Lookin' Back, Texas

by Leanna Ellis

  Mother’s glaring eyes soften only slightly when they turn on Oliver. “Austin, dear. His body is in Austin.”

  Mike coughs and glances at me. I lean back in my chair, cross my arms, and prepare to watch my mother weave her tales.

  “But—” Oliver jerks forward, his face registering pain. “Ouch!” Did Mother stomp on his foot?

  “You okay, dear?” Her tone is soothing, sly, wicked, showing no more sympathy than Ted Bundy. “Don’t you worry about your grandpa. It was quick.” Mother dabs her mouth with a linen napkin and keeps up her pretense in front of outsiders. That’s what she used to call neighbors and friends who weren’t in our immediate family. She liked to keep family news in the family. “Within our four walls.” Mother, I decided years ago, should have been in the mafia, as good as she was at keeping family secrets. “Your grandfather didn’t suffer much.”

  “Mother!” I stare at her like I don’t even recognize this madwoman.

  “We must face facts, Suzy Q.” Mother invokes my nickname like a subtle threat.

  Facts? What facts? Fabricated facts? I imagine her scrap-booking about the fake funeral, clipping the obituary she submitted to the paper. More evidence we can show in court to secure her a nice, quiet padded cell.

  “I know it’s difficult.” She clucks softly and pats Oliver’s arm. “A semitrailer slammed into him. It was carrying pipes. One went clean through your Grandpa’s windshield.” She claps her hands once to show the suddenness of the impact.

  We all jump, startled by her clapping and the depth of her anger toward my father.

  “Mrs. D,” Josie’s voice is tinged with sarcasm. She seems to enjoy watching how far Mother will take this charade. “That’s just awful.”

  Mother lifts her chin a notch. She’s good at ignoring whatever she disdains or doesn’t want to face. “Of course, your grandpa was wearing his seat belt. Which should have been a good thing, but it ended up trapping him.” She pauses, looks at me. “Like so many things we do. And that pipe bore a hole right through him.”

  “Mother,” a warning note infiltrates my voice. I touch Mike’s arm, whisper, “Do something.”

  Oliver curls his lip in disgust. “If you gotta go, then—”

  “Pretty much decapitated him.” Mother presses her lips together as if picturing the scene in her mind. Then she smiles brightly. “But don’t worry, the funeral home pieced him back together. Still, it’s best to keep it a closed-casket funeral. Don’t you think?” She looks around the table. “Oh, I almost forgot the pancakes. Who would like another?” She goes to the griddle but stops mid-stride. “What are you smiling for?”

  Josie grins as if Mother just announced her lottery number. “At your amazing stamina.”

  “Oh, uh …” I need to change the subject. “Josie, how’d you get over here with your car out of commission?”

  “Borrowed one from a friend.”

  I refrain from voicing my question: Is the friend Drew? To cover my own curiosity, I explain to Mike that we had been in a slight accident. He listens quietly, his fingers templed and tapping his mouth.

  Mother’s eyebrows elevate. “Is that why the sheriff—” She stops herself, her mouth twisting as she wrestles with her own questions and doubts about my behavior.

  “I have to wait until some geologists come over from the University of Texas and declare the area safe. Then a tow truck will have to haul my car out of the ditch.”

  “What exactly happened?” Mike leans his elbows on the table and looks from Josie to me.

  “Were you really in a wreck, Mom?”

  “Your momma was driving,” Josie declares. “She can be one wild woman.”

  I put a hand on my son’s shoulder. “No, really I—”

  “Maybe the quake made me fall into that bush.” Josie leans toward Oliver, rests a hand on his thigh as she pats her backside again. “I hadn’t had that much to drink. You know, everyone’s talking about the earthquake last night.”

  “Earthquake?” Mother clicks her tongue. “Such nonsense.”

  “Everyone?” Who could she have already been talking with this morning? But even Josie admits she gets around.

  “Earthquake, here, in Texas?” Oliver’s eyes are wide. He knows all about earthquakes as he’s felt a few tremors in his lifetime.

