Vinita Hampton Wright

by Dwelling Places (v5)

  Mack is already reaching inside to grab his jacket. He swears softly and guides Jodie back toward the truck. “Go on home. I’ll go to town.”

  “I should go with you.”

  “No, you’ve been through enough. I’ll deal with this.”

  “I don’t know what he was thinking, wearing a black trench coat to school.” She gets into the truck and rolls down the window to hear what Mack is saying.

  “He’s trying to raise hell. Has he been fighting with you at home?”

  “No more than the usual sassing and moping.”

  He jumps into the car and follows her to the farmhouse, where she turns in, and then he steps on the gas.

  He would let the boy stay the night in jail—he can remember his own father doing that once when he and Alex got into a brawl and tore up a bar two counties over, back when they were just out of school. But he and Alex had had each other. It hadn’t been such a bad night, hardly anybody else there, and the guards were bored and talkative. But Young Taylor is still a minor and would be shipped to juvenile detention, which could turn this event into something more complicated than it needs to be.

  When Mack gets to the sheriff’s office and sees his son, the kid looks ready to implode, burning with an inward intensity that glows through the white-and-black face. Mack sees the look and is reminded of his own periods of destruction, and he convinces Jerry Hawles to let Young Taylor come home with him. Jerry, still ticked off at having to manhandle a nearly grown kid, is nevertheless not eager to turn this into an official incident. Mack thanks Jerry for being understanding.

  “This kid owes you some time. Just tell me when you need him.”

  “I could use about twenty hours of community service, especially after things thaw and we clean out the park buildings.”

  Young Taylor gets in the car and slams the door. Then he slams a foot into the dash. On this car, that doesn’t make any difference at all, and they both know it. Mack tries to take a big breath without sounding as scared as he is. He is used to anger in this kid, but he can’t keep up anymore. For a while he managed to stay a step ahead, to see things coming. But it is way beyond him now. He is out of psychology, out of intelligence or intuition. The only thing he seems to have—miraculously—is patience. He looks at the white-and-black face, the tattooed hand (when did that happen?), the foot jammed against the fiberglass, and decides to start at a point of total ignorance.

  He turns to face Taylor’s profile. “Just how mad are you trying to make me?”

  He sees a flicker in the cheekbone, but Young Taylor doesn’t answer.

  “You enjoy looking like a freak, bringing all sorts of extra attention to yourself?”

  “I’m not trying to do anything.”

  “From where I sit, you look to be begging for something.”

  Young Taylor blows out a hard breath but says nothing.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what you want? You know that if it’s reasonable, Mom and I will always try to get you what you want.”

  “I don’t want anything from you.”

  “But you’re doing your best to push every button I’ve got.”

  “I’m not trying to do anything to you. I don’t even think about you. You’re not the center of my universe, all right?”

  “Well, son,” Mack swallows, his mouth dry, “you’re still the center of mine. You and Mom and Kenzie.”

  “You’re too screwed up to even know which universe you’re in.”

  “You think this is news to me?”

  Young Taylor lowers his eyes.

  “We’re all doing the best we can. I think you are too. But this crap has got to stop. All it does is scare people. Maybe you think you’re making some kind of point, but nobody around here gets it.”

  “They don’t get much of anything.”

  “So you have to make some allowances.” They are talking in normal tones now. “You wear whatever you want at home. Watch whatever movies you want, listen to your music. Don’t talk to us for days at a time if that’s what you need to do. But wearing this getup to school is just mean, because it makes people think of Columbine. I’ve never known you to be a mean person, Taylor.”

  Something moves in the boy’s face. When Mack or Jodie call him simply “Taylor,” he knows that they are trying to treat him like an adult.

  Their quiet has the sense of retreat in it. Young Taylor has lost some of his steam, and Mack has become more earnest than angry. He puts the car into gear and speaks as they pull out of the parking lot.

