At the Corner of Love and Heartache

by Curtiss Ann Matlock

  Observing him, his wide eyes and tear-streaked face, Marilee panicked, thinking perhaps the boy’s entire family had been killed in the tornado and this tragedy was just now coming to light.

  “What is it, Ricky Dale?” asked Tate in a calm voice.

  “The horses…the…the baby is hurt.” His eyes shifted to Willie Lee. “She’s cut bad…. You gotta come, Willie Lee.”

  Tate was on his feet. “We need to get Parker over there.”

  “Parker’s out on a call,” Marilee said, setting her bowl of ice cream on the porch rail, watching Willie Lee and Munro head down the steps, and Corrine go right behind them.

  “Willie Lee?” Tate said with puzzlement.

  “Is Leanne over there?” Winston asked, but the children were heading across the yard. Marilee watched, her mind going ninety miles an hour: the horse is hurt, Ricky Dale thinks Willie Lee can do something. What is going on? Should I stop them? I’ll go, too.

  She was already heading down the steps, slipping past Tate and Leon Purvis and seeing Ricky Dale hit the street, his legs pumping the pedals of his bicycle. Corrine had hold of Willie Lee’s hand, and they were running as fast as Willie Lee was capable. Marilee broke into a jog to catch up with them and took Willie Lee’s other hand.

  They were halfway up the hill when a black car slid alongside—Uncle Perry’s car, with Aunt Vella at the wheel. Tate, in the back seat, said through the opened window, “Get in. We’ll drive you.”

  He already had the back door open and was reaching for Willie Lee. Munro and Corrine scrambled into the car behind him, and Marilee threw herself inside, coming to rest against Franny and Corrine, as Aunt Vella punched the accelerator.

  “Vella, don’t kill us,” said Uncle Perry who sat squished in the middle of the front seat, with Winston next to him.

  Marilee had to take hold of the door to keep from being flung atop Tate and Willie Lee as Aunt Vella turned into the driveway of the Valentine home. Up ahead, Ricky Dale disappeared around the garage, following the overgrown gravel track that led to the rear of the acreage.

  Aunt Vella followed, scraping against green budding lilac branches. Thankfully she slowed and negotiated neatly around the limbs of the demolished elm tree, coming to a stop behind Leanne’s pickup truck at the corral.

  The tornado had taken out not only the big elm nearby but had torn and twisted the tin horse shed, and splintered a section of the wooden corral. Pieces of tin and split boards were scattered about.

  On the far side of the corral, the mare was tied to a fence post. Nearby Leanne and Ricky Dale were crouched beside the filly on the ground.

  Marilee opened the car door and was hurried along in getting out by Willie Lee pushing from behind.

  Willie Lee tried to run and stumbled. Corrine reached him first and helped him up, then they ran on.

  A noise made Marilee look over her shoulder to see the dismaying sight of her mother’s car coming up the driveway, and then she hurried on with the others toward Leanne and Ricky Dale, who was urging, “Come on, Willie Lee.”

  At the first sight of Leanne, Marilee instinctively reached for Tate’s hand. The woman had so much blood all over her that she looked like she’d been through a battle. The explanation for this lay on the ground in front of the young woman, who had her hands wrapped around a towel that was wrapped around the filly’s ankle.

  “Flyin’ tin got her. I can’t get the bleeding stopped,” Leanne said, her voice so desperate that Marilee immediately went down on a knee and put her hand to the young woman’s back, as if to hold her up.

  “Leanne, honey…” This was Winston, coming up on her other side.

  Then Willie Lee was on his knees and scooting close to the filly’s head. Her eyes were glazed. Marilee started to speak a word of caution to her son, but then she saw Munro pressed close, and Corrine and Ricky Dale right behind him. Something stopped the words in her mouth.

  “Help her, Willie Lee…please help her,” Ricky Dale sobbed.

  Marilee kept her eyes on her son’s face. No one else said anything. Willie Lee caressed the filly and laid his head down on her. All seemed quiet.

