The Memory House

by Rachel Hauck

  “I hate you—”

  Then the revelation from heaven boomed and its meaning became clear. It’s what you said to your father.

  She dropped to the floor with a sorrowful moan. “It’s what I said to my father, Bruno. I said I hated him. Then he died.”

  chapter thirty

  Everleigh

  She’d crossed into Florida on the newly constructed I-10, the eastern sun filling her windshield.

  The radio crackled with the news. “. . . still a major hurricane . . . moving north-northeast . . . winds 135 . . .”

  The news almost seemed like a fairy tale balanced against the brilliant blue of the western Florida morning. She was hopeful that by the time she arrived at Don’s the storm would be well into the Atlantic.

  Please! And thank You.

  Crossing a low bridge, she reached for the crumpled map and glared bleary-eyed at the red-and-black lines.

  She’d just passed the Pensacola signs and Texas seemed a lifetime behind her.

  The gas needle bobbed on E, so she exited the next off ramp and pulled into the first gas station.

  The attendant sauntered out with a crooked ball cap on his head and a half a sandwich in his hand.

  Everleigh’s belly rumbled. She might just ask him for a bite.

  She’d stopped for a burger in Mississippi last night when she reached the halfway point. But she didn’t stay long. Somewhere between sipping a Coke and downing a greasy beef patty, fear slithered up next to her and whispered, “Go home, you crazy dame.”

  She dropped a five on the counter and beat a path to her car before the darkness clouded her mind. If Don wasn’t coming to her, she was going to him.

  But after driving all night, fueling her veins with coffee, she was weary. And weakening with each stop.

  “Fill her up?” the attendant said. The name patch above his pocket said Earl.

  “Please.” Everleigh glanced around. “Any place to buy a cup of coffee?”

  “Diner right off the exit. But we got some inside. Free.” The attendant walked around the car. “Shew-wee, ain’t she pretty?”

  “Yes, and thank you.” Everleigh made her way inside, using the facilities before filling a plastic cup with hot coffee. Her stomach clenched at the strong, bitter scent.

  “Where you headed?” The attendant asked when she returned, leaning over the hood, washing her windshield.

  “Fernandina Beach. Do you have a pay phone?”

  Earl squinted at her through the early-morning sunlight and pointed to the booth at the end of the asphalt. “You know there’s a hurricane in those parts? She’s done a U-ey and crossing the state.”

  “You’d have to be dead not to know. It’s all over the news.”

  At the phone booth, she closed herself in and raised the operator, asking for a collect call to Don’s office.

  After ten rings, the operator informed her there was no answer. Yes, I know, I know.

  “I’d like to try his home, please.” Her voice quivered as she recited Don’s number from memory.

  Answer, please.

  Pressing her head against the hard metal of the phone box, Everleigh counted the rings. She whimpered when the operator returned once again to inform her no one was home.

  When she stepped out of the booth, Earl was tightening her gas cap.

  “Well?” he said as she paid him for the gas. “What’d he say?”

  “How do you I was calling a he?”

  “Only reason a woman would be driving toward a storm is love.” He tucked her money in his pocket. “You want me to check the oil?”

  “No, someone already checked it.” Everleigh pictured the man in the coveralls as she took her seat and cranked the engine. “Do you think it’s safe? To drive to the East Coast? It’s at the northern tip of the state. Do you think the storm will go that far?” Her trembling hand kept slipping from the wheel.

  “Well, you got about six, seven hours to Jacksonville, then whatever distance to Fernandina Beach. I’m no weather man, but it seems the storm’ll be striking the East Coast sometime tonight.”

  “So, is it safe?”

  “I can’t tell you, lady. Got to go with your heart on this one.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  As the engine idled she stepped out, facing west, facing home. In Waco was everything she knew and loved. Her routine, her job, her circle of friends, her seat in the choir, and the graves of those she loved.

  But over her shoulder, to the east was something new, terrifying and quite possibly the best man she’d ever met since Rhett.

