by Donna Ball
It happened one afternoon when he came in to find her stretched out in an awkward position in one of the alcoves. There were canvas drop cloths on the floor and paints all around, and she had snagged her hair on a rough board while prepping the area for the first coat of paint and could not get free. So he crawled in with her and tried to unwind the curl and as he did her hair ribbon came loose and her hair tumbled around her face and then she was free and she came up laughing with her breath spilling into his pores and her lips almost brushing his and he stole a kiss with her face held hot between his hands, sweet and hot, the two of them tangled together on the floor in a moment of shameless rapture, and when they broke apart his mother was just leaving the room.
Emmy was embarrassed, but he was amused, until the following day when she told him that she had a job waiting for her in Boston—wasn’t that exciting?—and she wouldn’t meet his eyes when she said it. He grasped her hands and the words rushed out of him before he could stop them: “Come with me to Paris instead.”
There was a flare of something in her eyes—Anger? Hope? Desperation?—which was replaced almost immediately with another expression, one he had never seen before, something cool and calculating and distant. “And then what, Andy?” she said. “After Paris, then what? Will you bring me back here and put me in one of the servants’ rooms? Or maybe you’ll find me a little apartment in Charlottesville and visit me on weekends.”
He didn’t recognize the woman who was speaking to him. He did not know what to reply. All he could manage was a hoarse, “It doesn’t have to be like that. Don’t make it sound like that.”
Was that regret or pity he saw in her eyes? She said, softly, “What would it be like, Andy? What would it be like for us? Would it be happily ever after? Would it be marriage?”
Over and over, for the rest of his life, he would wonder what might have happened had he answered her then. Had he not hesitated. Had he found the words. But even as he drew a breath, not even knowing what he was going to say, she shook her head.
“No,” she said, and her smile was strained and far away. “I didn’t think so. Face it, lover, it was fun, but that’s all it was. I knew that, even if you didn’t. This is 1967, and I’ve got a life. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to it.”
She picked up her palette, and her brushes, and turned away from him. And within the week, she was gone.
And that was how he came to be standing in his living room alone while laughter and music from his own party spilled across the lawn from the winery a few hundred yards away, a forty-five-year-old man about to be elected District Court judge, in love with a girl half his age. He was sipping the newly labeled Shiraz, which was much too young to be drunk, and barely tasting it.
After a moment he heard a step in the hall, followed by the subtle flowery scent of the perfume his mother always wore. She stood beside him for a moment, studying the muraled alcoves that flanked the fireplace with a critical eye. Then she said, “I prefer the one in the winery, don’t you?”
He said simply, “Yes.”
“I can’t imagine what happened. Clearly, she has talent. But the quality here is not nearly up to the standard of the mural in the tasting room. Everyone is raving about it. This one . . . I can’t say, precisely, but it looks rushed, don’t you think? She even left out the building.”
She waited for a reply, and he could feel the sharpness of her gaze upon him, but he did not respond, with either look or word, and finally she shrugged. “Ah, well. I suppose she was anxious to move on.”
He stared into his wine. “I suppose.”
“I would never say anything to her, of course. But it’s rather embarrassing, really. I think I’ll have the alcoves boxed in. They’ve always been wasted space, anyway. What do you think?”
“I think that’s fine, Mother.”
“She certainly was a charming child,” his mother went on. “Delightful to have around, for a while. But all that youth and energy . . .” She sighed. “I rather imagine it would try the nerves after a time. Don’t you agree?”
He raised his head to look at her, and their eyes held for a long time. She revealed nothing but a cool smile.
And then she said, “Do come out soon, dear. Your guests are also voters.”
When she was gone, he took up the bottle to refill his glass, but instead he simply stood there, staring at the label. He stared at it for a long time. And then, without warning, he threw the bottle across the room, where it crashed on the floor, and spilled wine pooled on the polished boards like blood.
No one at Blackwell Farms ever knew about the baby girl born to Emmy Marie Hodge eight months later. Emily sent Christmas cards to her mother, Marilee, for a few years, but eventually lost touch.
Within a week after the party, Andrew had the mural in the winery painted over, and no one ever asked why. Andrew was elected District Court judge, and he spent the rest of his life fulfilling that position. The 1967 Shiraz won awards, but midway through the run, Andrew discontinued the label. And, once the alcoves in the living room were enclosed, it should have been an easy enough matter to forget that Emmy Marie Hodge had ever existed.
But it wasn’t.
19
Hard Choices
They dressed in their Sunday best for the meeting the next morning, and as they got out of the car in front of the unpretentious little building they were self-conscious about it.
“We look like we should be sitting at the defendant’s table in a courtroom,” Bridget said, straightening the skirt of her navy silk suit. She cast an uncomfortable glance toward a harried mother in tattered shorts who crossed the street in front of them toward the Health Department, carrying a crying toddler. “Wait,” she said. “I’m leaving my jacket in the car.”
“I wish I hadn’t worn heels,” Lindsay said. “I never wear heels. And these French cuffs are too much.”
