“Why’d you come lookin’ for me in Seymour?” Ellen asked, still unsatisfied. “How’d that come about?”
“It was serendipity,” he answered. “I stopped for lunch in Mobile and found this article.” He’d taken the newspaper article about the ninth-grade graduation dance from Mary, pulling it out of his pocket to show them. “Then I met Miss Logan at the boarding house. She started talking about your mother and I found out she’d died. I’m very sorry, by the way.
“I’m sorry I was snooping around your woods. Also, that I came here and didn’t introduce myself right away. I wasn’t sure it was really you.”
Having to navigate her manipulative mother, Ellen had a sense about people and it was telling her that Alan Johnson was somewhat the scoundrel who couldn’t be trusted completely. But he had nothing to gain as far as she could tell, by claiming her as his child.
“What’d you want from us?” Frank asked.
“Nothin’, I swear,” Alan replied, looking at Ellen again. “I don’t have anything to offer you, but I don’t want anything either. Just to know you, if you are my child. And if you don’t want to know me, well I’ll live with it.” Ellen looked at Frank and he could tell by her eyes she’d had enough.
“We’ll talk to the sheriff about what the next step should be then,” Frank said, putting out his hand to shake Alan’s outstretched. They turned and left the parts store and started walking to the truck.
“I guess I’ll take the test,” Ellen said. “It can’t hurt nothin’. But you know Frank that even if he’s my father, it don’t mean a thing to me. You’re my dad, always.”
“Thank you, sister. I appreciate it.” As they reached the truck, Frank just happened to look up at Miss Logan’s. She was standing in the window watching but she quickly turned away when she saw him looking over, not waving at him in acknowledgment, as she would have in the past. “Well, look at that. Miss Logan just turned her back on me. You suppose she’s listening to gossip?”
“Gossip probably originated with Miss Logan,” Ellen said smugly. “Know that she and Mary are closely related in the gossip department. Which one said it first might be up for debate. But it’s not very nice of me to say so, so I better be quiet.” It never occurred to Frank that it could have been Miss Logan who saw them hugging in the car until that second.
“You don’t say?” Frank said, staring at the salon. “I should stroll over there and have a little chat with her. What do you think?” Ellen looked over at the salon, at the smudged windows with the fading signage and the disintegrating brick work in front. Miss Logan was rather pathetic; not that old, but old enough, she didn’t have much of a life with her boarding house address and public transportation, her seedy building which stood next to the flawlessness of Frank’s Garage.
“No, I say let her be. If she was the instigator, it will come out soon enough. It will probably help her business.”
“I noticed business at the garage was next to a stampede today and we supposed to be closed,” Frank said, smiling. But Ellen was ready to move on, anger at Miss Logan and Alan Johnson, Boyd Dalton and her own mother surfacing again so that the few seconds of respite making fun of Miss Logan provided had passed.
“Let’s go to the clinic and get it over with,” Ellen said. “I feel sick to my stomach again.”
“I do, too. Although it don’t matter at all to me, I always knew you were another man’s child, Ellen. But it never made bit of difference to me. Not one iota.” He put the key in the ignition and the truck started up fine, so that he gunned it a little to give her a thrill like it used to when she was a small girl. It worked again and she laughed.
“You called me dada the first time we laid eyes on each other. Grabbed my hand and said it, so that your mother started to laugh. She told me right off that she wasn’t married to your father.”
“Why not, I wonder? It’s scandalous nowadays; it must have been horrible for her then.” Ellen imagined her mother, alone, unwed. If Alan was the father, did he flee? Why didn’t she bother to tell him? He said he owed her money. That she’d lost her job after a time. How desperate was she? “Poor momma,” Ellen said. “No wonder she was off her rocker that far back.”
“She took wonderful care of you, sister. Your little dresses ironed as carefully as if she was fixin’ to wear them herself. Our first date you came with us. The drive-in movie. You sat between us and then fell asleep with your head in her lap and your feet up against me.”
“It was lucky she found someone like you, Frank.”
