Shading my eyes from the late-afternoon sun, I look toward the dock and immediately see where the racket is coming from. “Come on, Dory,” I cry, and we take off for the creek. “Dear God—it looks like something has happened to Cooter.”
Before we reach the creek bank, we see that both Zoe Catherine and Cooter are on the dock. Zoe is yelling, Cooter is yelling, and Genghis Khan is running our way, crying his raucous cry. The ducks are waddling down the creek bank in terror, flapping their wings and quacking louder than I’ve ever heard them as they head for the water, where they plop in and paddle away.
“What on earth?” Dory says, but both of us stop in our tracks when we reach the creek.
For someone in his seventies, Cooter is moving with amazing speed. For one disconcerting moment, I think he’s performing one of his wild dances, like he was doing at the Jubilee. Then I see that, rather than dancing, he’s hopping from one foot to the other, trying to get away from Zoe, who’s holding on to one of his flailing arms with both hands. They’re both yelling, but it’s hard to tell what Zoe’s saying because of Cooter’s cussing.
“Goddamn damn damn,” he yells, dancing from foot to foot. “Let go of me, woman! I’m gonna kill that sorry son of a bitch! I’m gonna kill that rat-fuck bastard!”
“You’re not killing nobody, you old fool,” Zoe shouts as she yanks even harder on his arm. “Be still long enough for me to see how bad you’re hurt.”
Dory and I stop and stare in astonishment as Cooter falls to his knees with so much force that Zoe loses her grip on his arm. “Ow!” he cries, his face contorted in agony. “I’m dying! He’s killed me, the sorry piece of shit! Call an ambulance! Call the undertaker!”
“Cooter—Zoe!” I shout, running on the dock, Dory not far behind. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Cooter sees me, and his face lights up with relief, although his weak eye is wallowing around like a loose marble. “Clare! Go to the house and call 911, and hurry up before I die on this shit-covered dock.”
“Stay where you are, Clare,” Zoe says. Having lost her grip on Cooter’s arm, she grabs the straps of his overalls instead. “The idiot’s not dying, but he won’t be still long enough for me to see how bad he’s hurt.”
Dory drops to her knees in front of Cooter, who’s still yelling “Ow! Ow! Ow!”
“Cooter?” Dory says in her low, calm voice. “You have to tell us what’s wrong before we can help you. Where are you hurting?”
“It’s his ass,” Zoe Catherine says solemnly.
Dory gets to her feet. “His what?”
“His ass,” Zoe shouts, as though Dory is deaf. To our further amazement, Zoe begins to unbuckle the straps of Cooter’s overalls. “Hold still and let me look at it, fool.”
“What’s wrong with it?” I dare ask Zoe as Dory puts a hand over her eyes.
“Quit that, Zoe Catherine,” Cooter cries, hitting at Zoe’s hands. “You’re not about to pull down my britches in front of these women.”
“Zoe, what happened?” I ask again, beginning to get exasperated. It’s obvious that Cooter’s not seriously injured, even though, the way he’s carrying on, you’d think he was dying.
Zoe succeeds in unbuckling his overalls; but, still kneeling in front of her on the dock, Cooter grabs the straps and hangs on for dear life.
“I can tell you exactly what happened,” Zoe says over her shoulder to me and Dory. “Cooter had a wad of Beechnut chewing tobacco in his back pocket, and he was kneeling on the dock with his ass way up in the air, pulling in a crab line. Genghis came up behind him and pecked at his pocket, trying to get the tobacco out. Beechnut has always been his favorite brand.”
“I thought somebody had shot me, and I almost fell in the creek,” Cooter yells. “Turn loose of my britches, woman.”
On hearing this, I can’t look Dory’s way. “Maybe you should get a tetanus shot, Cooter,” I suggest. “Would you like me and Dory to drive you to the clinic?”
“I would not,” he replies indignantly. “Getting shot once is enough for me, thank you. Besides, I got one of them technical shots last year when I stuck a fish hook in my hand.”
“Zoe Catherine, if you’ll wait,” Dory says, “Clare and I’ll turn around so you can … ah … check and see what kind of injury Cooter has.”
