He might have been on a stage, but I didn’t intend to stand there as an audience of one. “What finally happened to your wife?”
He shrugged. “What happens to every drunk who doesn’t quit. She went in and out of rehab for ten years, but she couldn’t lick the stuff. She died twenty years ago.” He moved so close I could feel his warmth through my thin robe. “I wouldn’t be this frank with everybody, but it was actually a blessing as far as we were concerned. She was neither a wife to me nor a mother to Lance after the accident. She couldn’t stand to be near him, in fact. The other mother claimed that Sperra didn’t deserve to have a child because she’d been so careless about somebody else’s, and that nearly destroyed her. She and Lance had been as close as any mama can get to a kid when she needs to suck a bottle half the day, but after that she couldn’t bear to hold him or touch him. Even having him in the same room could make her hysterical. She said she kept seeing that other little boy’s face over his.” He turned away to fondle a yellow rose, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “When she lost Lance, she lost everything.”
Tears clogged my throat. “She still had you.”
He shook his head and said softly, “She never had me.” He stroked the rose.
It wasn’t until he turned back toward me that I remembered again that Burlin Bullock was not only a politician, he was a darned good actor, and we’d just played a scene. I hoped Joe Riddley and my neighbors didn’t know they were supposed to be our audience.
“Don’t you have somewhere else you have to be?” I demanded.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little Swiss Army Knife. “Actually, I do. But before I leave, may I?” He pointed to the yellow rose. When I nodded, he cut it off and held it to his nose for a moment, then grinned and stuck it behind his ear. “Dashing, right?” He took it down and cupped it in one palm. “I’ve been experimenting with a new rose that I think is going to bloom this next year. Shall I send you a cutting? It’s a real spicy red. I’m thinking of calling it the MacLaren. Would you like that?”
Before I could answer, Joe Riddley spoke from the front door. “Little Bit? Your toast is stone cold, and I’ve drunk all the coffee. You fixing to go to work in your nightgown? And where’s the paper?”
Burlin gave Joe Riddley a genial wave. “I’m just going,” he called. “Was admiring your wife’s roses.” He held the yellow rose aloft, then added in a low voice, “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.” He turned and strode across the lawn without looking back.
“Who the Sam Hill was that?” Joe Riddley demanded as I headed for the door. “He’s the spitting image of Burlin Bullock, but you didn’t need to stand out there entertaining him in your bathrobe for God and all the neighbors to see.”
I hardly heard what he was saying. I was hearing Burlin whistling what he always used to whistle when he left me at my front door: “I’ll be seeing you.”
3
Joe Riddley made me cinnamon toast and fresh coffee while I dressed, and he read the sports section of the Augusta Chronicle at the table while I ate. “Georgia ought to have a great game tomorrow, even with all those players they had to bench.”
I couldn’t believe my luck. “You want to drive up for it? Maybe stay overnight? We could even go on to the mountains for a week. We haven’t been anywhere in so long, I’m growing moss.” When he didn’t agree right away, I offered, “I’ll call and see if Ridd can manage the store.” Our son is a high-school math teacher by profession and a farmer at heart, but he is willing to stop by in the afternoon after school a few days at a stretch to compensate for all the plants we give him for his yard and garden.
“Ridd’s gonna keep the store tomorrow, but we can’t go to the game.” Joe Riddley’s voice was sour as last week’s milk. “I told Gusta we’d come to a Do she’s having over at her old house.” No wonder he looked like he’d asked for sweet milk and gotten buttermilk. For eighty years Augusta Wainwright had been the self-appointed queen of Hopemore. Joe Riddley hated Gusta’s Do’s. “Bite-sized sandwiches and watered wine,” he muttered, going back to his paper.
I wasn’t real fond of Gusta’s Do’s myself. “You said yes without even asking me?”
“It’s for an old friend of hers, some sort of political shindig. You ought to be there.”