“I said the same thing about her. I was lucky to find someone like Margaret. Her breakin’ down in front of my garage, now that was a blessing. I don’t even want to think about what my life would be without you.” He shook his head, trying to put the horrible thought out, and putting the truck into gear, they drove to the medical office in silence.
After the encounter with Frank and Ellen, Alan felt sick, as well. It was near closing anyway, so he simply told Paul he was leaving because he was ill. Taking his jacket off the coatrack, he left out the back door without saying goodbye to the packers. Head down, he walked as fast as he could to Mary’s boarding house. She’d be there waiting for him and he was dreading it, making the decision that if she crossed him, he was going back to Cate’s. But she was pleasant and happy, talking about her day, puttering around the kitchen fixing dinner and he was able to hide his distress. Still not willing to share his suspicions about Ellen’s paternity, he’d wait until their blood test results came back.
Relaxed with his elbows on the table, enjoying a glass of wine with Mary during dinner, he let his guard down for a moment forgetting whom he was talking to and it had an untoward effect on her. “I spoke with Ellen and Frank before closing. Ellen is very sweet. What a great guy Frank is. I’m glad Margaret ran into him.” If he’d been looking at Mary when he said it, he’d have stopped right away. But he has gazing out the window at her back yard, with the dwarf fruit tree and the ratty chain link fencing.
“Your yard could be nice if you put a little effort into fixing it up.” Those last fateful words are what caused him to shut up and regret speaking, though she was livid long before.
“What do you mean; you’re glad Margaret ran into him? Margaret who, Alan? Who are you speaking of? My Margaret?” She’d gotten up from the table and started to pace, stopping right in front of him with a look of such disdain that he reared back, frightened she was going to haul off and pop him.
“Yes, your Margaret. Take it easy.”
“Don’t tell me to take it easy, Alan. Why do you care about Margaret? Why the sudden interest in Ellen and Frank?” Lips trembling, Mary’s face was flushed, but she had a pale ring around her mouth that frightened Alan; it was obvious she was seething mad.
“I’m not suddenly interested,” he said, knowing he would regret it when and if the blood tests came back positive. “They just happened to stop by the store before closing is all.” He didn’t mention that the confrontation actually made him ill.
“You know the sheriff is gathering evidence against him. Did you realize that, Alan? Evidence that he’s abusing Ellen. I heard it today. Miss Logan blew the whistle on him when no else, me included had the courage.” The look of triumph on her face shocked Alan. “He’s a sleaze ball, Frank McPherson is. High and mighty Frank really nothing more than a low-life child molester.” Speechless, if it was true, and Ellen was his child, Frank was abusing his child. Without warning, he jumped on her, knocking her to the floor.
“What do you know, you whore! What are you saying? Who told you Frank was abusing Ellen, who?” Her shirt bunched up in his hands, spittle hitting her in the face, in the eye as he screamed.
Once Mary caught her breath from the attack, she started to scream. “Get off me!” Arching her back and struggling, he was too strong for her, as an insane person gain strength in anger, Alan could kill her with his bare hands and told her so.
“I’ll wring your neck if you don’t tell me what you
know!”
“Sally Logan saw them kissing at the side of the road,” she yelled.
“You believe the lies that dried up old bitch is spreading all over? I thought you were smarter than that.” With strength she dredged up from some deep, attention-starved place, Mary Cook shoved him off her, but not before she slipped up, just to save her own skin.
“I saw it, too. I saw them standing in the living room out at the cottage on the river, kissing. It was disgusting, I tell you! They’re disgusting.” She was panting, kneeling on the hard wooden floor, hands on her knees, choking for air.
“Why didn’t you tell the sheriff what you saw?” he said, rocking back on his heels.
“I didn’t want him to know I was out there,” she said, gasping for breath. All Alan could think of was that his child might be in danger. It seemed so unlikely, because Frank and Ellen were so good together; you could just see their love and tenderness, nothing sexual or lurid at all. But he had to tell the sheriff this extra piece of news. If Mary did see what she said she saw, he had to act.