“I can tell you without her looking,” Cooter shouts, struggling to his feet. “That pissant of a peacock pecked a hole in my arse. And I’m gonna shoot him soon as I can get my gun out of the pickup. Let go of me, Zoe!”
Before Dory and I can turn our heads away, and with Cooter struggling against her, Zoe pulls out the back of Cooter’s overalls, sticks her head in, and announces, “Aw, that’s not so bad. It’s not even bleeding much. I’ve been pecked lots worse before.”
“Not where he pecked me, you haven’t,” he says.
“Not on the ass,” Zoe agrees, “but plenty of other places. It hurts like the devil, I’ll give you that.”
“That pea-damn-cock won’t ever peck anyone again once I get my gun,” Cooter roars, yanking the straps out of Zoe’s hands and muttering to himself as he struggles to refasten them.
“Let me get you some Merthiolate, honey. That’ll fix you up,” Zoe says, pushing past Cooter and heading toward the house.
“Shit fire and save matches!” Cooter cries. “You’re not putting Merthiolate on my arse.”
“I’ll get the whiskey bottle while I’m there,” Zoe says over her shoulder, “and you won’t feel a thing.”
Dory stops Zoe as she’s about to jump off the dock. “Zoe?” she whispers with a worried frown as she glances back at Cooter, who’s still ranting and raving. “Don’t worry—Clare and I will stay and make sure Cooter doesn’t go after his gun, okay?”
Zoe laughs and waves her hand. “Oh, phooey! Y’all go on home if you need to. Cooter’s not going to shoot Genghis. He loves that old bird too much to shoot him. They fight all the time. Can’t anybody get along with Cooter Poulette, no matter who they are.”
Dory and I start home, but we don’t get far. After asking Cooter if he’s okay, if he needs us to do anything for him, and getting his muttered “no thanks,” that he’s fine now, neither of us says a word as we return to my car. In silence, I back out the car, then head down the long driveway toward the highway. But when I reach for the air-conditioning button, Dory’s eyes meet mine. “Oh, my Lord in heaven,” she cries with a snort of laughter.
“Don’t get me started,” I sputter, but don’t make it any further. Once I start, I can’t stop. I pull over the car to get myself under control, then both of us wipe our eyes and look at each other. Hearing that irrepressible laugh of hers, I know that the old Dory is indeed back.
I’ve promised Abbie that I’ll take her to the beach one last time before it gets too cool, just the two of us, and when I find a time to make that happen, we take off. She wants the real beach with real waves, she says, not the boring old waters of the bay. Although I don’t relish the drive to Gulf Shores, I give in and take her the following Saturday. It’s been way too long since the two of us had an outing. I pack a picnic, and we head off for a day at the Gulf of Mexico. Early that evening, when we arrive back in Fairhope, we’re worn out, sticky with seawater, and pink-cheeked in spite of the sunblock I slathered on both of us.
Although they started their marriage in a small apartment in Fairhope, Austin and Haley now live in a tidy little cottage on the outskirts of Daphne, which is not that far from Haley’s school yet closer to the community college where Austin works. It’s in a friendly, safe neighborhood where a lot of young couples with children live, and there are sidewalks and a park. It’s just turned dark when I pull into their driveway behind two other cars. I wanted Abbie to stay overnight with me, something else she hasn’t done for a while, but she insisted on returning home, since her parents were having a party to celebrate the start of another school year. Or that was Abbie’s version. Haley scoffed at that, saying they weren’t having a real party, just some f
olks over for a cookout, but Abbie never wants to miss out on anything. Her mother lets her help, setting the table or serving hors d’oeuvres or passing out napkins. Abbie adores dressing up and being fussed over by guests.
“We shouldn’t have stopped for ice cream, Abbie-kins,” I say as I park the car. “It made us run late. Now you’ll have to hurry and shower and get all dressed up, because the cookout is already under way.”
Abbie turns her sun-kissed face toward me, her round gray eyes shining. “Guess what, Grams? Jasmine is bringing a new boyfriend. Mommy says he’s real nice, but I can’t say anything about him being fat.” She shakes a finger in an imitation of her mother’s lecture. “It is very rude to say things like that, calling people fat.”
