by Leanna Ellis
“I’d better go,” Estelle calls, having wrangled one of her children. “The girls are getting tired.” They seem full of energy to me. Estelle’s the one who looks bedraggled. But I remember those days when my son, Oliver, was a whirling tornado of energy.
“It’s bedtime. And Naldo has a hard time putting the younger ones down, much less rounding up the older ones.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Mother says, moving forward with swift attention and opening the front door for her. “But we certainly understand. Thank you for the pound cake. It looked pretty.” Her tone tells me the taste was less than ideal.
A few other neighbors make their excuses and head out the door, forming a quick processional of “Good to see,” “We’re so sorry,” and “You take care of your mother now.”
When I hug Estelle good-bye, she whispers, “I’ll call you.” Her daughter wiggles out from between us, knocking her head against my hipbone. “Maybe we can get together while you’re in town.”
“I’d like that.” But I have a feeling I’m going to be busy strapping Mother into a straitjacket.
“How long are you going to be here?”
“I’m not sure.” Until Daddy is resurrected? Or Mother is arrested or committed? “As long as Mother needs me.”
Closing the door after my friend, I turn and lean against the wood panel. The den hasn’t changed much over the years. Daddy’s chair still sits beside the bay window, aimed at the twenty-five-inch television. But one thing is different. Where are the pictures of my family? There are photos of Oliver as a toddler next to a picture of Mike and me on our wedding day. But what has Mother done with all the portraits I’ve sent over the past few years. Maybe they’re hung in other rooms.
“When is the funeral, Betty Lynne?” Mrs. Hoover asks.
“Thursday,” Mother says.
I stare at her.
“That’s in five days.” Mrs. Hoover is the only one brave enough to speak. “I would have thought Monday—”
“You can’t throw a decent funeral in less. And Archie, of course, deserves the best.” Mother’s voice is dry and brittle like grass ready to ignite.
Now I know what I have to do. How much time I have. Five days. One hundred and twenty hours. Seventy-two hundred minutes. It’s an eternity. Yet it seems woefully inadequate. Five short days before my parents’ marriage is irrevocably destroyed. Five days to get my parents in the same room, to sit them down together and straighten out this mess. If possible. A miracle, I decide, is in order. God parted the Red Sea; surely he can bring my parents back together.
* * *
I SIT AT THE DINING TABLE with Mother, Linda Lou Hoover, and Hazel Perkins. Twisting a forgotten silver fork between my fingers, I consider calling in reinforcements. Mike might be able to talk sense into Mother. Maybe he can talk to Daddy too. Thinking of my father, my chest tightens.
“Well, now,” Mrs. Hoover declares, pen in hand, “there are several ways to approach an obituary.”
“I like the funny ones.” Josie stretches her lithe body and walks toward the dining room table.
Mother lifts a censorious eyebrow.
“I mean,” Josie doesn’t bother to blush, “it’s always better to laugh and cry at the same time. I didn’t mean anything disrespectful, Mrs. Davidson.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Mother’s tone is caustic. She has the ability to say something that, if repeated, could not implicate her. But her meaning is always as clear as one of her Windexed windows. “Why don’t we start with the basic information?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Hoover writes Daddy’s name along the top line. “Isn’t Archie’s birthday in December?”
“The tenth,” Mrs. Perkins adds.
Mother glances at her. “1943. His father, I believe, came home on leave from the war.”
“Although that’s very interesting, and I certainly like a good tidbit of gossip,” Mrs. Hoover traces the comma between the date and the year with the edge of the pen, “I don’t think that’s a particular we can use. When did he graduate from high school?”
“He was older than me,” Mother says. “So let me think …” She glances around the room as if the scrap of information would mysteriously appear.
“If he was eighteen,” I say, doing the math in my head, “then—”
“He graduated early,” Mother interrupts. “He was smart.”
Was. The past tense sends a rattling chill down my spine. Josie and Mrs. Hoover look toward Mother as if anticipating a tear might sparkle in her eye.
