Delta Ridge

by Frances Downing Hunter

  THE CASTING OF my little one act plays was immediately different with Michael, my last romance. Always before, once the fellow figured out that he wasn’t going to be stalked or castrated, he came back for more ego-building nonsense and the kind of sex men figure they can get only from a crazy woman. I would say, “Go away. Leave me alone. I have no feelings for you anymore.” And after a few times of threatening to call the police, get an injunction, or playing “Stairway to Heaven” on my answering machine, they began to back off; and I walked off loaded with all those precious ego strokes I had never gotten from any of them after the third date.

  But the script changed with Michael and I didn’t know my lines anymore. He said it before I even thought about saying it: “Holly, I’m sorry. I’m not ready. I can’t commit. My life’s too complicated. I hope you understand.” His foot was out the door before I could grab hold of his coattails. He walked out, said goodbye, washed his hands of our whole relationship before he did anything wrong—taking with him my trust, my pride and vanity, but not, of course, the last word. And I hadn’t seen him since, until today. Thank God for granting me the weekend to settle into Delta Ridge, so I could absorb the shock of seeing Michael again without going totally emotional and embarrassing myself before the other members of the firm.

  In our last meeting in Little Rock, my temper had snagged the last word as he went for the door. A redundant, “Then get out, you son of a bitch!” because somewhere I knew that if I didn’t explode, I would implode and ignite everything within ten feet of me. I wanted Michael to suffer a little because I knew I would suffer a lot. And I had. But now, I wish I’d been aloof, indifferent, cool, played a closer hand, and held tight to my pride.

  I could see it in his eyes today. Michael feared me. I had shamed him. He had taken the unmanly way out, hunkering down and heading for the foxhole. I guess it’s true that the suicide’s first choice is usually someone else who has already escaped, and “I’ll see you in hell!” is little consolation. Even a brave queen has no real power over a cowardly man.

  BEFORE MY TRIP to Europe, I was depressed and called Ham. Early into the conversation, he asked, “Holly, you sound tired. Is anything wrong?” Sensing that I wasn’t being forthcoming, he said, “Honey. I know something’s going on with you, but I want you to think about something else. Before you say a word, I want you to think hard. Think about coming back home and joining the Carter Law Firm. Our civil practice is growing. We could use you, honey. And I’ll sweeten the pot. I’ll give you a paid vacation up front. Take that trip I offered you that you turned down when you graduated from college.”

  By the next week Ham was in Little Rock with a twenty-thousand-dollar check and a credit card in his hand. I cried and hugged him hard. “Let me think about it,” I stalled, knowing I had neither the strength nor the will to reject the offer of a year in Europe without obligation or commitment, just an offer for a career position in Delta Ridge. My heart was being carried around in a briefcase somewhere and Little Rock only reminded me of it—reminded me that Michael didn’t love me, so I couldn’t love myself. At least not in that town. Seduced by the year of escape, I made my decision, knowing full well that I would feel the need to work for Ham as a means of repaying him for helping me in my time of need. So what if I might have to barter the rest of my life and return to the stifling atmosphere of a Bible buckle, conventional Delta town and marry a spaghetti-bodied shoe salesman?

  In the twelve years since I had left Delta Ridge, negative memories had driven me towards positive action—two degrees, a satisfying job, albeit a string of half-hearted and casual relationships. But my personal life was always in turmoil and my spirit was raw, unnourished without a home to go home to. Even then, I knew that much about myself. Maybe a return home is what I need. All the familiar people and things I’ve tried to rip from my mind, I need to face them all, but not right now. I rationalized a bit longer, then quietly took the money, and flew to France as fast as I could, but not before Ham and I celebrated over a few bottles of wine when he took me out for dinner.

  I later regretted what I might have revealed to Ham that night. Wine blurs memory, and I was drinking to forget Michael, my own crumpled principles, and what could possibly be a lifetime sentence to the death row city of Delta Ridge. Ham had taught me early never to reveal my secrets to others. “Don’t ever hand your enemies the stick to skewer you on. Just remember everybody round here loves barbeque. You don’t want to be nobody’s sucklin’ pig so don’t squeal, kid.” When someone else has the goods on you, as we never like to say, something bad is apt to happen.

