Waking Up in Dixie

by Haywood Smith

  “Bull,” Mitch said. “You talk to my wife again, and I’m comin’ after you.”

  Howe’s smile congealed. “You talk to me like that again, and I’m calling your loans.”

  Mitch blanched. Like most people in the current economy, both he and Sam had made more than a few late payments, which was grounds for foreclosure.

  Howe considered it divine providence that he held the paper on every reprobate in the county, and he wouldn’t shrink from using that to accomplish good. His family had suffered enough from Howe’s past sins. He had no intention of letting some blowhard like Mitch or Sam embarrass them further.

  “You, too, Sam,” Howe warned.

  Sam sneered. “Ah. There’s the old Howe we all know.”

  On the way home, Howe decided to put a stop to all the female attention. So he showed up, unannounced, at the Women’s Club the next day. The president—plump, graying Susan Connor—glided over with a look of pleased surprise. “Howe, it’s wonderful to see you. How well you look.” As the others looked on, whispering among themselves, she took his arm, openly admiring his flat stomach and newly thickened biceps. “Just delicious.” After a glance at his ass, she focused on his face. “There must be some mix-up, though. I don’t have you scheduled to speak today.”

  “Actually, I’d just like to make a brief announcement, if there’s room on your agenda,” he said, flashing his old charm. He scanned the women present, noting that almost all of the ones who’d called or come to him were there. One even blew him a kiss. Lord. “It won’t take long, I promise.”

  “I don’t see why not. Is it something to do with the bank?”

  “Nope.” He diverted the conversation with, “How are those three grandsons of yours? Elizabeth tells me they’re all playing football now.”

  The grandparent diversion worked every time. Susan’s face lit up. “Can you believe it? Seems they were just babies, and now they’re in the annual football parade. They’re so cute in their little uniforms. But I can’t say so, of course. They want to be tough.”

  “Do you have any photos?” Howe said. “I’d love to see them.”

  “Do I ever. Right here in my bag.” She reached into her bag on the nearby head table, then produced a two-inch-thick stack of pictures.

  Grateful for a safe diversion, Howe oohed and aahed until it was time to start, and he found a seat near the back of the room.

  After the previous minutes and treasurer’s report, Susan motioned her gavel in Howe’s direction. “Before we move on to old business, we have a request from a very good friend of the Women’s Club. Howe Whittington would like to make a brief announcement.”

  All eyes turned his way as the women pivoted in their chairs.

  Howe stood. He’d planned exactly what he meant to say, and he wanted to get it right. “First, thank you for allowing me to intrude on your meeting. Since the Women’s Club is the heartbeat of Whittington, I figured this was the best place to reach most of you lovely ladies.” He made bold eye contact with the ones who’d come on to him. “First, I’d like to thank those of you who’ve brought me food while Elizabeth is on vacation. It’s all wonderful, and I really appreciate it. But my refrigerator and freezer are full, so you can all stand down when it comes to that. I have enough to last me for the next six months.”

  A chuckle rippled through the audience.

  “Second, I have to eat some crow, here.” He glanced down. “For a long time, I was nobody’s idea of a model citizen, and an even worse husband to my devoted wife Elizabeth. But now that God has given me another chance at life, I plan to do everything I can to make it up to her.”

  Half the audience made a dreamy “awww” face, while the rest reacted with visible consternation.

  “So,” he went on, “though I’m flattered that some of you have felt comfortable calling me and coming by to visit, I’d be a lot more comfortable if you didn’t anymore. I’d hate for anybody to get the wrong idea, especially Elizabeth.” He faced them squarely. “No matter what you might hear or think, I love my wife, and I don’t ever want her to be worried on my account again. Ever.”

  The spurned exhaled as one in exasperation, while the rest of the women applauded.

  Susan grasped her gavel to her bosom. “God bless you, Howe. Would that all our husbands would be so thoughtful.”

  Howe bowed. “Thank you for your time and attention.” Then he escaped before anybody could corner him, pleased with how well things had gone.

  But by the time he got home, an emotional rebound had sent his spirits plummeting. The house—and his life—seemed so empty without Elizabeth that he broke down and called her for the first time since she’d left.

  When she answered, he hardly gave her space to say hello before launching into, “I know I said I’d give you time to think, but I really need to talk to you.”

  “You should have talked to me before I came up here,” she snapped. “I found out this was your love nest from the locksmith, a fact that everybody in this town was aware of but me.”

  “Damn.” He should have. She was perfectly justified in being angry. “I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid you wouldn’t accept the place if I did.”

  “So you just didn’t tell me. How convenient.” Her pause bristled with hostility. “Not telling the truth is the same as lying, Howe. I’ve had a crawful of that, and I won’t take it anymore. If you want a relationship with me, you have to tell me the truth, even when it’s messy.”

  “I will.” Why hadn’t he just told her? It was his old self who’d used that place, not the man he was now. “I swear. From now on, it’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. That’s why I called you. Things have been pretty . . . messy around here since you left.”

  Her tone shifted. “How, messy? Dirty house, messy, or trouble, messy?”

