Calling Me Home

by Julie Kibler

  “Isabelle. What happened tonight? It can’t ever be more than that—a nice memory. For the both of us. You know it. Anyone ever finds out I kissed you, you know what they will do to me? What your momma will do to you? It’s impossible.”

  “But—” I drew a breath. “Robert Prewitt, I think … I think I might love you.” My heart raced and my face burned and my fingers, wrapped around his, trembled.

  “You just—you’re just a girl, Isa. A child. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  I flinched at his dismissal. But I was convinced it was his way of denying what I believed he felt, too. He was right; I was only a girl, not even seventeen, but I couldn’t deny the feelings I’d finally acknowledged, feelings that had grown each time we’d met. In my yard. At the creek. Every week under the arbor. Tonight. More than ever, tonight.

  “But I do know what I’m saying. I do, Robert. Can you tell me you don’t feel it? That you don’t feel the same? I have to ask. I know you’re afraid. I’d be afraid, too. I am afraid.” He tried to turn away, to fix his gaze elsewhere, but I let go of his hand and reached to turn his face toward mine. “Do you love me, too?”

  He shrugged. “What if I said I did? What if I said, yes, I—I think I might love you. What good would that do either of us?”

  I couldn’t and didn’t answer his question. All I wanted, more than ever, was to know my feelings weren’t unfounded. His statement, in its roundabout manner, gave me enough of a hint to understand he felt them, too.

  12

  Dorrie, Present Day

  I TWITCHED AROUND on the bed all night, worrying about my money. Then worrying about trusting Teague with my money. Then worrying about anything else I could think of to worry about. By morning, I felt as wiped out as if I’d spent all night walking a newborn baby who never stopped fussing. Not something I planned to do for real anytime soon, see, so I worried about my son and the probability he’d knocked up his girlfriend, too.

  I hoped my restlessness hadn’t kept Miss Isabelle awake, especially since she said she didn’t sleep well anyway. What a pair we’d make on the road, trying to stay awake.

  But she surprised me again, pert and ready to hitch an elevator ride to the complimentary breakfast buffet she figured she’d actually paid for as part of the room charge. She liked to get her money’s worth. When I did her hair, she always pointed out any spots I missed—not often, please note.

  “Rise and shine, Dorrie Mae. Sun’s up.”

  I groaned at her voice and said, “Damn you, Susan Willis.” When Miss Isabelle shoved open the blackout drapes I dragged a pillow over my eyes, because, sure enough, the sun was right there glaring at me. I reluctantly pulled the pillow away and swung my legs over the side of the bed, burying my face in my hands as I ordered the rest of my body to wake up. It didn’t work so well.

  “I heard you over there worrying all night. I’m sorry we have to get going so early, but we need to get on the road or we’ll be running behind schedule.” I’d always figured her for a morning person, and now there was no doubt. But I also figured she had on her game face, and this was no vacation.

  “No problem, Miss Isabelle. Just doing a limb check here to be sure I’m alive. I’ll be fine once I get a caffeine drip going.” I forced myself up and dressed quickly. I’d taken a quick shower before bed, and since I couldn’t do much about my hair on the road, I patted it flat as I could and promised I’d do better when we arrived at our destination.

  People were often surprised that, as a hairdresser, I wore such a simple hairstyle. Early on, I’d discovered I had no inclination to devote much time to my own hair. I kept it trimmed evenly all over, short and natural, sometimes with a deep auburn rinse. In my humble opinion, I had a nicely shaped head, and my style always got plenty of compliments—if mostly from white folks. Momma ceaselessly complained that I was letting a head of good hair go to waste, believing I should advertise my services by making the most of it. I disagreed. My customers came to me for one thing—to leave feeling shiny and pretty, like a new penny. They didn’t give a rat’s anything how my hair looked as long as it was neat and unobtrusive. (Seventeen across, eleven letters: “inconspicuous, unassuming.” Unobtrusive. Big, fancy word.) I was the vehicle to get them from zero to beautiful in sixty minutes or less. Along the way, if we became more than casual acquaintances, then hallelujah and pass the potato salad, because then my hair ought to be the least of their worries. I counted on that from my friend Miss Isabelle as I gave it one last pat.

