Heart of the Country

by Rene Gutteridge

  Yellow. I turned to stare at the painting, which we’d moved back to our living room.

  “Senor Luke?”

  I blinked. The little boy in the raincoat was gone, but the city moved without pause and I was back to my grim reality.

  “Yes, Rosa?”

  “Would you like me to take your clothes to the dry cleaner’s?”

  I smiled because the words stung and I didn’t want Rosa to see it. But we both knew that Faith normally took care of that. She loved doing it. She said it reminded her of her mother, how she always took great care to make sure her father’s laundry was properly done.

  “That would be terrific. Thank you, Rosa.”

  “Will Senora Faith be returning for the weekend?”

  I stepped forward, away from the window and the sounds of the city. “You know what, Rosa? Why don’t you take the weekend off.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, yes, take the weekend off with pay, okay?”

  “Senor Luke, thank you. And thank Senora Faith as well.”

  I nodded and watched Rosa gather her things and leave. The apartment was so quiet, I heard it creaking against the wind that always blew harder this high up.

  Nearby, from a shelf I hardly ever regarded, I picked up the framed picture of Catherine. It had sat there for years, unobserved most of the time, quietly watching over me.

  I didn’t know much about her. Not her middle name. Not her favorite food. But what I did know was that she looked so much like Faith, it was eerie. Her eyes danced like Faith’s, sparkling with life and love. Her smile looked generous, as though she never had a complaint.

  Faith hardly talked about her, but when she would, there was a certain reverence in her voice and deep emotion that I rarely saw.

  “Are you watching over her?” I whispered to the picture. “She won’t let me anymore.”

  I turned and sat down in the leather club chair we’d bought a week after our honeymoon. It was once comfortable, but now irritatingly low to the ground. The leather felt too slick. How did it not feel like luxury anymore?

  I stared at our home, full of space, full of silence. My eyes rose to that bright-yellow painting that I’d come to adore. She’d been right all along. It was perfect . . . once you got to know it.

  I took a good long look at it. If I could take one thing to jail, that would be it.

  9

  FAITH

  I NOTICED RIGHT AWAY that my mind had not drifted to memories, which told me that I could not drive this road anymore without a good deal of concentration. I once could. Probably blindfolded.

  This road, like most here, curved. But there were no big hills, no rocks or boulders. Instead, the land was fertile from centuries of leaves and dying animals decaying into the soil, on top of the sand that the retreating ocean had supposedly left. Daddy used to tell us that where we lived had once been the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. “As the crow flies,” he would say, “we’re practically still in the ocean. It’s only about twenty-five miles away!”

  The land itself seemed to form gentle waves as rises and ridges alternated with low-lying, sometimes-swampy areas. Houses were built on higher land. Cemeteries too. The other land had been cleared for fields, pastures, and barns. Or, if we were lucky, left wooded as God had created it.

  The asphalt was once new, black and smooth, bright-white paint marking the boundaries. Some initiative of the state years ago to bring Columbus County into the right decade. But drought, heat, and years had taken their toll. I watched carefully for the potholes that had already nearly claimed the underside of my SUV. I was kind of regretting not renting a car. The last thing I wanted to do was pull up in the BMW X5 and give the wrong impression. But I had to be honest with myself. It was going to be nearly impossible not to. For many more reasons than the stupid car I was driving.

  A lump filled my throat. I knew it would, as soon as I saw the flashing yellow stoplight up ahead, cautioning drivers of a dangerous intersection. The corn was high. It would be hard to see from the cross street. I slowed down and noticed my knuckles were white. I let my hands relax a little. I was incredibly high strung lately, and that was another impression I was going to have to try hard to nix. But who was I kidding? People would think what they would think. Hadn’t I learned that lesson yet?

