, her eyes widening. “When did he ever take an argument well? And it was an argument—a red-hot one. I was still mad over how he’d acted the other day. I suppose I said more than I should. Well, for once in my life I let it out.”

  “You should,” Nora said loyally. She moved to the counter where Dottie stood and patted the older woman’s freckled hand. “You keep too much bottled up inside. It’s not good for you.”

  Dottie gave another shrug. “Still, all I did was set him off on me. He said he’d keep calling until I gave in. Well, I’m not putting up with that. I’m keeping that phone unplugged all week. I’ll show him.”

  “Good for you,” said Nora and gave her hand another pat. “But why didn’t you just tell me?”

  Dottie waved away the question as if it were a buzzing insect. “Oh, fiddle, he had me upset. I didn’t want you—or Rory—concerned on my account. I’ve calmed down now. But I thought I should explain. I’m the one he’s mad at. He never even mentioned you.”

  Nora seemed to relax. Dottie squared her shoulders and went on. “It’s nothing. I’m just showing him I won’t be manipulated. I’ll keep the phones off for a week. By that time he’ll probably have forgotten all about it. You know Gordon.”

  Nora gave her a rueful smile that said, yes, she knew Gordon all too well. But, Dottie noticed, after she’d confessed to Nora, the girl seemed to go about her work with a lighter step and the worry that had haunted her eyes for the past few days faded.

  Dottie watched with relief. She’d lied to Nora, but only because she wanted Nora happy. And she also wanted her to give Ken Slattery a chance.

  Last night, when Nora had gone out with Ken, Dottie had been scared sick that the girl was determined to break off with him.

  Dottie had feared that Nora would be back in half an hour, saying she’d told Ken goodbye for good. But Nora’d returned late, quite late. And this morning, at breakfast, her face had had a radiant, almost dreamy quality.

  Dottie had known then that if she wanted that look to stay on Nora’s face, Nora had to be shielded from any fear of Gordon. And so, she’d hatched her lie.

  Now, in the coffee shop, Nora sang to herself as she crossed the room. She adjusted the blinds against the strong morning sunshine.

  Dottie watched her out of the corner of her eye. She’s falling in love, she thought with satisfaction. It was, Dottie thought, a wonderful thing to see, and it gladdened her heart.

  Gordon would eventually find out, of course. But not yet. Definitely not yet, Dottie thought as she smiled at the dreamy look on Nora’s face.

  CHAPTER NINE

  OUTSIDE NORA’S WINDOW, the sparrows chirped a desultory song in the afternoon heat, and no breeze stirred.

  “Wear your new blouse,” Dottie said, fussing, “the pink one. You always look good in pink.”

  “But we’re just going to the ranch,” Nora protested. “He’ll think I’m putting on airs.”

  “It’s a very simple blouse. You wear that and your good jeans. Now here—let me put your hair up in a French braid, like I saw Beverly Townsend wear hers the other day. I think I can do it. I used to be good with hairdos.”

  Nora sat at her dressing table, capping her lipstick. She felt giddy and didn’t know why she’d agreed to let Dottie do her hair. Look at us, thought Nora. Two grown women and we’re as nervous and giggly and keyed up as teenagers.

  “I don’t want a French braid,” Nora said nervously. “I’ll look silly. Beverly’s a beauty queen. I’m not.”

  “You’re every bit as pretty as she is,” Dottie said, starting to plait her hair. “Or would be if you’d work at it as hard as she does. You never take the time to do girl things. Hold still. You’re as squiggly as Rory.”

  “Ouch,” Nora said, “you’re pulling.” But she held still, studying herself in the mirror. With lip gloss, powder, blusher and mascara, she looked younger and rosier and brighter-eyed than usual. Maybe she looked too young, she thought, and it would make Ken reconsider the difference in their ages. He would think she was only a child and that he’d made a mistake. And who knew? she thought in frustration, maybe he had, and maybe so had she.

  “I can’t go out with my face painted up like this,” she said, fretting as she reached for a tissue.

  “Your face is not painted up,” Dottie contradicted, holding her in place. “You’ve only got on a dab. In fact you could stand some more eye makeup. How about eye shadow? I used to have some, someplace.”

  “No!” Nora almost yipped at the thought. “Oh, Dottie, what are you doing to me? He’ll think I’m out to trap him, all got up like some femme fatale. I can’t do this.”

  Dottie had pulled back Nora’s hair and was still working on the intricacies of the braid. She had fluffed Nora’s bangs, and let little wisps and tendrils curl around her temples, ears and the nape of her neck.

  “Hush,” Dottie commanded, “I think I’m getting my touch back. Oh, I used to enjoy this. All through high school, this is what Vera Wagonner and I did. This is what most girls did. We’d giggle and pretty up and fix each other’s hair and play records and practice dancing.”

