“That’s it,” Mrs. Cander soothed, holding him by the shoulders and urging him toward her. Briefly she looked past him at her unconscious husband. “Come on, now.” He stiffened, then slumped. “Come on, Danny.” His eyes closed with exhaustion.
Quietly he dropped his bruised hands and sank against her side, letting her draw him away from the figure at his feet. His mama put an arm around his waist, casting another anxious glance at the motionless Mr. Cander, then led Danny slowly across the yard. After they’d walked a few steps, Danny brought his left hand up, examining it idly, then halted, reaching over to turn his mother’s face fully toward him. She flinched and he took his hand away.
“It’s nothin’,” she said quickly. “It doesn’t hurt.”
With a shaking finger he touched the drying blood on his mama’s chin. He started to say something, then choked on the words. A quiver rippled across his cheekbones, crumpling his face. His legs started to wobble and he dropped to his knees, pressing his head against her waist. Her arms slipped around him as a wrenching sob racked its way through his lungs and up his throat.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted into her dress. “Lord forgive me for hatin’; I’m sorry! But I just can’t stand it anymore.”
His shoulders and back heaved as he began to cry, clutching her. Between sobs he said other things but I couldn’t understand the words. Nor could I hear what she said to him as she smoothed his hair, tears tumbling down her cheeks and dropping onto her neck. Not in my life had I heard a boy cry like that. My own chest was tight, my hands still clasped against my mouth. I was trembling all over, a daisy tickling my ankle. I knew I shouldn’t be there, that I should walk away while I had the chance, but I couldn’t summon the strength. Only because of the intensity of the fight had they not seen me yet, standing in plain view at the edge of the field.
Leave now, a voice whispered in my head. But I could only watch Danny’s anguish. I hurt deep inside, for the first time really understanding what he’d lived with all these years, the cause for the shame written across his features when he’d bloodied Gerald Henley’s nose. I wanted to run to him, to comfort him as he’d once comforted me. But it was not my place.
Leave, the voice repeated. And I would have obeyed, had Danny’s mama not seen me at that moment.
Who can say why she lifted her head just then and turned toward me? Perhaps from the corner of her vision she’d caught a glimpse of my blue shirt against the yellow-white field, her gaze absently finding its source as she murmured to her son. When she realized what it was, her hand stilled against the back of Danny’s head. Our eyes locked. Then she looked back down, fingers moving once more. “Danny,” she said.
He quieted slowly, his gasps diminishing until he no longer shuddered. Mrs. Cander slipped her hand to his shoulder in a gentle grasp. He must have sensed the change in her because he pulled away, shooting a distrustful glance at his daddy. But the man remained motionless. Tipping his head back, Danny searched his mama’s face, following her eyes as they traveled in my direction. His head swiveled. When he looked at me, I couldn’t breathe.
“Celia?”
The startled tone told me what I already knew. I should not have let him see me.
He sprang to his feet in an awkward two-step, backing in embarrassment away from his mama. “What’re ya doin’ here?” He headed toward me, sweeping an arm self-consciously under his nose. “What’re ya doin’ here?”
I tried to swallow the lump in my throat as I lowered my hands from my lips, searching for an explanation. If I’d been caught peeping in his window, I couldn’t have felt more ashamed.
“Celia, why are ya here?” His voice rose with accusation and he picked up speed. His features were pinched, angry. A vein stood out on his right arm.
“Danny!” Mrs. Cander’s voice was sharp.
“Just . . . ,” I stammered. “I didn’t . . .”
He swiped at his face again with his hand, flushed with indignation. He was ten feet away from me, his mouth twisting, a deep red mottling his neck.
I rocked backward, eyes stinging. “Please.”
“Came to see for yourself, didn’t ya?” He wiped his hand against his jeans.
“Danny,” his mama called again, “don’t!”
“Came to see, huh?” He stopped abruptly in front of me, close enough for me to see the etch of tears through his dust-covered cheeks. I could smell the dankness of his sweat. “Well, you seen it. Now git home.”
His voice was sludge, and he threw the words in my face with all the force of his mortification. I reached for him, shaking my head. My mouth opened, then closed, the denials dying in my throat.
