Your Cheatin Heart mr-1

by Nancy Bartholomew

  "You're not going to like this," I said, setting my coffee mug down carefully on the counter, "but I'm fixing to be late for work. I know I said I'd talk to you but-" He cut me off. "Oh, you're gonna talk to me, all right. You're gonna start talking now and finish when I say we're through."

  I tried to stare him down, but my heart wasn't in it. I was late for a job I loved too much to lose and worried sick about my baby. Weathers was the low man on my totem pole tonight.

  "All right." I sighed. "Here's the deal. Let me get changed and I'll talk to you until I have to walk out the door."

  "No, this here's the deal," he said. "You change. I'll drive you to work, and if you've answered all my questions, I'll let you go inside. If not, I'll just head the car on downtown and take you along with me."

  "Then how'll I get home?" I said.

  "You've got friends." The sarcastic glint was back in his eye. "And if you don't, then I reckon I'll just have to swing back by and get you."

  That was just what he wanted. He wanted me in a little cage where he controlled my movements and saw everything I did. He didn't trust me, which was fine, because I didn't trust him either.

  "All right. I guess we'll play it your way." I brushed past him and headed for the walk-in closet. Fine. Let him have his way about the small stuff. It didn't matter. What mattered was keeping him away from Sheila until I'd had time to find her, civilize her, and drag her sorry tail down to the police station. I could handle Weathers. Sheila wouldn't last two minutes with his rapid-fire questioning. Heaven knew what she'd end up telling the man, and heaven only knew what he'd end up making her believe.

  I grabbed a black sequined number and stalked off to my room. He was right behind me.

  "If you don't mind," I said, putting my hand on my hip and looking down my nose at him.

  He grinned. "No, Maggie, I don't mind at all."

  "I'd like a little privacy!"

  "And I'm too old to fool twice. No way you're going out that back door again."

  It was a standoff, and he wasn't budging. He stood there, all six feet of long, cool cowboy, his arms folded over his chest and a knowing gleam in his crystal blue eyes. This was a game to him, and one he had no intention of losing.

  "All right, cowboy." I looked at him like it was no skin off my nose. "Come on in. Make yourself comfortable in that rocking chair over there."

  I got to it before he could, swinging it around so that it faced the back corner by the door.

  "Now you can keep your eye on the door."

  My heart was starting to pound along with my head as I watched him walk across the room. I was remembering the first night I'd seen him, in his tight, faded blue jeans. This was not at all the way I'd pictured our future.

  "Don't turn around," I cautioned.

  "Don't give me a reason to," he answered. "Now start talking." He was off again, making me answer every little question he had about my movements the day before.

  I stood behind him and slowly unzipped my jeans. He was talking and made no indication that he even cared that I was behind him, stripping down to my underwear.

  "When did Vernell give you that pistol?" he said. I stepped out of my jeans and tossed them across the bed.

  "I don't know. Six or seven years ago, I guess."

  "Any particular reason?" I lifted my sweatshirt up over my head and threw it on top of the jeans. I was down to a pink satin bra and panties, Weathers was six feet away from me, and there was no more hope for romance in that room than there had been in the three years I'd been divorced from Vernell.

  "He gave me the gun in a foolish attempt to save our marriage," I answered, as I pulled the black sequined dress off its hanger.

  Weathers moved suddenly in the chair and I jumped into the dress.

  "Save your marriage?" he said.

  "Yeah, I dragged him to a marriage counselor and she said we ought to share a hobby. The gun was Vernell's idea of a hobby. He thought we'd go off in the country and shoot at tin cans or something. I just hope he hasn't been as foolish with his second wife."

  Weathers laughed. "Target shooting?"

  "Well, we've all got our notions of what's a romantic outing," I said, slipping my feet into spiky black heels.

  Something in the husky tone of his voice made me look up and stare in his direction. Weathers hadn't moved a muscle and I could suddenly see why. From where he sat, if he stared just a little to the right, my every movement was reflected in the dresser mirror.

  "Oh my God!" I shrieked.

  "Something wrong?" he asked innocently.

