'Til I Want No More

by Robin W. Pearson

“Because I’m homeschooled?”

  “Because of a lot of things. We spent a lot of time driving around in his old Chevy that his father had given him. He’d pick me up after band rehearsal—or maybe I’d even skip rehearsal.”

  “Ooh, Max! Weren’t you the rebel!” Celeste scooted her chair closer. “What did Mama say about that?”

  Maxine cleared her throat and twirled a strand from her ponytail. “She was too busy being a newlywed and catering to newlyweds to notice much.” She swallowed the acrid taste of the memories. “Not that I’d call myself a rebel. I just wasn’t always thirty years old. Jesus and I have gotten to know each other a lot better over the years.”

  “When did y’all break up?”

  “During his freshman year of college, after I turned seventeen.” Maxine started to take a sip but changed her mind. She considered ordering an iced coffee instead to cool off.

  Celeste propped her chin in the palm of her hand and peered at her sister. “But why? Did he cheat on you while he was away?”

  Maxine set her cup down with a force that rattled the utensils. “Goodness, Celeste!”

  “What?”

  “All these questions, that’s what. You’re not this curious about Teddy.”

  “That’s because we met him before you did.”

  Celeste had accompanied First John to a dinner at Whitehall Academy last summer when the board had introduced Teddy as its headmaster. “As soon as we got home that night, I told you all about him because I knew you’d like him as much as Daddy did. And I thought he was perfect for you, too.” Celeste finally swallowed some tea. “But I don’t know anything about your JD. Other than he’s cute as all.”

  Maxine wished she could dip a napkin into the icy tea glass and dab her cheeks. “He’s not my JD.”

  “He used to be.”

  “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.” The Scripture from the Song of Solomon skittered in and out of her mind. “A very long time ago, Celeste. Just because he’s moved back doesn’t change the facts. I’m getting married, and Mr. Lester is a grown man with his own plans.”

  “What are his plans? Is that what you two were talking about during rehearsal?”

  You. You are his plan. “Celeste—”

  A burst of loud music caught their attention. Celeste turned away from Maxine to dig into the side pocket of her backpack by her feet. She silenced the voice of Adele crooning “Hello” on her iPhone. “Oooh, it’s Mama.” Adele sang again.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?” Maxine worked hard not to express her relief.

  Celeste pushed the red X. “Nope. I texted her on our way over, and she’s probably having a conniption because we stopped to eat. You know how she is about family dinners.” She looked at Maxine for a minute, quiet. Then she reached down for her backpack. “Yeah, we should go.” She held Maxine’s eyes as she slid her chair back. “Thanks for this.”

  “Of course! I was hungry, too.” Maxine slipped on her navy windbreaker and unhooked her purse from the arm of her chair.

  “No, I mean this. Thanks for letting me in, at least a little.” Celeste stood and headed for the front of the café.

  Maxine tucked the ticket and thirty dollars under the sugar bowl and followed her sister. “One more thing, Celeste.”

  “What? Don’t tell Mama about our conversation?” The teen glanced over her shoulder.

  Maxine laughed. “Okay, make that two more things. That’s one. The second is you’re wrong about Mr. Lester.”

  Celeste stopped and half turned toward Maxine, her left eyebrow raised.

  Maxine winked. “He’s more like Lenny Kravitz—another musician but much taller.”

  The two bumped fists and left the restaurant.

  Chapter Ten

  “WHAT?” MAXINE GASPED and pushed herself up, her fingers sinking into something soft and loamy. She brushed her hands together and down the front of her nightgown to clear away the dirt and leaves that clung to her, but a far-off sound snagged her attention. Maxine stood and craned her neck. A guitar? No, a double bass! She stepped over her bed of earth, straw, and leaves and walked toward the music, ducking under and around low-hanging branches and towering tree trunks. She walked gingerly, yet the sticks, nettles, and pebbles didn’t prick her bare feet. The moist ground was plush and spongy between her toes.

  Still, the bow on the strings.

  Maxine stopped and squinted in the half-light. Was this morning reveille or evening taps? She took in a chestful of the clear, crisp air and resisted the urge to stretch her arms toward the sky. She felt strangely rested and alert, like she had neither slept for too long or too little. Just right. “Call me Goldilocks,” she giggled.

  Her low laughter petered out as it struck her that she was the only one listening—save, perhaps, for the invisible musician. Her foot seemed to ask the ground for directions with each hesitant step. But then something familiar glinted at her through the trees and she rushed forward to push aside an outstretched branch. Is that . . . ? Yes, my creek! I’m in my woods! She half skipped, half ran down toward the silvery-green, slow-moving water, miraculously dodging pines, elms, bushes, and undergrowth.

  “Hello-oo?” Even though she whispered, her voice seemed to bounce off the trees, the rocks, the nearly still water beyond the muddy shore. She walked toward the sound, to the east. The sun crept higher as the humming of the strings grew louder, yet more beautiful—painfully so. Maxine suppressed a shiver and looked behind her. No signs of life. Only her own wet footprints following in a zigzag path behind her. To lose herself, she lifted the silky edge of her nightgown and stepped into the cool water and traversed the creek.

