Queen of Broken Hearts

by Cassandra King

  He leaves me aghast, and closes the door to the bedroom with such a bang that I jump. I long to yell after him, to tell him that he’d better not sit by the phone waiting for my call. Who the hell does he think he is, coming here and loving me like he’s done these last nights, then walking out like that? My eyes fill with tears, and I fling off my robe as I head for the shower. How dare Lex say I haven’t let go of Mack! I haven’t thought of Mack a single time these last two nights Lex and I have been together, which have been satisfying in a way I never experienced with Mack. With him, there was such an intensity that I was consumed by it, lost in it. The passion I felt for Mack was like a tidal wave that swept me helplessly into a dark and bottomless ocean. With Lex, the passion is there, but it’s different. It’s fiery but also sweet, and it warms me utterly and completely, like the fire he built for me after the storm. Why can’t that be enough for him?

  I step into the shower, but it’s not my usual brisk, invigorating one. Instead, I try to make it hot and strong enough to ease the tightness of my throat and a weary sadness that has taken hold of me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Before my drive out to the Landing, I stop by Haley’s and find her alone. It’s the beginning of spring break, and she’s taken a half day off from school to get Abbie and Zach’s suitcases and toys packed up. As soon as Austin can get away, he’s picking up the kids and heading for Huntsville, where they’ll spend a week with his parents. Haley was in a quandary, disgusted at Austin because he hadn’t told his parents that he was leaving her for another woman. When they called to express their sorrow and regret over the divorce, she longed to tell them but restrained herself. “Austin’s dad will kill him when he finds out,” she bemoaned in disgust. “And I wanted to tell him so bad! How come doing the right thing doesn’t feel nearly as good as retribution?”

  During spring break, Haley will be alone in a way she hasn’t been before. The kids will be gone; I was considering going away for a few days; and Jasmine and Tommy are celebrating their engagement with a trip to New Orleans. As I’d hoped, Tommy’s promotion to dockmaster went a long way in helping her family come around. It’s also helped that Jasmine has kept her big mouth shut and been more sensitive to her dad’s concerns about interracial marriage. Etta tells me that R.J. is still not keen on the idea, but he’s getting used to it. Haley’s having to get used to it as well. The loneliness that follows a divorce has shocked her with its ferocity, and the week of spring break is a test. Turning down invitations from friends to go to the beach, she insists she’s got to learn to be alone, and by God, the upcoming week will be a true test.

  “Why don’t you come with me this weekend?” I ask her when I arrive. “We can share the sofa bed in my office. Or you could stay with Gramma Zoe and sit in on the parts of the retreat that interest you.”

  It distresses me to find her going through her wedding pictures. A half-filled box is nearby; she’s been packing away the photo albums from their wedding but stopped to look through them one last time. I try to lighten her mood by telling her of a client who took her wedding photos and cut off the head of the groom in every picture, then placed them back in the albums, and Haley smiles wanly. More evidence of the ups and downs: Last time I was here, I found her writing in the journal she’s kept since Austin left, which I’d urged her to do as a crucial part of the healing process. Reading a section to me, she was laughing and lighthearted, and my throat tightened as I watched her. When she first came to live with Mack and me, she was a shy, jumpy young girl with a hangdog expression and a poor self-image. At times during the breakup, I’ve seen reflections of that girl for the first time in years, and it worries me.

  When Haley doesn’t respond to my suggestion about coming to the retreat, I try another tactic. “You could sign the participants’ copies of The Lighter Side of Divorce now that it’s out in print.”

  Her smile is bitter. “I’m letting Jasmine do all that, because none of it seems funny anymore. Can’t imagine why, can you?”

  “Oh, sweetheart, it doesn’t seem like it now, but you’ll be happy again one day, I swear. And it will sneak up on you when you’re least expecting it.”

  She shrugs. “I need a little more time before I can think like that.”

  “I know you do, and I’m not going to push you about the retreats. You’ll know when you’re ready.”

  She chews her bottom lip, pensive. “I did tell Dory that I’d come out tomorrow evening to watch the ceremony at the labyrinth. Is that okay? I mean, I’ll stay out of everybody’s way.”

