by Mary Gray
I rush down an immaculate rock path to a porch with a garland and miniature fir trees. A shiny white Mercedes sits like an effigy in the driveway. Right away, I can tell that the welcome mat looks way too clean.
As I reach for the knocker, the red ornaments on the squatty firs reflect my white-washed face. I take a deep breath. Lift the metal handle before I’m tempted to run—but no, no turning around today.
Though I release it harder than I intended, a gaggle of carolers muffles the noise. Fa la la la la, la la la la. They’re almost horrifically merry.
I’m just about to grab the knocker again when Calhoun’s heavy, oak door suddenly swings wide.
“Ms. Hardin.” A tall, respectable-looking man with fancy business clothes flashes me marble-sized dimples in his thin cheeks. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
His thick, Southern drawl and unprecedented sophistication nearly render me speechless while a whiff of tobacco mixed with peppermint nearly bowls me over. Still, I’m on a mission. Marching into his house, I assume the role that I can barge in anywhere I want, like I’m the police. He’ll have some clues, if I’m lucky. An old card. A framed photograph of him and WT. Who knows? Maybe the two are old hunting buddies.
Or the good doctor has an old Christmas card from “Mr. and Mrs. Hardin.” He has to have information that will help me sort through everything. Offer me protection from that FBI agent, at least.
Before me, in his living room, though, lies nothing but a simple set of chocolate-colored leather couches. A few short-haired throw rugs give a decidedly masculine vibe. Everything about the room is professional, sleek. No framed portraits. No Christmas cards hanging over the fireplace. Though there is a hefty gun rack with five or six shiny rifles. Best stay on the doctor’s good side.
“I need you to tell me about WT.” I squint past the wood-paneled wall to the back door.
With any luck, Calhoun’s hiding WT back there. Maybe, all along, the two of them have been secretly waiting for me.
Calhoun peers down at me with this angelic level of patience, as if saying he has nothing to hide. His dimples flash again, and for the first time, I spot his fuzzy slippers. Hey, I wasn’t too far off on my earlier dream. “While I’m honored that, after all this time, you have come to speak with me, perhaps we should leave our conversation for daytime hours. Call my office. Natalie would be more than happy to accommodate you with an appointment.”
But I don’t have time for social niceties. “You know he’s missing. I was even stopped by the FBI!”
Doctor Calhoun’s eyes widen infinitesimally before he rubs his chin with the back of this hand. “You, um, didn’t say anything?”
I shake my head, grateful that he’s not pushing me to talk to the feds, but still wanting to know what’s happened with my life.
“You are my therapist, right?”
“Of course!” Calhoun glances at a side table next to the nearest of his couches. The surface of the table is empty, except for a miniature Bible and a hefty reading lamp. More peppermint and tobacco waft throughout the room, and the sleek, wood panel walls are filled with a terrifying number of framed diplomas.
Calhoun slips a little black book from the end table, along with an expensive-looking ballpoint pen. “What time would you like to come down to the office, Tansy?”
My stomach flips, and I stagger. He knows about Tansy?
Glancing up, Calhoun frowns at his mistake. “Oh, I’m sorry. I take it you’re Gemma today.”
I back up—way, way up—until I knock into yet another scraggly Christmas tree. Ornaments jangle at my neck, and one actually slips to stone floor with a terrible clang.
I’ve run my back up against the door. How is it that every time I’m close to answers about WT, another person knows too much about me?
“You know?” Never in my wildest dreams did I think he would know about Tansy.
“I am your therapist.” He snaps his notebook closed. “Or, was. It’s hard to say what your other half ever wanted from me. She never said, and it’s been a very long time. But it’s good that you’ve come to me.”
My heart’s fallen into quicksand. I’m seeing spots while a fistful of hot flashes burn up and down my legs. I thought Calhoun would be like Dwayne—vaguely aware of my peculiarities—but he seems to know everything. And I don’t like feeling this vulnerable or out of touch. Or crazy.
