I got up very early the next morning, before our kids were up, and dialed our number at the trailer. The phone rang ten times before he picked up.
“Do you know what time it is?” he growled. “Who the hell is this?”
“Me,” I said. “You hung up on me last night.”
“Jesus, Florine.”
“Two words that shouldn’t be used in the same sentence, most likely,” I said. “You did hang up on me. Last night, when you called, we talked for a while and you went off to the bathroom and then you came back and hung up the phone.”
“What?” he said. “I did that? Goddamn.” He didn’t say anything for about thirty seconds. And then he croaked in a shaky voice, “I can’t remember calling you.”
“You did,” I said. I told him about the rude customer and the car.
“I don’t remember talking about that,” he said.
Arlee called my name from the top of the stairs.
“I have to go,” I said. “I love you, Bud. We’ll talk tonight.”
“Holy shit,” he said, and hung up.
I thought about Maureen’s revelation. It all made sense, but so what? The reasons why Bud drank wouldn’t necessarily stop him from careening down the road to destruction. I could only hope he got a clue before that happened.
41
After that phone call, Bud sobered up for about a month. When he wasn’t with us on the weekends, we talked on the phone for an hour a night during the week, even when there wasn’t much to say. Sometimes, I sat and knitted, and listened to the television set while he watched it. “You still there?” he’d say, and I’d answer, “Yes.”
Fridays after work, as soon as he could put the car into gear and step on the gas, he hustled down to The Point. We held tight to the time we had together. I learned to think in terms of minutes when he was with us, instead of dreading what might happen. We had the kids, so the present took up a lot of our time, which was good. But on Monday mornings, after I saw him off to Stoughton Falls, my fears for him crowded back in on me.
Winter looped back again. Snow and sleet snarled and snapped at April’s attempts at spring. To avoid being completely cooped up, the kids and I spent time with Madeline and Archer, or with Ida.
Because we were stuck in the house so much, Arlee developed a talent for getting into precious things. One day, when my back was turned, I heard a crash in the living room. I ran from the kitchen to find her standing in front of the red ruby glass cabinet, eyes large as two suns. “Jesus, I’m sorry,” she said. I almost laughed because it was the first full sentence she had ever said. But it didn’t seem funny when I looked down and saw the sugar bowl that matched its red creamer lying broken into more pieces than I could count.
Patience, Grand said. It’s glass, Florine. I took a deep breath. “Mama told you not to touch the cabinet.”
“I know,” Arlee said. Her lower lip trembled. Mine did too as I swept up part of Grand’s legacy and dumped it into the trash.
That night, after the kids were in bed, I wrapped every piece of glass in newspaper and packed it all in a couple of sturdy boxes. When Bud came down on Friday night, we moved the boxes into the crawl space in the attic. Bert and Bud moved the empty glass cabinet upstairs to our room. It crowded us, but at least the kids wouldn’t fall into it. I moved Travis’s playpen into the space it left in the living room.
During the last two weeks of April, hard rains finally killed off winter. Those rains kept us inside some more. Although I adored my children, I ran out of ideas on how to entertain them, and the things they loved to do became tiresome for me. I was in real danger of dying of boredom.
“You can only play the same game for so long,” Madeline sympathized, over at her house one day. “Dottie used to drive me crazy. Couldn’t play by herself at all. Had to have company. Didn’t like books. Wouldn’t sit still. Hated dolls. Didn’t like to color. Always on the move, always into something. Evie was much better, back then, anyways. She entertained herself pretty well.”
“Dottie and I must have played together,” I said.
“You were a funny little bug,” she said. “You loved to twirl around and run. Dottie tried to boss you around, but after a certain point, you didn’t take any shit. You’d smack her. She’d smack you back and then you both would bawl and run to Mama. Carlie and I laughed so hard at the two of you.”
“What was Carlie like back then?” I asked.
“She was fun. She was only twenty-two or three, about the same age as you are now, so she was a few years younger than us, and full of piss and vinegar. She raced around and chased you two everywhere. She’d roll around on the grass like a kid. I loved to watch her. We got to be friends, but she always kept her distance from everyone but Leeman and your grandmother.”
“What about Bud?” I asked.
“Oh, he was so serious,” Madeline said. “He played trucks in his driveway with Glen, when Germaine brought him down. And once in a while, the four of us mothers got together and we sat and watched you all. That was a good time. Sitting there in the sun, not knowing what would happen to each of us and not caring.”
“Well,” I said, “we can sit on the lawn when spring decides to drop in for good.” Madeline smiled, even as sadness clouded her blue eyes. Evie had moved out, gone to Portland with some friends. Told them all at home that she needed time to “figure things out.” “What’s to figure?” Madeline had asked me. “She’s got a baby here. She should give him a chance. She’ll regret it if she don’t.”
Back in the present she said, “It’d be nice to set on the lawn and watch the kids play. I wish Evie knew what she was missing. Every time Archer does something new, I write it down. I’m keeping a little diary for her, just in case she comes to her senses.”
“Archer has you and Bert and Dottie,” I said.
