I Promise

by Joan Johnston

  Marsh laid his father across the bed so he could pull his boots off, then unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans and pulled them off too. He unsnapped his Western shirt and tugged that off, leaving Cyrus in T-shirt, boxer shorts, and socks. He lifted his father’s feet onto the bed and pulled the sheet up around him.

  He looked down at his father, feeling guilty because he was ashamed of him and angry at him for pissing away his life. If he ever had a kid, he wasn’t going to be like his dad. He was going to remember what it felt like to need your father’s respect and to want to respect your father. He was going to hug his kid. And ask him about his hopes and dreams. And love him.

  Except, even that wasn’t enough. He would make damn sure his kid knew he was loved.

  “Good night, Dad.”

  He turned out the lamp and closed the door behind him. He went to his room and lay down on his grandmother’s quilt and stared up into the darkness.

  The next thing he knew, it was dawn.

  He awoke with the thought that there was nothing keeping him from seeing Delia. Her father, who had forbidden him contact with her, was dead. He could likely show up at her back door and be allowed to talk with her. Her mother might even give him permission to date her.

  He suited word to deed. After a hasty shower and shave he dressed quickly, then realized he didn’t want to show up at Delia’s door looking like a range bum. So he took off his shirt and pressed it and shined his boots, and took another swipe through his hair with the comb. It needed a cut, but he wasn’t willing to postpone his visit long enough to wait for Red White’s Barber Shop to open.

  He arrived on Delia’s doorstep at an indecently early hour for company. Except, ranchers kept such indecently early hours, he knew she would be up. He saw a light on in the kitchen, and several more upstairs. He knocked on the kitchen door and waited impatiently, anxiously, for it to be opened.

  He expected to see the housekeeper. Mrs. Carson answered the door instead.

  “G-good morning,” he stuttered.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” she said. “Come in.”

  Mrs. Carson expecting him? Mrs. Carson inviting him in? This was definitely “The Twilight Zone.” He looked for Delia over the small woman’s shoulder, but didn’t see her.

  Mrs. Carson stood back and held the screen door for him. “Are you coming inside?”

  He took two steps inside the door, but that was as far as he got, before she let the screen door slam and turned to face him.

  “Delia’s gone,” she said. “She disappeared sometime during the night. She left a note saying she was going away, and that she wouldn’t be back. Until you showed up here, I thought she might have gone with you.

  “If you’re here, she really meant what she said in her note.” Her eyes were bleak. “She’s gone. And she’s not coming back.”

  Marsh’s heart began to race. “Can I see the note?”

  Mrs. Carson’s lips flattened and the skin around her mouth turned white. “No.”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” he demanded. “How do I know she’s not upstairs right now?”

  She fixed him with an icy stare. “Get out. Now. Or I’ll call the sheriff.”

  Marsh didn’t need a second warning. He slammed his way out the door and ran for his pickup.

  Delia was gone. Delia had run away. Without telling him. Without a word.

  She wouldn’t do that. She loved him. She couldn’t leave without telling him, without giving him a chance to talk her out of it.

  He knew then where she was. She had gone to the live oak. She was waiting there for him. She planned to run away all right, but she was going to do it with him.

  He drove his pickup like a crazy man back down the road from Delia’s mansion to the highway, raising a tail of dust. He skidded from the dirt road onto U.S. 83 and gunned the engine. He hit the accelerator and watched the needle climb to eighty. That was more than he knew was safe with his rebuilt engine, but he didn’t care if the damned thing blew.

  Then he saw the flashing lights behind him. He was tempted to try and outrun the county patrol car, but it would be faster to stop and let the cop write him a ticket. He hit the brakes, and the Chevy fishtailed as it screeched to a halt.

  He was out of the truck and headed back toward the white patrol car before the county cop had gotten halfway to him.

  “Stop right there.” It was the young deputy who had taken turns with Sheriff Davis questioning him, Koehl, according to his nameplate, the one who knew the identity of the person who had come to talk to the sheriff. He wanted to ask Koehl about that, but not right now. Right now he needed to get to Delia.