  I stared at the back of his head for a second. Could he really see from there? Maybe I was wrong. I walked up behind his chair and squatted down until I was at his eye level. All he would've needed to do was turn his head, just a little bit to the right.

  "Lovely view, isn't it?" he asked softly. Before I could say a word, he was up and moving toward the front door. "You'd better get a move on, aren't you late?"

  I stormed off after him, all sorts of snappy comebacks crowding into my head, but I couldn't say a word. Instead all I could feel was the heat that had suddenly filled my bedroom when he'd looked at me squatting down next to his chair. We had unfinished business, he and I, but now wasn't the time.

  As we were heading out the front door of my house and moving to his car, he looked over at me and said, "What were you doing at the Mobile Home Kingdom after I told you not to go there?" The moment was broken, and we were back on familiar ground.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Weathers didn't want to let me go, but he knew he couldn't stop me, I'd answered all his questions. I told him all about my talk with Bertie Sexton. I told him in graphic detail how I'd been bashed over the head in the closet of a mobile home. I left out only one little thing- Sheila's revelation. That would just have to wait.

  He rolled right up in front of the Golden Stallion, announcing to the world and Cletus, who was working the door, that Maggie Reid had arrived with a police escort. He could've just grabbed a megaphone and shouted, "Appearing live from the Greensboro jailhouse, Miss Maggie Reid!" But I didn't care. I was on time and leaving Weathers behind.

  "Page me if you can't find a way home," he said, as I slammed the car door. If he were the last ride home, I wouldn't call him. If he were the last ride anywhere, I wouldn't call him. But I didn't say it. For once I kept my mouth shut. I was going to need him later, when Sheila decided to quit stalling and tell the police what she'd heard.

  The band was warming up as I walked through the front door of the Golden Stallion. If Cletus was surprised to see me pull up in a police car, he didn't say a word. Instead he raised an appreciative eyebrow at my black dress and high heels, cocked his head to one side, and gave me his attempt at a wink. Cletus couldn't wink. It looked more like a squint accompanied by a lopsided leer.

  Sparks took the band into my theme song when he saw me standing at the back of the house. It was show time. I cut through the crowd, greeting a few of the regulars, and walking like I owned the place. This was where I belonged. For a few short hours, life was going to be uncomplicated, just me and the music and the boys in the band.

  Jack was blowing on the harmonica when I stepped up to the mike, dancing across the stage in his loose-shouldered, knee-lifting dance style. Sparks had his head bent to the pedal steel, ferociously playing a lead. And Sugar Bear was slowly leading the boys off the intro and into the song. I looked out on the floor, flashed my biggest grin, and started singing about lonely cowboys.

  The house was unusually full for a Tuesday night. Carvette, the line-dance instructor, had a large group of fat ladies stumbling across the floor behind her. Had to be a promotion with the weight-loss clinic, I figured. Carvette was big on working the public relations angle. The Young Bucks dance team took up the side of the floor closest to a table of young secretaries who were celebrating and impressed by what the farm boys had to offer. It was going to be a swinging night.

  "Where have you been?" Jack
had snuck up behind me, and I hadn't even heard him.

  "Home and chasing up after my young'un," I answered. "Gettin' my head half bashed in and driving on the sidewalks of Greensboro." Jack laughed; obviously I had to be kidding. Sparks frowned at him, thinking we were going to mess up, and I slid into the last verse.

  Jack stood right by my side, playing softly and shuffling in place. His jeans were wrinkled and he still looked as if he could use a good hot meal. The boy needed a mama.

  "Can I catch a ride home with you?" I asked between songs.

  "Sure." He looked surprised. "Need a place to stay?" He looked hopeful and a little lonely. Where was that Evelyn of his? Then I remembered him crying the other night, and realized what must've happened.

  "Sorry, sweetie," I said, the same way I'd talk to Sheila, "I'm going to sleep in my own bed for awhile. Those water beds make me seasick." He laughed and went back to his harmonica. When this current crisis was over, I was going to have to find that boy a good woman.