  “Sure thing.” Josie touches his arm. “You should have been here. Of course, being from California you’re probably used to quakes and aftershocks. Quite the excitement. Not our usual Saturday night thrill.” She winks. “Did you feel the shake, rattle, and roll last night, Mrs. D?”

  “No, I certainly did not.” Mother stands suddenly. “The pancakes are going to burn.”

  “I’m not sure I felt a quake either.” But I certainly feel the aftershocks this morning, as my life continues to shake out of control. “Well,” I push back my chair, “can I get anyone something? More milk, Oliver?”

  He gulps down the rest of his glass, then holds it out. I take it and walk to the other side of the kitchen and clunk it on the counter beside the griddle. Behind me, Oliver is telling about the time last fall when a quake rocked Southern California.

  “Don’t you think,” I say in a low voice to Mother, “you’re carrying this a little too far?”

  “What’s that, dear?”

  “Decapitation?”

  She flips a pancake. The batter splatters out along the griddle. The well-done side is darker than her normal perfectly golden brown. “No, I don’t. As far as I’m concerned,” Mother whispers back to me, “Archie Davidson is dead. So if you must mention him around me, please refer to him in the past tense.”

  Clearly I have more to worry about than saving my parents’ marriage. I open the refrigerator and pull out the quart of milk. With Oliver here, I need to pick up a gallon or two at the store today. When I turn around, I notice a crack forming in the corner of the ceiling. It’s a hairline fracture in the plaster. Is that new? Or has it been there for a while? It snakes across the ceiling about a foot.

  “Mother—” I start to ask if they’ve been having foundation trouble, but Josie’s voice interrupts my thoughts.

  “You remind me of someone.” Josie studies my son’s face. What is she up to? “Something about your eyes.”

  “They look like Suzanne’s.” Mike reaches for another pancake on the stack as Mother sets it on the table.

  “Well, they’re the same color, all right. But no, there’s something else. The shape is more like—” Josie’s gaze slants toward me. She mouths Drew’s name.

  I drop the milk container, and a white puddle spreads like rumors across the linoleum.

  8

  I step out on the back porch with a cup of coffee. The strong aroma clears my head. I need a breath of fresh air, a moment from the breakfast rush and from Mother’s unwavering, ever-judgmental eye. But ocean air doesn’t rush to meet me like it does at home. Instead, I get a blast of Texas heat. I lean against the porch railing and stare off at the pink edge of the horizon.

  My temper got the better of me this morning. Mother’s pointed barbs and accusations put me on the defensive, made the sympathy I felt for her fly right out the window. How does one honor a wacky mother and a father who has deserted his wife and family? Surely God would want me to point out to Mother that her charade is wrong, that it can only cause more harm. Again I feel like I’m walking on the edge of a very high, very dangerous cliff.

  I understand the humiliation of having your husband leave, the thought of friends knowing. I’ve made my own mistakes. Shouldn’t my experience count for something good and help Mother?

  My shoulders tighten. Guilt from so many years ago rises up and burns the back of my throat. It never leaves. It always lurks deep below the surface, like sulfur permeating a geyser. Now with Drew here, and Mike and Oliver having just arrived, I feel the seismic tremors. Tiny fissures in the foundation of my marriage crack and splinter.

  I remember driving with Drew out to Makeout Flats when I was only seventeen. Ant
icipation and nerves fought for control of me. I was naive. He was a more worldly eighteen. I hadn’t felt guilty for loving Drew. I knew a side of him he never showed the world. He had been tender, sweet, and gentle. He made me feel valued, special. He surprised me by being the one to stop, to put on the brakes. Shouldn’t it have been me? Shouldn’t I have stopped him? But even then, I wasn’t strong enough.

  “It’s not right. Not yet, Suz,” he said. “I want more for you. I want to give you what you deserve. In a nice place. Not in the back seat of my daddy’s Ford.”

  That had been a turning point in our relationship. The rest of the summer before I went off to UCLA, Drew held my hand, his fingers clasping mine more firmly, more proprietary. He started talking about our future. He even went to church with me, sat next to me, his thigh pressed against mine. But Mother’s ever-watchful eye took notice, and she intervened.