“You call me a whore? Ha!” she gasped. “She was kissing him back! She’s the whore. Ellen Fisher is the whore!” Without thinking, he lifted up his hand and smacked her as hard as he could across the face, the whump! echoing through the living room to the kitchen, knocking her over. She put her hand up to her face, and at first she was going to laugh, but then she realized that her suspicions about him were true. He’d just confirmed it for her.
“You’re her father, you filthy pig, you! Ha! I knew it, I suspected it. Get out of my house!” She screamed. Without wasting a second, he got up off the floor and walked into the bedroom off the kitchen to gather his belongings. He’d been living out of his suitcase so it wouldn’t take long. Sneaking up on him, when he turned, she was in the doorway, a grin on her face, hands behind her back.
“I fucked her, too.” Not knowing what she was getting at, did she mean she slept with Frank behind Margaret’s back, or did she steal money from her, not thinking what she meant was what it really meant. Then he got it, and he laughed.
“In your dreams, Mary. A woman like Margaret wouldn’t give someone like you the time of day,” he said, snickering. Mary flew at him screaming again, hitting him with both fists. Surprised, he grabbed her arms but she’d caught him off guard and he lost his balance, falling over on the bed. Tears running down her fact, Alan saw the frustration and anger of hidden yearning and unrequited love. “What! Were you in love with both of them? I figured Frank, but his wife, too? You’re a piece of work.”
“She loved me!” Mary screamed. “We loved each other, you piece of shit. You didn’t deserve someone like her.”
“I didn’t know she was pregnant,” he said, dodging her flaying hands. “It was fifteen years ago. I was just a kid.”
“That’s no excuse,” she spit out, getting off the bed. A lump in her throat hurt from screaming. Leaving him in disgust, she went back to her own apartment and locked the door. She’d never admitted that she and Mary had been lovers to anyone. It was so delicate, Margaret refusing to discuss it in their conversations afterward because it didn’t mean the same thing to her. But to Mary, it was everything, especially after Margaret began to slip. Seeing her deteriorate was more than Mary could stand after what Margaret meant to her. Now that Alan knew, the beauty of it was cheapened, he knowing ruined it. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she lowered her face in her hands and started to sob in earnest, broken-hearted. Three months after her death, the finality of Margaret dying hit her in its fullest power, grief overwhelming her. “Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?”
Chapter 20
While Alan Johnson moved out of Mary’s house, heading to Beauregard to see if Cate would take him back, Frank and Ellen were at home after having her blood drawn by Margo at the clinic. Frank was putting another flat of petunias in the ground while Ellen made dinner; meatballs and spaghetti tonight. He insisted on doing the planting alone although it was something they’d done together in the past because having to be out there among the decimated peonies was too upsetting for her. They were trying to forget and move on. It would be easier to do once the garden was colorful again.
Knowing Alan Johnson was the stranger at the edge of the wood made Ellen feel a little safer; at least it wasn’t someone meaning to do her harm. Now all they had to do was wait for a week to get the blood results back, and then they would decide what to do with the information. Dinner was almost ready; a cover over the simmering sauce would keep it from spattering all over as she went out to tell Frank. Squatting down, putting the last flower in, Frank’s back was to the house. After doing battle at the lawyer’s office and working all day in the hot garage, he was sweating in the dirt for her. A sense of peace and of love flowing over her, Ellen was convinced that no matter what the result of the blood test was, Frank would always be her father.
“Time to eat, Frank.”
“That was fast.” He rocked back on his heels, sniffing the air. “I can smell Italian out here.”
“The flowers look very nice,” she said softly, smiling. “Thank you for doin’ this.”
“No problem. Can’t let a spoilsport ruin it for us.”
“Is that all it was?” she asked, uncertain. “It feels like a lot more. It feels very personal. Spiteful.” Walking to the porch, he reached up to take his hat off and scratched his head.
“Only if you let it. Don’t give nobody that kind of power over you.” He put his arm around her and they walked into the house together. Hanging his straw hat up on the peg behind the door, Frank looked around the living room as if he were seeing it for the first time in a while.
