Dust

by Eva Marie Everson

  “Yes. Yes, ma’am. And I’m Cindie … from the café.” She left her work number, hopeful that Dr. Miller would call back sooner rather than later. Which he did. Not fifteen minutes after she tied an apron around her waist, her workmate Midge answered the wall phone while Cindie poured coffee into the five mugs of the Monday Morning Men’s Coffee Club, her heart thumping at the possibility that her future could be on the other end of the call.

  “Cindie,” Midge hollered out while holding the phone’s handset up in the air. “For you.”

  Cindie rushed over. “Thanks, Midge.” She brought the phone to her ear, nearly breathless, her heart hammering, so much so that she wondered if it could be heard over the din of customers and Lynn Anderson’s Rose Garden playing from the overhead sound system her boss was so dang proud of. “This is Cindie,” she said, a little too loud. She swallowed, repeated herself, this time keeping her voice low and businesslike … the way Dr. Miller’s secretary had spoken.

  “Cindie? Cindie from the café in Baxter?”

  Cindie turned her back to the noise around her, a smile sneaking up on her at the lilt in Dr. Miller’s voice. “It is. Um—” She had so little time; she had to make each second count. “Dr. Miller, I wanted to talk to you. And it’s a little busy right now, being a Monday morning and all. But I wanted to talk to you about what it would take, say, if I wanted to go to college up there where you teach.”

  “You’ll need your GED, Cindie,” he said, his tone now controlled and almost parental.

  “Okay.”

  “Once you get that, if you need help getting in, all you have to do is call me back and I’ll see what I can do from here.”

  “Is it—does it cost a lot of money?”

  “It can. But there are grants and scholarships. Loans. Of course, you can always work part time while you go to school full time. Do you know what you want to study?”

  She didn’t. She only knew that Westley required a smart woman and she was nothing but a dumb girl. But she could learn to be smart. Surely she could. She’d learned her ABCs once upon a time. And she’d learned to add. To subtract. And she’d always been good with fractions. “Well … what do you teach, Dr. Miller?”

  “Business.”

  Oh. Yes. How could she forget? Because she was stupid, that’s how. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But, business. Business. “I’m good with fractions,” she blurted out, then gritted her teeth.

  Dr. Miller laughed, but not at her. She could tell. She amused him, and being able to amuse him fell in her favor.

  “Well, here is the part that’s kinda tricky, Dr. Miller. You see, I have a little girl. She’s a baby, really. A little over a year. Will that mean I can’t go to college up there?”

  “I already figured that was the case … And, no. It’s not impossible. A baby will make things more difficult; I’m not going to lie. But you won’t be the first woman to pull it off.”

  Woman … he thought of her as a woman. And he thought she could do this … and she could. She had to …

  “Listen,” Dr. Miller continued as the cook hollered out her name and rang the godforsaken bell. “When you get your GED, call me back. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I gotta go,” she said.

  “I know. I heard. I hope I’ll hear from you again, Cindie. I have a feeling you’re a very bright girl.”

  No. She was stupid. But she was going to be bright. And, when she got that way, she was going to outsmart them all.

  Although Cindie’s body felt beat to a pulp, when she got home her mind whirred with possibilities. Of course, Michelle decided that that evening was a good one to be fussy. “Teething,” Lettie Mae announced like Cindie didn’t know the difference between cutting a tooth and diaper rash. “Rub some whiskey on her gums. That always helped with you young’uns.”

  Cindie retrieved her mother’s favorite toddy elixir from a kitchen cabinet, shook it, caught a drop or two on her index finger, and rubbed Michelle’s swollen gum. Her daughter sucked on her finger, her eyes holding to Cindie’s, her lashes soaked with tears. They glistened in the moonlight streaming through the window over the sink, and Cindie swiped them with her thumb. “Sweet baby,” she cooed. “Mommy is so, so sorry those nasty teeth have to hurt you. But pain is all a part of growing up … and one day, those little teeth of yours are going to be so pretty. You’ll have the prettiest smile in all of Georgia. In the whole wide world.”

