by Cathy Holton
He glared at her, shook his head stubbornly. “You’re not leaving with my money.”
“I’m leaving with everything I came with.”
He advanced slowly towards her and she slung her backpack over one shoulder and hugged her duffel bag to her chest. He stopped, staring behind her, his attention diverted by the sight of Dr. Dillard’s Audi pulling up to the curb.
Luke Morgan climbed out of the driver’s door and walked over to Stella. He took the backpack and the duffel bag from her with slow, deliberate movements, staring at Josh across the dirt-packed yard.
“Let’s go,” he said to Stella.
And without another word, she turned and followed him to the car.
She was glad to see Luke and she didn’t pretend otherwise. “I thought we’d seen the last of you,” she said, grinning.
He drove slowly through the rain, past dilapidated neighborhoods and corner convenience stores. He adjusted the rearview mirror, glancing behind him. “Are you going to have trouble with dickwad back there?”
“No trouble. I don’t plan on ever seeing him again.”
“That’s probably a good thing.”
“I think so.”
His arms were tanned below the sleeves of his t-shirt. His hair had blonde streaks from the sun. “Professor Dillard said you had a trip planned to Birmingham this afternoon. She suggested I take her car and drive you.”
“Did she?”
“She did.”
“As a bodyguard?”
“More like a driver.”
Stella turned her face to the glass. Against the sodden sky, the trees seemed to be dripping, melting. “I hope she’s not expecting too much. I’m just going to see my little brothers. I’m just having lunch with my mother. It’ll probably be fried bologna sandwiches and Beanie Weenies. I expect you’ll be bored.”
He glanced at her, shrugged. “I like Beanie Weenies.”
She looked at him coolly. “So why exactly are you here?”
“In Chattanooga?”
“Yes.”
He kept his eyes on the road. His expression was blank, unreadable. “I came back for my guitar,” he said.
She hadn’t meant to, but as they drove through the rainy landscape she began to tell him about her childhood, even about her days as a street kid in Birmingham. It was easy to talk to him because he didn’t ask questions; he seemed almost disinterested in what she was saying, driving quietly, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. This part of northern Alabama was pretty, rolling and green and unexpected, and shut up in the car with only the sound of the rain and the whir of the tires on the highway and the occasional murmur of her own voice, Stella began to feel a sense of relief and dawning euphoria. Or maybe it was the fact she had finally left Josh.
The only time Luke said anything was when Stella told him about her mother dropping her off in Birmingham.
“Are you saying she just left you there?”
Stella, flustered, said quickly, “She had two boys to raise.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“She’s not a bad person.”
“Did she ever say she was sorry?”
“No.” She could see from his expression that she’d never be able to explain this. It was a complicated relationship and one she’d never be able to make a stranger understand. Perhaps it was enough that she understood.
Not that she expected anything positive to come of this trip. She didn’t. She’d agreed to it more as a concession to Dr. Dillard. And maybe there was a bit of defiance in her decision, too, a willingness to show her mother that she had survived, had prospered, in spite of her. That she was a young woman who could present a face of her own making to the world. She had a certain polish now that she had not had before. Alice had taught her that. That courage and a certain flourish were necessary, as was an ability to reorder facts, at least on the surface of life, to make them more palatable.
She was no longer a child. Her mother no longer had the power to hurt her. It would do Stella good to show her that.
They stopped for lunch at a Sonic Drive-In in a little town called Black Warrior.
“How’d you like to grow up in a place like this?” Luke said, looking around at the main street surrounded on both sides by low, brick buildings and dusty storefronts.
“I did grow up in places like this,” Stella said.
“That must have been a trip.”
“You have no idea.”
He told her about the documentary he was working on. He’d filmed it at the Waffle House at the foot of Signal Mountain, sitting there every morning and talking to regular customers who all had their stories to tell. His favorite was Larry, a schizophrenic who proposed zany, stunningly plausible arguments in favor of quantum physics and time travel. “Yesterday I saw J.R.R. Tolkien at the bus stop,” he told Luke during one interview. “And we talked about shoes.”
“Wow.” Stella grinned. “He sounds awesome.”
“I’m thinking I may have something in Larry. You know his father worked on the Manhattan Project. The guy’s highly intelligent. He lives with his mother, of course, and I’ve never met her but it might be interesting to get a feel for Larry’s home life. See the family dynamic.”
“You mean, kind of a Grey Gardens thing?”
He laughed. “Well, that would be great wouldn’t it?”
They had both ordered chili dogs and when they came, they ate in silence. The windows were down and a slight breeze stirred the air of the car. The rain had stopped and the sky was a pale blue, hazy with the heat.
When they had finished, Luke collected the trash and the tray and took them up to the window so the overworked waitress didn’t have to come back to the car. He had left her a nice tip, too; Stella had noted several folded bills and the girl’s obvious delight when she brought them their food.
“You made her day,” Stella said, as they pulled away.
He smiled and looked at her curiously. “Who?”
“The waitress.”
“It’s hard work, waiting tables. Everyone should have to do it at least once so they know how hard it is.”
“Spoken like someone who’s done their fair share of food service.”