  I had seen both Ham and my mother offer to commiserate with others and then later use their confessionals as small time blackmail when they needed an edge. Delta Ridge was not the shark town feeding frenzy I wanted to be thrown into.

  MONDAY AFTERNOON I seethed over Michael’s pretending not to know me. His indifference seemed so callous, so unfeeling. But then, like me, he may have felt blindsided.

  I waited until I knew that Ham and the others had left the office, and then I walked to the upstairs break room to refill my coffee cup. Across the hall I could see Michael’s office light through the transom above his closed door. I got my coffee, turned off the empty pot, and walked slowly back down the hallway toward my own office. Then, I found myself hesitating outside Michael’s office door. “Yes?” he asked, the creaking oak floor beneath my feet revealing my nervous shifting.

  “Might I have a word with you?” was out of my mouth in a school-teachery voice before I could stop it. I told myself that I had been caught out, and I didn’t want Michael to think that his new job came with its own private stalker. It was best that I owned up.

  “Sure,” he said, while grabbing his briefcase. “I’m in a rush. Could we just walk out and talk on our way to the parking lot?”

  Nobody could argue with that claim; but if his aim was to prevent a scene with an unhappy client or, say, a jilted lover, he was heading in the right direction. Walking down the noisy stairs, I could hardly find a word, much less a rebuke. I was exposed, and everything I could think to offer seemed inappropriate. Finally, by the time we reached the first floor reception room, I stammered: “Seeing you this morning was a bit awkward. I had no idea.” That was all I could get out, embarrassingly earnest as it was. I tried to focus on the darkening trees outside the office windows. The wind was picking up.

  “I was very surprised to see you, Holly. It was so unexpected. I didn’t know what to say, and you didn’t give me any clues.”

  Yes, of course, it’s my fault. Men always have a way of turning the tables before anyone has even had a chance to take a seat. Michael was wound up tight and had no trouble continuing. “I didn’t know you were a Carter, or that you were from Delta Ridge, or what you had told your grandfather. I was stunned to see you.”

  Not matching his accusation, I said softly (although I wanted to scream it), “I trust that you can see clearly now.” Did he think I had planned this meeting, our coming together, ordered him up like a pig on a spit?

  “What did you want me to do? I came here to do a job. Can I do that now, Holly?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m asking if we can be adults about this, Holly.”

  Why does he keep saying my name? “Who’s not being adult?”

  Michael’s expression grew impatient, irritated, his open palm rubbed the side of his neck. “I’m not sure I know what we’re even talking about. Maybe you’d better tell me. Look, I have a lot riding on this job change. More than you can know.”

  “What, are you writing a mystery novel?” I retorted, upset by dialogue that proved once again that a man’s problems, like his body, always outweigh a woman’s in his mind. Such is the lot of the female.

  He returned my sarcasm with a somewhat self-righteous attitude. There would be no banter today. Instead, he became a literalist as his tone shifted to reflect that of a parent explaining to a child—slow and condescending. “I’m not
writing anything. I’m going to be prosecuting a murderer once we find out who did it.”

  Michael’s remark sobered me up a little. “I thought you had found him.”

  “I haven’t found anybody, and since you’ve come into the picture, I’m wondering if I ever will. I’m going to have trouble keeping my mind on this case wondering what might happen.”

  I took a deep breath. I could feel myself turning gentle as things came into perspective. I was suddenly aware of the whole scene. I sensed fear was walking between us, and it wasn’t all on Michael’s side. Was he pining for me? Had he missed me like I had missed him? Was that what he was trying not to say? I stopped myself at the caution light. What was about to tumble off my tongue was halted when I bit it, hard. I stumbled into “Seeing you here in Delta Ridge was just so unexpected,” instead.