I should ask how many people in this town know about Tansy, but the question is like hot steam—quick as it comes, it evaporates.
Calhoun’s high cheekbones slacken. “Have you considered that, maybe, you’re the one person who might know the location of your fine WT?”
I straighten my jacket—a thigh-length peacoat I don’t even remember putting on. “I thought ... you know ... since you’re my therapist, you would know that I don’t know where he is.” Tears suddenly well in my eyes. “I haven’t for a very long time.”
“All right.” Calhoun looks down his long nose. “I’ll be honest with you. I only saw Tansy twice, but she refused to come in after our initial visit—and that time you wandered off to Boyd. The fact that you’re here now speaks volumes, and I’m proud of the choice you’ve made today.”
Oh, so he’s the one who helped put me back together when I wandered off. But I don’t see how Tansy even had the gumption to see a therapist after that. She’s terrified of going upstairs, let alone anywhere outside our property. Maybe there was a time when she was comfortable leaving the house?
“You should call him.” Calhoun pats my arm. “Invite him to return to Deep Creek.”
But I don’t have a phone. Or his number ... “If you knew something about my husband, you would tell me, right?”
Swiftly leading me to the door, Calhoun seems to be through with our visit. “I assure you, I would very much like to know his whereabouts. How about you schedule an appointment. I would like to touch base again. We can even continue the work I started with Tansy.”
My nerves are so hot, I could swear they’re being fileted. Can I trust him? I can’t even trust Tansy. But he does seem to want to protect me from that agent, and he seems to believe me that I didn’t murder WT. But I may not be able to get the money for his doctor fee.
I shuffle to the door, cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry for taking up your time.”
“Call my office.” Calhoun pats my arm for the second time. “Natalie should be able to squeeze you in as soon as Tuesday morning. Just keep doing what you’re doing. For now, you can always lean on Dwayne.”
14
Wandering back home, I try to make sense of what Calhoun told me. He didn’t automatically assume WT’s dead. Plus, he says Tansy visited him, even used her name. My gut says she won’t be too thrilled when she learns I visited him without setting up parameters for what she wanted me to say. She may have been cognizant of Dwayne telling me about Calhoun ... or she may have been MIA.
When I arrive on our porch, a white swatch of graffiti on the door has me pausing. Wide, white letters form a looping symbol I don’t recognize. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and even the heavens seem to know I’m in deep.
The markings seem like something I might have seen before ... but where? I can’t think. Or maybe it’s a symbol I shouldn’t recognize. Just a group of kids, painting doors to act out what they’ve seen on TV.
I lean against one of the pillars, grocery bags swinging. But the Doric column has been smashed to the right. I run my finger along the crack, the flakey plaster surprisingly sturdy. How could someone do this? Who would even do such a thing?
Tansy doesn’t need to see the smashed-up porch light, or how the entire porch now slants sideways. Someone’s taken the time to knock out the foundational braces. They must have attached a rope to a truck or something similar to get that kind of manpower. I should call the cops ... if that FBI agent and Jesse Beauchamp didn’t already have it out for me.
Twisting the doorknob, I stick to the mission. Can’t make any progress until I’ve recovered my m
emories.
I crack open the door, terrified I’ll find even more destruction inside, but, apart from Tansy’s random balls of yarn and freshly poured candles, nothing seems out of place.
What I do know is, the hallway reeks of paint.
Little green kitty footprints dot the wood floor, all the way to the kitchen—that’ll be fun to clean—and I follow the trail, eager to set down the groceries.
I expect Tansy to come out the moment I set them on the counter, but she doesn’t so much as hiccup when I pull out the chamomile tea.
I tap a fingernail on a soup can, trying to remember the last time I had something to eat. My stomach rumbles, so I grab the can opener and open it, letting out the nasty aroma of split peas.
While the soup boils on the stove, I put away all the cans in a neat little line.
Still, no Tansy.
