by Leanna Ellis
“We worried about your momma. Hooking up with such a boy. Drew had quite a reputation for breaking girls’ hearts. And we didn’t want him turning your momma into a wild girl.”
“Okay, Mrs. Hoover,” anger rises in me like floodwaters, “I don’t think Oliver needs to hear old gossip.” Or new either. “Oliver didn’t come over here for a Luckenbach history lesson, fascinating as it is. He wanted to tell me something. What was it, baby?” Immediately I regret calling him that. I’ve tried to call him other manly terms of endearment, but he’s still my baby. Just as I’m my father’s sugar beet.
“Don’t worry, Mom.” He nudges me with his shoulder. “I’ll keep your secret.”
“It’s not a secret.” I sound as defensive as I feel.
He shrugs that teen shrug I’ve become used to. “I can’t take this music.” He nods toward the stage. “I’m going outside.”
“Your dad might already be out there.” I glance over the heads of the crowded dance hall, not seeing Mike anywhere.
“Would you like me to introduce you to the teenagers here?” Mrs. Hoover asks.
“I’ve already met some. Thanks.”
“You have?” I’m always surprised by his resourcefulness.
“Yeah, Mom. And some of us are going to hang out. Outside.”
“Okay.” I’m glad he’s at least found something to do. It’s better than his being bored. Or hanging out with Mrs. Hoover. “Have fun.” I pat his back as he heads off on his own, looking pleased to be away from Linda Lou. I can’t blame him. Or maybe it’s me. With the teen years comes that push and pull of connecting and stepping away. I remember my own teen years of pushing away from my parents, finding my own path. In some ways I’m still separating.
“He seems like a good boy.” Mrs. Hoover watches Oliver weave his way through the crowd. “Handsome. In a different way than your husband, but still …”
My gaze follows him easily, as he’s tall. Pride brings a smile. He’s a good kid, smart, respectful, contemplative. He stops on his way to the door, and I watch him talking to someone, answering questions. I can’t tell who he’s talking to, then with a sideways step I see Josie. What is she saying to him? What is she asking? My nerves tighten as she leans into him, her breasts grazing his arm.
Oliver gives a nod and walks out the dance hall’s door. But my gaze lingers on Josie. She turns and walks over to a table where Mike sits alone. She drags a finger along his shoulders, pulls a chair over, and sits close beside him. She’s leaning into him, that flirtatious lean that every woman has attempted at some time or another but that Josie has perfected with years of practice. My nerves are as taut as the fiddle strings being plucked on the stage.
“Is he?” Mrs. Hoover steps closer to me to close the gap I’ve created. Her powdery perfume envelops me like a fog. The smell of her waxy lipstick makes me inch backwards.
“Is he what?” I suddenly feel vulnerable, as if all my thoughts and feelings are broadcast on my face. “I’m sorry. My mind drifted. What were you saying?”
“Are you okay?”
“Sure.” I offer a smile that doesn’t convince me. My gaze is pulled back toward Mike. And my friend.
Mrs. Hoover’s gaze is penetrating and shifts from me toward that tiny table. That intimate table. “Oh, I see. Well, you’re smart to pay attention. Josie is no woman’s friend. She’s always after some man.”
Last night when we sat out on her car and talked, it felt like old times, and yet she was telling me clearly that she has a thing for married men. But would she go after mine? I refuse to believe that. She’s my friend.
We shared a lot growing up together. We had our share of problems, but we were there for each other. Yet I clearly remember her trying to entice Drew away from me at one point. I had been grounded for something Mother didn’t approve of and wasn’t allowed to go out one Friday night. After Mother went to bed, I crept out of the house. My high school friends were hanging out at Makeout Flats, listening to Alabama’s “Love in the First Degree” on the radio. And Josie was sitting behind Drew, on his motorcycle, giving him a back rub. He had moved into the area with his dad during our sophomore year in high school. He had been an outsider, which made him all the more attractive to the homegrown girls. Josie and Drew both denied anything was happening between them, but a tickling deep down inside me suspected that Josie had been on the prowl that night.