  “Holly, why are we talking about all this? The last thing either one of us needs to do is resurrect some silly arguments from the past. I just want to know: Can I stay here, live in Delta Ridge, work as a deputy prosecutor in this law firm, or am I going to be forced to leave? Are you going to act crazy, explode all over the place, and burn every bridge I’ve tried to build from here to Little Rock? Are you going to let me in on what you plan to tell your grandfather?”

  That he’d better lock me up right now before he has another murderer on his hands because I’m getting ready to kill you, you unfeeling son of a bitch! I didn’t say that, but what I did say was just as wrong. “Did our time together mean nothing to you?” I wondered why I said what I felt. Why didn’t I stick to the script, give nothing away?

  “Holly, I honestly don’t know what I’ve done to you to cause such an overreaction. I think you hate me but I never meant you harm. I thought we had good fun together. I simply tried to get out before things got too serious. I admit I tried to ignore most of the hostile feelings I got from you every time I saw you during the last month or two we were together. You always seemed so tense. I couldn’t gauge your reactions. Nothing seemed real. Then, everything became so dramatic.”

  I realized I was getting his prepared speech, prepared to ignore my feelings or denigrate them, so I threw him a live coal. “You mean that I was dramatic, don’t you? You must have realized you were leading me on, Michael.”

  “Leading you where? I thought you were a party girl, Holly, and at first we were having lots of fun; then everything changed. You changed. My life changed big time, but never did I lead you on—lead you to believe in anything other than the present moment. I’m sorry you got the wrong impression.”

  As he opened the back door in the downstairs kitchen, the rain was cascading in sheets onto the sidewalk, falling fast and hard as the February wind slapped against my face. I am such a fool, I thought. I was acting like a silly schoolgirl who has to step over her heart, lying bloody on this damned parking lot. It’s the only way that I can get to my car.

  “Your secret is safe with me, Michael.” I tried to muster some weak bravado out of a half-remembered Humphrey Bogart movie and walk away with a little class, a dash of elegance; but my left foot hit a sink hole in the wet asphalt, and my ankle twisted, just as the other leg lost its footing on the sidewalk. Just before my face found the pavement, I caught Michael’s knee with my right hand and pulled him tumbling down on top of me. We did the only thing left to do in that situation and laughed together as he pulled me up and half lifted me into the seat of my car as if I were a fragile infant. His eyes showed the first real concern I’d detected since we parted in Little Rock.

  “Try to make it home safely, kid.” He patted my arm the way men do when they see weakness in a woman, when they know she’s no longer a threat, and they are once again safe. Then they can afford generosity of spirit, a bit of kindness, gentleness, which is so easy for a woman to think is rekindled passion. It’s so hard sometimes to see that it’s just a cinder, not a blaze.

  I watched into my rear-view mirror as Michael hobbled to his own car. “Thank you, God and city planners,” I said aloud as I turned out of the front driveway, “for not putting that damned parking lot out in front of the building on a busy street.” In Delta Ridge even the sidewalks have eyes and ears.

  5 Reflecting On Michael And Men

  MONDAY, I’M CERTAIN, was not a good day for Michael—seeing me for the first time since our breakup and knowing that we would be working in the same building on the same floor at his new job. And last week the double homicide must have been hell for him. After a little investigative work, I learned that it was six months ago that Michael resigned from his job in Little Rock as an assistant United States attorney and moved to Delta Ridge to be the deputy state prosecutor, working from the Carter Law Firm.

  What had bothered me most in my relationship with Michael was that he was so elusive. It seemed his personal life was off limits as a topic of conversation. He was careful not to slip with an innocent remark that would give me any clue as to what his life had been like before he moved to Arkansas; or for that matter, what it was like since he had been in Little Rock. Nothing that would give me any insight into the private life of Michael Martin.

  In Michael’s defense, I did want us to “have fun.” Maybe I had been a “party girl.” Sparing my foolishness is not one of my skills. I know now at thirty that men like the wild Zeldas as companions, but not as wives. Nothing’s really changed. Men don’t like being with girls who’ve slept with the soccer team or with their best friends. A hot babe’s good for flashing around their buddies, but professional men still want elegant ladies as wives. Men still like to be the aggressors—or at least that is what I have seen happen in my surroundings.

