Daddy looked as if he hadn’t slept all night. He had dark circles under his eyes, he hadn’t shaved and his shirt was wrinkled. I was sure to catch heck for being too lazy to iron his clothes once Mother saw what a sight he was.
“I don’t even know what to wear,” I whined.
“Well, you’ll figure that out. I’ve got to run. Dinner is at two, so don’t be late. And please, try to have a good time today.” Daddy patted my shoulder before going out the door.
Feeling I had no choice in the matter, I went upstairs to try on the navy blue dress that Mother liked so much. It was too plain, so I changed into a plaid skirt and red sweater. At least my outfit was cheerful and would go well with the fancy table that Mrs. Davis set on special occasions.
I waited as long as I could before walking the short distance to my friend’s home. There were several cars parked in front of the house. One of them had an Oklahoma license plate. I felt like turning around and going home. When Mrs. Davis answered the door, the whiff of yeast rolls fresh from the oven reminded me of the times I spent playing under the large kitchen table while Mama Hendricks prepared a family meal. I wished I was there now.
“It’s so good to see you,” Mrs. Davis exclaimed. “We were wondering where you were. I tried calling your house, but I guess you were already on your way over. Come on in and get settled. Everyone’s at the table.”
“I hope I’m not late,” I apologized.
“You’re just in time,” she assured me.
I entered the dining room, and everyone stopped talking and stared at me. More than ever I wished I had stayed at home. Marilyn stood up and held out a chair for me. I quickly took my seat and grabbed the starched linen napkin centered on my plate. As I worked on straightening it across my lap, Mrs. Davis asked everyone to bow their heads and join hands for the blessing.
After thanking God for everything we were about to eat and asking Him to bless those gathered at the table, Mrs. Davis pleaded with God to restore Jake’s health. I had not expected her to say anything about my brother and was even more surprised at how quickly a lump crowded my throat when she mentioned his name. I wondered if God had actually heard the prayer Mrs. Davis uttered, what with all the other Thanksgiving prayers being offered today getting in the way. I kept my head down after everyone had opened their eyes, hardly conscious that I was picking the raisins out of my food.
“You must not like raisins,” Mrs. Davis observed.
“No ma’am, I don’t,” I said.
Answering her statement so honestly went against my upbringing, but it didn’t seem right to lie about something I disliked so intensely. There were raisins in both the fruit salad and rice dish. My only recourse was to push the stuff I didn’t like around with my fork to make it look as if I had eaten it. I hated raisins. I had hated them ever since the day Jake convinced me that the raisins in the oatmeal cookies Mother had baked were really flies that had fallen into the batter after she swatted them.
“You don’t have to eat anything you don’t like at my table. Here, why don’t you have another helping of mashed potatoes? You’re nothing but skin and bones.”
“I’m not that hungry.”
“I worry about you. I know your mother doesn’t have time to look after you with Jake in the hospital, but somebody needs to make sure you get enough to eat. I’ve got two pies for dessert and I want you to have some of both.”
Although it was gracious for Mrs. Davis to include me at a table crowded with in-laws, an elderly aunt and uncle, and an unmarried cousin from Tulsa, no amount of kindness could make me feel like I belonged to this group of people. I felt out of place just listening to the tedious stories that only those linked by blood to a shared history and humor could appreciate. I missed my family, now splintered by my brother’s illness. We had our own stories and our own way of doing things that made us a family.
I suddenly thought about Christmas as Mrs. Davis served her pumpkin and apple pies. I was unhappy about having to drop out of the cantata this year, but trying to get someone to drive me to choir practice and the hospital was too much trouble. No one in my family would be at the cantata on Christmas Eve to hear my solo part anyway. They would all be at the hospital with Jake. I just hoped that I wouldn’t be sitting at this table on Christmas Day, too.
“Holly? What’s wrong, dear?” Mrs. Davis’s voice rose above the conversation humming in the background.
