Saving Tess

by J. Lynn Bailey

“Your fatherrrr and I will talk to Eric on Monday.”

  “No.”

  “Hooooney.”

  I push my index finger and thumb over my brow line, the aftereffects of the alcohol lingering just enough to protect my mother from the words I want to say at her.

  “Mom, I need to go.”

  She’s talking and not listening.

  “Mom.”

  Now, she’s talking to my dad, who’s most likely across the room from her.

  “Mom!”

  She stops abruptly because she’s been interrupted. “Whaaaat?”

  “Just stop. I’ll deal with it, okay? Just stop. Just stop trying to fix other people. Stop trying to fix me.” And with that, I hang up, slamming the receiver over and over and over into its rightful spot. Then, I take it off the hook and let it fall to the floor.

  My eyes burn as I slide down the wall and allow the tears to come.

  Something is ringing, and it pulls me from my slumber. Sleep—the protection and preservation of the mind.

  My house phone.

  The phone abruptly stops ringing, and I sit up. This means only one thing.

  I sigh, throw my feet over the side of my bed, take a sip of water. Hold my head in my hands for a moment.

  It’s my mother. She let herself in. Put my phone back on the hook. She’s probably done my dishes. Cleaned my entire house because it didn’t pass her white-glove test—I’m sure of it.

  “Hey, honey.” Her head peeks in the door to my bedroom.

  “Who was that on the phone?” I stand.

  “I handled it.”

  “Mom, who was it?”

  I set the glass down and look at my cell phone to check the time. I notice several missed calls and texts. Some from Sarah Beth and Anna. When I see the last name, butterflies ignite in my stomach, and my heart picks up pace. Casey. I fight the butterflies and try to force them out.

  “It was Sarah Beth, checking on you.”

  I sit back down on the bed, staring at my phone. I open the text from Casey.

  Casey: Hey, Morgan. Just checking on you.

  Casey used to call me Morgan when he whispered secrets in my ear as we made love, but our relationship goes much deeper than that. He sent me a pity text. Part of me wants to protect our hearts, mine and his. The history we had was pleasant for a time, but now, what’s left of us are only embers and ashes.

  “Tess? Are you listening to me?” my mom asks.

  “What?” I look up at my mom, who’s folding a dish towel.

  “When’s the last time you dusted?”

  “I haven’t had time, Mo—” And the realization of the time I have now hits me like a belt across my backside. My face drops back to my phone as I realize that I’m no longer a teacher.

  “Don’t worry; Dad went to talk to Eric.”

  My eyelid begins to twitch in anger. “Why can’t you and Dad just let me be? Stop interfering in my life! I’m twenty-seven years old, Mom.”

  “You think I don’t know that? We’re just trying to do what’s right for you, Tess.”

  “No, you’re trying to protect me because you couldn’t protect Tripp, and now, you and Dad meddle in my life because you’re both crazy or bored—I haven’t quite figured out which yet.”

  Mom’s bottom lip stiffens, and I know what it means. It means she’s countering her argument, preparing for war. She’s the master of manipulation.

  “Mom.” I hold out my hand.

  “No, no.” She toys with the dishrag, pulling at the loose thread, and sets the towel on my dresser. “I’m sorry I care, Tess. I’ll call your father.”

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  She’s right; I did. But it came out all wrong.

  Mavis Morgan is a woman of integrity and high standards with a limited amount of tears that she’ll give the world. The only times I’ve seen her cry in my life was the day I graduated from college and the day Tripp died.

  “It came out wrong.”

  My mom’s heels click across the hardwood floor—also part of her master-manipulation process—across the kitchen and to the front door. She spins back around, only to face in my direction momentarily. “You are my only child left, Tess. I was just trying to help.” My mother lets herself out.

  I drop my head in defeat and roll back into bed.

  My cell phone rings. I look down at the screen, and it’s The Whiskey Barrel.

  “Hello?” I try not to sound meek, tired, or desperate.

  “Hiya, Tess. It’s Dave.”

  “Yeah. What’s up, Dave?”

  “I was wondering if you could work my shift tonight. I’ve got to tend to something.”

