Slow Waltz Across Texas

by Peggy Moreland

  Brandon rubbed his eyes and nodded. “I’m hot, Daddy.”

  His gut clenching in dread, Clayton tossed the screwdriver into the toolbox and crossed to Brandon, hunkering down to press a palm against his brow. “I’ll say you are,” he muttered, and hauled the boy up into his arms. “Let’s get you in the tub and see if we can cool you down.”

  He pulled open the door and let it slam behind him as he loped up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he reached the children’s bathroom, he turned on the water in the tub, then began stripping off Brandon’s clothes.

  “You feel okay?” Clayton asked as he settled the boy in the water.

  Brandon stretched out his legs and rubbed a hand across his chest. “Yeah. Just hot.”

  Clayton knelt down beside the tub, watching Brandon’s hand move across his small chest, afraid to look and afraid not to. “Let me see,” he said and gently nudged Brandon’s hand aside so that he could get a clear view of the boy’s chest. Seeing a red spot, he angled the boy toward him for a better look. “Do you itch?” he asked, finding a couple more red spots.

  “Kinda.”

  “Try not to scratch,” Clayton warned, and picked up a cloth. “It’ll only make it worse.” After dipping the cloth into the tepid water, he gathered it into his fist and squeezed water over Brandon’s chest. “That feel better?” he asked.

  Brandon nodded slowly. “A little.”

  “What are y’all doin’?”

  Clayton turned to find Brittany standing in the doorway. “Giving Brandon a bath.” Dipping the cloth into the water again, he lifted it and squeezed the water over Brandon’s back.

  “It’s not time for bed yet,” Brittany said, crossing to stand beside the tub. “How come you’re giving him a bath?”

  Not in the mood for another string of Brittany’s questions, Clayton struggled for patience. “Because he’s hot.”

  “I’m hot. Can I take a bath, too?”

  “Hot?” Clayton cried in alarm, spinning on the balls of his feet to look at her. Seeing nothing on her face to indicate a fever, he pressed a hand against her forehead, sagging with relief when his palm met only cool skin. “You can take one after Brandon,” he told her, and turned back to tend to his son.

  “But I want a bath now,” she whined.

  “I said, after Brandon,” he replied, putting a little steel behind his response.

  Brittany dropped down on the floor. “But I want to take a bath, too,” she wailed.

  With his comfort zone already stretched to the limit bathing Brandon and his mind focused on how best to care for his son, Brittany’s wail shot Clayton’s tolerance over the edge. “I said no!” he shouted.

  Wide-eyed, Brandon looked up at him, then leaned to peer over the side of the tub, watching his sister’s tantrum growing in volume and intensity. “She can take a bath with me,” he said, looking back up at Clayton. “I don’t mind.”

  Though tempted, Clayton shook his head, knowing it wasn’t wise. If Brittany hadn’t already contracted chicken pox, a bath with Brandon was a sure guarantee that she would. “No, son. She can—” He frowned and glanced back toward the door, straining to hear over Brittany’s continued wails. “What was that noise?”

  “I think somebody’s knocking on the front door,” Brandon offered quietly.

  “What next?” Clayton muttered under his breath. When the pounding continued, he heaved a sigh and stood to yank a towel from the towel rack. Scooping Brandon from the tub, he wrapped the towel around him, then hooked an arm around the still-wailing Brittany and tucked her under his other arm. His lips thinned in anger, he headed for the stairs and stomped down them. Kicking a boot at the screen door, he knocked it open. “What do you want?” he growled, holding the door open with a wide shoulder.

  The two men standing on the porch took a step back, gulping. They shifted their gazes uneasily from Clayton’s angry face to Brittany, then to Brandon, and finally back to Clayton. One of the two held up a clipboard. “We’re here to deliver furniture to a Ms. Rena Rankin.”

  Groaning, Clayton dropped his chin to his chest, wondering what else could possibly happen to complicate this day.

  “Clayton! What’s wrong?”