  I accelerated through the intersection, not another car in sight. The road stretched straight now, a postcard snapshot of quintessential North Carolina. The leaves of the maple, oak, gum, and hickory were already turning. The majestic pecan, taller, bigger and more prevalent, filled places where old houses and shacks used to be. They seemed infinite and immortal. I gazed out, searching for those familiar, dilapidated farmhouses that I loved to find as a kid. You could practically hear them creaking from the car. Dark and hollow, they sparked a sense of imagination inside me. I’d wonder about who lived in them. They were sometimes so small.

  My favorite was coming up. I smiled at the thought of it. It was a two-story, abandoned since 1954, according to my father. My friend Amanda’s father owned the field next to it. We’d ride the tractor with him, then hop off and go explore, nearly always making our way to the house. It was nothing more than wood, with nails exposed and broken glass from windows that had been shattered by storms. That made it all the more fun.

  We’d pretend, for hours, to be cowgirls or sisters or whatever we wanted to be. I was ten when Amanda’s parents finally banned us from the upstairs. If you drove by, you could see why. The whole thing leaned perilously to the left.

  Soon we outgrew it. And then they lost their farm and had to move. By then I was interested in boys anyway.

  I shielded my eyes from the glaring sun, trying to find it in the overgrown field. I slowed and pulled to the side, wondering if I’d missed it.

  No . . . there was the old iron gate that we used to sit on. I glimpsed the road that led up to the house. I pulled into the short gravel drive and got out.

  There it was. Or had been. I stared at the pile of wood, collapsed in on itself. It looked pathetic. What had finally caused it to fall? Hail? A hurricane? Did it matter?

  I turned away and watched the wind snake through the corn, parting it like it was water in a riverbed.

  And then I couldn’t help it. I cried.

  I pretended it was for the house.

  I wiped the tears. Up ahead, the wooden sign still stood, welcoming anyone who might be interested into Columbus County.

  I got back into my shiny SUV and continued my journey. It was almost over, and that was the part I dreaded. We all have something we fear. A flash in our minds. An image that haunts the empty corridors of our hearts.

  There was one moment that I had worked so hard to make never happen. It was the thing that I had run from for years.

  And now it was here.

  So I rolled down my window and let the wind tear through my carefully styled hair. I let the lingering tears wash back against my cheeks. I didn’t look at how fast I was going. I didn’t care.

  My mind was being flooded with a million regrets, and I couldn’t be bothered by anything else. The wind stung my face but didn’t block the images that forced themselves into my mind’s eye. There was nothing I wanted to think about less, yet there he was, filling my mind.

  I noticed I’d slowed my acceleration unintentionally. I decided that it was because I wanted to admire this beautiful country. Tidy farmhouses popped against the lush fields in which they sat. Trailers held their ground, too, anchored to soil that had most likely been in the family for decades. A little boy waved at me, his dirty shirt hanging against his sweaty skin. No shoes. Matted hair.

  I tried to wave back, but my hand wouldn’t release the steering wheel. It didn’t matter. My windshield was tinted, a way to shield me from peering eyes. I’d never noticed before, but it was my safe place. I always retreated to my car when I needed time, space, restoration.

  This time, though, I felt no relief. I had no future to dream about, so my thoughts
turned to better times, which I guess is what thoughts do when they have nowhere else to go.

  “Cow!” My car came to a screeching halt as I jammed my foot on the brake. I stopped inches from the animal, and that burning rubber smell instantly cleared my mind. “Cow . . . ,” I whimpered. The animal just looked at me from the side, as cows do, blinking nonchalantly as it moseyed across the road. If a heart could break out in a sweat, mine would be soaked. Instead it thumped hard against my chest, causing pain that on any ordinary day might strike me as a possible heart attack. A little young for that, but with the life experience of a fifty-year-old, it was a maybe. I waited to see if I dropped dead, but I didn’t.

  Suddenly a pickup truck, old and dented, pulled next to me, its motor rumbling like it might be ready for the old folks’ home. An old man in denim overalls reached over and cranked the passenger-side window down. “Little lady, you got awfully lucky there. Didn’t you see that cow?”

  I wanted to reply that no, I had not seen the cow thanks to the fact that my mind was doing anything to keep me from thinking about what was in front of me. Or behind me . . . But this guy didn’t strike me as the kind who wanted to listen to personal problems.