  Within a minute, Michelle had calmed, laid her head against her mother’s breast, and fallen asleep. Cindie breathed a sigh of relief, then poured herself a finger’s worth of the same elixir into a glass she found turned upside down in the drain. She downed it in one swallow, then shuffled into the living room where she stretched on the sofa, her daughter still asleep on top of her.

  She spent the rest of the night caught between the fog of sleep and Michelle’s restlessness, between her tears and drops of whiskey. She woke the next morning with a stiff neck and a headache and gratitude that she didn’t have to go into work that day but also with a new reality. Many a woman may have gone to college with a baby, but she didn’t see any way clear to do it.

  Not that she had changed her mind on going. There were just other things to consider. And so she came up with another plan … a plan as clear in her mind as anything had ever been. She could see it. Taste it. Practically touch it. Her heart fluttered at the mere thought of it.

  “Mama,” she said after a hot shower, after getting herself dolled up for the first step in her independence from stupidity and toward her path of becoming Mrs. Westley Houser. “Can you watch Michelle for me? She’s settled down now and I need to run an errand.”

  Her mother narrowed her eyes at her. “What kind of a’ errand?”

  Cindie sighed, counting the seconds she’d be free of all this. “I need more Kotex, for crying out loud. Must you know everything?”

  “Don’t you sass me. And don’t go down there to that drugstore in Odenville neither. You don’t need to come into contact with that boy. Make him come to you. You listen to me on that.”

  “Keys?”

  “You hear me?”

  “I hear you … Keys?”

  “In my purse.”

  She drove straight to the drugstore in Odenville where she found Westley in the Nose and Eye aisle holding a small box containing a bottle of Afrin, his eyes scanning the back of it. “Hey,” she said.

  He looked over at her, a smile on his lips until he recognized the bearer of the greeting. He frowned but smiled again as if he’d not known her until that moment. “Hey, yourself.” He placed the box of nose spray back on the shelf with the other remedies for stuffy noses.

  “You got a cold?”

  “What? No …” He pointed to the box. “This stuff is addicting. Don’t ever use it.”

  Cindie frowned. Once she got to Atlanta, Westley would be one less person to tell her what to do. “I don’t get many colds.”

  “Good.” He turned toward her. “Are you here to tell me I can see my daughter tomorrow afternoon?”

  “I need to apologize …”

  He raised a brow. “You ought to.”

  There it was again. Control from someone she should have the upper hand over. She could—should—resume their argument on such a line. But, if she wanted to win the war and not just the battle, she’d have to bite her tongue. For once. “No. Really.” She looked around, spotted the old biddy who usually stood guard at the cash register now staring down the aisle at them. She made a face at Westley, one she hoped would ease things between them. “We have company.”

  Westley smiled as he raised a hand. “I’ve got it,” he called. To Cindie he motioned toward the pharmacy and said, “Let’s go back here.”

  Cindie followed him until they found an alcove of privacy. “Is everything okay with Michelle?”

  “Oh, yeah. She’s teething. Kept me up most of the night.”

  “I can give you something for that.”

  “Whiskey worked just fi
ne.”

  He gave her a look that made her feel stupid all over again, which only affirmed her decision. “You gave a baby whiskey?”

  “No … I just rubbed some on her gums. That’s what Mama used to do for all of us and it works.” His face turned a light shade of red and she raised her hands. “Look, Wes. I didn’t come to fight none. I came to ask you a favor. A big one and it’s hard enough as it is. But I think you might … not mind it … so much.”

  Westley crossed his arms. Raised a brow. “A favor?”

  “I need your help. See, I want to go to college. Up in Atlanta. There’s one up there and I’m pretty sure I can get in, but first I got to get my GED and then I’ll need help with what to do next and with things like housing and paying for schoolbooks. And see, I can work while I’m in school but—well, you’ve done all that and—here’s the tricky part—Westley, Mama cannot know nothing until I’m already there and the deed is done.”