  He glanced up to find Rena running across the yard, and had his answer when he saw the alarm on her face. “I was giving Brandon a bath,” he explained, having to raise his voice to be heard over Brittany’s crying, “and Brittany came in and wanted to take a bath, too.”

  He paused when Rena held out her hands to take Brittany, and scowled when Brittany fell into her mother’s arms, sobbing. Rena quickly shifted the child to one hip and pressed Brittany’s face into the curve of her neck, trying to calm her.

  Sighing, Clayton shifted Brandon to a more comfortable position in his arms, then gestured toward the two men who waited, seemingly hanging on his every word. “About that time these two guys showed up. And—”

  Rena turned to look at the two delivery men. “Do you have my furniture?” she asked hopefully. At their nods she sagged with relief. “Thank heaven. We’ve been eating our meals off a card table, and have had to sit on the floor to watch TV. Follow me,” she said, gesturing to the two men, “and I’ll show you where to put everything.” Shooting Clayton a quelling look, she pursed her lips as she brushed past him. “You should have just let Brittany bathe with him,” she muttered for his ears only. “I bathe them together all the time.”

  “Well, I would have,” he replied indignantly, hefting the towel-wrapped Brandon higher on his hip as he followed her inside, “but I was afraid she would get chicken pox.”

  Rena whirled, her eyes going wide. “Brandon has chicken pox?”

  The two delivery men backed slowly from the porch, then turned and bolted for their truck.

  “As best I can tell. He’s running a fever and has a few spots. Which was why I didn’t want Brittany in the tub with him,” he added wryly.

  Rena thrust Brittany at Clayton, exchanging her daughter for her son. Balancing Brandon on her hip, she cupped a hand at his cheek. “Poor baby,” she soothed, and pressed her lips against his forehead, then drew back to look at him. “Show Mommy your spots.”

  Brandon unwrapped the towel to expose his chest. “Here,” he said, pointing. “And here.”

  “Where do you want the furniture, Ms. Rankin?” one of the deliverymen asked.

  She glanced up to find the deliverymen had unloaded her new sofa and were standing on the other side of the door, straining beneath its weight. “Oh, I’m sorry. It goes in—”

  “What are chicken pox?” Brittany asked, her tears miraculously gone.

  “It’s a disease, sweetheart,” Rena said distractedly as she pushed open the door for the deliverymen.

  “Is Brandon going to die?”

  Rena whipped her head around to find Brittany looking at her, her eyes filled with fear. “Of course not!” she exclaimed, hugging Brandon to her chest, then leaned to press a kiss on Brittany’s cheek. “He’s just going to have a few red spots and itch for several days.”

  “Where do you want us to put the sofa, ma’am?”

  Rena waved an arm toward the den. “In there. Anywhere, really. My husband can help me arrange the furniture later.”

  Clayton sat on the new sofa with his head tipped back against the plump cushions and Brandon cradled against his chest, only half listening as Rena read to the children from a book of nursery rhymes.

  My husband, she’d said while directing the deliverymen. Though he was sure her use of the phrase was merely a slip of the tongue, he liked hearing her say it. Made him feel needed, still a part of this family.

  “I think they’re asleep,” Rena whispered.

  Startled from his thoughts, Clayton lifted his head and glanced down at his son’s sleeping face, then shifted his gaze to Brittany who sat curled against her mother’s breasts, her eyes closed, her thumb hanging slack from the corner of her mouth.

  “Think it’s safe to put ’em to bed?” he a
sked uncertainly.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Clayton shifted Brandon to hold him against his chest and stood, offering Rena a hand to help her to her feet. “You go first,” he whispered, nodding toward the stairs. He waited for her to pass by, then followed her to the second floor.

  He laid Brandon down on one twin bed, while Rena settled Brittany on the other, then pulled the covers to the boy’s chin.

  “Mommy?”

  Clayton turned to see Rena sinking down on the edge of Brittany’s bed. “What, baby?” she whispered.

  “Do I have the chicken pox, yet?”

  Smiling, Rena smoothed Brittany’s bangs from her forehead. “No. Not yet.”

  “When will I get ’em?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe never. Daddy’s never had them.”