  “I, uh, was admiring the beauty of these parts.” I threw in these parts, hoping I sounded like I might fit in. I could tell I wasn’t doing a good job. He was eyeing the car. Then me.

  “You all right?”

  If by all right he meant unharmed by the cow, then yes. But I was crying at torn-down farmhouses, so all right needed a stronger definition.

  “You’re not from round here?”

  “That’s a hard question to answer.” I tried a short, polite smile . . . the kind that worked in the city to shut people up.

  “Noticed your tags. New York.”

  “We don’t have a lot of cows crossing the street.”

  “I can think of a few choice words for what you do have crossing the street.”

  Oh, boy. “Is that your bull or someone else’s?”

  He smirked. Tobacco bulged from beneath his lip. “Tim Dibble’s. Fence came down in the storm last night. Be on the lookout. He’s got twenty or so cattle that he can’t account for yet.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  The cow finally made his way to the other side. Pickup Man pulled to the shoulder and whipped out his cell phone. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get used to cowboys and farmers with their cell phones. Even in this technologically saturated world, it seemed Columbus County was frozen in time. It was a snapshot of what America was at its core. Lovely and rich with heritage.

  I slowly continued on. Ahead the blood-orange sun settled toward the horizon. Haziness hovered over the countryside, ushering in memories of long summer evenings spent carelessly enjoying life.

  I was less than five minutes away now, and with each passing second I was losing what little nerve I’d had.

  10

  OLIVIA

  “IT’LL BE JUST a minute there, Liv,” Roger said. He looked disorderly this morning, like he could use a good hair combing and maybe even a shave. I stood there trying not to look impatient, even though I was. I know that about myself, the impatience thing. I kind of hate it, if I’m telling the truth, but it’s what makes my world go around. If I didn’t snap my fingers, things wouldn’t get done.

  “Nell,” I said to my oldest daughter, “for pete’s sake, stop touching the merchandise!”

  “But—”

  “Don’t ‘but’ me, sister. I will make that butt of yours sting like it’s being fried in a pan.”

  “I’m nine. You can’t really spank me. You know that, right?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I can keep you from going on that fishing trip you and Grandpa got planned. We’ll call it a spanking of the soul.”

  Nell’s eyes grew wide and she stepped away from the kitchen gadgets they had hanging on the wall next to the laxatives and then the rat poison. I was going to have to talk to Bernie about how his store was set up.

  Roger had the phone cradled against his shoulder, immersed in some conversation. He was probably talking to Martha Dixon, who had to be the neediest woman in all of Columbus County. I checked my watch. Come on, Roger, I don’t have all day.

  Nell stood next to me, wiggling. “Momma, I’m bored.”

  “Nell, we’ve been standing here for ten minutes. Why don’t you go over the multiplication table in your head. I’m testing you on that this afternoon.”

  “I thought you said we were done for the day.”

  “No ma’am. I said we’d take a break, go get Grandpa’s pills, stop by and see him.”

  “Maybe today Grandpa will let us ride.”

  I sighed. “Don’t count on it.”

  Nell continued to wiggle. Victoria was stooped, looking for pennies on the floor. Probably not sanitary, but it was saving my sanity at the moment.

  Roger gave me a desperate one-more-minute signal.

  For crying out loud. I decided to go have a talk with Bernie about the laxatives and the kitchen gadgets, not to mention the shotgun pellets by the greeting cards. He had condoms by the baby diapers, which might’ve been by design, but still. From what I could tell, his arrangement got thrown off when he had to start carrying car chargers and long-distance cards. But really, the whole thing ran better when Belinda was alive.

  I stood at the counter, waiting for him. He was in the back somewhere, no doubt smoking a cigarette. I started feeling sorry for him. His whole life had been wrapped around Belinda. They’d known each other since birth, and when she died of cancer, he kind of fell apart. Now he ran this place like it was a junkyard.