Hazel sips her coffee. “Oh, he was that. Nobody smarter than Archie Davidson. We was in the same grade, he and
I. But that was a long, long time ago.” “Would anyone like more coffee?” Mother’s front teeth seem suddenly welded together.
“Do you have decaf?” Mrs. Hoover asks. “I can’t drink regular this late. And I’m not supposed to drink caffeine anyway.” She leans forward and whispers loud enough for someone in the next county to hear, “Cysts.”
I offer a sympathetic smile.
She looks at the empty plate where she has scraped off the last bit of chocolate cream pie with the tines of her fork. “I don’t think the doctor meant chocolate. That would be unbearable.”
“Archie went into the army in 1961. I remember that year.” Mother gets up from the table and returns to the privacy of the kitchen. The door swings shut behind her. Silence hums in the room. I can almost hear the soft clicking of the light bulbs in the chandelier.
“Don’t make decaf special for me,” Linda Lou hollers, then looks at me. “Was your father in Vietnam, Suzanne?” Before I can answer, Mother pushes the door back open. “Germany,” she says. “Was that when Elvis was there?”
“I don’t think so.” The door swooshes closed as Mother disappears again.
Josie leans toward me, her perfume as heavy as her eye makeup. “Want me to spike your coffee?” She pats her purse, where I imagine there’s an airline-sized bottle of whiskey inside.
In high school Josie could always be counted on to get any party going by sneaking in alcohol. I wouldn’t have been able to buy it, but she always knew some older guy with a license who could and had no qualms giving it to underage minors. But I’m not in high school anymore. And I’ve long since learned alcohol does not help in dealing with my parents. Keeping my wits about me is the best defense and offense.
“I’m okay,” I assure her.
“Think I made your mom mad?”
“Sure you did.” Mrs. Hoover keeps writing.
It wouldn’t surprise me if that had been Josie’s intention. “She’s upset all on her own.” Josie sticks out her tongue, but Mrs. Hoover doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t respond.
I hide a smile. It feels like we’re back in high school. Except now I can see our attitudes as I might view them from the parent’s perch. No wonder Mother never liked Josie. But I guess I know too much about Josie, her family life, and her hardships to dismiss her. Mostly I know her heart is as big as the state of Texas.
Mrs. Hoover tsks. “Your momma is one of the strongest women I know. Strong-willed with extra steel reinforcements. Don’t you worry about her. Still, if she could just cry a little.”
Mother comes back, carrying a tray of coffee cups and cream and sugar. She says, “Archie graduated in December of 1960.”
“Here, Mother, let me help.” I take the tray from her and whisper, “Did you look that up in Daddy’s yearbook?”
“Called him,” she says through tight lips, then louder adds, “Who wants sugar?”
“You did?” I ask.
Mother gives me a look that could silence a swarm of locusts.
“Why was 1961 particularly memorable?” Mrs. Hoover pauses in her writing and looks at Mother.
“Archie proposed to me that year. It was October. We’d only been seeing each other a couple of months. It was right before he left for Germany.” A wispy look blows across her face. I can’t tell if she’s sentimental about the moment or
regretting her decision.
“Hmm.” Then Mrs. Hoover scribbles some more. After a moment or two she looks up, pleased with herself. She crosses a ‘t’ with a flourish. “There, I’m almost done. What’s your child’s name, Suzannah?”
“Oliver.” A reminder I need to call home. Maybe I should ask Mike to come to Texas and try to talk some sense into Mother. He would certainly know the legalities of what she’s attempting to do.
“Oh, yes, of course. An odd name. Do the other kids rib him?”
Her remark shouldn’t surprise me. Mrs. Hoover and Mother are known for asking questions no one in their right mind would ask.
“Always reminds me of that dark musical.” Mrs. Hoover does a warbly rendition of “Food, Glorious Food.” After only one line, she coughs, her cheeks reddening. “Now, let’s see what we have.” She begins reading. “‘Archibald Lionel Davidson, born December 10, 1943; died—’”
My cell phone starts the cavalry charge, which Oliver programmed to signal a call from Mike. “Sorry,” I mutter, reaching for my cell. I slide out of my chair and head toward the kitchen and a little privacy. I nudge the door into place behind me. “Hi.”