  “Look, I was speeding. Give me the ticket and let me go,” Marsh said irritably.

  “You’re a lucky man, North. Don’t know a man could beat a rape charge slick as you did. Not when he’s sure as sin guilty.”

  “I didn’t rape anyone.”

  Before Marsh could say more, the deputy grabbed him and shoved him up against the side of his truck. “Spread ’em,” Koehl said as he kicked Marsh’s legs out away from his body. The deputy frisked him and said, “You can turn around now.”

  Marsh glared at him.” Are you going to give me a ticket, or what?”

  “You got a driver’s license, North?”

  Marsh reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took out the license and handed it over.

  “This is expired,” the deputy said with a smirk.

  “What?” Marsh stared with disbelief at the date Koehl pointed out. His birthday wasn’t something that he celebrated. It was an easy thing to miss.

  “You turned twenty-one more than a month ago. Should have had this renewed.”

  “I will,” Marsh said. “Now write me the ticket—”

  “Driving without a license is a serious offense, North. I’m going to have to take you in.”

  Marsh shook his head. He knew why he was being hassled. The town had convicted him without a trial. He could expect this sort of harassment from now on. And he would handle it, somehow.

  But the deputy couldn’t take him to jail now. Not when Delia was waiting for him. Not when she might leave if he didn’t get there soon.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not going with you. Just give me the ticket—”

  “You resisting arrest, North?” the deputy asked.

  “Goddamnit, you can’t do this!” Marsh railed. When he saw the deputy reach for his cuffs, he knew what was coming. Another day in jail, and maybe no bail this time if his father got mad enough. Delia would leave town without him. He would never find her.

  “Look, you can’t do this. Just give me the ticket—”

  As the unsuspecting deputy reached for him, Marsh gave him a roundhouse punch to the temple. Koehl went down like a heart-shot deer.

  Marsh stared with dismay at the unconscious deputy, realizing too late what he had done. Resisting arrest. Assaulting a police officer. He was in serious trouble. It was a good thing Delia wanted to get the hell out of here. After this, it would be better if he put some space between himself and this town.

  He didn’t have much time before the deputy regained consciousness. He picked the man up and set him in his patrol car, where he wouldn’t accidentally get hit by a passing pickup, then got into his Chevy and raced for home and the live oak.

  He drove his truck across the pasture, arriving at their meeting spot not too many minutes after he had left the deputy.

  She wasn’t there.

  Maybe she had never come. Maybe she had never really loved him the way he had loved her. Maybe . . .

  He saw the envelope on the ground at the base of the tree. It had his name on the outside. He had never seen her writing. It was neat and precise. He tore open the envelope and stared at the piece of school notebook paper that was left in his hands. He could see the writing through the folded paper.

  He slumped to the ground with his back against the tree. He didn’t want to read it. He didn�
��t want to know for sure that she had left him.

  The memory of Deputy Koehl lying unconscious nudged him. He didn’t have time to brood.

  He unfolded the paper and began reading.

  Dear Marsh,

  By the time you read this I will be a long way from here. You know by now that Daddy is dead. So you know why I can’t tell the sheriff the truth about you not being the one to get me pregnant. I planned to, Marsh, really. I just couldn’t. Otherwise, the sheriff might suspect Daddy’s death wasn’t an accident, after all.

  Marsh stopped reading. If Delia hadn’t gone to the sheriff and cleared him, who had? Her letter seemed to indicate her father’s death had been no accident. Had she murdered him? Was that why she had run away? Then who had convinced the sheriff that Ray John had committed suicide? And how? He glanced down again.

  You know what I want to do with my life. My plans haven’t changed. Except that I’ll be finishing high school somewhere else. I’ve told Mother what I’m doing, and I don’t think she’ll try to stop me. I can’t forgive her for not believing me when I told her what Daddy was doing. I can’t forgive her for getting you in so much trouble. And for other things.