  “Did my mother put you up to this?”

  “Uh, what? No. Why would she do that?”

  “Because I lost my job yesterday. Because I no longer have an income. Because she’s terrified I’ll fall into a deep, dark depression and never find my way out, and then she’ll never have grandchildren because of it.”

  Dave covers the phone, and all I hear are muffled voices.

  He comes back on. “No, no. I have a date actually. Headed into Eureka tonight.”

  “Whatever, Dave. I’ll cover your shift.” I could use the money.

  My parents have been the long-standing owners of The Whiskey Barrel and the Dillon Creek Movie House.

  It’s past four in the afternoon when I pull myself from bed and into the bathroom. I shower, throw on some eye shadow and mascara, and take one final look in the mirror before I leave for my shift at The Whiskey Barrel.

  You could put some lipstick on, I hear my mother’s voice say in my head. A woman always dresses for success even if it’s just lunch with the ladies.

  I pull my hair back into a ponytail and throw some lip gloss on—not lipstick, in spite of my mom. I turn and open the door to the linen closet, pretending not to have an ulterior motive to blame my dead brother for the faults of our mother but I can’t hold my tongue.

  “It’s all your fault, you know. If you hadn’t died, Mom wouldn’t be meddling in my business. Acting like a crazy person.” I grab some deodorant and roll it on. “Thanks a lot for leaving me to pick up the pieces,” I whisper, shut the door, and leave.

  Becky is on days. “Hey, kid.” She’s putting clean glasses away when I come behind the bar and set my purse in the cubby.

  “Hey. Slow today?”

  “Oh, the regulars, you know, but not too slow,” she drawls. She finishes with the glasses and wipes her hands down with a rag. Looks at me.

  “What?”

  “Nothin’. Just wondering how something so beautiful can look so tired.”

  I laugh and begin to cut lemons. “You mean, you haven’t heard?”

  Becky tosses the rag over her shoulder and leans on the counter. “Heard what?”

  “Lost my job at Dillon Creek Elementary yesterday.”

  “What?”

  “Anyhow, I need the money, so if you have some extra shifts, I’ll take them.”

  “You’re shittin’ me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Eric?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I’ll tell you what. He hasn’t got the sense God gave geese, that boy,” Becky says and pulls me in for a side hug. “Sorry, kid.”

  Becky hails from Mississippi, but she’s been in Dillon Creek and worked for my parents since I was a kid. Kid, darlin’, dollface, sugar, baby are nicknames she’s given me and every other woman my age over the years.

  “They won’t find another teacher who is just as good or cares about those kids more than you do. Chaps my ass.” Becky grabs her purse and walks around to the other side of the bar so that I’m facing her.

  “Give me a double shot of Grey Goose, would you, sugar?”

  I smile. “You going somewhere tonight?”

  “Got me a date.” She doesn’t sit but throws a ten-dollar bill down on the bar.

  “Yeah?”

  She takes the s
hot. Nods. Takes a small sip of water from her water bottle.

  “Local?” I ask.

  “Eureka. Gonna pick me up at my place at five.” Becky glances down at her watch. “Oh shit. I gotta go. Bye, baby.” She blows me a kiss, and before she turns to go, she says, “I never thought I’d be tendin’ bar at my age, dollface, but it’s the happiest I’ve ever been. And that’s sayin’ a lot.” Becky winks and leaves.

  Funny. Dave has a date tonight in Eureka too.

  They’ve been at each other’s throats for years though. I highly doubt they’re going on a date.

  I cut lemons. Wash glasses. Pour drinks. Earn tips. Listen to patrons.

  After last call, I turn the sign from Open to Closed and walk back behind the counter to clean up. It’s only Toby Lemon left, and he’s slumped over in the corner, passed out cold, waiting for his ride. It’s a nightly thing with Toby. Part of our closing shift duties is to call Denton down at the Police Department to come pick him up, take him to the PD, and help him sober up before taking him home.

  Putting away the hard alcohol, I hear the door chime, and I look up, expecting to see Denton, but instead, it’s Casey.