They were stopped at the edge of the parking lot, waiting to pull out, and he continued to stare at her curiously, a faint smile on his lips.
“What is it?” she said.
“You have something on your neck.”
She put her hand up self-consciously and said, “It’s a birthmark.”
He looked both ways and pulled slowly into the sparse stream of traffic, heading back to the Interstate ramp. “I have one of those,” he said.
“Where?”
“In a most intimate place.”
“I don’t suppose I’ll ever see it then.”
He glanced at her and his smile widened. “Never say never,” he said.
The house was nothing like she remembered it. It was small and in need of paint and the grass had grown up in the yard. Whatever pride her stepfather had once taken in the place had obviously gone. George came out onto the porch, followed by Anthony. They were both large boys wearing oversized t-shirts and baggy shorts. George came over and let Stella hug him, but Anthony hung back shyly.
“What? I don’t get a hug?” Stella said, pulling Anthony close. She introduced her brothers to Luke, who shook hands with them casually. Stella was glad suddenly for Luke’s presence, glad for his calm and friendly manner that seemed to put everyone at ease. The screened door swung open and Candy stepped out onto the front stoop.
Stella wouldn’t have recognized her. She had put on about eighty pounds and had dyed her hair a bright red color. It hung limply around her chubby face, which was still pretty, and like her sons she wore an oversized t-shirt over a pair of black Capri leggings. “Well, look who’s here!” she shouted in a false, friendly voice.
“Hi, mama,” Stella said, going up on the porch to greet her.
“You made good time,” Cand
y said, patting her back briefly before pulling away. “Well, hello,” she said to Luke, pushing her hair off her flustered face. “You must be Stella’s friend.”
“Luke.”
“Well, how do you do, Luke.” Candy pumped his hand. “Come in the house, come in the house.” She stood back, holding the screened door open.
There were canned Cokes set up on the coffee table around a bowl of Cheetos. Anthony and George settled down on the fake leather sofa and greedily helped themselves until Candy shooed them away. “Let Stella and Luke sit there,” she said. “And don’t eat all the snacks.” She smiled apologetically at Luke, indicating that he should sit down on the sofa. “They’re growing boys,” she said. “I can’t hardly keep them fed.”
They talked for awhile about their lives, Stella directing most of her questions to her brothers who answered in bashful monosyllables, their lips and fingertips stained orange from the Cheetos.
“Do you like school?” Stella said.
“No,” George said.
“Hell, no,” Anthony said.
“But you need an education. It’s important. What do you want to do when you grow up?”
“I don’t know.”
“Drive a truck,” George said.
Candy sat on the edge of a chair sipping a Coke. She seemed nervous, asking Luke repeated questions about himself. He answered politely but there was an edge to him, Stella noted, an air of detachment. He seemed to be waiting for something, his eyes moving constantly from Stella to her mother and back again.
Stella ignored Candy, her questions to her brothers becoming increasingly more desperate and redundant. It was after three o’clock and she could smell something cooking in the kitchen. Candy had mentioned feeding them but Stella wasn’t sure now she could sit at a table with her mother and eat; she wasn’t sure she could handle the tension. She couldn’t imagine now what she had hoped to accomplish by coming here. It had felt in the beginning almost like an act of vengeance but now it felt pathetic, almost as if she was pleading for something from her mother, something Candy was unwilling, or unable, to give. No matter how much she matured, no matter how much her life changed, she would always fall back into the same patterns of behavior around her mother. She would always be the same needy little girl. She wished now she hadn’t come.
To make matters worse, Candy went and got an old scrapbook of photographs from Stella’s childhood. She sat down on the sofa on the other side of Luke and opened up the book. The photographs gave her a chance to keep up a running commentary, to be jovial and falsely sentimental so that no one else could say anything or ask any questions. George and Anthony stealthily finished off the Cheetos and then settled down to playing video games.
At four-thirty Candy looked up at the clock on the wall and said, “Well, I had planned on making y’all something to eat but it’s almost five and your step-daddy should be home soon.” She closed the scrapbook as if that fact alone put an end to the visit. She stood up.
“That’s okay,” Stella said quickly. “We need to get back to Chattanooga.” Luke put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward expectantly.
“Well, I’m glad you came,” Candy said, smiling in relief. She held the scrapbook tightly against her chest, giving Stella a wary look. “I always knew you’d turn out good. You were such a strong girl. Just think, you’ll be a college graduate and a psychologist to boot.”
Stella stood up. “Well, I won’t be a psychologist unless I go to grad school which seems highly unlikely at this point.”
“A college graduate,” Candy said, smiling and shaking her head. “Imagine that.”
Stella looked down at Luke. “You ready?”
He said nothing, but rose slowly. Stella hugged her mother, briefly, and then leaned and ran her fingers playfully through her brothers’ hair. Intent on their video game, they shrugged her off. She imagined her stepfather’s truck pulling up out front and she had a sudden desire to flee, to escape the house and its occupants.
“We better get going,” she said to Luke.