  And there was a vicious and wild storm.

  For a split second she was buried under the ground, huddled in that cold, dark cellar waiting for Rhett. Mr. Cartwright might have pulled her above ground that night, but in more ways than one, she’d remained in that cold cellar.

  “Give me strength.” Everleigh got behind the wheel and shifted into gear, then pointed the Studebaker east toward Tallahassee, and toward Fernandina Beach.

  She was coming above ground, and she prayed with all of her heart that Don Callahan would be there waiting.

  * * *

  Don

  If this was hurricane weather, bring it on. From his second-floor office view, the day promised to be warm and sunny. The river’s surface sparkled with light, and he had an itch to go fishing.

  George called him not long after Everleigh had hung up on him.

  “Let’s secure the office in case the storm hits with any velocity.”

  Don left the solace of the memory room where he’d been arranging and hanging pictures, wondering if he was the world’s biggest fool.

  Love sometimes walked a close line to crazy.

  Meanwhile, Hurricane Donna terrorized the state, making her way through the center toward Daytona. The bass-voiced weatherman predicted the storm’s northeast bands would sweep over Jacksonville and the beaches, stirring up the tide and tearing down powerlines.

  Their secretary, Alberta, a smart, savvy woman from Bethune-Cookman, came in to help as well.

  George handed him a stack of files and Don wrapped them in plastic. “Feels like the days of Noah, doesn’t it? Preparing for a storm we can’t see.”

  “I don’t know about Noah, but we’ve worked really hard the last three months to build a client list, and I don’t want to lose any of it.”

  “What time are we leaving for Georgia?” Don stored the files on the shelf in the closet, restless. He walked over to the window and glanced down on Centre Street, where the shops were boarded up and vacant. “It’s eerie. Like being in a ghost town.”

  “Only with a possible tidal surge instead of tumbleweeds.” George handed him another box for the top of the closet. “Lila and I will pick you up in, oh, say an hour. That’s the last of it. Alberta, thanks for coming in. Are you bugging out for the storm?”

  “Heading over to my cousin’s in Tallahassee.”

  “Be safe,” George said. “Don, Lila is making sandwiches so we don’t have to stop for dinner. I’ve filled an extra gas can in case nothing is open on the road. Or the pumps are empty.”

  “Do you ever think all this work is for nothing? That we won’t even get hit by Donna?”

  “I pray we’re doing all this for nothing.” George popped him on the arm with a grin. “Alberta, see you in a few days.”

  Alberta finished up, wrapping her new typewriter in a plastic sheet as Don took a final glance around the office. The low summer sun tempted him to stay put and ride it out. How bad could the storm be when today was so beautiful?

  But Everleigh’s plea haunted him. “Come home.”

  His foot itched with the idea. But this was home now. Besides, he’d gone to Waco twice and she refused him. Now with a hurricane bearing down on him, she plied him with fear.

  “Don?” Alberta handed him a canister and an envelope. “These came for you last night after you left. Might as well see what it is in case it’s important.”

  “T
hanks, Alberta. You off?”

  “Yes, don’t want to get caught in the traffic.”

  Don examined the long tube, then the envelope. The postmark read Dallas, Texas.

  Inside he found a letter from Dewey senior accountant Len Fenske.

  Call me when you get this. Before you open the canister. Len

  His work and home numbers were written across the bottom.

  Don dialed Len’s number, then sat in his desk chair. “Len? Don Callahan.” He cradled the receiver against his shoulder and reached for the canister. “What’s with the clandestine message? And the tube?”

  “You’re not going to believe it.”

  “Can I open it?”

  “Go ahead, but make sure you’re sitting down.”

  Don mashed the speakerphone button and opened the canister. The contents slipped onto his desk. He rolled out the pages and examined the title.

  Renovation of Dewey Motors. 1961.

  “Dewey’s making changes?” Don said. “I’m not surprised, but shouldn’t it be Dewey-Callahan Motors?”

  “Keep reading.”