Now, even if she is trying to get to my husband, or tell him her suspicions about Oliver’s parentage, I know Mike. I trust him. I have nothing to worry about. Except myself. And my secrets. So I give myself a mental shake, let out a pent-up breath, and focus on Mrs. Hoover.
“Josie is my friend,” I say, my confidence lagging as much as my energy. “Mike is my husband. Why shouldn’t they talk?”
Mrs. Hoover’s gaze is assessing and crystal clear. I can see that she’s seen things, knows things. But I’m not interested in her gossip and rumors. She pats my arm like I’m a simple child. “You’ve been through so much in the last day or so with your father.”
You’ll never know.
“So,” she shifts from foot to foot, her stance wide to balance her weight, “I was asking about your son. Is Oliver a good boy? He seems polite enough.”
I try to think of a quick way to excuse myself. At the moment I don’t see anyone I know. Except Mike and Josie. And I refuse to walk toward their table and give Mrs. Hoover more food for her blender of tittle-tattle. “He is.”
“Seems very considerate. I mean, coming over to let you know he was going outside. So you wouldn’t worry. Not at all like some of the teens I know who say ‘ma’am’ like it’s something dirty on the sole of their boot.” She slurps her lemonade, sucks a bit of juice off her upper lip, which I notice has a shadowy mustache. “As I was saying before your son came over,” she readjusts her wide too-tight belt, “I only tell you this news that’s going around because I want you to be prepared so you won’t be upset by it. Why, if your poor mother hears this, it might rattle her something terrible.”
She pauses.
“It seems Flipper has seen …” she looks sideways then leans toward me, her breath warm and sour on my face, “your father.”
“Okay,” I say, slowly, carefully, cautiously. It’s too good to believe. Maybe this web of deception will be swept clean at last.
“His ghost, that is.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s the rumor. He’s seen your father’s ghost. Now ain’t that a fright?” She laughs, but it’s a nervous twitter as if she’s not quite sure if Archie Davidson is going to float into the dance hall at any minute. “I’m sorry, dear. I realize it’s not funny to you. And the thing is, everyone seems to be taking it seriously. Can you imagine?”
I can and I’m not sure how to respond. “Well, thank you for telling me.” My mind is trapped between exhaustion and dread. This ghost business might prove to Mother that her shenanigans have gone too far. “I appreciate your concern for our family.”
And I make my escape, deciding to rescue Mike from Josie’s clutches. But I’m blocked once again.
“How is your mother holding up?” Hazel Perkins stands right in front of me, a formidable barrier. Tonight her color is green. A lime green. Her shirt, skirt and fringed cowboy boots are all some shade of the bright color.
“Oh, she’s fine, thank you.”
Hazel takes hold of my arm. Her gaze is as glaring as her outfit. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. You know my mother.”
“I do. Maybe better than anyone.” She looks down at the floor, then back at me. “If I can do anything to help you and your family during this time, please let me know.” She opens her mouth to speak but then seems to think better of it. Her mouth twists as if she’s wrestling with something. “I … want to help.”
“I appreciate that,” I say and edge sideways, gently pulling my arm away from her heavy hand. Each act of kindness only makes me feel more guilty about Mother’s ploy and my complicity. I
can’t understand why Mother doesn’t feel the same. She seems perfectly content with all the love and concern being heaped upon her.
“Your mother is always the one to help others. When my Charlie passed on, she was right by my side, making decisions for me. I don’t know how I would have gotten through it without her. And now that she’s … well, I …” Her eyes fill with tears that don’t overflow. She sniffs loudly. “I just don’t know what to do, how to help.”
I embrace her. “It’s okay. Mother is fine. And I’m here.”
“Yes,” she pats my back, squeezes me hard, “you’re here. Thank you.”
I walk toward my husband and Josie. When she sees me coming, she gives me a confident smile and flounces away to dance with some biker in a faded red doo-rag and black leather.
“Everything all right?” Mike asks.