Joe Riddley had been a county magistrate for thirty years and kept up with the whole political ball of wax. When I’d been appointed to replace him after he retired a year ago, I’d figured if I signed warrants that were set before me, held probable-cause hearings and bond hearings, and presided over such courts as were required of me, I could skip politics. After all, I didn’t seek the appointment. If they took it away from me, it wouldn’t block my sunshine. But Joe Riddley was bound and determined I’d at least show my face at political events from time to time. It was one of the ongoing dissonant chords in the harmony of our marriage.
My stomach went down a long sliding board. It was highly unlikely that two politicians would be in Hopemore this one weekend. “It will serve you right if she serves nothing but tuna-fish sandwiches and watery punch.”
The coward hid behind his paper to avoid my glare.“You still need to go. Besides, you’ve been wanting to see what Maynard has done to the place.”
I did want to see the place. Gusta’s former house was one of three antebellum houses in Hopemore that Sherman didn’t burn. Her best friend and rival for Hopemore’s throne was Winifred “Pooh” DuBose, who lived two doors down, in a fine Victorian. The previous winter, Pooh had begun to show increasing signs of dementia and Gusta’s granddaughter got married, so Gusta moved in with Pooh. Maynard Spence, curator of the Hope County Historical Museum, bought Gusta’s place and turned it into an antique store—yielding to Gusta’s request that he call it Wainwright House Antiques. He’d have called it Augusta’s Antiques for her, he wanted it so badly.
Maynard got married about that same time, so his daddy—our closest neighbor—moved out of their old homeplace and in with Pooh and Gusta. The three of them had calculated they could pay Pooh’s cook and yardman and Gusta’s housekeeper and still come out a good bit cheaper than if they all went into retirement homes. Not that they needed to be frugal. The two women each had more money than a third-world country, and Hubert had done well with Spence’s Appliances over the years. Still, none of them had gotten rich spending money.
“It will serve you right if I see something real expensive at Maynard’s I can’t live without,” I warned as I headed to brush my teeth and fetch my pocketbook.
I wish I could tell you I went to work and didn’t give Burlin Bullock another thought. However, I’d long ago discovered that lying generates more complications than it solves. All day long, I found myself sitting at my desk, staring into space, muttering things to myself like, “How could you be so dumb?” and “Is there any way to leave town for a few days?”
I was sorry I had to meet Martha at the track. Martha notices other people—really notices them. Sure enough, about the time we had walked a quarter of the way around, just as I was fixing to announce I was happy with the way I looked and ready to give up walking, she asked, “What’s buggin’ you?”
I gave an airy wave. “Oh, nothing. Taxes, stuff like that.”
“Seriously, what’s wrong? Is Pop having memory trouble again?”
Joe Riddley had made a remarkable recovery from getting shot, but he tended to be a bit forgetful at times and his temper wasn’t as dependable as it used to be. I was tempted to say “Yes” and let it go at that, but my conscience kicked in. Besides, Martha has had all sorts of training in counsel ing. I found myself admitting, “He’s fine. But I’ve got a little problem. You know that Joe Riddley and I have been together all our lives.”
“Since your daddy took you to his daddy’s hardware store when you were—what? four? And he was six?” I nodded. “And Joe Riddley swaggered over, hitched up his brown corduroy britches, and asked, ‘You wanna go count nails?’ You’ve been counting nails ever since.
”
“Yeah. But what you don’t know”—I had to feel my way. Confession comes hard to Presbyterians—“is that I once also dated somebody else.”
That cut off her water. She didn’t say a word.
“Now he’s come to town, and—” I sighed. “It’s a mess.”
She went about ten strides before she demanded, “When did you have time to date anybody else?”
No wonder she asked. Joe Riddley and I started “going steady” in elementary school, which meant he carried my books and I saved him a seat at lunch. We dated through junior and senior high, which meant I wore his letter sweaters and he wore out a set of tires coming home from college while I finished my last two years. We dated all the way through college and got married the weekend after I graduated.
“The year after Joe Riddley finished college. I didn’t think he loved me anymore.”
“Pop? He worships the ground you walk on.”