“Oh . . . uh,” I stuttered, embarrassment that she had singled me out. “I was just thinking about Christmas.”
“Christmas. We haven’t even finished Thanksgiving.” Mr. Davis laughed.
“Can Holly and I be excused?” Marilyn asked.
I silently thanked her for coming to my rescue.
“I was just about to serve coffee,” Mrs. Davis responded. “Why can’t you wait until everyone is finished? Holidays are for family—and friends, too.”
I knew she had added the bit about friends just to make me feel better, even though it didn’t. There was nothing she could do to make up for the way I was feeling right now. All I wanted was to be having dinner with my family, all of my family.
Later that evening Mrs. Davis drove me to the hospital like she had promised. When I walked into Jake’s room, no one looked very happy, or very thankful. Jake was asleep.
“He’s had a bad day,” Mother said in a low voice. “He hurts a lot from the surgery.”
“Can’t they give him something for the pain?” I asked.
“They have,” she said. I had never seen her look so sad or worried.
I told Mother and Daddy who all had been at the dinner and what Mrs. Davis had served. I could tell that they weren’t really listening. Every word I spoke was just empty noise. When Jake began to moan in his sleep, Mother asked Daddy if he would take me home. Daddy slowly rose from his chair and walked over to Jake’s bed. He stood for a few minutes, watching Jake’s fitful sleep. He seemed reluctant to leave Jake and that disturbed me. I felt relieved when he finally said goodbye to Mother and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. She squeezed his hand and looked away without saying anything.
I knew right then that I was going to have to make an effort to stop complaining. Spending Thanksgiving with the Davis’s wasn’t half as bad as the kind of day my parents must have had. Daddy was right. A hospital was no place to spend a holiday.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Live life as though you were reading the final chapter of a good book and you wish to savor every word before its ending.
Jewell
AFTER ROSS AND Holly left, I lay down on the small cot tucked against the wall in Jake’s room. It offered little support for my aching back, but it was better than trying to sleep sitting up in a chair. I didn’t sleep much anyway, and if I did doze off, one of the nurses making her rounds would come by to take Jake’s temperature or check his pulse.
The sounds and smells of the hospital were becoming too familiar: the disinfectant the housekeepers used to clean the floors each day, the rustling of the heavily starched uniforms the nurses wore, the whine of wheelchairs being rolled across waxed linoleum floors. In the middle of the night I could hear the late shift talking or laughing as they gathered at the nurses’ station to update their charts. A dim light burned constantly above Jake’s bed and any time the door was opened, the room was flooded with blinding rays cast off by the florescent ceiling lamps that illuminated the corridor. It was impossible to get a full night’s rest.
I wish we had never given our consent for Jake’s surgery in the first place, let alone the day before Thanksgiving. We had put him through all this extra pain for nothing. He could have been home with his family rather than in this dismal place being poked and prodded by every doctor and nurse who entered his room. I would talk to Ross tomorrow. We needed to make sure that Jake had the best Christmas of his life—an early one, too, since there was no way to know how he would feel a month from now.
Christmas lights were already blazing in many of the store
fronts and living room windows of Dallas, even though the Thanksgiving turkey was barely a carcass. We never put up a tree this early when I was a kid. Back then, there weren’t any fancy decorations or colored lights—just strings of popcorn, pinecones, and paper cut-outs shaped liked stars and angels. To finish off the tree, we put little puffs of cotton on the ends of the branches that were supposed to resemble snow. On Christmas morning, we would find one of Mama’s stockings filled with apples, oranges, nuts, and candies. Sometimes there were Cracker Jacks with a surprise inside and maybe a box of crayons. One year, when the crop was good, I got a Raggedy Ann doll and the following year, Papa made me a doll bed. Mama always fixed a special breakfast every Christmas, bringing out a jar of the mayhaw jelly she made every spring from the tart red berries we picked down by Watkins Creek. We didn’t have much, but we knew better than to complain about it.