  “Both, but the house, I can deal with.” He owed her the truth. “The rest . . . Nobody bought the spa story, so a lot of your so-called friends have been showing up on the doorstep with casseroles, offering to keep me company.”

  To his amazement, Elizabeth laughed. “Who? Tell.”

  It certainly wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. He tucked his chin, offended that she wasn’t the least bit threatened. “Wouldn’t you rather know if I was tempted?”

  “If you were tempted,” she countered, “you wouldn’t have told me. Who were they? And what did they bring?”

  “Chicken casseroles, mostly,” he said. “Sarah Williams was the first.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. She always has hated me for marrying you.”

  “Why?” That was ridiculous. “I never even dated her.”

  “You were the catch of the century. A lot of girls in Whittington took to their beds when we eloped,” Elizabeth told him. “So did their mothers.”

  Howe mimicked a breathy starlet’s voice. “That makes me feel like a piece of meat.”

  “Who else put the mash on you?” she prodded.

  Maybe she did care, and was making a blacklist. Howe smiled, then named off as many as he could remember. “And that’s not counting the phone calls,” he said.

  “They called you, too?”

  “Not the same ones,” he said.

  “Lord. What did they say?”

  “They started out asking for you, then said they needed advice about their husbands,” he explained. “I tried to get off the line, but they were crafty.”

  Elizabeth laughed again. God, it was good to hear. “That is so lame. Do they think you’re a moron?”

  “Apparently,” he said, missing her more with each passing word.

  “So, what did you tell them?”

  “To go to a counselor to figure out what they wanted from their marriages. I recommended the one I’m seeing.”

  A long pause strained the silence between them. “I guess you’d like for me to figure out what I want from this marriage, too,” she said at last, her voice subdued, “wouldn’t you?”

  He hadn’t
realized it when he’d placed the call, but she was dead right. “I know you want honesty, and I’m going to do a lot better with that. As for the rest . . . I don’t want to pressure you. I can wait. It’s not easy; I miss you like hell. But take the time you need.”

  When she didn’t respond, he said, “I figured out a way to get your so-called friends to leave me alone.”

  “And what was that?” she asked with obvious trepidation.

  “I went to the Women’s Club meeting this morning and asked them to back off.”

  “Charles Howell Whittington the second, you did not!” Elizabeth exploded.

  Uh-oh. “I did.”

  “If you ever want to speak to me again, you will tell me every word you said,” she ordered. “Exactly. And do not leave anything out.” She muttered, “I cannot believe you did that.”

  So Howe told her. By the time he’d finished, Elizabeth had calmed down.

  “That was very diplomatic,” she said. “And very, very sweet.”

  “I meant it.”

  After another extended pause, she said quietly, “I was really furious at you for not telling me the truth about this place.”

  At least she used the past tense. “I’m really sorry, Lillibet. It was stupid. And I can’t promise you I won’t ever do anything stupid again, but I will try to be honest, even when it hurts.” He couldn’t help making at least one excuse. “I just wanted you to have a safe place to think things over.” Even as he said it, he realized his motives hadn’t been quite so pure.

  “That’s not the whole truth,” he owned up. “I wanted to know where you were, somewhere I could picture you.” Stupid. And selfish. “That was selfish of me.”

  The silence from her end tightened his chest, and he gripped the phone with both hands, aching for her solid, calming presence. “I miss you so much, Elizabeth. Without you, this is just a big, empty house.”

  She didn’t respond, which only made it worse. He’d promised not to pressure her, but that was just what he was doing.

  At last, she spoke. “Lonely enough to make you look for comfort elsewhere?”

  “No.” The word came quick and sure. “Just lonely enough to make me miserable. I try to keep busy with the renovations and another project I’m working on, but without you, none of it means very much.”

  “You can call me,” she offered, softening. “It’s okay.”

  “That would help a lot.”

  “But don’t talk to any more of my so-called friends,” she advised, a welcome hint of jealousy in her tone.

  “I told you, I asked them to back off.”

  “Some people don’t take no for an answer,” she said. “Now, they’ll probably call to tell you what a wonderful thing you did today. If they do, let the message pick up, then you can block their numbers.”

  “Tried it. They just come over . . . with a chicken casserole.”

  She chuckled, breaking the tension.

  “I’m hiring a housekeeper,” he announced. “Somebody mean and matronly. Let her deal with it.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  Don’t hang up. “You know, I never appreciated how much work this place is till you left,” he said. “I didn’t appreciate a lot of things you did, but I do now.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  The next pause stretched awkwardly between them.

  “Well, I guess I’d better go,” she said. “They’re delivering the new sofas today, and I don’t want to tie up the phone.”

  But the house was fully—and expensively—furnished. “New sofas?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “When I found out everybody in town called this place ‘the Love Nest’ ”—Howe winced—“I got so furious knowing those women had been here, slept here, touched everything, that I wanted to throw every bit of it into the lake. Especially the beds.”

  Damn. He’d never even considered the whole bed thing. “Did you?”