“Go, Celia!” he commanded.
“Danny, please—”
“Git outta here!”
“But I—”
Swiftly he lurched forward, grabbed my arm and shoved. I stumbled back, staring at him in disbelief.
“You don’t belong here,” he whispered fiercely, eyes glittering with tears.
“Danny!” His mama’s harsh reprimand brought no response.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Git.” He slashed a hand toward the river.
Once more I tried to touch him, brushing his arm before he jerked it away.
“Git home, Celia Matthews!” he shouted, choking on my name. “Git on back to where you belong!”
The rage on his face sent me spinning toward the field. Before I knew it, my legs were pumping up the trail and into the grove of trees, away from Danny Cander. He yelled at my retreating back, but I couldn’t make out the words over my own ragged breaths. I heard his mama call him again, and then their voices faded in the distance.
I ran through the trees and then into sunshine, gulping air that whined through the tightness in my chest. Flowers and weeds smacked my legs; my hair slapped up and down against my back. Blurry-eyed, I focused on the path before me. I did not slow until a wave of nausea roiled through my stomach, sending goose pimples popping down both arms. I was going to be sick. A cold sweat flushed over me and I stopped abruptly, tossing my head to one side as my throat bulged. The acid in my mouth reminded me of Kevy, wax-lipped and throwing up on the riverbank. In the next instant I pictured Danny later walking this same trail, seeing the mess and knowing it had come from me. I would not give him the satisfaction. Swerving, I staggered off the path and through daisies while my intestines crimped, then bloated. Sourness tumbled up my gullet.
Sinking down, palms crushing into the ground, eyes watering, I retched until my stomach held no more.
~ 1997 ~
chapter 15
She looks so old.
The thought paralyzed me as I faced Mama on the front porch. Rays from an overhead light spilled over our shoulders, casting us in a pallid sheen. I had not needed to knock; she apparently had heard the crunch of my tires on the gravel driveway, the trunk lid opening and closing. In each of my hands was a large suitcase.
“Celia.”
She breathed my name, holding the screen door open as we studied each other’s face. Her hair, swept back in a bun, was dull and gray-streaked, silver at the temples. Her once translucent skin now matched that dullness, with wrinkles cut deeply from her nose to the turned-down corners of her mouth, around the eyes, across her forehead. She looked heavier, a pink robe tied at her waist.
She did not move. I supposed she was waiting for me to make the first gesture, since I’d been the one to leave so long ago. Or maybe it was because she didn’t want me there; after all, it was Daddy who called for me. On my way from the cemetery, the imagined sight of him had sliced like a knife through my self-centeredness, reminding me that I had come for his sake and that my emotional pain would have to be pushed aside. For pain required energy, and my energy was to be spent on him. Waiting now for a hint of welcome from Mama, I told myself I must get along with her; fighting too would only sap my strength.
“Hello, Mama.” I set down the suitcases and put my arms around her awkwardly. Feeling her
stiffen beneath them, I pulled away.
I found busyness in my bags then, bringing them inside while she held the door. Toting them into the hallway, I scanned the living room. They had replaced Granddad’s old color TV. The couch also was new. Mama’s chair remained where it had always been, but with new solid-blue upholstery. I looked back toward the formal dining area, to the oak table dusted and empty, and a pang shot through me. How often when I was a teenager had Granddad and Jake Lewellyn played checkers there. The phone remained on its little stand by the wall that separated the dining area and kitchen. The carpet was the same as I remembered. The same off-white paint on the walls was dingy.
A sudden shiver ran through me and was gone. It was the air, I thought. The very air in this house was dull like my mama’s hair, barren like the dining table. Laden with sadness.
“Your daddy’s already asleep.” Her voice was accusing. “He waited for you as long as he could, but you were too late. He’s been so excited about you comin’. He seemed so much better today, like the happiness alone was healing him. He was smiling for the first time since his stroke. He smiles crooked, you know, ’cause his left side’s not working, but at least he was smiling, hearin’ your name.”