Cici was wearing tailored gray slacks in a stylish pinstripe and a burgundy satin blouse underneath the matching, nipped-waist jacket. Her heels were even higher than Lindsay’s. She experimented with taking her jacket off, as Bridget had done, but Lindsay shook her head adamantly. “You look like you just got back from a night of clubbing. That blouse is too much.”
“It’s the blouse I always wear with this suit,” Cici protested.
“Button the jacket.”
“We have way too many nice clothes for our current lifestyle.”
“Maybe we can sell them to pay for a new barn,” Cici replied dryly, checking her hair in the side view mirror.
“I always overdress when I feel insecure,” Lindsay said uneasily. “Why do women do that?”
“It’s a power thing,” Cici assured her.
“I don’t feel very powerful.”
“Do you have a red lipstick?”
“Don’t you dare,” Lindsay commanded as Bridget began to search through her purse.
Cici glanced at her watch, and blew out a breath. “Well,” she said. She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder, and looked at the other two. “I guess we should go in.”
This time the waiting room was not empty when they came in. A pregnant, acne-faced young girl sat beside a very large woman in a cotton shift, and a rail-thin boy with a shaved head and a butterfly tattoo on his forearm was sprawled out in one of the plastic bucket chairs across from them, absorbed in a handheld video game. All three of them stared as the women crossed to the receptionist’s desk and were told to go right in.
Their high heels clacked with an embarrassingly loud rhythm on the linoleum as they crossed the room to Carrie’s door, knocked timidly, and stepped inside. Carrie rose from behind her desk to greet them. “Good morning, ladies, please come in.”
Four chairs were drawn up in a semicircle before the desk. One of them was occupied by a slight woman with dishwater blond hair, caught at the nape with an elastic band. She turned to look at them curiously as they entered. She was plain looking and painfully thin, with deep purple shado
ws under her eyes and lips that were cracked beneath her faded lipstick. She wore a long-sleeved turtleneck sweater, despite the warmth of the morning, and a full cotton skirt with sandals. Her hands were wound tightly around a brown vinyl clutch bag whose finish was scratched and worn, and if the ladies had felt overdressed when they stepped out of the car, they felt like runway models pinned by a spotlight now.
“I was so sorry to hear about the fire at your place,” Carrie was saying, and Lindsay, Bridget, and Cici dragged their attention away from the other woman long enough to assure her all was well, it had been nothing, really, no one was hurt, nothing of value was lost, and they were all doing just fine.
The thin woman rose uncertainly as Carrie made the introductions. “Mandy Clete, this is Bridget Tindale . . .” Her hand was cold and her fingers fragile as Bridget shook her hand. “Cici Burke . . .” She murmured a “nice to meet you.” “And Lindsay Wright.” Lindsay shook her hand. “Ladies, this is Noah’s mother.”
Somehow, they hadn’t expected it all to be that simple. There should have been more drama, perhaps a late-breaking development, significant delays. Perhaps they had half expected to walk into the office and discover there had been a mistake in identity, or to be informed that the woman had not shown up after all. After fifteen years of abandonment, it shouldn’t have been that simple.
“Cormier,” the woman corrected in a small, shy voice. “I go by Cormier now. It’s my maiden. And”—she raised her chin a little and her voice strengthened—“I want to thank you all for taking care of my boy.”
Carrie said in her dulcet Louisiana drawl, “Let’s all sit down, shall we? Can I get anyone coffee? No? Well, then, I thought it would be nice if we all spent some time getting to know each other, and then we’ll talk about the best way to help Noah make the transition. I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”
It was Lindsay who spoke up first. “Well, yes, I have a few questions. For starters, how could you abandon a helpless infant to a brutal alcoholic even you were too afraid to stay with?”
“Lindsay!” Cici laid a calming hand on Lindsay’s arm.
Carrie said, “Really, Lindsay, I don’t think it’s appropriate—” But Mandy, shaking off her initial shock, said, “No—no, it’s okay. You have a right to ask. I know how it looks, but—I didn’t abandon him. I left him with my mother until I could get a job and take care of him. I sent money when I could. But . . .” Her hands tightened around the small brown purse. “I couldn’t even afford an apartment on what I made waitressing, much less take care of a baby, and . . . well, I moved around a lot. My mama was a good woman, a good mother. She raised me by herself and I never knew a moment’s want. I never expected her to die before she was even fifty. It was her heart, and it was so sudden. I thought he would be fine with her. I thought he’d be safe.”
Bridget spoke next, and her voice was much gentler than Lindsay’s had been. “I don’t mean to pry, but . . . when your mother died, didn’t you know your husband would get custody of the child? Couldn’t you have come back for him?”
Mandy chewed her bottom lip, her knuckles whitening on the scrap of brown vinyl in her lap. She said, without looking up, “I could have. But I didn’t know about it until almost three years later.” And then, with a visible effort, she flexed her fingers, straightened her shoulders, and met Bridget’s eyes. “I made some very bad choices,” she said steadily. “I was looking for an easy way out of the pain I was in. I don’t even know where I was when my mother died. There were times during those years when I forgot I had a son, and when I did remember I did my best to forget again because the last thing I wanted was to have something else to worry about, something else to take care of.”