Christmas was about the only day other than Sunday that Papa wasn’t out plowing, planting, or picking the cotton, watermelons, or corn he grew in his fields. He had lived alone ever since Mama walked out on him. She had been unhappy for years, so he just let her go. My sister and I were already grown, so I guess she wasn’t as much use to him anymore.
About the only thing Papa enjoyed was sitting next to a warm fire on a cold day smoking his pipe. I always got a cozy feeling just watching the little wisps of smoke rise out of its bowl. The burning tobacco smelled like toasted marshmallows. Papa was especially fond of Holly. Whenever she was around, he would tousle her hair, his gray-blue eyes sparkling as he called her cotton head or asked her why she wasn’t married yet.
I always invited Papa over on Christmas day so he wouldn’t have to spend the day alone. He hadn’t visited us in over six years, though—not since the time he and Ross got into a big fight. I still get upset just thinking about what happened.
Ross started drinking early that morning right after the children tore open their gifts and began playing in the empty boxes. After a while, he disappeared. I didn’t really notice that he was gone until it was time to sit down for dinner that afternoon. We waited until everything was getting cold and then started eating without him. About that time, Ross came staggering in the front door. I was fuming, but kept my mouth shut, hoping to avoid any trouble. When Ross saw that we were already seated, he came to the table and wished everyone a merry Christmas. None of us greeted him back, so he swore at us for ignoring him. I finally got him to sit down, but I knew that it wouldn’t be long before he started up again.
It was difficult for the children to understand that this was the same man they loved so much—the man who secretly sent them telegrams from the North Pole on Christmas Eve, who made footprints amid the fireplace ashes and left sooty smudges on their bicycle seats to make it appear they had come down the chimney with Santa. Ross was like a shining star one moment, and then his mood would darken and fester into rage, destroying all hope for a peaceful evening.
Ross knew that the best way to get to me was to harass the children. I thought it was downright wicked of him, especially on Christmas Day.
“You kids don’t appreciate a damn thing. I think I’ll just take all these toys you got today over to the orphanage,” Ross threatened.
“Leave them alone,” I pleaded.
“What did you say?” He jerked his head toward me.
“You’re not going to take away their toys, so stop upsetting everyone.”
“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do.” Ross stood up and towered over us.
“Please sit down,” I said, hoping to avert Ross’s anger.
Ross slammed his fist against the table, frightening the children.
Papa jumped up and walked over to the Christmas tree. He picked up the baseball bat tied with a red ribbon and a tag with To: Jake, From: Santa written on it.
“That’s enough!” Papa warned. “Stop acting like a damn fool or I’ll bash your head in with this bat.”
“You stupid old man!” Ross roared back. “This is my house and I’ll decide what goes on around here.”
“You mind your tongue. You’re not going to treat my daughter or grandkids this way.” Papa advanced a little closer and raised his bat.
“Get the hell out of here!” Ross yelled. “And you can take your goddamned bitch of a daughter with you.”
Upon hearing such vile words said about his own flesh and blood, Papa lunged at Ross, who grasped the end of the bat to keep it from cracking his skull. There was a brief, awkward struggle. I froze solid, too frightened to do anything to break up the fight. A scream had lodged in my throat but I couldn’t release it.
Jake, who always shied away from any kind of squabble, ran out of the room so he could hide under his bed until things had quieted down. Kathleen shrank back against the wall, planting her hands firmly on Holly’s shoulders. Holly broke free, dashed over to Papa and Ross, and wedged her frail body between the two of them.
“Get out of the way,” I yelled at Holly.
“Stop them!” she shrieked back at me. “Make them stop!”
Upon hearing her cries, Ross backed away and Papa lowered the bat. They both stood still, glaring at one another, looking more like a pitiful old man and a drunken, younger one rather than the two men I loved the most.
“Get your things,” Papa ordered me. “We’re getting out of here. This man is meaner than a wildcat.”