  The door behind me opens. I don’t turn. Mother probably needs another dartboard for her barbs since Daddy isn’t around for target practice. I tighten my grip on my coffee cup. It’s one of Daddy’s, the one he always used. I gave it to him when I was ten. It’s shaped like a big-mouth bass, the lips of the fish making the mug’s rim. Mother always hated it, tried to put it in a garage sale, but Daddy stole it back.

  Strong arms slide around me, pull me back against a solid chest. Relieved, I relax into Mike’s embrace, breathe in his warm, soapy scent. “How was your shower?”

  “You should have joined me.” He nuzzles my neck. “Where’s your friend?”

  “Josie left.”

  “Went to church?”

  I shake my head. “Not Josie. She’s not the type.”

  He’s silent for a moment. I know what he’s thinking, as I’ve heard him say it before. There’s not a “type” for God. If there was, then I wouldn’t qualify. His arms tighten before he moves away from me. “Seen hide or hair of Ned Peavy?”

  I glance across the gravel road. The windows of the double-wide are open. I figure if the man wants to keep the flies out, then he should close the windows. Or maybe he just likes to swat them. “Not so far.”

  “There are some interesting characters around here.”

  “To say the least.” I place the mug on the wood railing.

  “How’d you turn out so normal?” he asks.

  “You think I’m normal?” I give him a mischievous grin and step toward him. I wrap my arms around his neck. My fingers slide into the damp tendrils at the back of his collar. He’s always worn his hair slightly longer than convention allows, giving him a roguish look, like Johnny Depp in Chocolat.

  “Yeah, so what does that say about me?”

  “Scary.”

  “Missed you,” he whispers against my mouth, his hands bracing my hips.

  “Me too.” I kiss him, then hold him close, breathing in his musky scent. I wrap my arms tightly around his neck and wish we were back in our own home far away from this dysfunctional mess.

  “So …” He sets me away from him, picks up my coffee and samples. We drink it the same—black. “What’s going on with your Mother? Has she lost it, or what?”

  “She’s embarrassed about Daddy leaving. But of course she can’t admit that. And she’s angry.”

  “That much is obvious. And understandable.”

  I feel a quickening of my pulse. I’ve felt those same emotions. I don’t want to remember, but it seems impossible to forget.

  “When your mother was talking earlier,” Mike says, “I thought she actually believed all that stuff about the semi and decapitation. Man, she’s turning into Norma Desmond.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “You have to admit, Suz, it’s good your dad finally found some gumption after all these years.”

  It’s true. But it scares me too. If Mike ever knew about Drew … about … I know for a fact he would have all the gumption he needed to leave me. He is a man of right and wrong, of justice. But of vengeance?

  Trying for a playful tone, I slap at his shoulder. “This is serious. What are we going to do?”

  “Why’d your dad leave? I mean, besides her sniping? Something had to change the status quo. Did your mom do something? Or your dad? You don’t just wake up one day and decide to end forty-odd years of marriage.”

  “Odd being the key word. Maybe you do. Maybe it’s as simple as that.”

  “It’s never that simple.”

  “Mother didn’t say anything specific happened.”

  “Think there might be another woman?” His steady gaze makes the guilt squirm inside me like baby snakes writhing through my abdomen.

  “No. I can’t believe that. You’re talking about my dad.” Myriad emotions swell inside me as if Daddy has betrayed us all.

  “It’s been known to happen.” He reaches past me, takes my coffee cup in his hands. “I feel sorry for your mother.”

  “I do too. But still, she can’t think she’s going to get away with this.”

  “If your dad left, well, it’s not easy to be deserted.” His voice dips deeper into an emotional well. He’s experienced that type of abandonment. It’s not a wound that heals easily. “Have you talked to your dad?”

  “Not since he called. I’ve left him messages on his cell phone, but he hasn’t called me back. Could he have left Texas? Mother says—”

  “Could she have … done something?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How angry is she? Could she have done a Lorena Bobbitt or O. J. Simpson?”

  “My mother?” Mike’s insinuation unnerves me. “No, of course not. She’s not that crazy.” Is she?