  “Can you give me the CliffsNotes version? We’re prepping for a hurricane here.” Don scanned the pages, noting the lack of references to Callahan or Waco.

  “He’s closing down Callahan Cars, Don. Laying off the staff. Cutting out your father. In two years he’ll build a new, bigger, betch-your-life million-dollar dealership just east of I-35.”

  Don sank back into his chair. “He can’t, Len. He and Dad signed an agreement.”

  “Look on page fifteen. I highlighted the pivotal paragraph. Dewey-Callahan only had to be in place thirty days before Standish could make unilateral decisions with a quorum of the board.”

  “But Dad’s on the board—”

  “He’s not, Don. Standish never offered it to him.”

  Don whistled a word, a dark, dark word. “I knew he’d try something. I warned Dad. ‘Read the small print,’ I said. But oh, Dad trusted him. Twenty-five years of friendship. Standish never asked Dad to sit on the board?”

  “We tried to talk him out of this, Don. Me, Fred, Michael. But he wouldn’t hear us. We’ll probably lose our jobs.”

  “This will destroy Dad, Len. If the man values anything it’s loyalty. His own father betrayed him by selling the original Callahan Cars out from under him. Then his son walked out, and now his friend stabs him in the back.”

  “Standish was never going to give you the dealership, Don. You know that, right?”

  “When does he make his move?”

  “Monday.”

  “Len, I owe you. Thanks for warning—”

  “Wait, Don, it gets worse. The employees will have no severance pay, including your dad. Whatever he got in the merger is all he’s going to get. Dewey classified all employees as working for Dewey Motors after the merger, and there’s no payout unless a man has worked here for a year.”

  He had no words.

  “I’m so sorry, Don, but I thought you should know,” Len said. “Standish is a greedy guy and an even worse friend.”

  “Len, I owe you.” He sat back with a sigh, running his hand over his head. “Dad is a great friend, a great salesman, but too naive a businessman. This should’ve been a partnership made in heaven.”

  Don paced, walking off some of his steam. This was his fault. If he’d stayed he could’ve looked out for Callahan interests. Then Len’s truth echoed.

  “Standish was never going to give you the dealership.”

  “Tell me, Len, did my leaving play a role in this?”

  “You got out just in time. Otherwise you’d be caught in the middle. My guess is Standish had plans to get rid of you too.”

  When he hung up with Len, Don dialed George. “New plans, my friend. I’m heading to Texas where a different kind of storm is brewing.”

  After he explained, George said, “Don, I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too. Sadly, I’m not surprised.”

  “See you in a few days.”

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “And, Don?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Say hello to Everleigh for me.”

  He grinned. “I will.”

  He’d run by the house, close her up, and let Aimee know where he stashed the spare key—under the old birdbath—then hit the road.

  He’d come up with a game plan as he drove. Either way, Standish stabbing Dad in the back was just another opportunity for Don to see Everleigh and plead with her once more to come home with him.

  chapter thirty-one

  Beck

  God was waiting for her on Sunday. From the moment she entered the white clapboard church to the first strum of the guitar, she sensed a touch. A swirl of holy activity.

  She stood during worship with Natalie, trying to sing, but emotion choked every word.

  Soon the tremor became a ground swell, then the earthquake of emotions brought down the barricades around her memories and they rushed in with the current of her sobs.

  Image after image of her dad, of holidays, of birthdays, of riding a bike and building sandcastles. Of crying over math homework and staying up late on Christmas Eve to see him walk through the snow to the house, packages in his arms.

  He did not deserve her abuse. Her hate. But it was too late.

  She’d wrestled with her behavior, tossing and turning all night, trying to forgive herself, trying to imagine how Dad must have felt hearing her spiteful words.

  She’d dreamed of him buried under a pile of rubble, calling her name, and she awoke soaked in anxiety.

  She looked up when someone bumped her shoulder. Bruno. “Move over.”

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered. He looked handsome in a white mock turtleneck and jeans, his dark hair combed into place for once.