  I hesitate, then choose my words carefully. “It’s okay as long as you listen to me instead of Dory about the way the ceremony affects the participants. It’s difficult to watch, especially for someone who’s where you are in the process. I don’t object to your coming, but it’s liable to be harder than you think.”

  “Oh, I understand that. Main reason Dory wants me there is for something Gramma Zoe has planned. Oops—I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you that.”

  “Oh, God, why does that make my blood run cold? Your gramma Zoe and Jasmine made a dangerous combination, but Zoe and Dory might be even worse. And guess who’s the common denominator in both?” We smile at each other, and I get to my feet to give her a goodbye hug. “Look what time it is! I’ve got to run.”

  She stops me at the door with a sly grin, and I see a spark of the old Haley for the first time since I arrived. “Mom? Dory told me you and Lex were seeing a lot of each other now.”

  I turn away quickly so she won’t see my expression. “I’m sure whatever Dory told you wasn’t something one wants to hear about one’s mother.”

  Haley laughs lightly. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t let her tell me the good parts. I’ve teased you about him in the past, but I couldn’t be more pleased. You’ve had a rough time since Daddy died, and you deserve a little happiness.”

  “I dreaded telling you,” I admit, “since you love Rye so much.”

  Her response surprises me. “And I know that you do, too. But he would always remind you of Daddy, wouldn’t he?”

  I nod and say, “And the sad thing is, it’s not Rye’s fault. Guess Dory would say it wasn’t meant to be.”

  “You’ve been so mysterious about being gone during spring break,” she says, grinning. “Now I know why. You’re going away with Lex, aren’t you?”

  “We’d planned to, but … I’m not sure now.” Instead of telling her of Lex’s ultimatum, I give her another quick hug and say, “I’ll see you tomorrow evening, okay?”

  She shrugs and gives me a small smile. “I’ll be there, but you might not see me. Most likely I’ll be hiding behind one of the oak trees.”

  The dreary clouds have lifted; the sun is out; and the day is suddenly one of heart-stopping, dazzling perfection. When I park my car behind the retreat center at Wayfarer’s Landing, recalling my early-morning prayer humbles me and fills me with an awed gratitude, and not just for the weather. Since the day I met with George Johnson, this place has undergone miraculous transformation. The newly redone building has an inviting ambiance that no one could’ve put into it; it had to spring from the Landing itself: the protective palms standing sentinel, the oaks waving welcome banners of moss, and the caressing breezes of Folly Creek. Dory’s work in the gardens is the perfect touch: The hundreds of azalea plants she set out have exploded into scarlet blooms, and their brilliance is a lovely contrast to the greens and browns and silver-grays of the wetlands. Impulsively I hop out of the car, leaving all my material inside for the time being, and take off. Before being assaulted by the demands of the weekend, I need to seek out a quiet place for a few minutes of reflection. Fortunately no one else is in sight. Zoe’s pickup is parked in its usual place by one of the outbuildings, but there’s no telling where she is.

  I’m not sure where my wanderings will take me; I’m thinking vaguely of the labyrinth, which I’ve yet to walk. But I pause at the edge of the creek instead. Putting up a hand to shield my face,
I walk out on the weather-beaten old dock and scan the distance for Zoe, fishing in one of her canoes. Beneath me, in a ribbon stretching all the way to the dark swamp on the other bank, the black-green waters of Folly Creek ripple and shimmer in the sun. A breeze stirs the yellow-tipped marshes, pauses to give my face a caress, then moves on to playfully rattle the brittle brown fronds of the palms on the shoreline. After throwing my arms wide in a salute of sheer joy, I sink down to sit on the sun-warmed wood of the dock, worn as smooth as marble. Leaning against a post, I think it’s only fitting that the retreat center is now here; the Landing has always been a sanctuary for the wounded. I can’t imagine the retreat center being anywhere else. A dozen or so of Zoe’s ducks are floating atop the undulating rolls of the creek without a single quack to disturb the late-morning stillness. I watch them bobble one by one under the sun-sparkled water, then reappear to shake themselves off. It’s unusually quiet on the creek, except for the hum of insects and the plop or splash of a fish and the distant rustle of wings and cooing and squawks from Zoe’s aviaries. I close my eyes to feel the delicious warmth of the sun on my face, savoring the almost erotic sensation. With a deep breath, I inhale the briny smell of the creek, fish and fern and swamp lilies and rich black mud. In spite of having slept in this morning, I would find it easy to doze off, and I’m dangerously close to doing so. I’m determined not to think about Lex and the comfort I found nestled in his arms; nor am I ready to explore the desolation I felt when he yanked that comfort away. Instead, I allow myself to doze until I feel a peck-peck-peck on the hand I’ve let slide off my lap in my stupor.