“Dottie’s wild for him, and Bert thinks he walks on water. He’s the boy Bert never had,” Madeline said. “When Evie does come home, she plays with him, looks after him, but no more than anyone else. She holds back, like she doesn’t want to love him. But I know my girl. She does have a heart.”
Not everyone, I thought, is cut out for raising babies. But I didn’t say that to Madeline. Not while she still hoped that Evie would come around. Much as I loved my own babies, there were days when I thought that everything had happened too fast. Still, would I change a thing? Not friggin’ likely.
Bud drove down on Friday night and we spent a hectic two days with the kids, both of whom always went over the edge when Daddy came home. But this weekend seemed worse. He hollered at Arlee once, and when she burst into tears, he went off and cried.
He was tired. He’d had a fight with Cecil just before leaving for The Point about pay, hours, and everything else that went with his job. He wanted to be with us, but he needed to rest. I could see all this by the way his eyes darted around, looking for a way out. Early Monday morning, he kissed me deep, held me, told me he loved me, and then got into the truck, threw it into gear, and left us behind.
He didn’t call me Monday night at our usual time. At about nine p.m., I was wild with worry. At ten p.m. I decided to drive up to Stoughton Falls. I called Maureen to come and stay with the kids. As I hung up, the phone rang.
“Hey, cuz,” Robin said.
“Hey,” I said.
“Listen, Florine, not to worry, but Bud was brought into the ER.”
I stopped breathing for a few seconds.
“Florine?”
“Is he okay? Is he hurt bad?”
“Not really, luckily. He’s badly bruised and scraped up, but nothing is life threatening.”
“What happened?”
“He was walking along the road in the dark, about a mile from your trailer, and someone hit him. He was thrown a ways, but he’s a lot better than he could have been.”
“What the hell was he—”
>
“He was drunk, Florine,” Robin said. “He’s half in and half out of it right now, but he’ll be fully conscious tomorrow morning. Odds are he’ll feel like a car hit him.”
“I’ll drive up,” I said.
“Oh, honey, it’s late,” Robin said. “Wait until morning. I’ll let you—”
“No,” I said. “I’m coming to the hospital, as soon as I can get there.”
“Right,” Robin said. “I’d do the same thing. Please be careful.”
Maureen found me throwing things into an overnight bag.
“What’s wrong?” she said when she saw my face.
“Bud’s in the hospital in Portland,” I said. “But he’s going to be okay.”
“We should tell Ma,” Maureen said.
“Yes,” I said. “I guess we have to do that. Call her, please.”
I wanted to be out of there before Ida showed up, but she was there almost before I finished saying “Call her.” I gave both of them the details as I stood stiff with worry in the kitchen, holding two bags filled with god-knows-what in my hands.
Ida put her cold hands on either side of my face. “Be careful,” she said. “Call when you get there.”
“I will,” I said, trying not to cry.
“No tears,” she said. “You can’t see to drive that way.”
Before I left, I walked upstairs to plant kisses on the smooth cheeks of my babies. I closed my eyes and listened, and I wondered this: Is there anything so soft and strong as the sound of children breathing in their sleep? Calmed and torn, I left the house, got into the car, and headed for Portland.
Almost three hours later, I followed Robin down a shiny corridor. We turned right, then left, and we reached Bud’s room. I walked past a curtained bed with a machine clicking, to Bud’s section. A blanket of cuts, nasty scrapes, and violet bruises covered his face. He was sound asleep.
Robin put her hand on my shoulder and I let her hold me up for a few seconds.
“You need coffee?” she asked.
“Tea,” I said. When she came back I broke my wedding vow to Bud to honor our secrets. I spoke about his struggles with alcohol, about his doubts, and about his fidgety nature. I told her how much I loved him and how I worried about him. I talked to her until someone paged her and she had to go.
I called Ida, who answered the phone so fast that I figured she must have been sitting on it. After I filled her in and we hung up, the hours ticked by and I wished I’d packed my knitting.
Bud opened his eyes at about five a.m. Confusion created lines in his face and for a second, I knew what he would look like when he got old, if he was lucky enough to get that far. I pushed the call button for help as he tried to move.
“Am I dead?” he moaned. I grabbed a little pink plastic puke bowl while a nurse turned him onto his side so that he could hurl his sore guts out.
42
I drove him back to the trailer the next afternoon. We didn’t talk much. He slept, mostly, drugged by pain medication and exhaustion. That night, he stumbled out to the living room and collapsed onto the sofa. “Hell,” he said. “I guess I fucked up this time.”
“You almost died this time,” I said. “And where’s your wedding ring?”
He looked at his hand. “I don’t know,” he said. “Back at the hospital?”
“Are you asking me?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping you’d know.”
“Not my job to keep track of it.”
“Florine, don’t be mad. I’m not doing that good, in case you haven’t noticed.”
I just stared at him until he looked down at his lap and frowned. “I don’t know where it is,” he said softly. He looked at me. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I take it off. It might be at the garage, in the office.”
“I’ll check tomorrow,” I said.
“Tomorrow? I can do it. I’m going to work.”