He followed her out into the yard. Candy came out onto the stoop and waved goodbye and then went back inside the house. Halfway to the car, Luke swung around and walked back up on the stoop. He stood on the porch, his face pushed closed to the screen.
“How could you leave her like that?” he said. “How could you drive off and abandon your own child?”
From inside the house, Candy’s voice came back, shrill and petulant. “I knew she could look after herself.”
“But didn’t you worry something might happen to her?”
“I knew she’d be fine.”
“How could you know that?”
“She was always a strong girl.”
He bumped the door with his toe and stepped back. “Even strong girls need a mother,” he said.
On the ride home, they were both quiet. The sky was streaked with red; birds flitted through the long shadows that lay over the fields. Stella huddled in the corner, her cheek resting against the window. She had never had someone defend her against her mother. It was a new sensation for her. She had not had the courage to ask her mother the questions Luke had asked, but somehow, just hearing them spoken made her feel better. She had practiced for years saying exactly what he had said.
“Do you blame me for not confronting her?” she asked him finally.
“No. I’m sure it’s hard. Painful.” He glanced at her. “Do you blame me for interfering?”
“I’m glad you did.”
The landscape, still wet from the afternoon rains, glittered in the sunlight. Great masses of trees, heavy with Virginia creeper and wild grapevine, crowded the highway before giving way, again, to wide, rolling fields.
“Why do you think she abandoned you like that?” he said.
Stella watched the slow progress of a distant herd of cows ambling toward a feeding trough. A flock of swifts darted back and forth above the cows. Abandoned. A harsh, solitary word. After awhile, she stopped thinking about his question and fell into a restless sleep. She dreamed she was copulating with an unknown man, and then a series of men she knew, teachers, bank managers, fat married men, strangers who exhibited some disgusting physical deformities. Her lust was so determined and unrepentant, her attitude so cavalier and rough, her partners so completely inappropriate, (and yet she was groaning with the sweetness of release that washed over her in waves), that she could barely sustain it. She awoke exhausted and sick with shame. The sun was going down and dusk was falling. She sat upright, pushing her hair out of her face and putting her feet up on the dash.
“I lost you for awhile,” he said.
“Where are we?”
“Nearly home. I stopped and bought a couple of sandwiches but I couldn’t wake you.” He picked up a bag on the console between them, set it down again.
She was quiet, letting go of the last remaining fragments of her dream. The dream had awakened something in her, a desire to confess, a sense that it was now or never. If she hesitated, her courage would fail her. She took a deep ragged breath.
“When I was little,” she said, “I wanted so desperately to know my father. I loved my mother but I had this image of a shadowy male figure, someone who would love me for who I was. Someone who would take care of me. Someone I could love. I built my whole childhood around this fantasy of a father who would swoop down suddenly into my life and make it better. And when my mother married Moody Bates, I thought maybe he was it. But he couldn’t stand me from the beginning. Maybe he sensed how desperate I was for love and was repulsed by it. People can’t help but be repulsed by needy people.” She glanced at Luke but he continued to drive, his eyes fixed firmly on the road. “When I was fifteen, he began coming into my room at night. At first, he would just sit on my bed and rub my back. It seemed harmless, and I was so surprised, and so desperate for his attention, that I allowed it. And later, when he began touching me other places, I allowed that, too. I don’t know why. I can’t explain it. There was suc
h shame afterwards. And it didn’t make him more affectionate toward me. If anything, I think he hated me even more then.”
The radio was playing softly and he leaned and switched it off. “Well,” she said spreading her fingers on her knees. She wouldn’t look at him. “You know the rest. It’s that age-old story. A cliché, really. A girl abused by her stepfather.” She turned her head and gave him a fierce look, as if daring him to say anything. She could feel her face warm but she forced herself to go on. Courage was what was needed. Courage and a conviction that what she was saying was true and accountable. “But here’s the thing,” she said. She hesitated, breathing quietly. “I wanted him to touch me. To love me. I let him do it because I wanted him to. I don’t blame my mother, really, for getting rid of me. He must have told her I was a willing participant.”
“If he told her, then she should have taken your side. There should have been no question about that.”
“He was her husband.”
“And you were her daughter.” His face was drawn, angry. His life had been so clean and fair that he could not imagine it any other way. “Look, you were what? Fifteen?”
“Yes.”
“You were a girl. He was a grown man. A married man and your stepfather. He knew better.”
“But so did I.”
He fell silent, reflecting on this. When he spoke again his tone was low, reasonable. “You never knew your father. It’s understandable that you would want a father figure to love you. It’s understandable that you would be feeling confusion and guilt. Doubt, desire, self-hate. It’s a classic Electra complex. I mean, you study psychology. You should know this.”
She was quiet, considering. Taking it out and looking at it from all sides. “There’s a morality issue here, too, Luke,” she said finally.
“I’m not excusing your behavior,” he said quickly. “I’m not saying it was okay that you were a willing victim. I’m just saying, given your circumstances, it’s understandable that it happened and you shouldn’t beat yourself up about it anymore. It’s impossible at twenty-one to look back at the mistakes you made when you were fifteen and feel guilt over them. Regret, yes. A desire never to make the same mistake again. But not guilt.”