She breathed in and breathed out. It made a trembly sound, but her voice was steady and the courage in her deep brown eyes was unwavering. “You’re nice ladies,” she said. “Look at you. You’ve had nice lives. You can’t understand how a mother could simply lose track of her only child. That’s good. I don’t want you to understand it. It’s a terrible thing, to have to go where I’ve been and do what I’ve done and know what I know. Because I lost track of more than my child. There are whole years that I don’t remember. And by the time I did remember . . . it was too late. I didn’t know where to begin looking for him. And the truth is, I didn’t feel as though I deserved to find him. And then”—a faint, wavering smile at Carrie—“a miracle happened. And here I am.”
The silence in the room was stifling. Cici looked at Carrie, widening her eyes slightly in helpless question, and Bridget murmured, “I’m . . . so sorry . . .” But it trailed off, as though she was not quite sure what she was sorry for.
Carrie said, “Mandy has been the drug recovery counselor at Safe Haven halfway house in Richmond for almost five years now. She works with troubled teens every day.”
“Noah is not a troubled teen,” Lindsay said acridly.
“No one suggested he was,” Cici intervened before Lindsay could draw another breath. She turned to Mandy. “Look,” she said, “I know you think this is none of our business, but we’ve all grown very fond of Noah and—well, of course we want the best for him. Do you really think . . .” Again she looked helplessly at Carrie. “Are you sure a drug rehabilitation halfway house is the best place to raise a teenage boy?”
“I already have an apartment lined up,” Mandy assured her. “We can move in this weekend.”
Bridget said, floundering in confusion, “But—Noah loves the outdoors so. Gardening, and building and planting things . . . he even has a pet deer. Living in the city will be hard for him.”
“Young people are incredibly adaptable,” Carrie assured her. “A great deal more than we give them credit for.”
“And I hope you’ll let him visit now and then,” Mandy said quickly. “Carrie and I were talking before you came in, and I thought that might make it a little easier for him, knowing that he could come back.”
“He’s just started to think of the farm as home.” There was a note of pleading in Bridget’s voice. “Surely you could give him a little more time to adjust to the idea of moving away.”
Before Carrie could answer Lindsay spoke abruptly. “He’s an artist.” Her jaw was set and her voice was tight. “He has as much passion for it as anyone I’ve ever known, and he could have a real future with the right training.”
Mandy’s face softened. “My mama used to draw. That must be where he gets it from.”
“His IQ is close to 150. Did you know that?” Lindsay went on. The slight increase in the pace of her breathing was visible in the rise and fall of her chest. “Despite the absolutely terrific start in life you gave him . . .” The scorn in her voice shocked even her friends, who stared at her. “He’s managed to overcome the lack of even the most basic education and, in less than six months, surpass his own grade level. Is there a good school in your neighborhood, Ms. Cormier? One with an arts program? And what about college? How much thought have you given to that? Or have you been too busy thinking about what’s best for you to give any consideration to what’s best for Noah?”
“Lindsay, please!” exclaimed Bridget, horrified.
Cici apologized, “This has really been a stressful week for us. I’m sure Lindsay didn’t mean . . .”
“I know what I meant!” Lindsay snapped.
Carrie placed both hands palm down on the desk, as though readying herself to stand. “I think this might be a good time to take a break.”
Some of the fire went out of Lindsay’s eyes as she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said with a shake of her head, “but this isn’t right. It’s just not right.”
“Maybe there’s a compromise,” Cici said, touching Lindsay’s arm soothingly. “Why don’t you let Noah finish out the school year with us, and spend the summer at the farm while you get settled in your new apartment? He could get to know you gradually over the summer, and by the time school starts in the fall you would be ready to have him move in with you.” As she spok
e, Mandy was shaking her head, slowly at first and then with more and more force.
Carrie spoke up. “That’s not a bad plan,” she said. “It might be the best thing for everyone.”
“No,” Mandy said. “No.”
“Why not?” Lindsay insisted, obviously struggling to keep the edge out of her voice. “What difference can a few months possibly make?”
“I don’t have a few months!” Mandy cried. The look in her eyes was desperate and wild, and the next words seemed to be torn from her. “I have cancer! I’m dying.”
Noah said, “Hey.”
Lori did not look up from the laptop computer on her desk. She had several books open beside it and was frowning over the contents of her screen. “Hay is for horses,” she replied. “What do you want?”
He stepped inside her room. The bed was rumpled, magazines were stacked untidily on the antique nightstand, dirty clothes were scattered on the floor. She had a stereo system with big puffy earphones and a forty-two-inch flat screen television set with a VCR and DVD player/recorder combination. DVDs and CDs in colorful cases were scattered on the floor in front of the equipment. Noah had a television and DVD player in his room, too, which he thought had come from Bridget, who didn’t want them in her room, but most of the movies he had been provided with were either chick flicks or Disney, and after the initial novelty had worn off, he didn’t watch it much.
He said, “Here’s that picture you wanted.” He put a sheet of heavy drawing paper on her desk. “I did it in pencil so it wouldn’t smear, like you said.”