  What other things? Marsh wondered.

  I know I’m taking the coward’s way out. The charges against you are sure to be dropped if I’m not there to testify. But that isn’t the same as having your name cleared. I hope you can forgive me.

  They would think the very worst of him with her gone. They would think she was running to get away from him.

  I’m going to miss you dreadfully, but I know you don’t want to leave Uvalde, and I can’t stay here any longer. I was afraid you might convince me to stay if I saw you, so I’m running away without saying good-bye, without kissing you and hugging you the way I wish I could.

  I can’t ask you to wait for me, because I’m never coming back. Please don’t try to find me. It would only make it harder, because I’m not coming back, no matter what, and I would only cry more if I saw you.

  I will love you forever,

  Delia

  Marsh crumpled the paper in his fist. Love. What the hell did she know about love? If you loved someone you didn’t run away from them. If you loved someone you didn’t leave them to worry whether you were safe and happy.

  Marsh heard sirens in the distance. More than one. Deputy Koehl had woken, then, and called on his radio for reinforcements. He didn’t have much time to make up his mind what he was going to do.

  The Texas oil fields beckoned. No, that wasn’t far enough. The Middle East. He would hop an oil tanker in Houston and go where he couldn’t be found by the law. Or by Delia, if she changed her mind and came home. That would serve her right, pay her back good for leaving him hurting like this.

  Marsh gritted his teeth to stop his chin from quivering. He would be damned if he would cry over her. And he wasn’t going to spend his life pining for her, either. He wasn’t going to end up a pitiful wreck of a man like his father.

  He didn’t care if he never saw her again. He didn’t care if she stayed away the rest of her life. He wouldn’t be here to know.

  He felt a pang of remorse for leaving his father in the lurch. But it wasn’t much of a pang. Maybe if he was gone, his father would have to get off his butt and take care of the place himself. He doubted Cyrus would miss him much—and he sure wouldn’t miss his father.

  Maybe, someday, if he made his fortune, he would hire a lawyer to clear his name so he could come home.

  He hoped his father didn’t throw away his grandmother’s quilt. It was the only thing he was leaving behind that he cared anything about.

  The sirens howled louder. He had to leave.

  Marsh pounded his fist on a branch of the live oak as a sob escaped his aching throat.

  Damn you, Delia. I loved you. I thought you loved me. How could you leave me like this?

  Then he ran.

  Even the biggest ball of twine unravels if you’re will in’ to take the trouble.

  Chapter Eight

  January 1996

  Delia paced the confines of her mother’s private hospital room, still dressed in the black Donna Karan suit, pearls, and Bruno Magli heels she had worn under her robe at the courthouse yesterday in anticipation of attending a reception at the Metropolitan Museum that evening. Instead, her neck had a crick in it from an uncomfortable night spent slouched in a plastic chair waiting for her mother to awaken.

  In a very short while they would be speaking to each other for the first time in twenty years. A rueful smile curved Delia’s lips. She was definitely overdressed for the occasion. Growing up she had lived in cowboy boots and jeans. Western attire certainly would have been more comfortable, but the designer outfit helped remind her how far she had come from the past.

  Delia had been counting the minutes, waiting for it to be 7:30 A.M., which meant 8:30 A.M. in New York. She wanted to check in with her secretary. Janet always arrived at the office exactly one half hour before the workday began. Delia looked at her watch. It was 8:34 in New York. Janet would be in, have her coat hung up, her tennis shoes off, and her heels on. Delia took one last look at her mother and quietly left the room.

  She had located the phone bank near the waiting room when she entered the hospital and headed for it now. Her body ached, and she would have traded her favorite snakeskin cowboy boots for a hot shower. The hospital corridors were still quiet, with only an occasional nurse or orderly passing by.

  She punched in the number for her office, then her credit card number, and heard the phone ring once before Janet picked it up, “Judge Carson’s office.”