  Westley leaned toward her, eyes large and steely. “Cindie, you are not taking my child to Atlanta.”

  “What?”

  “I mean it. My attorney—”

  “No.” She slipped her fingers over his forearms and stepped toward him. Close enough to wrap herself around him if she could. Not that she would. Not now. Because that wasn’t in the plan. Not for at least another few years. “No,” she said again. “I just need your help with the steps I need to take because I have no idea what to do after I get my GED and … Westley … stop looking at me like that.”

  “You’re not taking her.”

  “No…”

  “Then—”

  “I thought maybe you’d want custody of Michelle while I’m gone. You and—” Cindie swallowed back the heartache of what she was about to do. What she had to do. “—your wife. Allison, is it?”

  His face softened and he took several shallow breaths. “Are you serious?”

  “But just while I’m in school.”

  He blinked several times. “Are you truly, truly serious? Cindie, don’t mess with me.”

  “Just while I’m in school,” Cindie reiterated. She took a deep breath. Squeezed his arms to give herself strength. Strength she’d need if she was ever going to see this through. “Will you do it? Will you help me?”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  August 1978

  Allison

  Iwoke with a ton of bricks lying across my body. Not literally, but it certainly felt that way. Or, perhaps at some point during the night, I had walked into the street, a Mack truck had run over me, the driver had gotten out, thrown me over his shoulder, rushed me back into the house where my poor, unsuspecting husband lay flat on his back softly snoring, dropped me unceremoniously onto my side of the bed, and then left by the same door he had entered.

  One of those two things had happened. I was sure of it. Otherwise, why would I feel so awful? Simple fatigue? Could most certainly be. Going from new bride to the full-time “mother” of a one-year-old practically overnight had taken every bit of strength I’d ever hoped to have. My days and nights were filled with her. She hadn’t slept well at first, which meant restless nights for me. Nights soothing her while hoping Westley wouldn’t wake up, seeing as he had to work the next day. Gradually, she became accustomed to being in her new bedroom, which brought some relief. But during the day, Michelle was a full-time job and, on his days off, Westley was bent on “doing stuff.” Sometimes we went to Paul and DiAnn’s and sometimes we drove up to Calloway Gardens. Other times we headed for Panama City, which wasn’t far for two adults, but for two adults with a baby, the drive was an eternity.

  Of course, no matter what we did, we went at it in Westley’s way: full throttle. Periodically, Miss Justine insisted that we leave Michelle with her and Rose Beth for the weekend so Westley and I could have some “alone time.” As much as the thought thrilled me—and nearly sent Westley over the top with anticipation—once we were back home from dropping her off, all I wanted to do was catch up on laundry and housework … and sleep. Marabel Morgan would be sorely ashamed if, somehow, she could know.

  Most of our days—mine and Michelle’s—were spent at Miss Justine’s. There, standing next to Rose Beth in the kitchen, I learned to cook food that Westley declared to be better than his mother’s. And when I wasn’t standing next to Rose Beth or tending to Michelle who had grown quite used to the layout of the massive house, I could be found sitting next to Miss Justine learning how to manage both household and business affairs, namely hers. How to balance a checkbook. And how to pay bills before they were due, unlike Westley who paid them a day or two after. Miss Justine insisted I save back at least ten percent of Westley’s earnings and put another ten percent in the offering plate on Sunday mornings. “You cannot—I repeat—you cannot outgive God,” she told me more than once. “I’m living proof of that.”

  “That’s right,” Rose Beth would second, were she around to hear it. “That’s right.” Which always left me wondering exactly where it was Rose Beth lived and to what degree God had given back to her compared to Miss Justine.

  I also became quite masterful at something Miss Justine was superior at: investments. She taught me to read the stock market reports in a way no man ever could. “With a woman’s eye,” she said. “If we women don’t learn to take care of ourselves, by ourselves, who will teach us?”