  Downstairs, we settled ourselves before plates of steaming eggs and toast, cold milk over cereal, and lukewarm coffee. Miss Isabelle turned her nose up at the cinnamon rolls, saying she figured they weren’t worth the fat it took to frost them. No wonder she kept so trim. I’d seen photos around Miss Isabelle’s house of her at various ages, and in every one, she looked like she’d just come off six months of Jenny Craig, her waist tiny and cinched in by belts the likes of which I hadn’t worn since before Stevie Junior came along. Or never. I sighed and passed up the rolls, too, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to follow her lead. I could smell them, though, and it nearly killed me not to have one between my lips. Or a cigarette.

  “How do you know a good man when you see one?” I asked. Abrupt, yeah, but I needed to know. I hadn’t had enough sleep to ease into the question.

  “A good man,” she said, and raised her fork to nibble scrambled egg. So much for a quick answer.

  “See, I know how to find the scummy ones, no problem,” I added. “Well. I don’t even have to look—as soon as one leaves off, the next comes running. I’m a loser magnet.”

  “A good man,” Miss Isabelle began again. “For starters, he treats you well. But just as important is how he treats everyone else.”

  “Like, how do you mean? His kids? His momma?”

  “Sure. But there’s more. Whenever he takes you to the movies, does he thank the ticket takers? When you’re riding in his car, does he hog the road? Even after two weeks, or two months, is he respectful to his fellow man, no matter that person’s position in relationship to him? In other words, does he still tip the waiter?”

  “That’s good, Miss Isabelle. That’s really good.” She was right. I’d never thought about it before, but nearly every man I’d dated had treated me like a queen the first few times we went out, but griped at servers about food being cold or bland when it was just fine, or cut off drivers who were desperate to enter the highway, even if there was plenty of time to get wherever we were going. Eventually? He treated me the same.

  “I’ve known a few good men in my life. They’re out there.” Her eyes went a little hooded and soft, as if she’d drifted into a memory, and her lips curved in a small, private smile. I wished I could climb inside her memories beside her. I wanted to see the things that still gave her happy thoughts after so many years. “My husband was a good man. But he wasn’t the only one,” she said. Then she focused sharply. “You think you’ve found a good one, Dorrie?”

  “I don’t know. I’d like to think this man I’ve seen a few times—Teague?—is a good guy, but I don’t trust myself anymore. I almost prefer the known evil—the guys I can tell will spoon-feed me whatever I want to hear, then break my heart one more time in the process. But this one? Miss Isabelle, you know that saying, If it looks too good to be true—”

  “—it probably is,” she said, finishing for me. “But maybe not every time.”

  I told her about asking Teague to check on my shop, about how I wanted so much to believe he was trustworthy and would do what he said, no more, no less. About how my batting average in picking trustworthy men was about as low as you could go.

  “How long have you known him?”

  “We’ve been going out a little while, but—”

  “When’s the last time you asked anyone to do something this big for you?” she asked. “Any man,” she added.

  I sipped my coffee and inventoried my past relationships. “A while.” I shook my head. “Okay, a lon
g … long … time.”

  “You know more than you think you do, then. Give yourself credit.”

  “Maybe. But damn—darn it, if he lets me down, I am through with men. I’m done. Who needs them?”

  She sighed and shrugged, her gaze fuzzy and unfocused. We finished eating in silence.

  * * *

  I’D REFILLED THE tank and climbed back into the driver’s seat at a gas station near the Memphis hotel when my phone rang. Miss Isabelle sat patiently while I dug the thing out of my pocket.

  “Hey, Teague, what’s the news?”

  “Hi.”

  I could tell by his voice, by the ginger way he greeted me, by what he didn’t say and the silence drawn out long and heavy over the line. “Just tell me.”

  “I’m at the shop.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Someone definitely broke in since you left. I’m sorry, Dorrie. Wish I had better news.”