  Nora found herself staring at her image again. Wh
o was the girl emerging in the mirror? Nora both knew her and didn’t. Dottie’s words affected her strangely. All through high school. This is what most girls did.

  Halfway through high school Nora had been married and a mother. She’d never been to a pajama party or a prom. She’d never belonged to a set of friends; she’d felt too shy and shabby. Other girls walked the high school halls in pairs and groups, giggling and whispering confidences. Nora had walked alone, her head down, her books clutched protectively to her chest.

  She hadn’t gone to football or basketball games; she’d never been asked to a dance; she’d never actually been on a real date. Gordon had never taken her to so much as a movie. He’d put all his money into maintaining his car, and when he’d taken her out, they drove around, then parked, that was all.

  Nora blushed and tried to look away from the girl in the mirror, but she couldn’t. It was as if she’d hypnotized herself. She looked into her reflected eyes, trying to see the girl-child she had once been, but she could find no trace. Gordon had destroyed that childhood, that girlhood.

  Why, in a way, she thought in wonder, this is my first real date. A man has actually asked me to supper, and he’s coming to pick me up and take me out. It’s like being sixteen again. It’s like having another chance.

  “Now when he brings you home,” Dottie said, making minute adjustments to the braid, “ask him in. There’ll be chocolate cake. As I recall, Ken’s partial to chocolate cake. I’ll have coffee on the stove, ready to perk. If he’d rather have sherry, there’s some in the pantry.”

  Dottie inspected her handiwork, uncoiled one more tendril of hair at Nora’s temple, then nodded her approval. “There,” she said with satisfaction. “You plumb look like a princess. All you need are some fancier earrings.” She drew a pair from her apron pocket. “Here. Let’s put these on you.”

  “Dottie! No—those are your genuine gold earrings from Neiman-Marcus. I can’t wear them,” Nora protested. “Those are your special-occasion earrings.”

  “This is a special occasion,” Dottie said firmly, fastening the thick gold hoop into place.

  She thinks I’m in love with him, and he’s in love with me, Nora thought in rising panic. Everybody thinks that, but it’s too soon.

  The air seemed to thicken in her lungs, choking her. “No, you’re making too much of this.”

  Dottie attached the second earring to the lobe of Nora’s ear. “Honey, I’m enjoying this. I like seeing you happy.”

  Nora’s throat grew tighter, her chest more leaden. A stricken look crossed her face. “I—I’m happy enough by myself,” she said to Dottie. “As long as you and Rory are here—”

  Dottie put a freckled hand on Nora’s shoulder and squeezed. Her eyes met Nora’s in the mirror. “No, honey. You’ve been content with Rory and me. Today you’ve been happy. There’s a difference.”

  “Happy,” Nora mused, the beat of her heart playing painful games. She put her hand on Dottie’s and clasped it. “Happy. Is that what I’ve been?”

  Dottie nodded, her expression loving, yet tinged with sadness. “Yes, honey. That’s what you’ve been. Don’t you even recognize it?”

  “I don’t think I’m used to it,” she said, shaking her head with uncertainty. “It scares me.”

  Dottie swallowed and licked her lips. She knelt beside the chair and took Nora’s face between her hands. “Sweetie,” she said, her voice trembling, “I know. But don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid of him. He’s not like Gordon, honey. Not at all. He’s a good man—a real one.”

  But Nora’s eyes kept their troubled look. She knew what frightened her so deeply about happiness.

  It tasted so sweet, so intoxicating, so rare, that she knew if she drank deeply of it, then lost it, it would be like dying. Yet how could she not lose it?

  Ken Slattery was a real man. But she was not sure she was what some people would consider a real woman. Gordon had killed her sexual feelings. She’d even been grateful for that little piece of murder. It had seemed a mercy.

  To be kissed by Ken was one thing, sweet and warming and addictive. That she liked it surprised no one more than herself. But to let him make love to her was something else. The prospect terrified her. She didn’t know if she could allow herself to do it.

  She would have to face the question soon—not tonight, thank God—for she and Ken wouldn’t truly be alone tonight. But soon she would have to confront the reality of sex. She didn’t want to. It held too many bad memories.

  All she knew about sex was that it was connected to pain. It could imprison a person like a trap; she knew, for it had imprisoned her, and she was lucky to have escaped, scarred as she was.

  Ken Slattery wanted a complete woman. She was not sure she dared even to try to be one. She was not sure at all.

  AT FIVE O’CLOCK that afternoon, Ken stood shirtless before the bathroom mirror, shaving for the second time that day. He was to pick up Nora and Rory in town at five forty-five.

  A sudden hammering at the front door startled him into knicking his chin. He swore under his breath. The knock sounded again, louder than before.

  “What?” Ken yelled, grimacing as he stabbed at his cut with a styptic pencil. “I’m busy.”