  Don’t let this horse die, God, Marilee prayed, but all of a sudden she experienced a great fear for her son. She moved to reach for him, but Tate held her back and whispered, “Shush,” in her ear.

  She leaned against his hard chest, gripped his strong hand and watched her son’s pale head.

  After what seemed a long minute, Willie Lee rose off the horse and looked at them all from behind his thick glasses. “I think she will be better now.”

  Everyone looked at the filly.

  She blinked, and blinked again. Her eyes had cleared.

  Next she moved, making an effort to get up.

  “No…no, Baby Girl, lie there,” Leanne said. “Ricky Dale hold her head.”

  This time, though, it was Corrine who took the animal’s head and caressed her neck, speaking soothingly.

  “There, pony…lay still,” said Willie Lee, who patted her neck. The filly relaxed against Corrine.

  Marilee became aware of a clicking sound. She looked over to see Stuart taking a picture. He had obviously already taken several, moving even then to a different angle.

  “Stuart,” she said in a low tone.

  He either did not hear or ignored her.

  Then Aunt Vella was there with a towel she handed to Leanne. “Here’s a fresh one. It’s clean enough.”

  Leanne slowly and carefully unwrapped the bloody towel. “Ohmygod, the bleeding’s stopped,” she said in a breathless tone.

  “Praise God,” Winston and Franny said at once.

  Marilee saw and heard, then looked over and saw Stuart was clicking another picture. She was about to step over to make him quit when Tate went before her. She did not know what Tate said, but Stuart put away his camera.

  “Marilee…Marilee.” Her mother walked toward her, her arms out for balance as her spike heels sank into the dirt. “Why did that boy want Willie Lee to come down here? What is this about Willie Lee healing that horse?” Her mother’s eyes were anxious.

  “I don’t know…. I guess it was because the horse especially likes Willie Lee.”

  “It does? Well, I don’t think Willie Lee or any of those children need to see all this gore.”

  “Mama, you look wrung-out. Let me help you get set down in the car.”

  “I need something for my nerves.” Then, “I could really use a cold drink, honey. Do you suppose you could see if Winston has something in his refrigerator?”

  “I’ll see.”

  Belinda was in Winston’s kitchen; she had a small Coke. She told Marilee there were a couple more bottles in the refrigerator.

  “Is Willie Lee some sort of healer?” Belinda asked, raising a curious eyebrow.

  “The horse likes him,” Marilee said, as she pulled a small bottle of Coca-Cola from the refrigerator.

  “I heard Ricky Dale say he knew Willie Lee could heal the horse.”

  “I’m sure that Willie Lee’s love helped the horse. And, Belinda, I really don’t think it would be good for Willie Lee for the rumor to go around that he can heal.”

  Belinda’s speculative gaze rested on Marilee. “Oh.”

  “Is the little horse gonna be all right, Marilee?”

  “I hope so, Leon.”

  “I was just tellin’ Stella that one day last month I saw Willie Lee pick up a dead cat out of the street and now he’s got it over there with y’all. I’ve seen him playing with it.”

  “It couldn’t have been dead, then, could it?”

  “It looked dead. And now he come over here and healed this horse.”

  “The horse likes Willie Lee. They have a special bond.”

  That was her story, and she was sticking to it.

  “That horse is darned lucky,” Parker told her, in a private moment after he had sewed up the filly’s leg. Sweat wetted his hair, even though the cool front had passed and temperatures had dropped. It
had been a job to stitch the animal’s deep wounds.

  Marilee glanced over at the children, who were helping Leanne and Tate make a clean, safe stall. “Yes, it is.” She returned her gaze to Parker. “I’m grateful that you could get here so quickly.”

  “It wasn’t anything I did that saved that filly. I just mopped up.” He leveled a gaze at her. “What’s this Leanne told me about Willie Lee stopping the bleeding? ‘Spoke the Word,’ is the term she used.”