  He quirks an eyebrow as if he’s not totally convinced.

  There’s a lot I could blame my mother for, but I can’t imagine she would go that far. I’m not ready to put her on trial for a crime I don’t even know was committed.

  Mike takes a gulp of coffee then hands the cup back to me. “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Find Daddy, I guess.” I lean my hip against the porch railing. I notice the white paint has started to crack in the Texas heat. Near the ceiling fan, I notice another mud dauber’s nest. “We need to talk to him.”

  “Preferably before the funeral, right?”

  “Before Mother is branded as a fraud.”

  “And arrested or made the laughing stock of Luckenbach.”

  “The latter would be worse. Anyway, talk to Daddy and see if he’ll come home and put a stop to all this.”

  Mike settles his hip on the railing next to me, his thigh brushing my hip. “Your mom’s in pretty deep with this charade.”

  “The obituary will hit the paper tomorrow.”

  His blue eyes widen. “What if your dad won’t come home? What if she won’t let him?”

  “I don’t know.” A headache claws its way up my neck and encompasses my head like talons digging into my scalp. “We have to try. This … it’s so deceptive. It’s just not right.”

  “You have to know, Suz, that this might not work out the way you want. You have to consider how stubborn your mom is. And your dad, well, something has happened to him. They might not be willing to compromise, to forgive and forget. They might want to live this way.”

  “So you’re saying we’ll have to go on with this lie?”

  “It’s a serious possibility.”

  Could we find a marriage counselor for my parents? Or maybe Mike and I have been shoved in that role. Or is it too late? I once thought there was a point of no return in a marriage, but I’ve seen even in my own that a relationship can be saved. But both of the people involved have to want to work things out. They both have to try.

  That’s how it was for Mike and me. We struggled with infertility. The strain it placed on our relationship almost broke our marriage apart. But we both wanted to salvage our marriage. It wasn’t easy. It practically took an act of God. But we made it this far.

  The marriages I’ve seen crumble are the ones where either one or both refuses to work on the relationship. One
person can’t save a marriage by him or herself. It’s like bailing water out of a sinking vessel while the other passenger sits back and watches. Or digs a hole in the bottom of the boat. Which is what Mother seems to be doing.

  “Would your dad answer his cell if I called?”

  “Maybe not, if he’s supposed to be dead. He usually keeps his phone turned off except for emergencies. Sometimes he forgets to check for messages.”

  “I’ll call him, see if I can’t talk to him about all this.” He pulls out his cell phone and punches the speed dial number. “You should come with me.”

  “But what about Mother?”

  “She’ll be all right for a couple of hours.”

  Nervous about leaving Mother to her own devices, I nod reluctantly. “We could meet up with her at church.”

  “Your mom’s serious about going to church?”

  “You heard her.”

  “I’m not sitting by her.”

  I tilt my head and study him. “Why not?”

  “In case lightning strikes.”

  A slapping of a distant screen door makes my skin flinch. I jerk my head in that direction and see Ned Peavy across the road. He’s standing on his porch, naked as a jaybird (as my daddy might say), and stretches his arms wide. He sees us, gives a nod and a half salute. Mike looks at me, his mouth pulling to the side in a laugh, then he waves back.

  9

  Drew

  Sweat dribbled down Drew’s back. It wasn’t even noon yet and the day was hotter than a Fourth of July firecracker. He lifted his Stetson and swiped an arm across his brow. There was a time he wouldn’t have been seen dead or alive in a Stetson. But now he understood its practicalities.

  He had been out with the geologists all morning as they sized up the crack that had opened up Gillespie County. Already there had been calls about burst pipes, a receding pond, one lost cow, and Mildred Pierson’s toilets had shot up five inches. Drew had let Flipper handle those calls. Thankfully, this being Sunday, it had otherwise been fairly quiet.

  He stepped along the edge of the jagged crevice that stretched in a crooked line north and south. In some places it opened only a few inches, but the gap spread up to five feet further down, where Suzanne had creatively parked Josie’s car. The geological team from the University of Texas estimated the break went down some fifty feet in places.