“You know, we got the same old furniture we had when my ma was alive. I think it’s time we spruce it up around here. What do you say?”
Ellen followed his eyes, to the upholstered chair with the carved wooden arms that her mother once sat in and the footstool covered in petit point that Frank’s mother had worked, where Margaret rested her feet, trim legs crossed at the ankles. Behind it were ancient maple bookshelves Frank senior built, filled with Margaret’s books. Next to the brass floor lamp stood Frank’s recliner where he sat to watch boxing on TV every Saturday night, drinking a beer or two. The right side of the couch was Ellen’s territory, and on the step table next to it was a pile of books to read and a good reading lamp. “I don’t want to change it,” she said passionately. “No thank you, Frank. Unless you really don’t like it, I say leave it be. I’ve had enough change for one day if you don’t mind. The house stayin’ the same is one thing I can count on.”
“Okay, just a suggestion on account of everything being so turned upside down I thought a little change inside might be in order.”
They made small talk over dinner, but what kept surfacing was Ellen’s fear. “I just don’t feel like I can ever sit out on the porch again. Or stay home alone.”
“All this only just happened,” Frank reminded her. “You might be expectin’ a bit much. But I have an idea. Let’s teach you to shoot a gun. We’ll set up a target out behind the garage. I got my old bale o’ hay and we just need to attach a target to it.”
“I’d like that,” she said, holding up her hand like it was a gun. “I dare anyone to pick my flowers. Bang, bang!”
“Ha! Nope, this isn’t for flower pickers. Shootin’ a gun is only if yer life is threatened.”
“Let’s do it soon,” she replied.
“We can do it tomorrow after work,” he said. “While we still have some light.” Ellen felt instant relief knowing she’d be able to protect herself, just in case.
Mary had an old-fashioned temper tantrum after Alan left. Knowing he was going back to Towering Pines didn’t help; Miss Logan would probably hear the whole story of their fight and it would end up being chair side conversation at the beauty salon. Thinking about it, the whispers at the café, even the baggers at Family-Owned gossiping about her, she tore the sheets off his bed and stomped on them for a few minutes before stuf
fing them in the washer, pouring in extra bleach. Next, she took the mug he’d used for the past week out to the concrete driveway to smash to bits with a shovel, working up a sweat.
“Mary Cook, you better sweep that up good so no visitors get a flat.” She looked at what she’d done and at her concerned neighbor who was watching her antics over the fence, but waved him off. A shard of glass wouldn’t flatten a tire. “He musta been a heartbreaker to make you so mad.”
“Peter go back into your house, please,” she said, bringing the shovel up over her head again for a final smash. A little piece of the mug hit her leg and she didn’t even feel it until she went back inside for a broom and noticed a slender thread of blood running down her calf. She grabbed a paper towel and pressed it against her leg, anger abating, sadness replacing it. If she’d known he was the THEE Alan, the Alan of Ellen’s father, she’d never had gotten involved. But to be honest, she’d wondered, already entertaining the fantasy of telling Margaret, IF she’d still be alive. The scenario went through her head, going to the hospital, holding Margaret, stroking her back.
“Alan’s living with me; he’s sleeping in my bed at night. I couldn’t get Frank, but I could get Alan.” But you couldn’t keep him, she thought, anger welling up again. Margaret would say that, I couldn’t keep him, but you couldn’t keep him, either. Mary began to cry, the unfairness of it. She was alone, again.
***
Driving to Beauregard, Alan remembered that he wanted to tell the sheriff what Mary said she saw in Frank’s living room. He didn’t believe it for a second, but telling was the right thing to do, the first step toward protecting his daughter, just in case. Pulling into the gas station on the way to Cate’s, there was a pay phone outside on the side of the building. He dialed the operator and asked for the sheriff. Dispatch came on. “I need to talk to the sheriff about a child maybe being in danger.” He stumbled over the words, so foreign to his tongue and doubts about the validity of Mary’s story making him regretful for having made the call in the first place.
Slow Dancing Page 17