  Any other day I would’ve jumped up or even shrieked in fear; but, drunk with sunlight, I open my eyes halfway and peer at my attacker. I’m surprised to see one of the mousy brown peahens regarding me with beady eyes, her head with its little tufted crown cocked curiously to the side. “Catherine the Great,” I murmur. “What are you doing, old girl?”

  The peahen is motionless except for the swaying of her head, and I watch in surprise as she bends forward to peck at my hand again. She doesn’t hurt me, and I wonder what it could be on my hand that attracts her. Perhaps it’s the lingering scent of the apple I had on my drive out here, or even my peach-scented hand lotion. I’ve seen Zoe feed them dried fruit enough to know they love the taste.

  “You hungry?” I ask her, wriggling my fingers her way. Hoping no one’s around to see me talking to a peahen, I pull myself up, brushing the dirt from the dock off my linen pants and matching jacket. So much for the professional look I strive for on the first day of the retreat. Everyone else will be in sweats or jeans, anyway, so it matters only to me.

  I should ignore Catherine the Great—getting up to feed her will spoil her even more—but she’s watching me with her funny little eyes so hopefully, or so I tell myself, that I can’t resist. “Come on, Your Majesty,” I say. “If you won’t tell on me, I’ll sneak into Zoe’s kitchen and get you some fruit, okay?”

  But Catherine the Great doesn’t follow me when we reach the side of Zoe’s house and I start toward the door off the kitchen. Instead, she startles me by spreading her mottled brown wings and beating them heavily, then rising at a sharp angle to glide off toward the back of the house, where the other peafowl roost in the tall trees clustered there, behind the pens and aviaries. I stand with my hands on my hips and watch her, bemused. If she doesn’t want food, what, then? If it weren’t so ludicrous, I’d think she meant for me to come with her. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure no volunteers have arrived at the retreat center to catch me in such a flight of fancy, I shrug and take off after the peahen. As soon as I reach the back of the house and pass the numerous cages—which are quieter now, almost ominously so—I come to the clearing where a copse of mimosa, dogwood, and redbud trees provides the roosts for the peacocks. With a gasp, I see immediately why I’ve been summoned, and I take off running.

  Under a huge, spreading mimosa, Zoe is down on her knees, bent over the long, inert body of Genghis Khan. With a loud clamor of rapid wingbeats, Catherine the Great lands gracefully near them, cocking her head from side to side as she regards the lifeless form of her mate. Kneeling next to Zoe, I place a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, God. Is he dead?” It’s a stupid question: His stare is sightless, and his white four-pronged feet are stiff and tightly furled under him.

  Rather than answering me, Zoe reaches down and strokes the back of Genghis’s head behind the magnificent crown, letting her fingers trace a trail down his long curved back. “Poor old thing,” she mutters. “Guess he was just plumb worn out.”

  “Had he been sick?” I ask inanely, and Zoe wipes her eyes with the back of her free hand while she rubs Genghis with the other.

  “He had a weak heart, but it was mainly old age,” she says with a sniff. She raises her head and looks at me for the first time, her black eyes dull with grief. Then she inclines her head toward the woods. “I’d been in there working on … something for the retreat, and I heard Catherine the Great carrying on like everything. I didn’t think much about it, just figured her and Genghis were fighting again. Had to get all my stuff put up before I could come see what was going on, and that took a while.”

  “It must’ve been before I arrived, because I noticed how quiet everything was when I got here,” I tell her. “Now that I think of it, it’s never been so quiet.” I don’t add that only a few seconds ago, the quiet turned ominous, and I felt a shiver of dread.

  Zoe nods. “That’s what made me suspicious, how quiet all the birds got after Catherine went on like she did. Usually when one of them screeches, every blame one of them will join in. The next thing I know, here comes Catherine, flying around looking for me. That’s when I knew for sure that something was wrong. She’s so blame fat and lazy she don’t ever fly, except to follow Genghis to roost at night.”