  It was a good night for making music, but as the first set came to an end, I realized that Mama Maggie wasn't too happy. By the end of the second set, my mama instincts were going haywire, and I could no longer deny that Sheila might be in trouble. I'd tried to believe that she'd gone off when Keith came by, and probably she had done just that. He'd probably come to the front door and carried her out to dinner and then driven her back home to Vernell's. But what if she hadn't?

  I tried to call her just before the last set started up, but there was no answer at the Spivey castle, only the answering machine with Jolene's tinny little TV voice instructing me to leave a message and "have a nice day." I hung up and ran up the steps to the stage. Where was that girl?

  "She's probably asleep, Maggie," was Jack's theory. "It's almost one o'clock in the morning. The whole house is sleeping, if you ask me."

  "But she just took off."

  "All teenagers just take off," he said, turning back to his harmonica for a brief moment. "It's what teenagers do."

  I didn't feel better. Instead, I felt more and more apprehensive. Deep inside my bones I could feel it. Something was not right with Sheila.

  I kept scanning the door all through the last set, half expecting to see uniformed officers, or Weathers. It was the McCrarey gift of second sight, I could feel it, tingling my scalp and running down my arms. Even Jack sensed my unrest, sticking close by me as I sang the last few songs.

  "All right," he said, when the last number drew to a close and the house lights came up. "It's last call. We can leave. I'll take you home, or wherever else it is you need to go."

  "Home. I can feel it, I need to go home."

  Jack looked at me, looked deep into my eyes, and locked onto my fear. "All right, Maggie. We're leaving now." He spun around, blew a kiss to a young girl with curly brown hair who'd been watching him from the dance floor, and started heading for the back door. "You coming?" he called over his shoulder.

  "Yes," I yelled, running to catch up.

  "It's a good thing that dress has slits up the side," he said. "But you're gonna be cold."

  I didn't redly pay any attention to him, that is, not until he walked up to a small motorcycle and unfastened the two helmets that were tied to the seat.

  "I always come prepared," he said, handing me a helmet.

  "Jack, what happened to your car?" I asked. I knew the answer before he even said a word.

  "Evelyn has it," he said softly. "I figured she needed it more than me."

  I stared at the lonely little motorcycle and back at my kindhearted friend. When I finally met Evelyn, I was going to give her a piece of my mind. Who would leave this sweet man and take his car?

  The early morning air had turned cold, and I knew it would cut through my flimsy dress like a million tiny knives. For a brief second, I thought of calling Weathers and taking him up on his offer of a ride, but I had my code of ethics and Weathers was not an option. Jack offered me his suede jacket, but I wouldn't take it.

  "You'll be up front," I said, "I'll just hunch down behind you. Let's go." The anxiety I'd felt inside was reaching the panic stage now. It didn't matter how I got home, I just had to go.

  As we pulled out of the Golden Stallion and onto High Point Road, it began to sprinkle. By the time we hit Holden, it was pouring. Water slid down my neck, running the length of my back and sliding down my legs. I leaned as close as I could into Jack, but it didn't help. We were both soaking wet. Jack was working to stay focused on his driving, slowing down to an almost-crawl and braking carefully as we came up to a red light.

  "Sorry," he called back to me.

  "Hey, it's not your fault it rained. I'm just thankful you're taking me home." I was shaking with the cold and wishing like anything for shelter. Why did I ever agree to let Weathers drive me to work? What kind of a deal had that turned out to be?

  By the time we pulled up in my backyard, I was numb. I half fell off the back of the bike. My dress was ruined and water squished out of my shoes in noisy little gushes. I looked like a black-and-red drowned rat and I felt a hundred times worse.

  "Thanks, Jack!" I called. "Do you want to come inside and dry off?"

  He shook his head but all I could see was the tinted glass of his faceshield. "Might as well go on home. I'm soaked through anyway," he said. He backed the bike out into the yard and swung around. I was up the steps and inside as he gunned the engine and tore off down my back alley.

  "Sheila?" I called into the darkened house.

  No answer, but I hadn't really expected one. I checked the answering machine, water dripping down my legs and forming little puddles at my feet. No messages.