She stopped abruptly, a hand on her neck, staring vacantly at my suitcases, as if surprised at her own flow of words. I was surprised as well, wondering at the spillage from this woman who had always kept her feelings inside until they burst forth in a torrent of anger. A stunning realization hit me.
She had been as anxious about this moment as I.
“I . . . I’m sorry it took me so long. It was a long trip.”
No response. Her eyes had risen to the height of my knees beneath my long casual skirt. Automatically I leaned over to brush off any remaining dirt. Then she was studying my face for the second time, noticing the red puffiness of my eyes. “Where you been, Celia?”
I could not meet her gaze. “I made a quick stop on the way. It didn’t take long.”
She swallowed, nodding. “It’s a nice marker, isn’t it?”
I couldn’t respond. Would she feel vindicated, I wondered, to hear of the guilt I carried? Suddenly I was filled with the strong knowledge that I should speak of it at that moment, and that I should plead with Mama for the cancer between us to be removed so together we could help Daddy heal. This is the time, Celia, declared a voice in my head. Do it now.
I froze, marveling at the voice. I had not heard it in a very long time. I opened my mouth, summoning the words from across a chasm of seventeen years. But they would not come.
“Yes,” I whispered. “It’s very nice.”
A curtain of silence draped between us, heavy and black.
“Well.” Her tone turned unnaturally light. “You must be exhausted. Go on and rest now; you’ll be in your old room. Tomorrow is soon enough to see your daddy. I’m goin’ off to bed myself. I’m tired.” Swiftly she left me on soundless, slippered feet. I blinked at her abrupt departure, feeling terribly alone in the house of my childhood.
Before the weight of it could settle upon me, before I berated myself for letting the moment pass, I forced myself into action, carrying my suitcases down the hall and into my darkened bedroom, flicking on the light. I sucked in a breath. Nothing had changed. There was my bed, my old wedding ring quilt upon it. My desk, with the same books and lamp. My dresser, the silver brush and mirror on its center. Open closet doors displayed the remnants of a teenager’s wardrobe. The baby blue walls were empty, my pictures of oceans having long ago been ripped to shreds as I sobbed. I could see dozens of marks left by the thumbtacks.
Pulled by an unseen hand, I backed out and crossed the hall toward the two empty bedrooms. They beckoned and mocked me with their memories, and I felt a sudden urge to give them their heed. View them and be done with it. Granddad’s door was closed and I opened it furtively, reaching to turn on the light. The room was spare, silent, the furniture gathering dust, like my heart. I stared at Granddad’s bed; then my eyes trailed to his bookcase. I pictured it as it used to be, polished and sporting his medals in a meticulously straight row on the top. Next to them had rested his sandalwood box, which held sleeve patches from his uniforms, his unit crests, and a few military pay certificates. One shelf down, a little cracked blue cup from an ancient play tea set had held Jake Lewellyn’s black and silver marble. A German canteen that Granddad had plucked from the enemy camp at the Volturno River had been slung over his straight-backed chair.
I could stand no more. Quickly I turned and left.
Feet gliding, I watched Kevy’s room draw near. The knob smooth in my palm, I pushed the door back. Expecting to find it preserved like mine, I gaped at the stripped room, no trace of him remaining. I couldn’t bear the sterility of that vacuum, as if my little brother had never lived here. How could Mama have done this to her darling Kevy, I wondered, and left my room untouched?
Closing the door, I asked myself bitterly what I was doing in that house, whose very walls held memories that threatened to crush me. A deep tiredness washed over me as I returned to my room. The day’s long drive had me spent and I felt my senses dulling. For a short while I busied myself unpacking by rote, hanging up shirts, opening drawers. Besides clothes, I’d brought the same few precious items that had been so carefully packed in my boxes when I fled Bradleyville. First, Granddad’s three war medals in their velvet containers, plus his battered sandalwood box. These I placed in the bottom of my dresser, where Mama could not see them. Second, my ancient teddy bear, Cubby, whose face had once reminded me of baby Kevy. I set him on the desk. And third, I’d brought the letters that held my life, tied in a stack with blue ribbon. Even as I hid the letters under clothes in my dresser, I wondered at my own morbidity in bringing them. As if simply being in that room wasn’t enough reminder of the pain.