“Yes, of course.”
“How long do you think your mother wants to stay?”
“I don’t know. Have you seen her?”
He tilts his head in the direction of the buffet table. I give him a quick proprietary kiss but he pulls me back. “Want to dance?”
“Do you know how to two-step?”
“You could teach me.”
“Okay. But first I have to tell Mother something.”
“Is there a problem?” He holds onto my hand. Now that Josie is on the other side of the room, I feel more secure.
“Isn’t there always?”
I sidle up to Mother and whisper, “Do you know what everyone’s saying?”
“Yes,” she says, picking up a square of cheese by a toothpick off a paper plate and rolling it between her forefinger and thumb. “Wouldn’t you think they could offer something more appetizing?”
“About Daddy!”
She smiles, a wispy secretive smile that is way too deceptive for my peace of mind, which hasn’t existed since I stepped off the plane at the Austin-Bergstrom International Airport. She pops the cheese square into her mouth and chews slowly. “Isn’t it wonderful? His ghost has been spotted. I couldn’t have planned that any better.”
“But it’s not a ghost,” I protest. “It’s Daddy. In flesh and blood.” Maybe I shouldn’t mention blood around her. She’s a bit bloodthirsty these days. I don’t want to give her any ideas in case Daddy does get up the courage to venture home.
“Voice down.” She places a warning hand on my arm. “You don’t have to worry. This is really a good thing.” She acts like a child on Christmas morning playing with a brand new toy, straight out of the box, her eyes aglow with the possibilities.
“But, Mother—”
“Trust me, dear.”
Said the spider to the fly.
14
Drew
The absence of a body plus no crime equaled nothing to investigate. Drew wasn’t sure what was going on over at Betty Lynne Davidson’s house. Maybe the earthquake, er … the crack … had shaken loose a screw in her brain.
It should have all added up to a quiet, peaceful Sunday. But there had been more calls today than the Fourth of July celebration last year when the fireworks truck blew up.
Earlier in the day he had climbed a tree to retrieve Edna Rogers’s cat.
“Spooked by the earthquake, don’t ya know.” She petted Mr. Whiskers and cooed at him. Those yellow eyes looked demented.
“It wasn’t an earthquake, Mrs. Rogers,” Drew assured her as patiently as he could, even though he had repeated the same sentence at least a hundred times. “The geologists said it could have simply been a minor shift of a fault line. Or even an existing crack widening because of the drought.”
But she wasn’t listening. Neither were any of the other folks. They had felt a jolt. They had seen the buckled highway. They had heard about how the crack through Luckenbach ran all the way north of Fredericksburg. Makeout Flats, as the kids called it, was blocked off for security and safety precautions. But frankly it might be better if it was available for public viewing. Rumors had spread that the crack reached from the Oklahoma border clean down to Mexico. Folks didn’t care what any yahoo from over at the university had to say; they knew what they had felt and heard. And there was no ignoring the facts. Drew wasn’t sure why he clung to denial. But he did. That was the sheriff’s office official policy at the moment.
After a long day of answering calls related to the “incident,” Drew now cruised the tiny hamlet of Luckenbach, the SUV’s headlights cutting through the inky blackness. He took the long way around the dance hall, which was on the opposite side of South Grape Creek.
He had driven past the dance hall twice already. The Wards’ anniversary party was still going full steam. The invitation sat on his desk. Sometimes he wondered if folks sent him an invitation so he’d attend as a guest or in a more professional capacity.
He tightened his hold on the steering wheel, turned too sharply, and the tires squealed. A spark in the darkness off to his left caught his attention. Then it was gone. But he had seen it. Maybe it was Archie, hanging out at the campfire area. Drew rubbed his tired eyes. With the grass dry and brittle from the drought, it wasn’t a good idea to start fires of any kind.
Making a loop back through the parking area, then down along the highway, he pulled into the back lot. There was an empty white truck. Rick Parker’s. The kid had been in trouble before. Now what was he up to? Drew radioed the dispatcher. “No, Marge, I don’t need backup.”