Haley’s prediction at Mateer’s a few weeks ago proved to be correct, and Jasmine’s interest in Tommy McNair has blossomed into a real romance. “You already know that, sweetie,” I say to Abbie with an indulgent smile. “You’d never be rude and hurt anyone’s feelings, would you?”
“I wouldn’t, but Zach keeps saying it. I told Mommy not to worry, I’d put my hand over Zach’s mouth if he said it at the party.”
As soon as I unfasten her seat belt, Abbie grabs me around the neck, gives me a sticky, salty kiss, and bolts for the house. Haley has invited me to stay for the cookout, but I’ve begged off. Tired from the day at the beach, I’m looking forward to going straight home, taking a long shower, and hitting the sack. But I can’t drive off without saying hello to everyone, at least.
I follow my nose to the backyard, where Austin is grilling hamburgers on the deck. Zach is riding his Big Wheel around in circles on the deck as he says something that sounds suspiciously like “Fat, fat, fat,” which I pray is his version of a driving noise instead. After hugging Haley and Austin, I shake hands with John and Wanda Webb, who are standing next to the grill with Austin, beers in hand. The Webbs always look as perfectly put together and wholesome as the model couples in a Southern Living magazine.
Jasmine is leaning against the rail, talking quietly to a young man I recognize as Tommy McNair, and I go over to greet them. Jasmine looks lovely, with her face aglow, her hair slicked back in a stylish knot at the nape of her neck, and large gold hoops in her ears. Even though he’s quite heavy, Tommy McNair has a sweet face and soft brown eyes like a doe’s, with long thick lashes. As we chat, he and Jasmine keep glancing at each other, moony-eyed, and I relax, relieved to see that the attraction doesn’t seem to be a result of Jasmine’s poor self-image after all. On the contrary, they appear to be quite taken with each other.
As I say my goodbyes and start to leave, Haley touches my arm when I pass by her on the deck, where she stands next to the grill with Austin and the Webbs. “Wait, Mom,” she says. “You should take a hamburger home for your supper.”
“No, no, I’m fine.” I wave her off, but she protests.
“Don’t be silly. You’ve got to eat, and we have plenty.”
“Take one with you, Clare,” Austin says as he flips a burger and squints through the smoke.
“Thanks, but I’m a recovering vegetarian,” I say, stealing a line from Dory. I rarely eat red meat but don’t want to hurt their feelings.
Austin pooh-poohs my protests and inclines his head toward Haley. “Get your mom a paper plate, hon.” When she goes to the kitchen, Austin watches her leave, then rolls his eyes toward me. “You might change your mind when you see these burgers. Haley went to the store, and instead of getting ground beef, she brought back a meat-loaf mixture that’s mostly ground turkey. They may not be fitting to eat.”
The Webbs chuckle, and I say, “Oh, I’m sure ground turkey burgers will be just as good. Healthier, if nothing else.”
Haley returns with a paper plate and a piece of foil, and as Austin is dishing up a patty, she says, “Did Austin tell you I got meat-loaf mixture instead of ground beef? Zach was pitching a fit for Cocoa Puffs, embarrassing me to death, so I just grabbed something and ran.”
“Actually, Haley, meat-loaf mixture looks quite different from hamburger,” Wanda Webb says with a big smile, tilting her blond head prettily.
“We could have brought the meat if you’d given us a call,” her husband, John, says to Austin.
“Tell you what, Haley,” Wanda says perkily. “Y’all come to our place next weekend for a cookout, and I’ll show you the secret ingredient for my burgers. Everybody says they’re the best they’ve ever eaten.”
“Hey, thanks, Wanda,” Austin says, grinning. “That sounds great. I’m sure Haley will appreciate any secrets you can show her in the kitchen. Truth is, she can’t cook squat.”
Wanda puts a hand to her throat and widens her eyes. “Who does the cooking, then?”
“Yours truly,” Austin replies with a smirk.
“Cooking’s never been my thing,” Haley admits. “It’s always been Austin’s department. But I don’t want the kids eating junk food, and Austin doesn’t have as much time anymore, so I’ve made up my mind to learn.”
“I’ll be glad to give you lessons if you’d like,” Wanda gushes, then cuts her eyes toward Austin. “John would have a fit if I didn’t have his supper waiting for him every night.”