I find her favorite bowl that matches her pink and green teacups and pour the hot liquid inside. It isn’t until I’m settling into her favorite reading chair in the library, bowl and spoon in hand, that Tansy stirs from her lush, lavender bedding.
“They came,” she says in this hushed voice.
Her consciousness scrambles in every which direction, but she’s stuck on a hamster wheel. Head spin-spin-spins—won’t stop spinning.
Slowly, I set the soup on a coaster. “What’s wrong, Tansy?” Not sure if she’s seen the porch yet, but if she hasn’t, I’m not about to goad the beast.
“They came,” she repeats in her whisper voice.
The tourists? Or whoever did the vandalism and graffiti?
Tansy curls our legs beneath us, and the thin, green cushion sinks. Our position isn’t all that comfortable. Before I even have time to wrap my mind around what’s happening, she has us scrambling across the carpet. Ducking under the desk, she curls us into a ball—like we’re twelve, playing hide and seek.
“They came, they came, they came.” In our head, she nudges that wall of granite between us into its place, but there’s still a crack. An infinitesimal crack so we can communicate.
It takes all my willpower to gain enough momentum to actually open my mouth to speak. “Who came?”
But our head’s gone immobile against the oak sideboard of the desk.
With our arms, Tansy smothers our face. Our knees bend so that our chin’s resting on top, and one arm’s wrapped tightly around both our legs.
She rocks us back and forth.
“They came, they came ..."
I don’t think this is a good time to bring up that I visited Calhoun, though she also hasn’t blocked me out, which means she really does still need me.
Digging our nails into the underbelly of the desk, she screams, “THEY. CAME!”
I try to speak, but she’s blocking me out and actual words become far too slippery. “Who, Tansy?”
All she can do is rock from side to side—like Jack the Ripper himself climbed out of his grave. I try holding onto her the best I can while a cold sweat prickles from our arms, and she repeatedly knocks our head against the desk’s side. Our heart’s going to spiral straight out of our chest. Ears clog. Throat burns like sparking batteries.
“They came, they came, they came ..."
15
When I come to, I’m halfway across the yard, and in either hand, I’m carrying a “No Trespassing” sign. The wind bites into my nose, and it seems Tansy’s dressed me in that blush-colored peacoat I don’t hate.
I don’t want another repeat of where we hide under the desk, so I go along with whatever it is she wants. And from the looks of it, today it’s more “No Trespassing” signs.
Marching to the fence, I become a soldier invading Normandy. A small family’s just climbing out of a Volkswagen bug with a Mississippi license plate, cameras in tow, and I’m not in the mood for entertaining, so I yell, “Tour’s over. Silent Treatment Taxidermy is just down the street.”
The woman stares at my head—my hair. It seems I’m wearing a wide-brimmed hat the likes of which Daisy Buchanan would wear back in the day. I rip that off, spot the gigantic pink, plastic flower that’s been duct-taped to the top, and only now notice the thirteen scarves I’m apparently wearing.
Slowly setting the signs on the grass, I wind off the scarves, one by one, while the woman waves for her kids to get in the car and away from me.
Seems there’s a large, dead vulture on the lawn, too. A legitimate Native American arrow protrudes from its side. Attached to the arrow is a slip of paper with Tansy’s wonky handwriting.
“You’re next,” it says.
The graffiti people? I suppose this sends a message ... not entirely sure they’ll care either way.
The nice thing about living in a small town is Calhoun’s office is only three blocks away from the square; I know this, because Francesca told me. After disposing of the vulture in a shallow hole next to the squirrel and magpie, I make my way to The Hair Lounge, and Francesca chats me up about the opening of the taco place. We discuss how gas prices are actually decent, and the rodeo in Fort Worth that’s supposed to happen come spring. We don’t talk about how there’s a trio of glued seashells in my hair, or her husband, who I’m guessing still hasn’t gotten back to her with his MMA advice.