  Brittany shifted her sleepy gaze to Clayton’s. “Never?” she asked him.

  He shook his head. “Never.”

  Smiling, Rena leaned to give Brittany a kiss. “Sweet dreams, sweetheart. Mommy loves you.”

  “I love you, too, Mommy,” she murmured, yawning. She drew the covers to her chin, then looked up at Clayton. “’Nite, Daddy. I love you.”

  When Clayton didn’t reply, Rena glanced over her shoulder and found him standing, staring down at Brittany, his lips in a hard line, his jaw set.

  “Clayton,” she prodded.

  He glanced at her, stared a moment, his eyes dark, then turned away and headed for the door. “’Nite, shortcake,” he muttered gruffly.

  Shocked, Rena watched him disappear into the dark hall. “Mommy?”

  Rena glanced back down at Brittany. “What, sweetheart?”

  “Does Daddy love me?”

  She leaned to press a kiss against her daughter’s forehead. “Of course he does,” she reassured her.

  “But he never says he does. Not even when I tell him that I love him.”

  Her heart breaking because she understood her daughter’s doubts so well, Rena cupped a hand at Brittany’s cheek and smoothed a thumb beneath her eyelashes. “Your daddy loves you. I know he does. Some people just can’t say the words as easily as others.”

  “Do you suppose it’s because his mommy and daddy never taught him how?”

  Frowning, Rena replied slowly, “Well, I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “He was little when they died.” Brittany rolled to her side, nestling her cheek against her pillow. “He lived with a bunch of different people.”

  Rena had known that Clayton’s parents were deceased, but she hadn’t known that other part of his background. “How did you know that?”

  “Daddy told me. Nobody wanted to keep him,” she added sadly. “And he wasn’t even bad. He lived with his grandparents, till they got sick. Then with his uncle Frank, and after that, his aunt…somebody. I forget her name.” She lifted her head from the pillow. “Do me and Brandon have any uncles and aunts?”

  Sobered by all that Brittany had told her, Rena shook her head. “No. In order for you to have aunts and uncles, your daddy or I would have to have had brothers and sisters, and we don’t have any.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she glanced toward the door Clayton had disappeared through, wondering if she’d spoken the truth. For all she knew about his past, Clayton might have twelve brothers and sisters.

  Sighing, she turned back to Brittany and leaned to drop one last kiss on her cheek. “No more talking,” she ordered gently. “It’s time to go to sleep.”

  Closing her eyes, Brittany snuggled her cheek deeper into the pillow. “Okay, Mommy.”

  After leaving the twins’ bedroom, Rena headed downstairs in search of Clayton. Not finding him in the house, she stepped out onto the front porch, searching the darkness for a sign of him. When she heard the familiar pinging sound of grain hitting a metal bucket, she headed for the horse trailer, sure that she would find him there.

  “Clayton?”

  He glanced up at the sound of her voice, then slowly closed the side door of his trailer where he stored Easy’s feed. “What?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “About what just happened upstairs.”

  He turned away and headed for the pasture. “What happened?”

  “What happened?” she cried, unable to believe that he was so insensitive that he wasn’t even aware he’d hurt Brittany’s feelings. “I’ll tell you what happened,” she said, charging after him. “You just broke your daughter’s heart.”

  He swung the bucket over the fence and slipped the rope attached to it over a fence post. “And how did I do that?”

  “She told you that she loved you and you didn’t tell her back.”

  “I said good-night to her,” he said defensively, avoiding her gaze by adjusting the rope on the post.

  “But you didn’t tell her that you loved her!” She pressed her fingers to her temples and inhaled deeply, silently praying for the patience to say what she needed to say without losing her temper. “Children need constant assurance from their parents that they are loved,” she told him carefully. “Especially children whose parents are going through a divorce.”

  “I love my kids.”

  “And how do they know that, unless you tell them?”

  “I take care of ’em. I provide ’em with a home and food and clothes and whatever else they take a liking to.”