  In some ways men are as romantic as women before our cynicism defeated us. “My love, she speaks in silence without ideas of violence.” Bob Dylan understands the male psyche. A man wants a paper doll who doesn’t talk about her problems that he can impress at his side. And a man must always believe that if he is not the first, he’s the last. But hindsight is 20/20, and even if I’d had a magnifying glass trained on him, I would not have seen Michael Martin as anything more than the persecutor that twenty years ago I needed him to be.

  “OH MY GOD,” I announced aloud as I realized I had been so tied up in aftershocks and recovered memories that I had left Jigger in the backyard all day Monday with nobody home. When I left home in the morning, I had planned to run home midmorning to check on him and put him back in the house. (No, the truth is that I forgot I let him out.) When I got home from the office at 8:30, I went immediately to the back gate and called, “Jigger! Jigger!” Louder and louder I called until finally I heard a low moan, then a loud bark, coming from somewhere in the woods behind the house.

  How did Jigger get out? Tomorrow I’ll have to look for holes under the fence. So, Jigger’s a digger. Thank you, Victoria. The last thing I need is a damned dog. But at least he’s safe. Maybe he’s trapped in that old barn behind the house. It’s probably full of rats and it’s almost nine o’clock at night.

  “Cut the sarcasm, Holly, it doesn’t suit you.” That’s what Ham would say. I’d say, faint heart never found stupid dog. “Jigger,” I screamed again and a male voice yelled back.

  “Holly, is that you?” Oh, my god, a talking dog. Yes, you fool, I was ready to scream. Get yourself home—when a tall hand waved over the back gate. “Don’t you remember what’s beyond the back gate? I kidnapped your dog this morning. He howled so loudly I thought he was injured. Come on back here. His ransom’s a cup of coffee or a glass of wine on my front porch.”

  “Dr. Sullivan?” I questioned in disbelief.

  “Well, at least you remember my name, even if you forgot about the path you used to take through the woods to my house. I’ve been waiting every day for you to drop in to visit. I know you’ve been busy, what with the murders and all. I decided the only way to get to see you was to abduct your dog. I thought that would get the D.A. and the police after me, maybe get your attention. You’ve been gone a very long time, little girl.”

&n
bsp; “You’re still such a rascal.” I unlatched the gate and hugged my old high school English teacher, vaguely remembering that his wife, also Dr. Sullivan and my old Latin teacher, had passed away in recent years. Had I even sent a card?

  “You’re looking fit,” I said, my ribs tight under his reciprocal bear hug. “And, I see that you haven’t lost your wry humor.”

  “It’s like the ocean, Holly. Not everything recedes at once. I’ve still got a few shells left on the beach.”

  “Are you the beach?”

  “Maybe the sand…you know, in the hour glass, the sands of time. Some days I feel as old as Father Time, but I’m still shaving. No beard to my knees yet. I think that’s a good sign, don’t you?”

  “I think I’ll take that wine,” I said when finally we meandered to his porch. On the way, I was attacked by two dead blackberry vines. The first one bit my ankle, and I yelled, “Oh no! It’s a snake.” Dr. Sullivan reached down and tore it loose from my high heel. “You know it’s cold as hell out here? Am I being punished? And where’s my damned dog?”

  “Yes you are but I’ll bring you a shawl.” I noticed he was wearing some kind of Irish fisherman’s sweater that would warm a boat full of fish or burley men. “It’s hot buttered rum,” he said, handing me the steaming mug before placing a throw in my lap and his deceased wife’s purple shawl over my shoulders. Jigger slithered out from the open front door, but I ignored him as he plopped down close to Dr. Sullivan’s rocking chair. My teacher continued his discourse as if he had begun it yesterday.

  “Well, I see that you’re still more proficient in the scatological than in standard English,” he laughed in reference to my profanity. “You always did so love those Anglo-Saxon verbs. Take a deep breath, Holly. Let go of some of that stress. Smoke’s coming out of your ears.”