“Bud, you’re a mess. You’re dizzy and you’re hurt.”
“I can work.”
“You probably could, but I called Cecil and told him you’d had an accident. Told him you needed a few days to get back to normal.”
“Jesus, what’d you say?”
“I didn’t tell him you were drunk and you’re lucky to be alive, and you’ve completely fucked up the nice couple that hit you by accident.”
He stared at the television. “Can we watch something besides Tony Orlando?”
I got up and went into the kitchen. “You can watch your ass, for all I care.”
“That’s not nice, Florine,” he said.
I whirled around and marched back to him. “Bud, you almost died last night. You almost died. Why? Because you were stupid and drunk. At this point, I don’t care if I’m nice or not. I can’t live my life or raise my kids worrying about your sorry ass or your self-pity. I don’t have the energy for it. Even as short as a day ago, I was trying to figure out what would make you happy and make you stop drinking. Now I don’t care. It’s up to you, not me. You need to decide what makes you happy, and whether you want to live or die. The kids and I are moving on.”
Dead silence as I dumped tomato soup into a pan and put it on the stove to heat. I wanted to throw the can at him or to run into the bedroom and slam the door, but I forced myself to stay in the kitchen, acting as if what had just come out of my mouth hadn’t surprised the hell out of me. I stirred soup as Tony Orlando sang “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ’Round the Old Oak Tree.”
“So . . .” Bud said. “You leaving me?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow to go to The Point. If you want to come, fine.”
“I don’t want the kids to see me like this.”
“Then you shouldn’t have been so damn numb.”
“All right! I fucked up, big-time. I’ll go home with you, tomorrow. Jesus.”
“You don’t have the right to get mad at me.”
“What do I have the right to do?”
“Answer your own questions.”
“I’ll come home, but I still don’t want the kids to see me.”
“You can stay at Ida’s house.”
“Fuck I will.”
“Fuck you will,” I said. “You need quiet and sleep. At least for a couple of days.”
“What’s Ma going to say?”
“She’s none too pleased.”
“She knows?”
“’Course she knows. Who do you think is watching Arlee and Travis?”
“Damn,” he said. “Can I have crackers with the soup?”
Early the next morning I drove us down to The Point. Puffy clouds in the light-blue sky soaked up pink rays from the rising sun. A hint of green played hide-and-seek in windrows of dead winter grass. It was a nice time of day to be traveling.
“Travis will be a year old in less than two weeks,” I said. “Can you believe it?”
Bud didn’t answer me for a few minutes. Then he said, almost too soft for me to hear him, “Was I ever this strong for you? Was I ever good for you?”
My heart broke at his words and I blinked back tears, because, as Ida had said, “You can’t see to drive that way.”
“Oh, Bud, all the time,” I said. “Those times you’ve done things for me that you didn’t want to do, but you did them anyway, because it was me. Those times you came and sat in Petunia with me because the damn car reminded me of Carlie. That time after my car accident, when I stayed at Daddy’s house and you found me in the mud in his driveway trying to get over to Grand’s house. You helped me get all set up to stay there. That time you drove me up to Crow’s Nest Harbor on a school day so we could see the place where Carlie disappeared. That time you came out to the boat after Daddy died and took me back to The Point. When you took care of me when I was so sick. All those times. How strong is that?”
He put his hand on my knee, and then lifted it away
and looked at his naked ring finger. “I can’t even remember what I did with my ring,” he said. “What if I can’t beat this thing? What if I turn into some drunk that falls down and pisses his pants? What if I don’t even know my own name?”
“That won’t happen.”
“How do you know? Christ, look at me.”
“It’s up to you, Bud.”
As we drove down to Ida’s house, I glanced to the left and saw cars parked at Daddy’s. “Stella must be here,” I said to Bud.
Arlee walked out of Ida’s house and smiled up at the car.
“Oh shit,” Bud said, sliding down in the seat.
“You are hiding from your almost three-year-old,” I said. “What does that tell you?”
Arlee burst into tears when she saw Bud and she hid her face in my thighs. I bent down and looked at her, eye to eye. “Daddy got hurt, but he’s all right. He probably needs a hug from you right now.”
“I’m okay, honey,” Bud said. “I have lots of boo-boos, but they’re getting better.”
Arlee touched the stitches on his left cheek. “How?” she asked.
“I went into the road and a car hit me by accident,” Bud said.
“Don’t go in the road,” Arlee said.
Bud hung his head. “I know. I did a dumb thing,” he said. “If you hug me, I’ll feel better.”
Arlee gave him a hug.
“Sofa’s ready for you, Bud,” Ida said from behind us. “Or bed.”
“I want to go with Daddy,” Arlee said to me.
“Sofa,” Bud said. “Time for meds?” he asked me, hope in his eyes.
I left Arlee and Bud on the sofa at Ida’s house, and I lugged my butterball boy up the hill. “You need to go on a diet,” I told him.
As I fed him lunch, someone knocked at the door. “It’s open,” I called.
“Hello,” Stella said as she walked into the kitchen.
Written on My Heart Page 28