By the time Francesca’s finished with my hair and given my eyebrows a thorough tweeze, I thank her for making me mildly pretty. It’s time to head to Calhoun’s office—even if I don’t have an appointment. But I still don’t have a phone, and I’d rather show up on the off-chance there’s an opening.
Calhoun’s brick office is exactly one block from his house. More red ornaments pepper squatty firs, and patches of frost stretch across the grass in a thin cobweb that should be melted by lunchtime.
A petite blonde with shoulder-length hair and a tan jacket flashes me a movie star smile the moment I go inside. Natalie, Calhoun said was her name, turns her full body to face me. I feel like I should know her, but she’s probably been trained to give special attention to every person she greets.
I grab the pen from the clipboard—both are decorated with cookie-cutter engravings of Texas’ shape. I have to ignore the niggling in my gut that says I’m somehow “less than” for scribbling down my name. But long ago, Tansy read to me about what it means for us to have a condition like ours. Visiting a doctor is actually a great step for getting us healthy.
My handwriting’s not all that legible. Part of me thinks maybe I should have written “Tansy,” but I’d rather not draw undo attention to myself—especially since I don’t have an appointment for the day.
“Thank you, Gemma,” Natalie says in her chipper, soprano voice. “Doctor Calhoun will be with you shortly.”
Unless she just read my name from the clipboard, looks like Natalie knows me. Plus, she didn’t give me the third degree.
I turn on my heel before she can see the surprise in my eyes. No need to jinx this. Maybe something in this room will jog my memory.
Just like Calhoun’s living room, the chairs are a dark chocolate brown, and the walls have the same sleek wood paneling. A TV hums in the corner where a newscaster recaps the wins of the high school football team. The whole room’s so perfectly decked out with fancy bronze and silver Christmas décor, half of me wishes that Tansy and I went to the trouble of decorating. On the rustic, live edge coffee table lies a neat stack of magazines. I don’t remember the last time I had the time to look at one, so I snatch one up and thumb through it while backing into a corner seat.
I wonder how many patients Doctor Calhoun sees.
Wonder what WT thought about Tansy coming here. Did WT know about Tansy?
A ticking Santa clock on the wall tells me it’s precisely 4:15. I knew I should have made an appointment, but that would mean planning, and I never know if I’m going to come out of the ether in time.
The empty waiting room suggests either Calhoun doesn’t see a lot of patients, or he only sees one at a time.
Wonder what Natalie’s up to. Oh, but her station at the front desk
is empty.
I hadn’t realized she’d gotten up. I guess she’s talking to Calhoun—seeing if he has time to see me.
Is it selfish to hope that WT’s handsome? It would be terrible if he was as old and decrepit as the estate.
The slick pages show me Hey, Sugar is the first featured article in the magazine. The pale business owner gives a withering glare to the camera while her husband holds out his arms to a display of bright-colored treats.
The next article appears to be about the railroad, built in 1899.
Page eleven’s an ad for cigarettes. It also reminds me to get my pap screen.
Page thirteen, though, right after an ad for a boot shop, has an image that latches onto my attention with nine-inch-long fangs. Just above the center of the right page is a man with his hands in his pockets and a close-lipped smile I can’t not recognize.
He’s wearing a blue pin-striped suit. A gold clip on a red skinny tie. A pocket square sits snugly in his breast pocket, perfectly complementing his tie. His hair’s slicked back, but not in that “no personality, banker” kind of way.” He’s handsome, almost looks content, and his hazel eyes are directly on me.
The scruff on his chin hints at his lower thirties age, and on his wrist lies a watch—a silver watch ... he got from me.
As I stand, I knock into the coffee table, the entire room spinning. My hand quivers as I make out the blocky letters of the title:
CATTLE BARON FINDS OIL ON HARDIN ESTATE
A teeny white scar to the left of his lower lip nearly pulls me into the page. Those lips ... I kissed those lips, and that scar?
That scar ...
He cut himself while laughing at a joke I told him.
It’s him.
Him.
WT.
16
I remember.