“Maybe so, but he was real slow popping the M question. Everybody expected us to get married after he finished college, so the Christmas before, I figured he’d give me a diamond. He gave me a necklace. That was okay—I didn’t want to get married until I graduated, anyway, and I thought he’d ask me that summer. He didn’t. In those days, a girl could hint, but she waited to get asked. I waited and hinted all summer. He didn’t say a word. Even worse, he didn’t come up to school that next semester. Kept saying he was busy. Heck, he was working for his parents. They’d have let him off for football games if he’d wanted to come, but I didn’t see hide nor hair of him, except a couple of times when I drove home. We never went anywhere then, just sat around at our folks’ houses. He even worked the two Saturdays I was here. He said he was learning the business, but we’d both worked in that store for years. Annie Dale was working for his daddy that year, and she was mighty pretty. I figured I had been a phase, and he was ready to move on.”
“You never. You were just trying to justify what you did.” Martha has always been willing to call a spade a shovel. She moved ahead. “Walk faster, or we won’t lose an ounce.”
“Joe Riddley loves me the way I am,” I insisted. “He says I’m not fat, I’m voluptuous.” She didn’t slow one iota. “But he really didn’t pay me a speck of attention that fall,” I added, hurrying to catch her.
“He wrote, didn’t he? And called?”
“Not often. He never was much for writing, and neither one of us was comfortable talking long distance. Our calls were generally things like, ‘I passed my differential equations exam’ or ‘Daddy’s thinking of expanding the nursery side of the business. What do you think?’ ”
“If he wanted your opinion about the business, didn’t that tell you something?”
“Yeah. That he was tired of counting nails. Let’s stop a minute to catch our breath.” While I rested, I said, “It may not make sense now, honey, but back then, I was mad. And hurt.”
“And lonesome,” she guessed, jerking her head to say it was time to get going.
I tromped along, trying to keep up. “That, too. And having second thoughts about settling down before I’d sampled what else the world had to offer. So I started dating somebody else.”
“That was probably good for you and Pop both. Now, walk faster. We aren’t snails.”
“We aren’t jet planes, either. We don’t have to walk off all our weight tonight.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, everybody else is passing us. We’re not exactly flying.” She waited for another speedy duo to whiz by, elbows working as hard as their legs. Then she asked, “So what if the guy is here for a few days? It’s been years since you saw him, right?”
“Yeah, but—” I hated to tell her the real reason I was worried. It sounded so petty. “I never told Joe Riddley about him, and I don’t want him to find out now.” She slid her eyes my way, so I hurried to add, “He could be so hurt, and you know he’s been unpredictable since he got shot.”
She laughed. “Expecting Pop to shoot him? It’s not likely. They may not even meet.”
“Oh, yes they will. Gusta’s having a Do tomorrow, and he’s bound to be there.”
“I thought that was for Lance Bullock.” She stopped so suddenly that I took two steps ahead before I noticed. She was standing dead in the track, hands on her hips. “It wasn’t Burlin Bullock you dated, was it?”
“For a little while. And you know how Joe Riddley admires him.”
I didn’t mind watching my stock go up in her eyes. However, that didn’t last long. Martha is nothing if not a realist. “He’s probably forgotten all about it by now. He may not even remember your name.” She marched on. I had to nearly run to catch up this time.
“He came by the house this morning to see me,” I said, miffed both at what she’d said and at being left behind.
She raised her eyebrows. “What did Pop say to that?”
“Nothing. We talked out in the yard. But I don’t want Joe Riddley getting any ideas.”
“Getting jealous, you mean. Burlin Bullock’s a mighty handsome man. I might have cheated on Ridd if somebody that good-looking had asked me out.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You’re nicer than me. But he was handsome back then, too. Girls swooned whenever he swaggered by and thought up all sorts of reasons to talk to him.”
“Including you.”
“Not at all. The only two words I ever said to him before he asked me to a football game were ‘You’re wrong.’ He’d given a report in history—we had class together—and claimed the Confederate treasury wound up near Macon. I set the class straight that it is supposed to be buried somewhere around here.”
“And he asked you out after that?”
“Probably because of it. He wasn’t used to people correcting him. I was a novelty.”
I hadn’t planned on telling her about Burlin, but I’d never discussed him with a single soul since my sorority sisters, which seemed like a hundred years ago. Now, the story poured out like somebody had wound me up and pressed the “on” button.