  Words which always brought a hearty, “Mmm-hmm. That’s what I say. Ever time,” from Rose Beth. Again, this left me wondering…

  But that morning in August, I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands balled into fists and pressed against the mattress, my head hanging low between my shoulders. I took deep breaths as I tried to decide whether to lie back down and hope for another half hour of sleep or to go ahead and get up. Push through.

  Westley came in from the bathroom then, his hair spiky from his shower and a towel wrapped around his waist, tucked in at the hipbone. “Decided to wake up?” He started for the chest of drawers, then changed his mind and came to sit next to me. He nuzzled behind my ear, letting me know that he and I were clearly riding on different wavelengths that morning.

  “Westley,” I said, shrugging away from him. “I don’t feel so good.”

  Knowing I’d yet to dissuade or refuse him, he leaned back, lifted my chin with his fingertips, and peered into my eyes. “You don’t look so good either.”

  I hung my head again. “Thanks. And I’m serious. I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

  “I think you’re just tired,” he said, standing. The mattress rocked and I held on as if I were in a wave-pitched boat. “But if it continues during the day, let me know and I’ll bring you something from the drugstore.” He placed a cool hand on my forehead. “No fever.”

  “No.”

  “You’ve been overdoing it …”

  “Overdoing it?” I looked over at him. He’d dropped the towel to the floor and now stepped into his underwear followed by a somewhat wrinkled undershirt. “The house is a mess, the laundry’s piling up again, and I feel like I hardly accomplish a single thing all day. Every day.”

  He returned to the bed with a pair of slacks he’d taken from the closet. I stared at its door, which he’d left open. “Well, I think I know how you can get caught up …” He shoved first one leg into the pants, then the other.

  “How?”

  He shifted to face me. “I got a call from Cindie yesterday.”

  A shiver ran through me. Gooseflesh covered my body, something I’d hardly expected. Had she changed her mind? Was school not working out as she’d thought it would? Things rarely did. I could certainly attest to that. Not to too much else, but at least to that. “Why didn’t you tell me last night?”

  “I needed to process it.”

  “And?”

  “She’s coming home for a week between terms. And she wants Michelle while she’s here.”

  As much as the idea of an entire week without the munchkin should have thrilled me, it didn’t. For one, I’d grown so attached to her … and h
er to me. We fit together. When I held her . . . the way she cradled against me. When I rocked her, the way she laid her head against my heart to hear its steady beat. When I carried her on my hip, the way her chubby hands held on, one of them usually against my breast. Something maternal had taken over me. Holding and caring for Michelle came as naturally as I ever expected holding and caring for one of my own would feel. But something else concerned me, something more important than my own feelings. “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “What do you mean? She’s her mother, Ali. I promised her when we signed the papers that I’d never keep her from her own child.”

  The words stung. Yes … Cindie was Michelle’s mother. I knew that. I did. And I never wanted to take her place. Because I couldn’t … surely, I could not. “I know, Wes, but … Michelle is just now getting used to being here. She just this week started sleeping through the night … we’ll have to start all over again.”

  Westley kissed my forehead and stood, once again rocking the mattress in ungodly ways. “She’s a baby. She’ll get over it.” He looked down at me. Sick as I felt—not only physically, but now emotionally as well—I found nothing but love and compassion in his eyes. Understanding. “Look,” he said. “The last thing in this world I want is Michelle over at Lettie Mae Campbell’s for a week—”

  “Then—”

  “But I made a promise, Ali. Much as I hate it … a promise is a promise. And she is her mother. Put yourself in her shoes.”

  I tried, but I couldn’t. I could only put myself in Michelle’s and my own … and the heartache I expected to feel at having her gone for so long. Or the fear that Cindie wouldn’t bring Michelle back. That she would find it impossible. “When?” I asked as a slow wave of nausea rose within me.

  “She’s driving home on Friday … so she said she’d come get her Saturday morning.”

  “Here?” The wave grew larger. I had yet to meet Cindie and I knew, without a doubt, that I didn’t want her coming to my house with it looking such a mess.