  “I was tempted,” she admitted, “but no. I gave everything—and I mean everything—to the band boosters, instead. They raised six thousand dollars auctioning it all off.”

  It had cost fifty, but Howe had no intention of bringing that up. “So what are you doing for furniture?” he asked.

  “Haven’t you looked at the Visa bill?”

  Howe tucked his chin. “Hazel does all that at the bank,” he told her. “Why?”

  “Let’s just say I finally got to decorate a place the way I like it.”

  Howe made a mental note to check the bill. However expensive it was, he couldn’t very well blame Elizabeth. “Splurge all you want, and enjoy it.”

  “I will, but I don’t need your permission to do it,” she shot back.

  She’d gotten feisty up there on her own, and it turned Howe on.

  Another awkward pause settled between them.

  “I really have to go now,” she said.

  It was so hard letting her go, he couldn’t be the one to say good-bye. “Thanks for taking my call. I promise not to abuse the privilege.”

  “ ’Bye.”

  The line went dead.

  Howe hung up and made straight for the treadmill and ran till he was too exhausted to think, then took a long, hot shower and cried like a baby.

  At least he wasn’t bawling in public anymore.

  The next Sunday at church, Father Jim surprised the congregation by preaching on what an inspiration it had been to work with Howe and see his new dedication to his faith and their parish.

  Surprised, Howe shifted uncomfortably in his seat, knowing what Paul must have felt like when he referred to himself as chief among sinners.

  The priest went on to paint vivid pictures of the changed lives of the disciples, both before and after Christ’s death. Then he confessed that he had lost his fire and been phoning it in for the past few years, for fear of offending anyone. But seeing Howe’s new beginning had made him decide to make a new one of his own. Then he challenged the congregation to examine their own lives and pick one area, just one at first, where they would start afresh with a new commitment to their own relationships with God and the spiritual growth of their church. He concluded by asking for their help along the way in his journey of renewal, and promising to help them in theirs.

  It was the best sermon the man had ever given, and Howe’s mother wasn’t there to hear it.

  After the service, several of the members who’d given Howe the cold shoulder since the vestry meeting came up and shook his hand as he waited to tell the minister what a great job he’d done.

  When Howe reached Father Jim at his usual postservice greeting place at the back of the sanctuary, the priest enveloped him in a hug, clapping his back.

  “Great job, Father,” Howe told him. “Really great. You need to be careful, though. I might get the big-head.”

  The minister’s eyes were rimmed with red when he drew back. “Your trust and willingness and enthusiasm made me realize how far I’d fallen from the joy of service I once had.”

  Howe faltered. “I never intended to imply that you—”

  “You did exactly what God wanted you to do,” the priest interrupted, “and I’m grateful. Thanks to God’s mercy, we can both start over exactly where we are.”

  If only Elizabeth could, too.

  Father Jim smiled in sympathy. “How much longer till Patti and your mother get home?”

  “Wednesday,” Howe said. Till then, he’d rattle around in that big place like a marble in a steamer trunk.

  Father Jim smiled in sympathy. “Why don’t you come by for lunch after this? I know Nancy would love to see you.” He leaned in close again. “And I promise, she won’t make a pass at you.”

  Howe chuckled. He could use some company. And something besides chicken casserole to eat. “It’s a date.” That took care of Sunday. Now all he had to do was take care of the rest of the time till Elizabeth rendered a verdict on their marriage.

  He knew better than to let himself think beyond that.

  Mean
while, he’d have to tell Patti something about where her mother was when she got back, before the rumors reached her. The question was, what?

  Chapter 22

  The next Wednesday, Howe and a host of others waited for the arriving passengers at the top of the escalators in the main concourse of Hartsfield-Jackson, and was surprised to see Patti emerge from the elevator, instead, pushing his mother in a wheelchair.

  Howe rushed over to help. His mother’s baleful expression dared him to mention the chair, so he didn’t.

  “There’re my girls! I sure did miss you two.” Howe confined himself to bear-hugging Patti. “Hey, Patti-pie. How was Europe?”

  “Fabulous, Daddy. Fabulous. I can’t wait for you to see the pictures. We stayed in real castles. They were so gorgeous. And our drivers were so nice. They were licensed tour guides, too, so they all knew everything about what we saw, and took us to these great little out-of-the-way places.” Brimming with all she’d seen, she launched into a detailed travelogue as they headed for baggage claim.

  When they got there, Howe asked Patti to find out which carousel their luggage would be on, then waited till she was gone to crouch beside his mother and ask, “Mama, are you okay?” Her color was terrible, and she appeared to be in pain.

  “I’m eighty-five years old and just took a whirlwind tour of Europe with a nineteen-year-old,” she snapped. “Not to mention the fact that I’ve just spent seven hours flying home. I have a right to be tired.”

  “When was the last time you had a physical?” he asked.

  “None of your business.”

  Patti came back, pointing to the nearby baggage carousel. “It’s coming in on that one.”

  No bags had shown up yet, which came as no surprise. The Atlanta airport was so busy, it could take an hour to get your luggage.