by Ann B. Ross
I’d looked up at him, tears blurring my eyes, and said, “There’s not a hope in hell of that. Especially if Valerie has any say in it. No, Mr. Sitton, I appreciate your concern, but I’ll just go back to my trailer and ask for my old job back. Don’t worry about me. I’ve been making it on my own long before this.”
He’d left not long after that, saying that he’d do the best he could for me if I wanted to pursue the matter. On his way out, he’d told me that Junior and Valerie were on the their way to see to the funeral. “Howard spelled it all out in his will,” he’d said. “Everything’s being taken care of.”
Without me, I thought as the door closed behind him. I sat in the large chair in the quiet office, looking at my hands, and wondering how long the hospital would let me stay there. I hated the thought of leaving, the thought of facing people who’d be laughing and whispering and watching me to see what kind of woman could get a man so hot and bothered that he’d stroke out on his wedding night.
I knew what they’d be saying and the jokes they’d make and the smirks they’d send my way.
Well, I thought, taking a deep breath, I’d come through worse, I guessed. At least I wasn’t covered with a sheet and on my way to a funeral home.
Poor old Mr. Howard, I thought, and wiped away a tear. I’d really thought I could give him a few happy years. They would’ve been happy for me, too. I wouldn’t have minded them at all. But now all our plans were dead and gone along with him. But then, as I thought about it, a smile twitched at the corner of my mouth, and I began to feel better.
I couldn’t help it, because it suddenly came to me that I had made him happy. Not for years, that’s true, but he’d already had a long, successful, and powerful life—a longer and better one than most people, in fact. And it’d ended with a bang.
Maybe, just maybe, if Junior had taken him to Raleigh and stuffed him away in a rest home or retirement home or nursing home or whatever, Mr. Howard would’ve lived another year or two. And been so miserable he’d’ve hated every day of it.
But this way, he’d ended his life the same way he’d lived it—in his own home, getting exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it. And what he’d wanted was me. He’d died with a smile on his face.
Even the ambulance men had mentioned it. How it looked as if he’d died happy. That’s one thing I could be proud of.
I leaned my head back on the chair, with a smile on my face, too. Mr. Howard had surprised me when I’d gone into his room not four hours before and seen him sitting there with his clothes half off, wide awake and ready for love. I hadn’t expected it, especially since he’d slept all through the afternoon and through the commotion of the party and the Pucketts crashing the party and the arrival of the deputies.
I’d intended to spend my wedding night dozing in a chair by his bed, and being there when he woke this morning. The intimacies of marriage could come in their own sweet time, whenever he felt up to them and as far as he was able to take them. It hadn’t mattered to me, one way or the other.
But there he’d been, ready, set, and aimed for what he’d been grabbing at for months and months. So, figuring that looking might be all he could manage, I’d undressed and put on Lurline’s pink chiffon babydoll pajamas with the G-string underneath. His eyes had nearly popped out of his head, and he’d practically climbed over the bedrail, half paralyzed or not.
I laughed to myself, remembering how he’d begged me to quit prancing around and come over to him. I’d lowered the bedrail on one side and climbed in. I swear, the man had strength neither he nor I had been expecting. He’d grabbed me and started kissing and rubbing his good hand all over me. Then, before I knew it, he’d rolled me over and I’d fallen out of the damn bed. We laughed, Lord, how we laughed, and I’d crawled back in, pulling the bedrail up behind me.
“Come on, you old sweet thing,” I’d said, “do your worst. You can’t kick me out of bed now.”
So, here I was, the bereaved widow sitting in a hospital waiting room after hardly any time at all of being a wife. Well, I’d been a wife plenty of times, but I mean being the second Mrs. Howard Connard, Senior.
I stood up, put on my shoes, and gathered my tote bag. I needed to get back to Mr. Howard’s house and get my things moved before Junior and Valerie showed up. The sooner I could clear out of there, the better. I didn’t want to have to face them, with them wondering just what I’d done to their old daddy to transfer him from a bed to a casket.