  “It’s me, Janet.”

  “Good morning, Judge Carson. How’s your mother doing?”

  “She’s stable. Surgery is scheduled this morning. Once that’s over, I’ll know more about how long I’ll be gone from the office. What do you have for me?”

  Janet went through the messages Delia had received the previous afternoon. Delia gave instructions how to deal with the various matters and said, “I’ll be checking in periodically. If anything comes up, and you can’t reach me here, you can leave a message on the answering machine at my mother’s ranch.” She gave Janet the number for the Circle Crown.

  “Here’s one more message I missed,” Janet said. “Wouldn’t you know, I set it aside so I’d be sure to remember it. A reporter from the Times called and wanted to talk to you.”

  “Did he say what it was about?” Delia asked.

  “I’m afraid not. I told him you were out of town, and he said he’d call again.”

  Delia thought of all the things a reporter from the Times could want with her, none of it good. Her stomach knotted. She forced herself to relax. She didn’t need to borrow trouble. “Don’t tell him where I am, Janet.”

  “No problem,” Janet said. “You need anything?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks, Janet. I’ll be in touch.”

  Delia hung up the phone and stood for a moment staring at it. She ought to call her sister, just to check in, but it was early. She’d call her later, if Rachel wasn’t already here by then.

  It was like entering a cave when she returned to her mother’s room. Venetian blinds kept out the sunlight, and the beige walls reflected the green glow from the computerized machines attached to her mother by wires and tubes. A monitor near the bed beeped in constant rhythm with her mother’s heart.

  Delia walked to her mother’s side, reached out as though to touch her gnarled, age-freckled hand, then drew back before making contact. Hattie Carson, who had always seemed so formidable, so indomitable to her, looked old and helpless lying there.

  Delia crossed to the window and used her fingers to separate the blinds to reveal the last rays of a pastel dawn. The sky seemed bigger in Texas. She had always taken the great open spaces for granted before she moved away to New York. Maybe that was the result of having been raised in a state where everything—from the vast borders to the heroes of the Alamo—was larger than life. />
  “Delia?”

  Delia crossed back to the bed, her gaze focused on her mother’s silvery blue eyes. “Hello, Mother.”

  The heart monitor beeped faster.

  “Relax, Mother,” Delia cautioned, glancing anxiously at the green computer dial that showed her mother’s heart rate climbing at an alarming pace.

  “Delia,” her mother rasped, the sound more urgent this time. Her hand reached out to Delia, but she was too weak to get it more than a few inches off the bed.

  Delia hesitated a moment longer before putting her hand where her mother could reach it. Hattie’s eyes sank closed as she gripped Delia’s fingers in a surprisingly strong grasp. Delia resisted the urge to pull free. She stood there, watching her mother swallow convulsively, waiting for her to speak.

  “You came.”

  Delia felt a fierce surge of leftover resentment and forced it back. “I’m here, Mother,” she said in a neutral voice. “Rest now. I’ll go call the nurse and tell her you’re awake.”

  Her mother refused to let go of her hand. “Delia.” Her eyes were open again, rheumy with age, pleading, begging . . . For what? Forgiveness? Fat chance of that, Delia thought.

  “Rest, Mother. Don’t excite yourself.”

  “We have to talk.” Hattie’s plea was weak, whispery.

  Delia kept her voice even and unemotional, though she felt both distressed and perturbed by her mother’s persistence. “Not now, Mother.”

  “Yes, now. I might die.”

  It was a threat, pure and simple. Listen to me now or lose your chance forever.

  Delia felt the spur rake deep, opening a wound she had thought long healed. But she refused to fight back. “No, Mother.” Not now. Not yet.

  “Yes,” Hattie said, her fingernails digging into Delia’s flesh. “I . . . should have done . . . more.”

  Delia waited, but that was all Hattie said. Delia knew her mother was too proud to humble herself, that she was probably seeing the extent of Hattie’s willingness to admit she had been wrong.