I heaved a deep sigh. At the moment, Little Rock and ad campaigns and my house seemed very far away. Suddenly longing for the familiar, I tried to recapture the pulse of my hectic pace at Sammons, but the beats were already feeble beneath the hushed rhythm of my old room. In bed I fingered the familiar stitches on my quilt, gazing out my window at Minton Street bathed by the corner light. How often in my teenage years had I lain there looking at that light, wishing . . . waiting . . . regretting . . .
Forcefully I pushed the thoughts aside, reminding myself that I had to get up early the following morning to see Daddy. Remorse washed over me as I pictured him waiting that evening, fighting his own weakness. I wanted to focus my energy on him; he was the one who needed healing. I had no right to steep in my own past hurts. But I wondered if rest would come; my mind was teeming with emotion. Mentally I tried to prepare myself for a restless night, even as exhaustion began to weight my eyelids and blanket my limbs.
Sleep was a smothering black velvet.
chapter 16
The next morning I clicked open Daddy’s bedroom door to see early sunlight spilling weakly across his bed. He was already awake and propped against pillows. I moved quickly to his side. “Daddy!”
His drawn face, that of a man ten years his senior, jumped to life. “Saaaa.” I hugged him gently, feeling his slightness. His left arm did not move; his right one slipped around my back. “Saaa.” The sound was low in his throat, followed by a chest-deep bark of sad laughter. “Saaa.”
Mama stood in the doorway. “He’s tryin’ to say your name,” she explained. “That’s very good, William.”
I frowned at her. My volunteer work at the nursing home had taught me never to speak to a stroke victim as if he were a child. “Daddy. Let me look at you!” I placed palms on his cheeks, drinking in the wrinkles and lines, concealing my dismay. The right side of his face held animation, while the left could only attempt it, pulling to no avail at the sag from his eye to his lips. His eyes were bright with happiness as he gazed at me, but I could see a well of sadness beneath the sheen. I blinked at tears. “You look wonderful.”
His mouth trembled, eyes filling. “Saaaaa.” My ill-
formed name ended in a choke.
“Oh, Daddy, don’t.” I pressed his head against my chest, stroking the fully grayed hair. “Don’t cry. You’re going to be fine. I’m here to help you now.”
The guttural sounds turned high as he sobbed, the fingers of his right hand pressing into my arm. “Saaaa. Saaaa. Maas aaa.”
I was cut to the heart. I hadn’t expected this. What I had expected I couldn’t say, but it wasn’t my daddy crying as I never knew he could. Helplessly I looked to Mama.
“‘I missed you.’ That’s what he’s sayin’.” The accusation in her voice was unmistakable.
My eyes squeezed shut as I realized he was crying not over his sickness but over my absence. Could I have broken his heart more than the stroke had broken his body? “I missed you, too, Daddy. So much. But I’m here now.” I swallowed hard. “And I’m not going anytime soon, I promise.” I held him until the tears ebbed and he fell against the pillows, exhausted.
Mama still had not moved from the doorway.
“Tell me everything, Mama. What’s going on with his therapy? Can he get out of bed yet? What does the doctor say?” After seeing Daddy, I was still beside myself over his condition.
She was in profile at the kitchen sink, her waist-length hair pulled into a scraggly low ponytail. “It depends on how hard William works at it. He’s got to have physical therapy for movement and speech. I haven’t started any of that yet; he’s only been home two days. I figured you’d talk to the doctor about it. He’s supposed to stop by this mornin’.”
The response angered me. It seemed to me she had taken the easy way out, waiting to place on me all responsibility for finding a therapist. Not that I was sorry to take it on, for a hot determination to help Daddy was already bubbling within me like lava. I didn’t know how to fix the emotional pain I had caused him, but his weak arm and leg and his tattered speech were tangible challenges. It was not the work that angered me; it was Mama’s undertone. While I may have viewed nursing Daddy as my due penance, Mama’s alleging it was something else again. I kept my voice steady. “Is Dr. Richardson still around?”
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