“You got in okay?”
His voice brings relief and reassurance to my rattled nerves. “Yes, I’m here. And it’s nuts.”
“What else is new?”
“No, really. Maybe you should come and talk to Mother. She’s always adored you. She respects your opinion. You could explain the legal ramifications. I know this has to be illegal somehow. And if not, then maybe you’d have some influence with Dad.”
“Illegal? What is she doing? What do you want me to convince her to do?”
“Unkill my father.”
I hear a sound behind me and turn.
Josie stands in the doorway close by. Too close. One of her eyebrows arches, and a slight, sardonic smile spreads across her ruby-red lips.
3
Josie grabs my arm, makes quick excuses to my mother and her friends, and takes me for a drive. We burn up a few miles in her yellow Camaro with the music (which I don’t recognize) cranked to the level Oliver prefers. Josie smiles at me and laughs, her hair as wild as she was in high school. For a moment she looks just as she did at eighteen—carefree, reckless and on the verge of out of control. It’s as if she hasn’t grown up and I’ve become my mother. This is unsettling.
The wind through the open windows whips at my hair. I fist it like a ponytail in one hand to keep it from slashing me across the face. I take comfort in the seat belt strapped across my chest and lap. Before I can tell her to slow down as I would my son, Josie pulls off the highway, onto a dirt road, which then gives way to rocky terrain.
“Where are we going?”
“You don’t remember?”
I shake my head and peer into the darkness, trying to spot anything familiar. But the light has given way to gray.
The trees are nothing more than shadows, their arms reaching out to us. Finally she pulls to a stop and jerks the emergency brake into place. The music shuts off, and my ears suddenly throb with the silence. Josie gets out and rummages in the trunk. I sit there and blink, allowing my heart to settle back to a nice, calm pace. When I dare to step out of the car, I realize Josie has clambered onto the hood.
“Go head. You won’t hurt my car.”
I’m not as worried about the car as I am the bug parts stuck to the hood and the kind of dirt that will never come out of my slacks. I lift one foot, shift sideways, hike my hip up onto the warm metal, then maneuver myself onto the hood. I don’t think I’ll ever be as relaxed as Josie, who leans back against the windshield, her legs stretched out in front of her.
“So what gives with your mother?”
Crossing my legs, I lean my elbows on my knees. Josie sticks a cold bottle in my hand. “Oh, uh …” I turn it around and realize it’s not soda. “Josie, I uh—”
“Your mom is okay. Bet you never thought I’d say that, did you? It’s been a long time since you were home. I bet you think nothin’ much has changed. But you’d be wrong. Lots has. Oh sure, I know she doesn’t like me much. But she ain’t half bad. She really helped a friend of mine. Do you remember Yolanda Roberts?”
I shake my head.
“She may not have lived here when you did. I can’t remember when she came. But she’s cool. You’d like her. Most everybody does. When she got breast cancer, she had no insurance. And your mom, well, she went to every doc in Fredericksburg until she found someone who’d help her. She really went out on a limb. You know?”
I shift so I can see at least Josie’s shadow. The brown bottle is propped against my thigh. I look up at the darkening night sky. I’d forgotten how wide the Texas sky is, how bright the stars are. In California there doesn’t seem to be a place where the sky goes on forever and ever, unless you’re out on the water. Among these hills of sand and limestone, the wind buffeting me, the sky becomes the ocean. I close my eyes and can almost feel the rocking of the waves.
“I’m not sure my mother is exactly helping a neighbor in need.”
“Yeah, but I just wanted you to know that I’m not about to go tellin’ everybody what she’s up to. You know? I feel like I owe her.” Josie chugs the rest of her beer and hurls the bottle up over the roof of the car. It crashes somewhere behind us against the hard ground. I cringe. My motherly instincts tell me to go pick up the glass before bare feet step on the broken pieces or tires drive over them. But it’s too dark to see pieces of brown glass. Besides, I’m not about to get down off the car and wander around this rugged terrain. I grew up here and know all about prickly pear and rattlesnakes.