  Marilee breathed deeply. “I don’t think Willie Lee spoke any word other than loving ones. I don’t know, Parker. I really don’t know.” The honest answer came out. She had known Parker a long time. Then she added, “The horse really likes Willie Lee. Probably that helped to give her a will to live.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

  Franny came forward, passing him a glass of the cold tea that she had made up in Winston’s kitchen and now bore around on a tray, serving everyone, as if it were an afternoon lawn party, which indeed it seemed to be, Marilee thought, looking around at knots of neighbors who had gathered.

  Soon the word would be all over town, added to with all manner of embellishments, of course, as to Willie Lee’s role in saving the filly.

  “Marilee, your mother has fainted,” Franny informed her, hurrying past with a glass of water and a wet cloth.

  Marilee followed and found her mother reclining on the back seat of her car. Perry was there, bending over the door, telling her mother that he couldn’t give her a sedative without a prescription. “I got aspirin.” He pulled a little tin from his pocket.

  Franny put the cloth on her mother’s head, then passed her the aspirin, which her mother at first refused, then consented to take.

  After swallowing the pills, her mother cast her a weak look and said, “I can’t drive home. I just can’t.”

  Marilee patted her mother’s hand. “You won’t have to, Mother.”

  She went into Winston’s house and used the phone in the kitchen to call Carl, who had not shown up at the bachelor party, and who no one had expected anyway. He picked up on the third ring.

  He had not heard of the tornado. “We’ve been watchin’ wrestlin’ on cable,” he told her. She heard voices in the background and pictured her mother’s husband and his friends, sitting around swilling beers and eating pretzels and cheese dip. He sounded fairly sober, however. She would trust that he was.

  “Mama can’t drive home,” she told him, raising her voice to be heard over the television and the other voices.

  “Did her car get damaged?” he asked, after a moment.

  “No, Carl. Her car is fine. But mother is sixty years old and upset by this whole thing, and she is in no shape to drive. She needs taking care of, and I’m too busy down here, since my roof has been blown from my head, and I can’t be running her home. You will have to come get her. Now,” she added, in case he was considering waiting for his wrestling show to be over.

  “O-kay,” he said, as if knowing he had better not say anything else.

  Marilee hung up and returned to her mother.

  “Carl’s comin’ to get you, Mother.”

  “Oh, he is?” Her mother’s eyes went wide.

  “Yes. He hadn’t heard about the tornado, and when I told him, he said he was coming right down to get you, and not to worry about your car. He will have one of his men come get it this week.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes,” Marilee lied blatantly, patting her mother’s hand. She considered that Carl might tell her mother the truth, but quickly tossed off any worry over it. She was fairly certain that if she put her mind to it, she could outlie Carl Cooper any day of the week.

  Marilee declined Aunt Vella’s invitation for them to stay at her house. “Thank you, Aunt Vella, but I think we’ll just go stay out at the Goodnight.” She was intent on finding a cave and crawling in, with her loved ones around her.

  Twenty-Nine

  So many things we carry with us…

  It was dark when Tate pulled the Cherokee beneath the yellow fluorescent lights at the old motel. Through the picture window, Mr. Goode could be seen watching television.

  “Just sit here,” Tate told her, squeezing her knee, and slipped out the driver door.

  Marilee’s eyes followed him as he entered through the glass door and crossed in front of the picture window. He had donned a faded denim shirt that stretched across his thick shoulders.

  She twisted around to check the children in the back seat. Willie Lee was asleep in Corrine’s lap, and Munro lay against him. Corrine, whose spine was straight against the seat back, regarded Marilee with anxious dark eyes so reminiscent of when she had first come to live with them.

  Marilee sent her an encouraging smile. “Franny sent us hot chocolate packets and the electric kettle. We’ll make some when we get our pajamas on, okay?”

  Corrine nodded. The anxious light remained in her eyes.

  “We’ll sure have a story to tell your mother, won’t we?”

  Corrine nodded again and tried for a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Marilee wished the seat was not between them. She longed to hug the child back into feeling safe and secure. Of course, perhaps the hugging would be as reassuring to Marilee herself.

  Tate came back, slipped behind the wheel, and tossed her a key.

  “Largest cabin they got. Two double beds and a set-tee,” he said, imitating Mr. Goodnight’s accent.