Then he stepped from the SUV and walked through the dry grass and down to the edge of South Grape Creek. The water was so low the foot bridge almost wasn’t needed. Slowly he made his way along the edge of the creek and up the hill, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Everything seemed peaceful, like the choir sang about on Sunday mornings. There were other churches in the area to choose from. He wasn’t sure why he preferred the cowboy/biker church. Did it have something to do with Suzanne? He hadn’t let himself think about her for a long time. But ever since he had seen her the other night, he’d had a hard time pushing her out of his thoughts.
Staccato laughter punctuated the night. He rested his palm on the handle of his weapon. No reason to be jumpy. Yet caution trumped foolishness any day of the week. He followed the sounds of laughter. Female giggling created a melody and a male voice … no, more than one played backup.
Drew reached the top of the ridge, no longer fingering his gun but reaching for his flashlight. This should be a simple teen party to break up. He stepped to the side of a headstone, felt the soft grass beneath his boots. He just hoped he wouldn’t catch the girl in the altogether. That had happened a few times in the past. He always averted his gaze, focused on the boy while the girl hastily dressed. But it made things awkward when he later had to drop by the high school or saw the girl in the community with her parents.
Dark figures ahead, shadows moving. They weren’t aware of him. Two couples, he surmised. He aimed his flashlight and hit the juice.
“What’s going on here?”
It always amused him to watch people scamper like cockroaches. He remembered the preacher talking about God as a light shining in the darkness. Sometimes Drew wondered if being on this side of the law gave him little glimpses into God’s perspective.
One teen turned took a step outside of the spotlight, easing away from the group, starting to make a getaway.
“Freeze!” Drew hit him full with the beam. “Rick Parker, that you?”
He shaded his eyes. His shoulders slumped in defeat. “Uh, yes, sir.”
“What’s in your hand?” Drew walked past the circle of stones where many a campfire had been lit. Drew recognized the smoky scent and grabbed the joint. “Okay, hit the ground and spread ’em. You too … Lisa Boyle?”
“Yes, sir,” came a squeaky reply. She blinked her not-soinnocent blue eyes at him. So much for her senior year as head cheerleader.
Drew flicked the light over the other two. The girl looked familiar. But not the boy. “Rachel Ryan? What are you doing out here?”
“I was just�
�”
“Move over there.” Drew flicked the light to an open piece of dry ground.
“Are you gonna tell my Daddy?” Rachel whined. “You know he’ll—”
“Who are you?” Drew shone the light on a kid who was still sitting with his head down. He had brown wavy hair, short and tight against his scalp. “I’m talking to you.”
He didn’t look up.
“Give me your name.”
“Oliver Mullins.” He squinted at Drew then.
Click. The name meant something to him. Had he been in trouble before? Had he brought the hash? Or had Rick provided it? “You from California?”
The kid lifted his chin then looked away from the bright light. Drew dropped the beam to the boy’s chest. The kid looked straight at him. His eyes were green like Suzanne’s but larger. “How’d you know?”
Cursing under his breath, Drew flicked the light toward the ground next to Rachel. “Move over there. You’re under arrest for possession of marijuana. Got anything else I should know I’m going to find when we get to the station?”
“No, sir,” Rick answered.
Drew didn’t believe him.
* * *
IT WAS LIKE looking into a mirror. Drew saw himself in Oliver Mullins when he was a teen … the same devil-maycare attitude.
The Mullins kid didn’t give him trouble, didn’t question or argue. He couldn’t tell if the kid was scared or if he’d been this route before. Drew escorted him into a room with a simple table and chair. The kid sat as he was told. Drew took off the handcuffs.
“So how’d you get involved with Rick?”
He shrugged.
“You know him?”
He shrugged again.
“You don’t have to talk to me, but I’m trying to help you out here. Rick says the weed was yours.”
His head snapped up. But he remained silent.
“So did you bring it from California?”
“No.” His lips were tight, barely spitting out the word.
“When did you get here?”