Is Josie still caught in the rough-and–tumble, hormone-driven, compulsive reaction syndrome of teenhood? Relief pulses deep inside me in a small hidden place—I’m glad I left. I like my life the way it is now. But there are things I miss. The solid ground, the wide Texas sky above. I know God’s in control, even in this whacked-out situation with my mother. But I also know she’s formidable, like the walls of Jericho. Then I remember God brought them down with the blast of a trumpet.
Why is it so much easier to feel God’s presence, the rightness of my world, when I’m home in California? Is it the ocean? The family we’ve built? Maybe because my hometown has a lot of quirks. Or maybe because the memories of my youthful mistakes linger here. Maybe it’s too easy to forget the past when I’m in California. Longing wells up inside me now. I wish I were home. With Mike. With Oliver.
Feeling out of my element, I look out into the darkness surrounding us. I don’t recognize any of this terrain. It all looks the same to me anyway. The wind has bent the landscape to its own design. Scrub brushes dot the dusty ground. The heat sucks the air out of my lungs. I miss the breeze off the ocean, the sway of the palm trees, the shelter of our home that protects me from all I fear, all I regret. Here amid the blackjack oak and hickory trees, I feel vulnerable to the winds of change, storms that blow up, heat that kills everything that isn’t strong enough or resourceful enough to survive. Must be why mud daubers stick around year after year; they know how to build a solid home that can’t be tossed by the wind or shattered by circumstances beyond their control.
“Where exactly are we?”
“I can’t believe you don’t remember!”
“It’s been a while, just as you said.”
“It’s where we used to come and hang out. Makeout Flats.”
Then I remember. Makeout Flats is an area just north of Fredericksburg, not far from Enchanted Rock, a huge pink granite dome rising out of the ground. But from here in the dark I can’t see it.
“I know you came here in high school,” she says, her tone holding secrets—my secrets.
“A few times.” I don’t want to think about Drew Waring though. I should have stopped at that particular mistake.
“Where do kids go now?” I glance around and see only patches of shadows in the dark, deserted field where we used to park.
“Oh, some still hang out her
e. There’s also some caves nearby. Parents don’t seem to care as much these days. Or maybe they just figure kids are gonna get into trouble anyway, so they’d rather it be closer to home. Don’t you have a teenager?”
“Yes,” I say, thinking of Oliver who is fifteen and not yet free to drive alone. The thought brings trepidation even though he’s responsible and careful.
“Is he coming in for the ‘funeral’?”
“I don’t think so.” I sigh and rub my hand over my face. I never finished my conversation with Mike that I started in the kitchen when Josie overheard me. “There isn’t a funeral, Josie. Not a real one anyway.”
“So has your mom gone crazy, or what?”
“She’s looking for justice. Like finding your friend a doctor.” I rub my toe against my other foot, feeling gritty sand along my arch. I wish Mike would come. I would feel better with him here. He’s better at negotiating with Mother. “You know my mother.”
“Yeah, I do. She’s a piece of work. I’m gonna get another beer. Want one?”
I hand her mine.
“You don’t want it?”
“No, thanks.”
She pops the top off with the bottle opener on her key chain.
“For emergencies,” she explains. “If anyone can pull this crazy idea off, your mom can. Besides, maybe I can help.”
“Oh, well, uh …”
“Don’t worry so much. I’m not gonna tell anyone.”
“That’s good. Mother might kill both of us off too.”
“And that would be a bad thing?” Humor laces her words. “Oh, you can trust me. I keep all kinds of secrets.”
“Like what?” Then I regret asking. I haven’t been in the mix of town gossip in a long while. It’s way too easy to fall back into the groove of small town life. Scandals, rumors, and the like exist in California too. Attorney’s wives seem to know the latest scoop and scandal before their husbands, even. But I try to stay on the outside of all that.