  Marilee looked at the key. One room. She looked at his profile, then turned forward, a soft smile brimming up and out. She had not known, but this was what she wanted. She wanted her loved ones close around her. And Tate had known this. And perhaps he shared the feeling.

  She and Corrine gathered bags, while Tate gathered Willie Lee, carried him inside and laid him on the bed closest to the door. “Boys will bunk over here,” he said.

  Munro jumped up beside Willie Lee and lay down as if having an invisible tether to the boy.

  Tate brought in the rest of their things, while Marilee got Corrine going in the shower and promised to have hot chocolate for her afterward. Coming out, she closed the door and stood for a moment.

  Tate was typing away on his portable computer set up on the rickety table.

  The sight surprised her a little, and brought a niggle of irritation. She reminded herself that Tate was a dedicated journalist.

  She gazed at him for a long minute in which she beat back the annoyance. Hadn’t he given everything to her and the children all day? Now was his time to see to his needs, and the needs of the paper. Many times that day, while helping others, he had also been jotting down notes on the cards he kept handy. He had already contacted Reggie and Leo, Tammy Crawford and Charlotte, about assignments for Wednesday’s Voice. Now he was far away, deep into writing his own account for the paper. Possibly it would be picked up by the wire. This would be good for the paper, and his enthusiasm for journalism was what made him the special man that he was.

  She dug into a duffel bag and brought out the electric teapot and packets of instant hot chocolate. The water heated quickly, and Marilee made two hot chocolates and an instant coffee for Tate, setting it beside him on the rickety table.

  When he did not say anything, she pointed out the coffee.

  “Thank you, darlin’.” But he didn’t stop or look up.

  Holding her steaming cup with both hands, she stood beside him. He was oblivious to her. Oh, how his mind was moving, and his fingers on the keyboard were keeping up the pace.

  That was a major difference between herself and Tate. He was a born journalist. He would have an entire idea and bring it to the paper. She had simply fallen into writing, and would have to think and think, because generally at least half her mind was focused always on her role as a mother and those whom she loved. The needs and desires of her children, and now Tate, took precedence. There was little left of her afterward to focus on writing anything factual, unless, of course, it pertained to her love of family.

&nbs
p; Her gaze fell on Willie Lee, who lay sprawled on his back, arms wide, face like an angel. Her dear, precious, Willie Lee, who had saved a horse. She thought about that for some minutes, and then she looked back at Tate, who was still typing away.

  She wished he would stop typing.

  She moved to read over his shoulder. The title was: “Tornado Comes To Town.”

  Tate had the ability to personalize even a tornado.

  Her eyes scanned rapidly downward, and her heart picked up tempo. He was telling the story of how neighbors came together in a time of crisis.

  “Tate?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Tate…you aren’t going to tell about the horse being injured and Willie Lee’s part in it, are you?”

  “Hmmm?”

  She bent around him and looked him in the face. “You aren’t going to tell about Willie Lee and that filly, are you?”

  “Uh…yes, I was plannin’ to tell about the horse…how Willie Lee and all the neighbors came over to help.” He looked confused.

  “You can’t do that.” She sat on the corner of the bed, facing Tate firmly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it is likely that Willie Lee got that horse to stop bleeding to death.” She felt like closing the computer on his hands, which remained poised over the keys, as if he could barely take an instant of distraction from his task.

  Tate, who felt lost at the direction Marilee was taking but noticed her staring at his hands, felt compelled to withdraw them from their position. He turned his chair to face her fully. “Well, I think it is likely. Our Willie Lee most definitely has a way with animals.”

  He did not understand why this was a problem, although he did understand that something was going on with Marilee. It obviously was some woman-thing, and a voice in the back of his mind told him to go carefully. He kept a patient tone, even though he was very impatient to get back to his writing.

  “That’s part of the human interest story. People love to hear about animals being saved, and they especially like it when it is kids doing the saving, the way Ricky Dale came seeking help for his beloved horse, and how his friends Willie Lee and Corrine responded unselfishly in the time of need.”