Cross of Ivy

by Roxi Bahar Hewertson

  The reading had been disquieting. There was much about change and trouble. Change did not come easy to Abby. She preferred order. When there was order, everything felt more secure, more manageable and predictable. There was enough chaos in her life without more change.

  CHAPTER 30

  Abby glanced at the ancient grandfather clock in the hall. Nearly two. Ginny would be there any minute. Strange for her to come at such short notice, she thought. Abby liked her. Ginny had been kind when they moved to Cross, having a party for them and showing her around, giving her names for doctors and the dentist and the right places to shop. Ginny was good people, all right.

  The doorbell rang, rather it chimed like church bells, just four notes. Abby opened the front door.

  “Hi, I brought us some sinful snacks, couldn’t resist.” Ginny handed her a bag from the Baker’s Dozen, an exquisite gourmet bakery they both loved.

  “Some chocolate-amaretto truffles. I’ll have you know I resisted them all the way up here, but hurry, my resolve is dissolving!” Ginny said.

  “I’ll make us some tea. How about Red Zinger?” said Abby.

  “Fine with me. You know, Abby, I can’t get enough of this house. I could look out those windows all day and never get anything done. I wish now that Ric and I had built up high, but nobody did that ten years ago.” Ginny followed Abby to the kitchen and sat at a bar stool while the tea brewed.

  “We got a few strange looks when we started building, but Zach said if we were going to live in the wilderness, he wanted to be on top of it. I only regret it in the winter; I still don’t feel safe driving on the snowy roads, even with four wheel drive .”

  “Me either, but you get used to it, I guess. So, how is Zach these days? Nervous?” Ginny asked.

  “The same. Intense, in the office a lot, and he doesn’t say much. I just go shopping or work at the church school with the little kids. You know, it takes my mind off it for a while.”

  “I’ll bet he’s gone a lot. Hard on you to be alone so much, I know. Ric is gone a lot, too.”

  “It’s not so bad really. I have lots to do. This yard is so big, and my volunteer work, and the team and parties. I am glad Luke and Zoe went to Cross because at least I see them more than if they’d gone faraway like ZJ did. And I have my bridge group on Thursdays. You know, my psychic lady friends. They’re always a hoot, always coming up with ideas on how to improve your soul.”

  The teapot whistled, and Abby poured them two mugs of boiling water. “So, how is your soul these days?” Ginny asked.

  “Good, I guess. Well, I don’t know. I’ve been having strange dreams lately. I had a scary one the other night. I was driving down the road somewhere in the dark, I mean real dark, no lights anywhere, and I came to this tunnel, and somehow I knew there was something terrible at the other end, I don’t know what, but I just knew, and I turned around as fast as I could. The tires squealed, and the steering wheel just kept going around and around. Then I looked up, and I was driving an old, blue Plymouth, like my stepfather once had, and the sun was shining, out of nowhere, and suddenly I could see. It was like a light switch had come on just like that.” Abby snapped her fingers. “Weird, huh?”

  “I wonder what it meant. What do you think?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I told my bridge group about it, and they all had different ideas. Then I went over to Lauren’s, you know, the mystic. Don’t ever tell Zach that, Ginny; he’d go right off the deep end. He hates anything like that, calls it ‘hogwash, mumbo jumbo.’”

  “Anyway, I went to Lauren’s, and she told me I was at a crossroads and I’d have to decide which way to go, but if I didn’t make the right choice, I’d be hurt somehow. She said it was a warning. ‘Course, that scared the bejesus out of me, you know, and it’s been eatin’ at me ever since.” Abby lit another cigarette and ate a truffle between puffs.

  “Oh, phooey! It was just a dream; maybe you ate something bad. What matters is how you feel when you’re not dreaming, right? It’s just a game, that mystic stuff anyway. I can’t believe she upset you like that,” Ginny said.

  “She’s good, Ginny, really. She’s been right about a lot of things, and I like Lauren.”

  “Don’t forget she’s knows you. I mean, I could probably tell you some things that would surprise you without any cards or voodoo or anything.”

  “Like what?” Abby’s senses sharpened. There was more to Ginny’s visit after all. She was fishing.