“After the next class, he sauntered up and said, ‘You got a date for the football game this Saturday? Because if you don’t, I’ve got an extra ticket that’s got your name written all over it.’ I said, ‘Who’s been writing on your ticket?’ and he said, ‘I wrote on the ticket. I’ve been scribbling all over it while I worked up my courage to ask you. Will you come?’ I don’t know which of us was more surprised when I said, ‘I guess so.’ ”
“Smooth.” Martha tugged my arm. “Keep talking, but walk faster.”
“Slave driver,” I muttered. “But Burlin was the smooth one, not me. I was flustered. I was twenty years old and had never been asked for a date. Can you believe that? Joe Riddley always said something romantic like, ‘I’ll pick you up at seven for the prom. Be ready, now.’”
Martha gave a gurgle of laughter. “I can just hear him.”
While she was waving and calling to another walker who passed us, I was remembering what Burlin said on our way out the door after class. “I thought you were engaged to that tall drink of water with the dark hair and the smoldering eyes, but I don’t see a ring, and I haven’t seen him around lately.”
To my eternal shame, I replied, “Oh, he’s just a friend from home.”
“Earth to Mac. Come in Mac,” said Martha. “You’re still mooning over Burlin Bullock.”
“I never mooned! In fact, I figured he asked me that first time because he’d wanted to take somebody else and she couldn’t go. I told myself it wasn’t exactly a real date—we were merely going together to enjoy the game.”
“That’s one way to assuage guilt. But because you didn’t swoon all over him, he figured you were playing hard to get, which piqued his interest even more, right?”
“You are too smart to live. Of course, I didn’t take time to analyze it back then—life simply happened. But Burlin had no way of knowing I was totally unfamiliar with the dating game. Heck, I didn’t know how to play hard to get—or anything else.”
<
br /> “So, how many times did you go out?”
“That whole semester.”
Now it was Martha who slowed down. “Four months? What did Pop say?”
“Pop wasn’t there, and I couldn’t turn around without stumbling over Burlin. The more I told him he didn’t need to walk me to class or buy me Cokes, the more he showed up. We went to all the football games and dances on campus, to concerts and plays in Atlanta, and on picnics where he brought wine and cheese—which seemed real sophisticated to me. Joe Riddley and I generally threw together some bologna sandwiches and a six-pack of Cokes. Burlin was like a stream of water falling over soft rock day after day. ‘Wouldn’t you like to drive to Atlanta to see a play?’ ‘There’s a concert down in Atlanta next weekend you’d like.’ ‘My parents are having a dance in Buckhead in October, and I’d like you to go.’ Hey—when did we pass the finish line and start a second lap?”
“Keep walking. Did you say Buckhead?”
“That’s where the governor’s mansion is,” another walker said helpfully as she whizzed by. I motioned for Martha to drop back a little so we couldn’t be overheard.
“So you went to a dance . . .” she said, waiting for the rest.
“It was a fantastic dance,” I admitted. “I borrowed a dress and shoes from sorority sisters, so I looked presentable. He looked fabulous in his tux. All my friends hung out the upstairs windows to watch us leave. We danced well past midnight, then drove back in the crisp autumn night air with his convertible top down. It was more romantic than anything I’d ever known. I was beginning to think I was falling in love.”
Martha stopped dead again. “You never. Poor Pop!”
I was glad to rest, but I looked over the grass in the middle of the track because I was too ashamed to face her. “Joe Riddley wasn’t there, honey. Burlin bought me books when Joe Riddley didn’t even buy stamps. He sent orange mums on Halloween when Joe Riddley didn’t even send a funny card. He bought me corsages for football games and records of music we’d heard the Atlanta symphony play, and Joe Riddley didn’t call for two weeks in a row. And it wasn’t just the convertible or the posh dance or the gifts. I’m not that crass. We talked—a lot. Joe Riddley and I knew each other so well, we talked in a kind of shorthand. Burlin didn’t know a thing about me and seemed to find every detail fascinating. I started to find him pretty fascinating, too.”
When Will the Dead Lady Sing? Page 3