  "All right, baby girl," I said to my empty bedroom, "Mama's coming after you. If you're not in trouble, you soon will be!" But my heart wasn't in it. I knew my girl was in trouble, the same way my mama always knew when I needed her. It was a gift and a curse, but it was certain knowledge. My daughter needed me and that fact was all I could think about.

  Chapter Thirty

  As I saw it, I had only one option. My daughter was missing, at least to me, and I needed to go over to Vernell's New Irving Park palace, wake everybody up, and assure myself of her safety. If that was an inconvenience to Vernell and the lovely Dish Girl, well, so be it and I hated it for them. Parenthood was not without its tribulations and rewards. Maybe old Vernell needed to be reminded of his parental responsibilities.

  If Sheila wasn't home, he needed to be up and by my side until we found her. If she was home, then the lovely Jolene needed to answer the phone when I called looking for my daughter and not leave it to the answering machine. The way I saw it, people didn't call your house at one A.M. unless it was a total, life-threatening emergency. I always answered my phone when it rang in the middle of the night.

  Armed with this justified way of thinking, and warmed by dry clothing, I set off across town. I hadn't gone two miles when I realized I had trouble. My car, always reliable, seemed to have caught cold. It was coughing and wheezing, and when I hit the light at Green Valley and Battleground, it died and almost didn't start up again.

  "Don't do this," I pleaded. "Not now." But my little VW, Abigail, couldn't help herself. She was struggling to keep going north on Battleground, but we made the split onto Lawndale, with Abigail choking and dying out unless my foot was constantly tapping the accelerator. By the time we wound our way through to Vernell's street, I knew she wouldn't make it home again. Abigail waited until we were on the downhill slope of Vernell's little cul-de-sac to die. I lifted my foot off the accelerator, slipped her into neutral, and coasted to a halt just inside Vernell's cobblestoned driveway.

  "Oh, well, that's that." I sighed. I was not a Triple A member, a fact I deeply regretted at that moment, and one I promised myself to rectify just as soon as I got back home.

  "Well, girl, at least you got me here." My voice sounded loud in the stillness of Vernell's dignified street. There was not one light on inside any house in the circle, including Vernell's. We
'd slid to a stop just behind Sheila's black Mustang convertible, but that meant nothing. She'd been driving Keith's truck that morning.

  Vernell's Day-Glo orange panel truck stood next to Sheila's little car. Too large to fit in his garage, I was certain status-conscious Jolene had plenty to say about Vernell bringing the revolving Jesus home to rest in her driveway.

  "Glad that's not my problem," I muttered and headed up the drive to ring the front doorbell.

  As I pressed the brass button, I noticed one little light on in the back of the house. Someone might be up. I pressed my face to the cut-glass oval that took up half of the heavy wooden door, and tried to see into the house. At the same time, I kept my finger continuously pressed on the doorbell. Someone was moving toward me, shuffling slowly, half bent over, and weaving from side to side. Vernell.

  "Where's the fire?" he called. He swung open the door and a loud voice startled both of us.

  "Intruder! Intruder! Front entrance. You have twenty seconds to disarm!"

  Vernell looked momentarily confused and worried, then disgusted. "Dag-blamed security system!" He turned away from me and began stabbing a pudgy finger at the keypad by the front door. "If it ain't one thing it's another with this place," he grumbled. He was wearing his blue polyester leisure suit, rumpled and stained from what looked like continuous wear without benefit of washing.

  "Come in! Come on in!" Vernell's dark hair stood up in tufts across the top of his head. "I was just talking to you, anyway," he said. Vernell's breath and body smelled of liquor and I could see a bottle of Wild Turkey sitting out on the kitchen table.

  I followed him into the kitchen, tempted a few times to reach out and grab him as he threatened to do damage to a fancy doodad or knock into a framed picture with his drunken body.

  "Vernell," I said, "do you know what time it is?"

  "You come all this way to ask me the time?" Vernell looked genuinely puzzled. "Well, I reckon it's coming up on ten o'clock."