  Ginny took a deep breath. “Like you look unhappy, and I wish I could help. Like there’s more to you than the Southern belle most people see, and like you wish you were back home in Baton Rouge. How’s that for a few wild guesses?”

  Abby stopped sipping her tea and looked over her cup. “You have something on your mind, don’t you, Ginny?”

  “I’m worried about you, that’s all. In the middle of all this hoopla, when things should be better than they’ve ever been. I mean, your kids are doing great, ZJ’s getting married in the spring, you have this fabulous home, and we’ve won at least part of a championship, and still, something’s wrong, I can feel it.”

  “I’m fine, really. I can’t imagine what you’re talkin’ about. I mean, you said it, things are great. It’s true, I’d love to be back home, close to my family. Mama and Joshua are getting up there, and I wasn’t home when my grandparents passed on, and, well, it’s hard to be so far away. Maybe that’s what you see.”

  “Maybe, but...”

  The chimes rang again. It was Claire Thompson. Abby left Ginny to her thoughts and answered the door.

  “Hey, Claire, come on in. Ginny Houston is here.”

  “Oh,” Claire said. “I thought we’d be alone. Well, that’s okay, sure.” Claire’s face was tight, and her hand shook a little as she took off her coat. Abby watched her and thought about asking her what was wrong and decided against it.

  She was at least six inches taller than Abby; her mocha skin and black eyes were striking. She and her husband, Noah, were one of only a handful of Black families in Cross, and Claire was the only caterer Abby ever used. It started because Noah prepared the playbooks for the football office and because Claire was simply the best. They had become close friends, closer than Abby would let on to Zach. He wouldn’t understand.

  The three women spent the next hour going over table setups, the menu, and the timing. Ginny got up to go.

  “I better hurry,” she said. “My roast needs time to simmer.”

  Abby waved to her from the front door as Ginny turned her car around in the driveway. Claire was right behind her.

  “Abby, I should go, too, but I need to tell you somethin’ first.” Claire’s face was stone, her voice urgent, compelling.

  “I knew something was wrong. What is it, Claire? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Abby’s stomach turned over.

  “I haven’t slept since Noah told me. I told him I had to tell you, and he said I shouldn’t, that it was none of my business. But I just can’t know and not tell you.”

  “What, Claire? For God’s sake, what?”

  “Okay. Here it is, right out. Sit down, okay?” Abby sat. Claire paced.

  “Okay, see, Noah was working late, past midnight, night before last, and he walked by Zach’s office to the supply room to get some paper for the printer, you know, ‘cause he was doing the changes to the playbook. Well, anyway, he heard somebody laughing so he figured Zach was there, on the phone or something, but the door was closed. When he came back down the hall, Bobbie Jansen had opened the door and stood right there and...”

  “And what, Claire?” Abby’s face darkened.

  “And she was all over him, kissing him and buttoning his shirt and tucking in her blouse. Then she said to him that she would meet him tomorrow—that’s today—and “do him real good” is what she said. They didn’t see Noah ‘cause he stopped cold and stood still, and it was dark. God, Abby, I’m sorry.” Abby felt the shame rise up and color her cheeks. To suspect was one thing; to have it handed
to you on a rancid dish was quite another.

  Bobbie Jansen. Abby could see her. Zach’s secretary. How trite. Her long, black hair, her high giggle, so phony, Abby thought; and she always said she was far too busy working to bother with children, so she’d had her tubes tied; and those long, long legs.

  “I swear to you, Noah and I won’t tell a living soul. I swear it. But you had a right to know; I couldn’t have lived with myself. What are you going to do? Abby, can you hear me?”

  Zach’s wife of twenty-six years looked up at Claire. Such a good face, she thought, decent and caring and honest. There weren’t many as good as Claire. If anybody was to tell her, Abby was grateful it was Claire and not Ginny or somebody else. Ginny. Does she know, too? Is that why she came today?

  “Abby?”

  “What?”

  “What are you going to do?” Claire asked again.

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Things don’t just happen; you let them. So it happened and there’s nothing to do.” Abby’s face looked older, strained, and her throat was all red and blotchy.