  “Flew home last night. Got a text from Mom. ‘Church.’ So I came.” He slipped his hand into hers and she leaned against his arm.

  She had called Mom last night. “I remember, Mom, I remember.” And wept recounting the story of her vicious message to Dad.

  “He thought I hated him!”

  Mom listened without interrupting for once, and when Beck spun the last word of her story, Mom assured her in soft, matronly tones that Dad knew she loved him.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Beck. I never realized . . . that’s what you were trying to tell me.”

  From the stage, an older woman began to sing about a God who was a good, good Father. Each lyric, each chord vibrated through Beck, pulling her back together.

  The congregation sang around her, over her. “You’re a good, good father . . . and I’m loved by you.”

  I’m sorry for what I said, for the pain I caused, Dad.

  Bruno sang softly, swaying them both from side to side.

  God, show me the way.

  The music about the good Father faded and the worship leader stepped forward.

  “I feel like there’s someone here who needs to forgive herself. You did something in your past that wounded you. For years you didn’t even remember until suddenly—”

  Beck dropped to the cushioned chair, her hand still gripping Bruno’s.

  “God’s forgiven you. Your father has forgiven you. Forgive yourself.”

  The congregation sang the chorus again as Beck slipped down to the floor, whispering, “I’m forgiven. I have to be forgiven.”

  Voices murmured over her. Chairs shifted and moved. Hand after hand landed on her back, shoulders, and arms and while the music played, she was covered with love.

  And while the people prayed and the lyrics filled in the room, Beck heard the clank of chains hitting a concrete floor.

  * * *

  Bruno

  When Beck came up off the floor, she glowed and he loved her. Flat-out loved her.

  But he had some other kind of loving to do first. Forgive Mom. She cut him a glance during worship with a pleading in her eyes.

  He slipped his arm around her shoulder and w
hispered, “All’s forgiven.”

  He had some questions, but the atmosphere of God’s presence beckoned him to release his grudge. In fact, he had some squaring away to do with God. It started with three simple words.

  I surrender all.

  After church, he invited Beck to lunch at his place on A1A, stopping by Doo Wops Best 50s Diner for takeout: burger, fries, and shakes.

  He grabbed a couple of beach chairs from his deck and a blanket. Beck carried the food, and together they walked toward the shore.

  The February sun was out this afternoon, but the warmth was far away.

  When they’d settled in and taken a bite or two, he asked, “What happened to you today?” He washed down his bite of burger with his soda.

  Beck focused on the high surf, the wind tangling her hair, her legs wrapped with the blanket.

  “I’m not sure.” Her reply wavered. “I’m afraid if I say what I feel, it will sound stupid.”

  “What do you feel?”

  She grinned. “Reborn. Oh my gosh, I sound like a holy roller.”

  “What happened when you were on the floor?”

  “I asked God to forgive me. Next thing I knew this weight I didn’t even know I’d been carrying broke off. I experienced an instant of knowing God was a good Father. Really knowing.”

  “I had that sense today too.”

  She stretched her arms wide. “Hello, world, you’re beautiful.”

  Anchoring his cup in the sand, Bruno held up his hands to the tousled ends of her hair. “You make the world beautiful.”

  “Bruno—”

  “Sorry, Beck. I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

  She sat back, chewing on her milkshake straw and shivering. “We should’ve ordered hot chocolate instead of these cold chocolate shakes.”

  “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way. I can take it.”

  “What if I did, Bruno? What do we do with it? I’m trying to imagine me in New York, you here, there and everywhere—”

  “Who said love had to be easy?” He scooted his chair closer to hers. “For the past ten years I’ve done nothing but law school and work. I was the guy who wanted to be a big success. Wanted my name known in the sports-agenting world. And I achieved it. I gave up a meaningful social, spiritual, and family life. When I came home to help Mom, I realized how empty I’d been living. But I still had an agency to build, bills to pay. Then you showed up and . . .” He tossed a cold fry at the feet of a scrawny seagull. “I’d forgotten what it feels like to be in love.”