  Kind of like Dad was keeping the barn these days.

  I sighed for a moment and realized that I was probably going to come across as harsh because I was having to wait on Roger and his one-man pharmacy. I really preferred Walgreens—an extra twenty-five minutes away but well worth it—but Daddy wouldn’t hear of it. Said we had to support the local business.

  Bernie came out of the back room, smelling like an ashtray. He managed a smile. “Sorry about that, Liv. Thought you were back at the pharmacy.”

  “Was. But Roger’s got his hands full with Martha. At any rate, I wanted to talk to you about your greeting cards.”

  “What about them? I ain’t carrying those ones that you open and they sing to you. I have to listen to these kids open and close them and it just ’bout drives me insane. I say you shouldn’t let a card sing—you should sing yourself.”

  I put a gentle hand on the counter. “Bernie, look, what I’m trying to say is that I’d like to help you with your store.”

  “I ain’t hiring.”

  “No, no. Volunteer.” I gestured around us. “It needs a makeover, wouldn’t you say?”

  Bernie eyed the place like he’d never noticed.

  “See? Where the greeting cards are? Why not move ’em over there, by the window? You and I could have this knocked out in a weekend.”

  He tapped his fingers against the counter, seemingly fixated on the motor oil. Then he looked at me. “You’d do that for me, Liv?”

  I smiled. “Of course I would, Bernie.”

  “You’re right. This old place needs a pick-me-up.”

  “Let’s plan to get it done before Thanksgiving. Just in time for Christmas. Sound good?”

  “You are a darling, Liv. Your daddy raised a mighty fine daughter.”

  I nodded. Nobody mentioned my momma much anymore, but it was Momma who was always doing things for other people.

  I glanced around for the kids, hoping Vic wasn’t setting the place on fire and hoping Nell wasn’t fingering the—

  “Nell, put those down!” I gasped. I looked at Bernie. “Maybe they should go behind the counter?”

  Bernie nodded but said, “Maybe. It kinda embarrasses me to hand them out, to tell you the truth. Bel used to have ’em here, and she’d lecture any kid who had the guts to come in and try to buy a package.”

  I walked to the front wind
ow, glancing at my watch for the twelfth time. I was momentarily distracted by a fancy car driving slowly by. Sleek and black. Shiny like it hadn’t driven a mile on the road before. Just wait till it hits some of these unpaved roads out here, I laughed to myself. But I wondered who it belonged to. Nobody around here drove that kind of car. Few people had the money to. And if they did, they’d buy a bigger, better truck. Or maybe a new tractor.

  I watched it creep forward. The windows were darkened so I couldn’t see the guy. It looked like a fancy hatchback.

  Nell looked up at me. “Who was that?”

  Vic walked up beside us. “Somebody rich and famous.”

  “The rich and famous don’t come to Columbus County, kids. And that’s a good thing.”

  “Liv, I have the prescription ready!” Roger called.

  I checked my watch again as I strolled to the back of the store. There was never enough time in the day. But I tried to catch my second wind. I thought I had just enough time to stop by the market and grab Dad some of that sweet corn he liked. And maybe a pumpkin.

  My feet were killing me.

  11

  FAITH

  WE COULD ALWAYS TELL when somebody was coming to the house. A large dust cloud announced their arrival as they drove down the quarter mile of gravel that led to our house. Even with the windows rolled up, it caused me to cough.

  The red mailbox that had been knocked down a dozen times by the postman was standing but leaning a little to the left. And after that, the long, winding road that led to the house.

  I stopped my car and watched the dust cloud lift into the air and away from me, sitting in silence, with the air conditioner off. I could barely see the red barn and part of the roof of the house. I kind of wanted to burst into hysterics. Just cry. No . . . sob. Sob and tremble and bury my face.

  But what a mess that would be to encounter. I didn’t want him to see me like that. I didn’t know what I wanted him to see. I was returning to all the hopes that had ushered me off in the first place. I left here swearing I’d come back a somebody. And here I was, broken and half the person I’d been when I left.