  “It’s not your fault, Abby, you didn’t do anything but be a great wife and mother, make a beautiful home. Men! They just can’t be satisfied with great; they have to go looking for strange all the time. I’ll tell you, if my Noah ever steps out, he’ll be missing a few body parts when they find his sorry soul.”

  “Claire, we have to go on like we didn’t know. Promise me.”

  “How am I supposed to do that when I see you in here all shriveled up about this? And that...that...woman will be here, in your house Saturday night,” Claire said with disgust.

  “She sits in my box at the game. I’ll handle this my way. Now you have to promise me, and Noah, too. Nothing, you hear me, nothing at all.”

  “I promise, but I don’t like it.”

  Abby looked far away, and for a moment the silence was so complete, only the hum of the refrigerator could be heard. Claire fidgeted. Abby spoke in a raspy whisper, the quiet echoing her words.

  “Every refuge has its price,” she said.

  “What does that mean?” Claire asked.

  “It’s a line from a song. There’s a price for everything, for my life, for all this,” Abby swept the air with her arm. “I guess I know what it is now.”

  “Then the price is too high,” said Claire.

  “Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is,” Abby said to herself.

  CHAPTER 31

  Claire was gone. Abby stood motionless as she gazed down through the deep November darkness, through her wall of windows, through the crisp night air to the valley below where the city lay surrounded on three sides by cloud-piercing peaks. Everything sparkled at night, making the world seem so small and so clean...like jewels in the palm of a giant, she thought. The only sounds were her breathing and the crackle of the fire behind her. The flames cast impulsive shadows on the beams, the floor, splashing wildly in the darkness.

  The sprawling redwood estate stood tall like the magnificent trees from which it came, a landmark reaching out from the side of Shay Mountain. The trouble within was hidden behind the tall pines and thick wooden walls.

  The sherry slid smoothly down Abby’s throat, warming every cell and leaving a delicious glow in its wake. She toyed with the glass, fingering the sleek stem of hand-blown crystal. Her mind floated as she observed in vivid detail the scene before her eyes.

  Every twig, every branch of every tree, revealed its outline against the brilliant spotlight hovering in the sky. It was all so clean and well defined, like a black-on-white India ink etching that someone had completed with a well-used quill pen. Scattered pinpricks poked through the endless velvet darkness, illuminating tiny spaces in the void. A wayward mass shot across the heavens in a downward arc. All the world was still, frozen in time.

  Smoke from the fire inside rose lazily through the chimney, kissing the bare tree tops like low flying clouds, vanishing quickly into the thin, cold air. Fire, the delicious smell of burning sap, winter’s only blessing, only comfort.

  Abby half expected an owl to hoot out its haunted song. She sat motionless, as though in a trance. Shadows cast long, well-formed tentacles over the snowy, hardened ground, moving almost imperceptibly like a lunar eclipse. Shades of deep and deeper blue-grey painted the landscape. Standing against the sky was a deserted birdfeeder, its visitors hiding from the cold. No sound. Unreal, but not unholy.

  Abigail Trudeau curled up with a blanket and her sherry. The fire was slowly dying. She took some comfort in knowing that life in its purest form could be superimposed on an otherwise surreal canvas in an otherwise ugly world.

  She heard him come in, key in the lock, unloading the change in his pockets into the brass dish on the foyer table. Abby lay still on the couch in front of the fireplace. Only embers remained there now. He stumbled down the hall, but she smelled him, a trail of cigar smoke laced with liquor, and she was sure she could smell the woman.

  Zach wandered back in her direction and found her wrapped in the blanket with a book in her lap, her empty glass on the table. She held her breath, feigning sleep. He grunted, “Figures.” His long shadow disappeared again, and she began to breathe.

  Abby had no trouble avoiding Zach the week before the game. She left him notes about the party and called the office a few times to check names. After a while, she gave up. It was clear he had invited nearly everyone in town.

  “Just double everything, Claire, and hope for the best,” Abby said to her friend over the phone.

  “How are you, I mean really?” Claire asked at the other end.

  “Keeping busy, lots to do. Fine. See you soon,” Abby said flatly.