  I closed my eyes and sighed through my nose. “The money?”

  “Gone.”

  I slammed my palm on Miss Isabelle’s steering wheel, and she jumped an inch in her seat. “Sorry,” I muttered, my hand over the receiver.

  “It’s okay, honey,” she whispered, motioning for me to continue my conversation.

  “What else?”

  “Well, they jimmied the lock to get in. The file cabinet is messed up pretty good, too. Pried open with a crowbar or something. Knocked over a few things here and there. That’s it.”

  It was more than enough. I never left the file cabinet locked overnight—probably a dead giveaway where I kept the money. I cursed myself for not putting in an alarm system. Every month I swore I’d do it. Until I paid bills. Then I decided to wait another month. The doors in the old-fashioned strip mall were too easy to burglarize. It hadn’t mattered much, though I’d spent some money fixing the lock the other times. In the long run, it had cost me less to replace locks than it would have to install and monitor an alarm system. But I’d never forgotten money before. The scales had tipped.

  “Still there?”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “Look, would it be too much trouble for you to make a police report?”

  “Of course not. I’m also going to run by Home Depot for something to board up the door until you get back. Work for you?”

  “Oh, Teague.” I shook my head. “You’re a lifesaver. I’m sorry to get you involved.”

  “Don’t apologize. It’s no trouble at all, and I’d like to think you’d do the same thing for me if the tables were turned.”

  I wondered. Honestly, I’d probably run the other way, faster than a bullet. I’d had enough of needy men to last me a couple of lifetimes and then some. Then again, none of them had been Teague. He blew me away. He wasn’t just kind; his concern had legs that walked.

  As soon as I disconnected, though, I started second-guessing. Miss Isabelle watched me. She could probably see the little nerves running up and down my stomach muscles, clenching their fists and pumping them in the air, chanting, “Run away! Run away! Run away!” Telling me Teague could have done the damage himself, then pocketed the money and lied right across the phone line. I pulled onto the interstate and stared at the flat road out of Memphis.

  “I’m sorry, Dorrie. I feel responsible. But for me asking you to bring me on this trip, it never would have happened. Between this and your worries about Stevie Junior, I feel like we should go home. At the very least, I’d like to reimburse you for the money you lost.” I shrugged. I wanted to scream and throw a hissy fit about the money. Even worse, I knew I might have to put down my pride and take her up on the reimbursement—as a loan, of course. But going home wasn’t going to change anything right now.

  She didn’t speak again for a while. About ten miles down the road, she pulled her crossword puzzle book out and flipped to a clean page. She peered at the clues and scribbled a few answers. My hand was clenching the armrest, and she reached over to pat the back of it. “Try not to worry, Dorrie. About the money or the man. I have a feeling both will work out fine. Now, help me. The first one is two across—which hardly ever happens—and it’s six letters.…”

  I listened with half an ear while I rattled around my head for another kind of answer.

  13

  Isabelle, 1939

  TWO WEEKS.

  Two weeks since I’d seen him. Two weeks since he’d kissed me. Two weeks since I’d told him I loved him.

  I began to imagine he’d seen my confession as the ridiculous and dangerous ravings of a schoolgirl. He wouldn’t humor them. He’d never set foot near my house again, and he’d avoid any possibility our paths would cross if he could help it.

  But then one day, he showed up to help my father repair the retaining wall. The sand packed around the grooved chunks of limestone was eroding, and my father feared their hard work from the previous summer would go to waste, the stones would eventually loosen, and then the front yard would slide slowly south until it simply fell away from the house, leaving us teetering on top of the hill.

  Monday, the hardware store delivered three bags of cement at the bottom of the steps. Late in the afternoon, Robert met my father there. He instructed Robert how to mix the concrete. I watched from an upstairs window, hidden behind lace curtains. The sun sank lower, and Robert shook hands with my father. He went away down the street, away from me again.

  But the next morning, he returned before I woke to mix concrete in the wheelbarrow, then scoop and force it carefully between the stones, using a damp rag to wipe away traces from their outside surfaces so their textures remained visible from the street. My father, busy with patients, left the work to Robert’s capable hands.