  “So am I,” came Cal’s voice. “But it don’t make me antisocial.”

  Ken sighed. He’d heard that Cal and Serena were coming to the Double C for another few days. With their second boot shop open at the Hole in the Wall, the two of them were hopping around like fleas these days. This was how the kid settled down?

  “Come in,” Ken said with resignation. “Unless you’ve got your ladylove with you. I ain’t fit to receive ladies.” He glanced down at his jeans. They were zipped, but at the top, the copper button was still undone. Hurriedly he fastened it, managing to get shaving cream on his flat stomach. He wiped it off and tried to concentrate on his face again.

  He heard Cal’s boot heels striking the hall’s bare floor; then in the mirror he saw Cal’s reflection appear behind his own. Cal wore jeans, a brown shirt, a tan Stetson and a sardonic smile.

  He leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. “Behold.” He smirked, nodding toward Ken’s reflection. “He beautifies himself. Gentlemen who do twilight shavin’ have twilight nuzzlin’ on their minds.”

  Ken shot him a brief glance, then concentrated on his own jawline. “You haven’t thought about anything except twilight nuzzlin’ since you were nine years old. Also mornin’ and noon nuzzlin’. Where’s Serena? Or did you nuzzle her insensible?”

  Cal shrugged amiably. “I have, on occasion. But not today. She’s in the kitchen, helpin’ Lettie May. She is, in fact, helpin’ Lettie May make a pizza for you tonight. Serena just happens to be the best little pizza maker in Central Texas.”

  “Just so it ain’t in the shape of a boot,” Ken said. “Or taste like one.” He finished the left side of his jaw and started on the right.

  “You must be bringin’ both Nora and Rory out here. That’s how I’ve got it figured.”

  Ken gave him a sharp glance, then nodded. “Yeah. But I didn’t tell anybody. Just how did you figure it?”

  Cal edged into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the old claw-footed bathtub. He crossed his legs and pushed back his hat to a cocky angle.

  “Easy,” he said with obvious self-satisfaction. “First you asked Lettie May for pizza. That means there’s a kid involved. You’re a true waddy. If it ain’t steak, you don’t stick a fork in it.”

  Ken only grunted in reply.

  “Second,” Cal said, jerking a thumb toward the living room, “you rented a VCR from the Armadillo Video Store. I saw the sticker on it. Third, you also got a passel of rented video games on your couch, including Alien Space Demons from the Planet Droog. I don’t think you and Nora are gonna play it.”

  “Humph,” said Ken, and wiped the last of the lather from his face. “You’re a goddamn Sherlock Holmes, ain’t you? Are you a-sittin’ on the edge of my shirt? I was usin’ that tub for
a shirt hanger.”

  Cal looked down and edged away from the white shirt draped over the bathtub’s edge. Then he squinted up at Ken, his handsome face half serious, half taunting. “On top of that, I heard that you asked Daddy if you could borrow old Sparkplug for the evening and saddle him up. I learned to ride on him. So did Lynn. So did half the ranch hands’ kids. He’s the official teach-kidsto-ride pony. You gonna teach Rory?”

  “He wants to learn,” Ken said. He reached for his shirt and shrugged into it. He rolled the sleeves halfway up his forearms, then began to button the front.

  Cal let out a soft whistle. “You’re gettin’ domestic, Slats. Pizza and ponies and video games. Never thought I’d see the day.”

  “You’re seein’ it,” Ken said laconically. He tucked in his shirt. He reached for his belt, which hung over the doorknob. He began lacing it through his belt loops. It was a hand-tooled Mexican belt with a large, elaborate silver buckle studded with turquoise.

  “Jeez-louise,” breathed Cal, watching Ken fasten the belt. “It’s the Gawd-a-mighty belt buckle. I thought that was reserved for sacred occasions.”

  “It is.” Ken stepped into the bedroom, paused before the bureau and combed his hair. He examined himself critically in the mirror.

  The belt buckle was the only truly rich piece of finery he’d ever owned. Years ago he’d gone with Cal to Nuevo Laredo, where, for one of the few times in his life, Ken had gotten pie-eyed drunk. He’d somehow ended up with his wallet two hundred dollars lighter and the belt, buckle and all, slung over his shoulder like an ammunition belt. He’d remembered none of the particulars.

  “Why in hell’d you buy that?” Cal had asked. “It’s big as Las Vegas. It’s shinier than Las Vegas. When’ll you ever wear it?

  “Someday,” Ken had vowed, swaying slightly, “a day will come important enough—to wear—this here—buckle.”

  “When?” Cal had demanded, still astounded.

  “I don’t know it—now,” Ken had said solemnly. “But I’ll by God know it when it comes.” Then, just as solemnly, he’d hiccuped, which had pitched Cal into a snickering fit.