  She smiled at the market. She smiled at the hairdresser. No one must know, she told herself a hundred times a day. Nothing would change; nothing had changed. Everything was just fine. This would pass. It had to pass. Twenty-six years and three kids. What choice was there? It would go away, Abby tried to believe, but the sour burning in her belly wouldn’t go away, no matter how many antacids she swallowed.

  At seven a.m. on game day, Zach brushed her arm on his way to the bathroom. She hadn’t slept all night. Over and over, she imagined Zach running his hands over Bobbie Jansen’s tall, sleek body. Over and over she heard that haunting laughter ring in her ears. Abby felt dirty, contaminated.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said between lips curled tight over her teeth. “What?” Zach spun around.

  “Nothing.” She wanted to cut him, make him bleed like she was bleeding. She wanted to rip out his heart and feed it to the dogs.

  “Nothing,” Abby said as she walked away, her peach silk robe trailing behind her.

  After he left the house, Abby dressed for the game in slow motion. The world had bogged down. For the first time, she dreaded going to a game.

  The stadium came into view. She parked in a reserved spot, gathered a wool blanket and wandered to her seat. Bobbie Jansen was already there. She came alone. Her husband, Sam, always sat with his construction buddies, and Bobbie sat with the wives. Abby gathered all her will and smiled tightly.

  Nothing wrong. Nothing changed.

  “Why, hello there, Abby,” Bobbie said. “I bet you’ve been busy, planning the party and all. Busy week for me, too. And what a celebration, win or lose, right?” The other coaches’ wives were oddly silent, Abby thought. Yeah, I know how busy you’ve been. Bitch. She cast a quick glance at the others. Do they know? Is it all a big joke on me?

  “Why, yes, it’ll be fittin’ after all these years. The players deserve to win,” Abby said. Her words came out right, but she was thinking, How can I sit here with that slut, how can I lower myself to share the same air space, how can I poison her hot chocolate?

  “And what about Zach?” she added quickly, “I mean, and the other coaches? They deserve to win the game, too.”

  Abby squinted at the Jezebel. She was a thing to her now, not a person.

  “I suppose it depends on what game you’re speakin’ about?” Ab
by couldn’t believe her mouth. She chastised herself for having lips with a mind of their own. Just keep your mouth shut, for God’s sake. Stop acting like a schoolgirl. Abby looked for something, anything on which to focus her attention while she collected herself. Focus on the band, she thought. Look at those tubas, such big openings, like the slut’s, I’ll bet. And the trombones, sliding in and out, groaning their tune. Stop it! You’ll drive yourself crazy. Abby’s hands were ice inside her wool gloves.

  Bobbie laughed nervously and turned her attention to someone else. “Well, Nancy, you’ve been right all year. Are we going to beat Cornell or what?” Bobbie asked.

  “Attitude. It’s all about who wants it more. We’ll have to watch it, because too much cocky can spoil the soup, even against a rookie,” Nancy Rossetti replied.

  The women settled into their seats, Abby choosing one as far away from Bobbie Jansen as possible. She could feel her throat tightening and her head begin to throb. The band marched around the field in their black pants and white and gold jackets trimmed with black lapels and shoulder straps. They played the alma mater, and everyone stood. Some of the older alumni in the boxes next to Abby’s sang with mist in their eyes, knowing that history was taking place today and thrilled to be part of it. But Abby didn’t notice.

  Cornell’s white jerseys with big red letters streamed onto the field while the band played the ‘Farmer in the Dell.’ When the Black Dragons rushed to the field, the band let loose a raucous rendition of the ‘Star Wars’ theme, energizing the capacity crowd to their feet. It was the first time in Cross’s history they had sold out the stadium.

  Zach emerged from the locker room with the last of his team. Only minutes before appearing, he had given them his motivational speech.

  “Men, the enemy is out there. They are the only thing that stands between you and an undefeated season. You’re winners, so act like winners, play like winners, kick ass like winners! All you have to do is play our game, and you walk away with history. These guys are smaller than you, dumber than you, and they want to spoil your parade. Get out there and spit, scramble and score. SCORE!”