  “In the next two days, you go back to Jerry and apologize and sign up for cleaning out gutters or whatever.”

  “He was acting like a big shot.”

  “He is a big shot. He’s the sheriff.”

  “More like Barney Fife.”

  “Well, we love Barney around here.”

  They are halfway to the farmhouse when Young Taylor speaks again. “So am I grounded or what?”

  “Ten P.M. curfew for the next two weeks.”

  “My day doesn’t even begin until nine.”

  “You’ll have to adjust, I guess.”

  “I was going to Iowa City this weekend with Dale and Eric.”

  “Not now you aren’t.”

  “We already made plans.”

  “Change your plans.” He glances at Young Taylor and sees him begin to speak but think better of it. “What do you do after ten at night?”

  “Sacrifice virgins in Dale’s back forty.”

  “What else?”

  “Nothing important. Just hang out. Make it midnight, okay?”

  Mack relaxes slightly, seeing that he’s won this round. “Your grandma’s sure that you’re on dope.”

  “She needs to chill. You all need to chill.”

  “You know,” Mack ventures, “you can just make me the bad guy.”

  “You are the bad guy.”

  “Just tell Dale and Eric that your old man’s a mental case.”

  The boy looks out his window, at the gray evening all around them. “I don’t talk like that about you.”

  “Well, maybe you should. It’s a convenient excuse. ‘Sorry, guys, ol’ loony tunes has to have everyone in the house by ten o’clock.’”

  He grins at Taylor, but Taylor returns a flat, unreadable look.

  “‘Mom needs me to help restrain him sometimes.’” Mack widens his eyes to make a crazy expression.

  “Stop it! God, how can you make jokes?”

  “You’d be surprised at what I can laugh at these days.”

  “Can we stop talking about this now?”

  “What do we tell your mother?”

  “Tell her whatever you want.”

  “She’ll want to hear that this won’t happen again.”

  “Tell her that then.”

  They ride the strip of county road in silence, surrounded by fields that are bare, stubbly, and hard with two or three frosts by now. For a moment Mack senses the horizon of the entire world close at hand. Just another rise and fall, and there they will be, going over the edge, hearts in their throats.

  Jodie

  She awakens to a sick feeling. At first she thinks it is connected with Young Taylor’s trouble yesterday. But Mack and Young Taylor were both pretty calm when they arrived home. Her son actually apologized to her later when she told him good-night. He’s a good kid, just weird, and he has some reason to be. She looks forward to knowing him ten years from now, when he’s grown past all of this.

  But it is not Young Taylor’s image that hangs in front of her constantly. Terry is with her no matter what she’s doing or what other crises may be happening. They’ve spent little real time together, but her feelings register another reality entirely. She is worn out from thinking of him—of them—but can’t drag her mind anywhere else.

  “I’ve got to stop this,” she whispers to her clock at five A.M. “Maybe I had to start it, for some sick reason. But I’ve got to stop it now.”

  She wishes Mack were here beside
her. Even with all the problems, Mack is safe in a way Terry is not. Terry is completely new territory, a whole other set of personality quirks and frailties to learn and understand and, ultimately, put up with. But now she gets out of bed, goes to the bathroom, washes her face, looks in the mirror, and the bigger reality is once more apparent: life with Mack became too difficult and painful to manage. And there is no guarantee it will get better, no matter how hard they work at it. Terry is a bird in hand. Terry’s problems are at least new and, at this point, unknown. She will have—who knows?—maybe several months of bliss before the faults begin to show. She needs the bliss, really needs it. A few months of bliss are worth it. She showers, and the stream of water over her skin makes her want Terry on her skin and inside her skin. She wants him right now, trapping her against the shower stall, pounding into her. After so long a time of desiring nothing, it is such a welcome change to want anything that the wanting itself is worth the cost.