Stopping on my way down the steps, I’m unable to resist saying with feigned innocence, “I didn’t realize you were home all day, Wanda. Somehow I had the impression that you were a counselor in the learning lab, too.”
She looks at me in surprise. “Oh, I am. Remember, Dr. Ballenger, we talked about it that night of the Jubilee?” It takes her a minute to understand what I’m actually saying, so she adds hastily, “But I schedule my day in order to get home before John and have a nice supper waiting for him. His job is so much more demanding than mine, it’s the least I can do.”
Austin grins. “Sometimes Haley has a nice frozen pizza waiting for me.”
I look over at Haley, who’s glaring at Wanda and Austin. Good for her—maybe Haley will remind Susie Sorority that she not only works outside the home but also has two small children to care for, then tell Mr. Perfect to cook his own damn dinner if he doesn’t appreciate her efforts. Instead, I bite my tongue and wave goodbye again, hurrying down the deck steps with the foil-wrapped meat-loaf burger in hand. Lately Austin and Haley have spent most of their free time with John and Wanda Webb, and I’ve been pleased, thinking what a nice young couple they were. Now I wonder about Wanda. Maybe she’s one of those women who tries to make herself look good by putting other women down. As I go around the house to my car, their laughing voices, light and carefree, float on the air like the smoke from the grill, and I silently scold myself. Occupational hazard, overanalyzing everything. Don’t look for trouble, I always tell my clients. Because if you do, you will be sure to find it.
Back home, I luxuriate in the long hot shower I promised myself, washing off the salt and sand and suntan lotion. In my rattiest nightgown, I prop up on a stack of pillows in bed, a pile of reading material on the table beside me, and sigh with pleasure. Why does nothing on earth feel better than turning in early, all alone, with a whole evening to lie in bed and read? It’s been way too long since I’ve allowed myself the luxury of doing absolutely nothing. After listening to my messages from the usual suspects, Dory, Rye, and Lex, I turn off the ringer on the phone. Any problems that arise tonight will have to wait until tomorrow. My relaxing evening of reading doesn’t last nearly as long as I’d hoped, however. After an hour, I can no longer stay awake, so I turn off the light and fall into a heavy sleep.
I’m not sure what wakes me, but I jump up, heart pounding and mouth dry. Was it a dream, or did I hear a noise? I fall back on my pillow and look around the shadowy room, illuminated by the eerie whiteness of the moon. My bedroom overlooks the backyard, so I never draw the curtains. Tonight a half-moon appears to have been placed by a benevolent god on a leafy branch of the spreading magnolia outside my window. I remain still, listening. Is that scraping noise a limb brushing against a window screen? How can that be, when there is no wind? I
look again at the magnolia, etched boldly against the sky, and not a leaf stirs.
There it is again, like the rustling of leaves. It’s coming from downstairs, but I’m not sure where. Could it be a mouse in the kitchen? Or—what?—someone trying to break in the back door, cutting into the screen, knowing I live alone? Maybe a deranged husband of one of my clients, Helen Murray’s, perhaps, seeking vengeance, intent on slitting my throat as I sleep. Had I not been forced awake by the noise, I’d never have known what hit me. Did I lock the back door? Half the time I don’t, and I shouldn’t be so careless. Fairhope is as safe a place as possible, but still.
Throwing off the crumpled sheet, I put my legs over the side of the bed and move to the door. Then I creep down the unlit stairs, pausing each time one of the old steps squeaks. The streetlamps in the front of the house light my way, although it’s still dark and shadowy, with pieces of furniture looming large and ominous like the monsters of childhood nightmares. Peering around the kitchen door, I see that everything is in its rightful place, and no mice scurry away. I glide across the cool tile of the kitchen floor and check the back door: locked.
Back on the stairs, I hear the sound again. This time there’s no question where it’s coming from, and my breath catches in my throat. Mack’s room. Retracing my steps down the stairs, I turn to the hallway and walk through the shadows to a small room at the back. It stays closed off, used occasionally for storage but not entered otherwise, although my cleaning woman, Carlita, keeps it in pristine condition.
Queen of Broken Hearts Page 20