  “That’s right,” I say. “I knew something was even odder than her coming after me and pecking my hand. I’ve never seen her fly before, not even to roost. It’s weird, isn’t it?”

  “Naw, not really. Birds know things. How come they got so quiet when Genghis died? They all knew. I can promise you that, they all knew.” Zoe lowers her head to look at Genghis again. “Poor old thing,” she repeats, and now she’s tenderly stroking the great long sweep of tail feathers lying in a train behind him.

  “You’re really going to miss him.” I slip an arm around her and lean my head to touch hers. “He’s been with you forever, hasn’t he?”

  “Yep, he sure has, since I came out here. I’ll miss this old fellow for sure,” she says with a nod. “The place won’t be the same without Genghis.” She turns to look at Catherine the Great, who stands frozen in the same place, still as a statue except for the curious movement of her head, side to side. She’s staring at Genghis, but she won’t come any closer. It’s as though she’s allowing Zoe her time to say goodbye to him. “We’re all gonna miss Genghis, ain’t we, old girl?” Zoe says to the peahen.

  We’re silent as we look down at the body of Genghis. I give Zoe a squeeze and say gently, “What do you need me to do?”

  She sighs wearily. For the first time since I’ve known her, she looks old and tired, and her voice is shaky. “Reckon you can call Cooter for me, if you don’t mind. I’d ’preciate it if you’d do that. Ask him if he’ll come out here and help me bury this old fellow, okay?”

  I get to my feet but keep my hand on her shoulder. “I’ll have to go to your house or the retreat center, since I left my cell in the car. But I’ll run and make the call, then come back and stay with you till Cooter gets here, okay?”

  Zoe looks up at me and shakes her head, her eyes bright and watery. She hasn’t cried, and knowing Zoe, she won’t. She’ll hold her grief inside, as she always does. “No, ma’am,” she says sharply. “You’ve got a retreat to run, and you’ve got no business fooling with a silly old woman. Go on to your office to call Cooter, and stay there, you hear me?” When I open my mouth to protest, she wags a finger at me. “Hush up
and listen to me,” she says in a firm voice. “You know how Cooter carries on. When he gets here, he’s liable to cry like a baby. He loved old Genghis, even though the two of them fought all the time, and Cooter got on Genghis’s nerves so bad. You might not think this of Cooter, but he’s a lot more sensitive than he acts. So he wouldn’t want you to see him grieving over Genghis. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

  “I do, but I’ll be glad to stay with you, or to help you and Cooter bury—”

  But Zoe won’t let me finish, waving me away furiously. “Go on, now. I mean it!”

  It hits me that it’s not Cooter’s grief she’s concerned about. I lean over and kiss the top of her head, then leave her to her silent mourning. When I reach the still-silent aviaries, I pick up my pace, hurrying to call Cooter so she won’t be alone. When I turn to look back, Zoe hasn’t moved from her pose, kneeling over Genghis and petting his lifeless body. The stillness is shattered by a sound that sends a shiver down my spine: Catherine the Great’s unearthly scream, shrill and piercing and, somehow, heartbreaking. This time her cry stirs up the other peafowl, and they join her, the unnatural silence of the morning broken by an unmelodic chorus of raucous bird cries, echoing over and over through the woods and the swamp lands beyond the creek.

  Late Saturday afternoon, on the day of the spring equinox, they begin to arrive. After a light, early supper alone, I’m in my office, having turned the program over to a yoga instructor from Gulfport who’s leading a session on relaxation techniques. From the window, I see what looks like dozens of cars, more than the meager parking spaces we’ve provided can possibly hold. I leave the office as quietly as possible to skirt behind the group of women in the main meeting room, trying not to disturb them. They’re sitting cross-legged on floor cushions, eyes closed and humming along with the instructor, and they wouldn’t notice me if I were an elephant charging through the room. On the porch, I go to Etta, who’s setting up a table with the hot cider we normally serve before dinner in lieu of cocktails; we call it the cider-and-sunset hour. This evening it is coming after dinner and following the yoga session, while the women watch the sunset and wait for dusk. Having to alter our orderly schedule for the ceremony at the labyrinth has me in a dither. Everything went so beautifully yesterday that I keep expecting the ax to fall today.