  Saturday mornings are now tedious because her schedule is open but her options are not. The kids sleep in, are in the house until past noon usually, and Jodie doesn’t feel free to get away. She does housework, then goes over to Rita’s by ten, and they grocery-shop. They avoid Wal-Mart because it’s a zoo on the weekend, but they drive to two or three other small towns in the vicinity and browse the tiny groceries, looking for the best seasonal produce, particular bakery items, and the sales advertised in the newspaper. Because Jodie and Rita have always visited easily with each other, they manage to turn this chore into a pleasant experience. There’s a little ice cream and sandwich shop near the county line where they stop for old-fashioned cheeseburgers and root beer floats. It’s family-owned and no-frills—the vinyl booths and chairs repaired with tape to the extent that Rita has them memorized and always heads for the booth with the least obtrusive patch job. But the lack of remodeling means that the food is cheap. It’s also good, and Babe, the owner, runs her kitchen like an Old World grandma; this is one place where a person doesn’t have to worry about what may be in the food or who may not have washed his hands before handling the cheese slices.

  Jodie faces this weekend routine with dread today. She fears that Rita will sense her inner upheaval and prod her about it. Rita always asks about Mack, and that is annoying now that he’s at the stone house—as if Jodie knows every detail of his day anyway. In Rita’s world, Mack is Jodie’s responsibility, as are her children. Their wrongs become her wrongs. It is her job to keep up. If Rita didn’t work so hard herself to keep up with all of them, Jodie would resent her more than she does. Rita will die helping someone get straightened out or taken care of; she is not going to change such a deep and enduring habit. And she could be a lot more pushy and verbal with Jodie than she is. Underneath all the work is real compassion, and Jodie has always known that Rita understands the specific pains and anxieties in Jodie’s life. Rita lost a husband and son to the same forces that now batter Jodie and Mack and their kids. So she and Jodie are joined at the soul, whether either of them wants it or not. Jodie senses, at the root of her anger and fear, that if Rita goes, they all will.

  So she will call Rita in a few minutes, and they will shop together. And while they drive from one place to another, they will talk about family. They will discuss how Mack is looking and whatever Rita has heard other townspeople say about his work (and that’s always positive). Unless Rita has heard through the grapevine about Young Taylor, Jodie will not bring him up at all. They will share their pleasure in Kenzie’s good grades. Then they will come around to Mack again. Both of them are very protective of family, so whatever anxiety gets aroused while they are in the car will be left there while they do the shopping. In public, they discuss prices and clothing sizes. Back in the car, maybe they will revisit family topics, or maybe not. Often, one will say, “Well, I’m sure things will straighten out,” and the other will agree. Through this discussion they have performed an important function, so important that Jodie feels both relief and satisfaction when they return home and unload the car.

  Rita calls before Jodie has a chance to pick up the phone. This happens a lot. They agree that Jodie will pick up Rita in about half an hour. When Jodie puts down the phone, Kenzie is standing at the kitchen sink, looking at her.

  “Hi, sweetie—you find something to eat?”

  “Yeah.” Kenzie looks worried, or expectant.

  “Everything okay?” Jodie moves close enough to brush Kenzie’s hair back from her face. The child is perfect, absolutely blooming. Jodie can feel the energy sparking off of her. What she would give to feel that new and full of promise.

  “Mom, have you heard about the women’s retreat in January?”

  “At the Baptist church?”

  “Uh-huh. I hear it’s really a good retreat. Jenna’s mom went last year and is going again. Their speaker for the day is this woman who’s written a book—” Kenzie holds up a pink brochure. On the first fold is the barely intelligible photocopy of a book cover. The title is in loopy script above a picture of a calendar page: “Being God’s Woman in a World of Change.”

  “I see.” Jodie takes the brochure and tries to read it as she searches for reasons not to go. “January?”

  “Yes, and they’re taking registrations now. It looks really helpful.” Kenzie’s eyes are full of more than energy or enthusiasm. Jodie sees longing there too, not unlike what she has seen in her own reflection lately.