  Instantly, I freeze. He’s been home for some time. Came home for Don Brockmeyer’s funeral, and we sat on opposite sides of the church, like three states sat between us. I was even able to escape him during Anna and Colt’s wedding.

  I certainly didn’t expect him to show up here. But there’s nowhere to run now.

  When our brothers were killed, there was an imaginary line drawn right down the middle of Dillon Creek. Residents were either with the Morgan family or with the Atwood family. I think it’s all bullshit. But the last time an Atwood set foot in The Whiskey Barrel, it wasn’t good.

  My breathing becomes quicker, shallower, and my heartbeat accelerates.

  Like all of the Atwood men, Casey is taller than most men. Dark stormy-blue eyes. Long legs with a lean body.

  He removes his cowboy hat, and I catch a whiff of his scent.

  “Morgan, I was worried about you.” He sits down at the bar, as if I’d invited him. As if he were here to make small talk.

  I try to collect my thoughts and form a sentence or string a few words together. But both the anger from that night and the residual aftereffects come to the surface of my thoughts.

  “We’re closed,” I whisper, bending at my waist, putting the bottles of hard alcohol in a cupboard below the bar.

  “Told Denton I’d get Toby tonight.”

  I stop. Push back a strand of hair that fell into my face. “Why?”

  “Because you didn’t answer my text and I heard you were working here tonight.”

  “You didn’t ask me to respond.”

  Casey leans in. “I was checking on you to see if you were okay.”

  “I’m alive. As you can see. You can go about your business now, Casey. Thank you for your concern.”

  Stay the course, Tess.

  I grab the last of the bottles and put them below, locking them up. I stand, and he’s still here, at the bar, staring at me.

  “When are we going to talk, Tess?”

  I shrug and try not to breathe in his scent. “Talk about what?”

  Casey cocks his head to the right. His eyes narrow. There’s a long pause between us. I wipe down the counter that I’ve wiped down a million times already tonight.

  I shrug. “Anyway, you said it yourself that night we came back from Oregon—after this, you’re done. Clearly, you’re not holding up your end of the bargain, Casey.”

  He deepens his tone when he says, “You and I both know that’s not what I meant.”

  “Oh, it’s not? Because you were gone the next day. Off to your next bull-riding event, leaving me to pick up the mess.”

  Toby Lemon shoots up from his slumber, yelling about a fire, making my heart explode from my chest, but his head falls to the bar again with a smack.

  We both wince.

  Casey’s eyes meet mine. “I told you that I wanted to marry you, and you said you had other plans. What was I supposed to do? You broke my heart, Tess.”

  My fingers grow restless, and my eyes become pained. “You were supposed to stay, Casey.”

  With that, he stands and backs away from the bar, and I see the tension in his shoulders, his arms.

  After one long stare, he pulls his eyes from me and says, “Come on, Toby. Let’s get you home.”

  2

  The Ladybugs

  “Erla Brockmeyer is just fine, ladies.” Never in the history of the world has Erla ever referred to herself in third person, and she often wonders why people do it. Pompous, she says to herself, egocentric, and now, here Erla is, referring to herself in the same manner.

  Erla once read in Redbag Magazine, that even if you don’t feel it, if you tell yourself you’re okay, well then, the heart and mind will always follow suit. Erla is beginning to think that Redbag Magazine is all a crock of crap based loosely on wives who have nothing better to do but decorate, cook, and talk about decorating and cooking.

  She’s spent the last month trying to tell herself and her friends that she’s all right, but deep down, her heart is broken to a million little pieces, and all she wants is the glue so that she can reconstruct the muscle. She’s on the verge of tears most days, waiting for Don to wander back inside from tending to his flowers. After fifty-four years of marriage, she’d just as soon die too. That’s how she feels anyway.

  “I’m just fine, ladies. I wish you’d stop making such a stink over me.”

  Lies—or rather, misguided advice—follow her each day, like now. But instead of telling her friends what they clearly see, she bites her bottom lip, takes her napkin, and sets it in her lap.

  Pearl and Delveen exchange glances.