I would move back into my trailer, thank God for a place of my own. And thank Bernie, too, for that matter. Then I’d go to the funeral. There was no way to get out of that. Maybe I’d take Granny and Lurline with me. For support, you know. I didn’t have anything to wear to a funeral, especially since everybody would be watching me. Maybe I could go to Walmart’s late tonight and find a black outfit. I didn’t know if Kathie Lee made anything like that, she was so perky. Navy blue would do, I guessed. Anyway, going to his funeral would be the last thing I could do for Mr. Howard. I’d stand by his casket like the first Mrs. Connard would’ve done and like I knew he’d want me to. I’d drop a rose on his casket after the graveside service was over, and I’d accept the condolences of anybody who’d be nice enough to offer me some.
Should I order flowers for the service? Was the widow supposed to? I didn’t know and didn’t much care if I did what was right or not. I’d stop by Sadie’s and get a rose, and let it stand for a good old man who’d thought I was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Then I’d go home and be Etta Mae Wiggins again, just as I’d been after my other marital disappointments. The thought of Skip and his expensive promise flashed through my mind. I could’ve sure used a million dollars right about then, but I’d be a fool to pin my hopes on that and risk another kind of disappointment.
Time enough for rejoicing, if Skip really did come through. But for now, I just wanted to go home and crawl into a corner where nobody could find me.
I peeked out the door and, seeing the hall empty, slipped out and headed for the stairs. I didn’t want to see anybody, or have anybody see me.
As I pushed open the heavy fire door at the bottom of the stairs and walked out into the parking lot, I had to squinch up my eyes from the early morning sun. I’d been sitting in that dark, quiet room for so long that I’d forgotten that the sun was up and a new day had already taken off.
Walking fast with my head down, hoping nobody would recognize and stop me, I hurried to my car. I could hardly remember parking it as I’d followed the ambulance a few hours earlier.
I didn’t see him until I got to the car. He was leaning against the hood, his arms crossed, a serious look on his face. Waiting for me.
“Bobby Lee,” I said, and, not being able to help it, my voice broke on the words and tears spurted out of my eyes.
“Come here, darlin’.” His arms went around me, and I found the place that I’d always fitted into, up close to him.
I cried. I let it all out—crying about wanting so much and getting so little, about the clerk in the Register of Deeds office, and Mr. Sitton’s secretary, about Clyde and the Pucketts and sweet, dumb Skip and about being scared and not having the rent money, and about Valerie’s hateful mouth, and about Mr. Howard dying before we’d had a happy family life, and I cried because Bobby Lee had his arms around me and was whispering that I wasn’t going to get away from him this time.
“What am I gonna do with you?” he said, his mouth against my hair.
“I don’t know,” I wailed, clinging to him like he was my last hope.
“I’ve been tryin’ my best to hold on to you,” he said, one hand holding me close and the other smoothing my hair. “This time I’m not letting you out of my sight. You up for one more husband, sweetheart?”
I stopped bawling for a minute, the meaning of his words blotting out all that’d happened in the last few days. The thought of Bobby Le
e as my one true and very last husband made my heart melt inside me.
“What about your windshield?” I asked, burying my face against his uniform again, soaking it good. “And Darla Davis?”
“Oh, hell,” he said, and I knew he was smiling. “You’re worth a dozen damn windshields. And who’s Darla Davis? You’re the one I’ve been tryin’ to catch.”
“You really want to get married?” I couldn’t believe how much lighter my heart was beginning to feel, even though I was still crying buckets all over him.
“I always did,” he said, holding me even closer, if that was possible. “You just kept beating me to it. Every time I thought I had you, you’d turn up with another husband.”
I started laughing, my shoulders shaking against him. I could feel him laughing with me, and hear the strong beat of his heart in his chest. I pressed my head against it, wanting to stay by that safety for the rest of my life.
Etta Mae Wiggins Taggert Whitlow Connard was about to be a thing of the past. Etta Mae Moser was a name I could live with.
“Bobby Lee?”
“What, sweetheart?”
“Can we go to Disney World on our honeymoon?”
“Anywhere you want,” he said, his familiar hands moving over my back.
“And the Magic Kingdom, too?”
“Oh, yeah,” he whispered against my hair, “and, darlin’, when we get there I’m gonna take you up one side of Space Mountain and down the other. And then I’m gonna start all over again. How does that sound?”
Like the sweetest thing in the world.