  “Is it a mother-daughter thing?” Jodie hands back the brochure. “Are you planning to go?”

  “It’s not mother-daughter, but I’ll go with you if you want.”

  “Well, I’ll think about it, okay?”

  “Okay. You want Jenna’s mom to call you and tell you about last year’s retreat?”

  “Sure, if she wants.” Jodie feels the need to change the subject. “What about you? Is the youth group planning a fall or winter retreat?”

  “Sure, but I don’t think I’ll go.”

  “Why not?” Jodie gets her purse from the desk near the pantry. Time to go get Rita.

  “I’d rather go to the adult retreat. The youth group is kind of lame these days.”

  “Really? I thought you liked it. You’re spending a lot of time there.”

  Kenzie looks away. “But they’re not very mature.” When Jodie smiles, Kenzie adds, “I mean, as far as Scripture goes, they’re not very understanding. I just feel like God is showing me so much, and the others don’t get it.”

  “Well, give them time. Maybe you’re just a few steps ahead of them. You always were very smart.” Jodie grabs the truck keys from the hook beside the back door. She looks back at her daughter, who seems a bit sad. “You want to come shopping with Grandma and me?”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ve got stuff to do,” she says as Jodie goes out the door.

  9

  LETTING GO

  Come, ye thankful people, come, raise the song of harvest home;

  All is safely gathered in, ere the winter storms begin.

  God our Maker doth provide for our wants to be supplied;

  Come to God’s own temple, come, raise the song of harvest home.

  —“Come, Ye Thankful People, Come”

  Jodie

  She can vaguely remember when it was a joy to cook a holiday dinner. She and Rita (and in the old days, Marty) set up stations all over the kitchen and dining room, cutting up vegetables, mixing up pies, getting out the good china, decorating more than usual. The preparation was actually more enjoyable than the eating. Talk was easy when they were all working with their hands. They would trade advice and be one another’s taste testers. And they had made most of the dishes many times before; there was little stress about how anything would turn out. They started early in the day and knew that everything would get done.

  The aromas would hang first in the kitchen and then seep into other rooms of the house as the hours went by. A cloud of food smells would drug the men and kids when they came in the door, bringing with them crisp air from outdoors.


  It was a lot of hard work, but it never felt hard. But today, with Rita and her awful cough and no one else around, there is little talk and no satisfaction to speak of. The two of them must do it all, even though they call on Kenzie several times to help and she does so happily enough.

  Rita is obviously not well, but the woman is unable to admit physical failures of any kind. She treats every ailment with Alka-Seltzer, cough drops, Vick’s Vaporub, and Epsom salts. She drinks coffee with extra milk sometimes, or she makes hot lemonade with honey and a bit of whiskey or rum. She believes that antibiotics weaken a person’s immune system, so does not go to the doctor because the first thing a doctor does for infection is prescribe antibiotics. Rita gathers her information from a variety of sources, everything from Reader’s Digest to Paul Harvey and talk radio, but regardless of what information is actually given, she comes down on the side of not trusting medical doctors. First of all, they charge too much. Second, they don’t treat old people with much respect. They act like they don’t hear questions, or they don’t think older folks can understand a reasonable explanation anyway.

  Rita has no personal history of mistreatment by doctors. She distrusts them out of general principle. She doesn’t want the doctor bills. She hates taking medicine, even though she delivers pills to half a dozen of her neighbors and helps them count out what they’ll need for each day so they don’t get confused and overdose or forget to take them. She reads the labels and directions carefully, and if the directions aren’t clear, she calls the pharmacist and batters him with questions. If one of her “patients” is taking several medications at once, she calls the pharmacist to make sure they’re not going to form some deadly reaction. Mom should have been a nurse, Jodie thinks, because she likes taking command of situations, and she manages to get people to do what’s good for them, even if they don’t want to. But she could never have been a nurse, despising medicine as she does.