  My tension swelled while I waited for an opportunity to speak to him, for a workable excuse. When my mother retired for her rest after our midday meal, I rushed to the kitchen. Cora was peeling eggs to devil for our supper. Nell was occupied somewhere in the house, maybe even absent. I hadn’t seen or heard her for several hours.

  “It’s miserable outside again,” I said to Cora, and dropped into a chair across from her.

  “Lordy, yes, Miss Isabelle. This summer’s about to kill me. I feel for my son out there in that blistering heat, but I expect he’ll survive. You young people tolerate weather better than us old folks.”

  It had been a long, long time since she’d mentioned Robert in my presence. “Do we have lemonade, Cora? I sure could use a cold glass.”

  “We do. Give me a minute, and I’ll pour you some.”

  “I’ll get it.” I hurried to the cabinet and pulled out two glasses. Cora raised her eyebrows when she saw them, but she said nothing. I chipped ice off the block and filled both glasses, then poured Cora’s fresh-squeezed lemon goodness over it. “Thank you, Cora. I’ll carry Robert a glass, too. He must be thirsty in the heat.”

  “Oh, no, Miss Isabelle.” She’d peeled the last egg and hurried to wipe her hands down her apron after rinsing them at the sink. “No need. I’ll take it. And you can’t use that glass for—”

  “I’ve got it,” I said. My look gave her no chance to argue, though I hated pulling rank to get what I wanted. I cringed at the loud sigh emanating from the kitchen behind me as I hurried down the hallway. I used my arm and hip to push open the screen door, then left my glass on one of the flat slabs jutting away from the porch on either side of the steps. It would give the impression I hadn’t intended to do anything more than deliver Robert’s drink. I carried his glass down the walkway and descended the steps to the street.

  He blinked when he saw me, then buried the blade of his trowel in the wheelbarrow. He’d just mixed a fresh batch of concrete. He waited wordlessly; I felt suddenly shy.

  Finally, I offered the glass of lemonade. Confusion clouded his eyes as he looked from the glass to his hands and back. As Cora had pointed out, I’d unthinkingly used one of our nicer glasses. Obviously, he worried he’d ruin it with the half-dried mess on his hands. But I had a handkerchief tucked in my side pocket. I pulled it out and wrapped
it around the glass.

  “How’s that fancy thing any better? I’ll mess it up, too.”

  “It’s an old one.” Or maybe it was one of my newest handkerchiefs, cut and edged by me in a fit of boredom earlier that month—and likely laundered, pressed, and starched by his mother or sister a day or two before.

  He glanced around dubiously, but I thrust the glass closer, and he took it. The contrast of the back of his hand against the snowy square was startling in the harsh sunshine. I reached to shade my eyes.

  He gulped the lemonade and returned the glass before I could even lean against the stones he hadn’t begun to repair yet. But lean I did. He turned back to the wheelbarrow and pulled his trowel from the quickly setting glop. “Have to hurry. This hardens fast.”

  “Don’t let me keep you from working. Pretend I’m not even here.” It was a directive, not a pleasantry. He craned his neck to look up at the front windows of the house, but his mother was the only one aware I was there. She couldn’t see me even if she happened to be looking. And the street curved slightly before reaching my house at the end of a narrow lane, so even our nosy neighbors couldn’t see me wedged against the wall. The lane ran into a meadow too damp for building on and eventually met the creek where Robert taught me to catch minnows, where we’d been caught in that fateful thunderstorm.

  “So, what’ve you been up to these last few weeks, Robert? Since I saw you.”

  He pressed the lumpy mixture between stones rhythmically, smoothing it around each, then wiping them clean. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “I’ve missed you,” I said, wasting no more time with small talk. Any second, someone could interrupt us, looking for me, wondering why the ice melted in my lemonade on the porch while I’d wandered off.

  His hand, holding the handle of the trowel, paused against a stone with fossils clearly embedded in its surface. “You can’t. It’s a bad idea. I told you. That whole night—you know it was a mistake.”