  Erla grabs the menu and attempts to read it. When on earth did Dillon Creek Pizza change their menu? Erla can’t read a lick of it. It could be her eyesight—she should give Dr. Kennedy a call to make an appointment.

  Erla feels Clyda’s hand gently touch her arm. She takes the menu and turns it right side up.

  “The words are too small anyway. It’s really hard to see which way is up.” Erla tries to convince herself that this heartbreak won’t continue forever. That there has got to be a time and place when she says, Enough is enough. That seemed to have been last week—or so she thought.

  Erla remembers when Don started to get forgetful.

  It’s easy to brush forgetfulness under the rug when you’re old, Erla tells herself.

  She tries not to think about going home to a big, empty house and how her heart will sink when she goes into the bedroom they shared and stares at his pillow, which still sits in the same spot it did the day he died.

  Once she’s home and in their bedroom, she will try to convince herself where he took his last breath, that she did the right thing by following Don’s wishes and asking for the end to come sooner than she was ready for, sooner than his body was ready. But alas, it wasn’t about her then, and it’s not about her now.

  She’s got to order something to eat before her friends start to think she’s losing her marbles. “I think I’ll have the salad bar.” Erla sets down her menu, stands, and attempts to walk toward the spread of vegetables.

  “Erla, are you forgetting something?” Delveen calls and stands.

  Erla turns, walks back, and reaches across the table for the plate. “Oh, yes. That’s right. Thank you.”

  Delveen follows Erla to the salad bar.

  The Lunch Guys are playing dice at their table. Bo Richards, Lance Belotti, Rue Samuels, and Ben Taft. Archie Tander is the hospital.

  “Rumor has it,” Delveen starts, “that Archie had a heart attack because he took too much Viagra.”

  It irritates Erla to no end—Delveen’s constant gossip of others.

  “Delveen, Archie Tander is almost eighty years old. Who gives a rat’s behind what he takes? It doesn’t change the fact that he’s still in the hospital.”

  Delve
en rolls her right shoulder, ignoring Erla’s words. “I wonder why on earth he was taking it.”

  Erla rolls her eyes, goes to make her salad, and walks back to the table.

  “It’s beyond me why it takes half a day for Tony to have my car.” Pearl shakes her head. “I’ve got errands to do.”

  Clyda asks, “Pearl, you live a block north of Main Street. You can’t just walk?”

  Pearl shrugs. “Suppose I could. But for a woman of my advanced age …” she starts.

  All four Ladybugs sigh at the same time.

  Pearl has been using that line a lot lately. Woman of my advanced age.

  Pearl, Delveen, Mabe, Clyda, and Erla are all around the same age, so it offends the group as a whole when Pearl strings the entire sentence behind her without true validity.

  “I swear on my dead husband’s life, Pearl, you say—” Clyda pauses mid-sentence as she feels her friend’s body tense up with the two words Erla’s been having a hard time with.

  Dead.

  Husband.

  “I’m sorry, Erla. I didn’t mean that,” Clyda says.

  Erla wants to throw up and run and cry and scream, all at the same time. Most days, she wishes it had been him left on God’s green earth and not her to pick up the pieces of their lives together and somehow negotiate a do-over.

  Instead, she smiles. Chokes down a bite of her salad with Italian dressing. Swallows.

  “Oh my word! Did you all hear that Tess Morgan lost her job at Dillon Creek?” Pearl asks the group, the rumor—or truth—coming in hot off the presses.

  “That’s it.” Erla stands and throws down her napkin. “I can’t handle this anymore.” She grabs her purse, throws a twenty-dollar bill down, and marches out of The Ladybugs’ August meeting and right out of Dillon Creek Pizza.

  In all of Erla’s years of being part of The Ladybugs, she’s never been so fed up as to walk out of an official meeting, although she’s wanted to.

  Don is gone, and all Pearl wants to talk about is how inconvenient her life is or spreading rumors about others’ hardships.

  I’ll show you, Pearl Harvey. I quit The Ladybugs.

  It’s later in the afternoon when Mabe stops by Erla’s house with a container of ice cream as Erla drafts her letter of resignation to The Ladybugs.