  “But do you tell them? Do you ever say the words ‘I love you’?” When he didn’t respond, when he kept his back to her, she cried, “Clayton, do you?”

  He whirled and she staggered back a step, stunned by the ravaged look on his face. “No. But I love ’em.” He drew a fist against his chest. “With all my heart, I love those kids.”

  Her hand trembling, she reached to close a hand over the fist he held against his chest and squeezed her fingers around it. “Then tell them, Clayton. Tell them how you feel. Don’t make them wonder. Don’t ever give them a reason to doubt your love.”

  He jerked his hand from hers and turned away. “I can’t.”

  She stared at his back, unable to believe she’d heard him correctly. “Can’t? But why? If you love them, surely you can tell them that you do.”

  She waited for his answer, willed him to answer, to offer any plausible explanation for his inability to verbalize his feelings. But he didn’t say anything. Not a word. He simply drew his hands to his hips and tipped his face up to the night sky. She watched the fabric on his shirt stretch across his back as he hauled in a long breath, heard the shudder in it when he finally released it.

  And remembered what Brittany had said.

  Nobody wanted to keep him. And he wasn’t even bad.

  Certain now that his past had something to do with his inability to verbalize his feelings for his children, she closed the distance between them, laid a palm against his back and leaned to peer up at him.

  In the moonlight she could see the hard set of his jaw, the rigid, flat line of his lips…the unshed tears that glistened in his eyes. Her heart breaking at the sight of them, she eased to his side and slipped her arm around his waist.

  “Brittany told me about you being moved around a lot when you were little,” she said softly.

  Already tense, at her comment his body stiffened even more.

  “I’ve never tried to keep my past a secret.”

  “But you’ve never shared it with me, either,” she reminded him gently.

  He rolled a shoulder. “My life was nothing like yours, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “Tell me about it,” she urged, then added, “Please? I want to know.”

  He heaved a sigh. “My parents died when I was a baby. In a car wreck. I don’t remember them. Don’t even have a picture to know what they looked like.”

  She tightened her arm around his waist, hearing the pain in his voice and knowing how difficult it was for him to share this with her. “And your grandparents took you to live with them,” she prodded, wanting, needing to hear it all.

/>   “For a while. They were old, sick. Too sick to take care of themselves, much less a kid. When I was about three, they shipped me off to live with my uncle Frank. I stayed there till I was about five.”

  Rena watched the tears build in his eyes, saw how hard he struggled to fight them back.

  Blinded by her own tears, she hugged him against her side. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  Not wanting her pity, Clayton stepped from her embrace and moved to the fence. Bracing his hands against the top rail, he dug his fingers into the wood and dipped his head, not wanting to remember. Unable to do anything else.

  He felt Rena’s hand on his back again and knew that he would have to tell it all. She wouldn’t stop pestering him until he had. Resigned to that fact, he lifted his head and narrowed an eye at the moon, seeing it all as if it had happened only yesterday.

  “He took me to the bus station and bought me a ticket. Parked me on the curb to wait for the bus that would take me to my aunt Margaret’s. Everything I owned was stuffed into a grocery sack he dropped at my feet. I remember watching him walk away. Can still almost taste the sick fear that knotted in my gut. I didn’t know what was happening, really, or where I was going. Too little to understand, I guess. All I knew was that Uncle Frank was leaving and when he did I was going to be alone.

  “I yelled for him to wait, but he kept right on walking, never so much as looked back. I started running. Stumbled and fell a few times. Scrambled up and ran some more. I caught up with him at his car and grabbed ahold of him, crying and begging him not to send me away.”

  He paused, narrowing an eye against the memory, against the tears, before he could go on. “He backhanded me. Knocked me a good two feet or more, and I landed on my butt. I remember staring up at him, blubbering like you wouldn’t believe, telling him that I loved him. That I’d be good. Begging that sorry son of a gun to take me back home with him.”

  He shook his head, unable to believe even now what had happened next. “He grabbed me by an arm and jerked me up. Shook me till my teeth rattled in my head, then spun me around and shoved me back toward the bus station, telling me I wasn’t his responsibility anymore.”