“I hate you,” Holly shouted at Ross, who flinched as if her words had struck him in his heart.
That was the worst Christmas I had ever had. I packed my bags, but then decided not to leave. I had no place to go and three children to look after. Papa made it clear that if I chose to remain with Ross, that he would never visit us again. From that day forward he kept to his farm. He never mentioned what had happened and any time I invited him over for Christmas Day, he would always say he had other plans. Both Papa and Ross were too stubborn to make amends. I could almost feel the icy reserve in their handshake and the slight nod they exchanged whenever they met up with one another.
Well, there wasn’t anything I could do about it now. I didn’t think there was much you could do about anything you didn’t like, other than to accept it and go on. That was the way God set things up.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
We tend to attribute all of our disappointments to God’s will and all of our triumphs to our own genius.
Ross
IT WAS PITCH-BLACK when I got home. Every light in the house was on.
“Holly!” I called out to let her know I was home. “Who’s paying the light bill around here?” I guess I should have been more sensitive about her fear of staying by herself after dark.
The floor squeaked above me as she hurried to the top of the stairs. As I made the rounds turning off lamps, the telephone rang.
“Hi, Drew. I just got home.” I was relieved to hear my younger brother’s voice, even though he had been a thorn in my side since the day he was born. Better him than Jewell with bad news about Jake.
I don’t know which of my brothers irritated me the most—Drew or Martin. Martin, the oldest, had inherited Hendricks & Son Abstract & Title Company from our father, who died shortly after Martin became his partner. Martin kept the business name intact to appease Mother. She wanted him to maintain a clear sense of his legacy as well as benefit from the reputation Dad had acquired as an attorney and a county judge.
I always felt that Dad should have divided the business equally between all three of his boys rather than passing ownership to his firstborn. Martin and Drew may have had law degrees, but I knew more about the land and title business than the two of them put together. I would have gotten my law degree after the war, if I had thought there was a place for me in the family business. The fact that Martin had offered Drew a partnership, still rubbed me the wrong way. Drew refused the offer, preferring to practice on his own in Dallas.
“You sound worried,” Drew noted.
“I am,” I said, lowering my voice to keep Holly from overhearing what I was
about to say. “Things aren’t going well; not well at all. I didn’t think it would be this bad.”
“What about the tumor? Were they able to get most of it?”
“The tumor? He has multiple tumors, Drew. The cancer’s spreading like wildfire. They just sewed him up—said there was nothing they could do.”
“But he’s getting treatment, right? Did they give you any indication of what to expect?”
“Yeah, they did. With or without treatment, he has six months at most.”
Drew fell silent. I assured him there was nothing he could do and asked him to let Martin know about Jake. After we hung up, I squeezed my temples, hoping to relieve the throbbing pain that had plagued me all day. I was facing the darkest demon I could imagine. There wasn’t any liquor I could drink, any pill I could swallow, or any prayer I could utter that was strong enough to lessen the pain I felt right now. Strangely enough, I didn’t want to lessen the pain. I wanted to remain sober and free of sedation. I didn’t want any aid or comfort from the Almighty either. I wanted to feel every painful moment of what little time Jake had left.
Holly had come downstairs and was standing in the doorway. The only way I could avoid her was to walk over to the sliding doors that overlooked the backyard. As I stared through the glass, I slipped my hands into my pockets and closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them again, all I could see was the dark, empty hellhole my world had become.
“You heard, didn’t you?” I said without turning around.
“Yes.” Holly’s voice quivered slightly.
I started to speak, but a short sob broke from my throat. I hadn’t cried since the day Lee Harvey Oswald assassinated President Kennedy.
“What’s going to happen to Jake?” Holly asked after what seemed like an endless silence.
I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped the corners of my eyes. I cleared my throat and straightened my shoulders. I hated for Holly to see me this way.
The Eyes of the Doe Page 6