  Chill bumps erupted along her arms as the gown clung to her. She slogged across the few remaining feet to the shoreline and scrambled to drier ground. There, she sat and wrapped her arms around her knees, ignoring the mud and grime. She rocked back and forth, in time to the musician’s song, as the fully risen sun cooked her from the inside out. Orange, gold, and white light filled the sky as the music finally faded. It was then she picked up other sounds. Birds called to each other, leaves rustled, the creek gurgled over stones.

  And someone called, “Maxine.”

  She turned her head this way and that, trying to find who’d spoken to her, squinting in the wind that suddenly picked up. Wet, loose strands stuck to the sides of her face. Was that the musician standing just over there, obscured by the sun’s glare?

  “Lie down. Rest. Listen,” the voice entreated.

  Yet Maxine couldn’t rest. She had to find the music. She braced an arm on the ground and rose unsteadily. She turned in a circle, scanning the scene, the woods she’d left behind her on the other side and the thick shadows before her. Maxine looked above her, toward the shadowy treetops, toward the morning light, and she stretched for it . . .

  And hit the floor. The area rug softened the fall, but it wasn’t plush enough to protect her from the wood beneath. “Ooophf!” she cried, out loud this time. Fully awake, she sprang to her feet, checked her hands for mud, and felt her pajamas for wet splotches. She turned on the lamp and, with a shuddering breath, finally accepted she was in her bedroom.

  But not for long.

  ________

  Maxine pushed the button on her key fob to disable the house alarm and let herself into her parents’ mudroom. She turned the dead bolt behind her. After stepping out of her fleece-lined slippers and hanging her jacket on the hook she still laid claim to, she tiptoed through the moonlit kitchen toward the freezer.

  The evening had inched into night after Maxine had dropped off Celeste. She’d tried to wring out more than the few words she’d typed in the rehearsal hall, but emotionally, she was bone-dry. She snapped shut her laptop and hunted for something—anything—to distract herself. Maxine piddled around her garage apartment, listening to the owls hooting in the woods, moved knickknacks from one shelf to another, and cleaned her refrigerator. Her body ached for rest, but her brain refused to quiet. Finally
, hours later, the inky night enveloped her, and she drifted until the dream drove her from bed.

  After using the faint, speckled glow from the skylight to find a spoon, she dug directly into the butter pecan ice cream. She vowed silently with her eyes closed, I’ll replace it tomorrow, Mother. On the other side of the island, she held the stainless steel in her mouth so she could use both hands to lift the heavy stool and set it down noiselessly before hopping onto it.

  Teddy. She missed his dimples and the line that formed between his eyes when he listened intently. His humor and his arms were her resting place, but she’d almost cried from relief when he’d told her about his higher education conference. She needed this rest from Teddy, however brief, to gear up for Monday’s meeting with him and Reverend Atwater. “Ugh,” she murmured to herself. Talk about muck and mire.

  Suddenly the two recessed lights over the stove clicked on, followed by a low woof. Milo pattered over to her and nuzzled her lap.

  “Maxine, what are you doing?” First John stood at the foot of the back stairs in a gray Wake Forest University T-shirt and red- and white-striped pajama bottoms, his hair a spiky silver halo. “Are you eating ice cream at two o’clock in the morning?”

  Maxine rubbed the dog’s head absently as she greeted her stepfather with a smile as bleary as his blue eyes. “Have some?”

  Her stepfather slogged over and sat down on the stool next to her. “Um, no. Are you okay?” He rested his head on a fisted hand. His sleepy eyes pinned her to her spot.

  “I am now.” Maxine retrieved her spoon and finished what remained on it. She extricated herself from his stare by returning the slightly squishy container to the freezer. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “You woke Milo, and he woke me. Viv was worn-out from the wedding Manna catered, so she didn’t break a snore.”

  “I forgot about that!” Maxine leaned against the closed freezer door. “How’d it go? And how was your trip? Where did the travel itinerary take you this time?”

  “Dallas, Philadelphia, Chicago, Greensboro, and a dozen little burgs in between. Book signings, commentating, and speaking engagements—good stuff, but I’m tired, and I’m glad it’s all over. I’ll be home with the family the rest of the year, so now I can focus on writing and Manna’s wedding season.”

  “I can’t imagine you’ll get to focus on anything besides the NCAA tournament, but at least we can officially celebrate your new syndication agreement. Congratulations, First John.” Maxine turned away from him and opened the refrigerator to retrieve the water pitcher.

  “Thanks, sweetheart. It just means my newspaper column ends up in recycling bins in a few more states, that’s all.” He smiled, however, obviously pleased. “Sometimes I wish I could simply enjoy March Madness like everybody else. As far as today’s nuptials . . . they said their ‘I dos,’ ate some shrimp and grits, and swapped bites of red velvet cake. You know your mother’s motto: ‘All’s well that eats well.’”

  He shrugged. “But back to you. Why are you burying your sorrows in a pint of butter pecan this time of night, or should I say morning?”

  Maxine set down the water pitcher. “Do you ever need a reason to eat ice cream?”

  “You do if it’s my Talenti.” Dressed in a cream-colored gown and robe sprinkled with pink flowers, Vivienne accepted Milo’s lick and nuzzle of greeting near the stair landing. She stroked the dog’s head once more before she nudged him aside and entered the kitchen. “Did I miss an invitation to the family reunion?” She rested a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Maxine, why are you standin’ here, eatin’ my ice cream at two o’clock in the morning?”

  Oh, here we go. Maxine returned the pitcher to the refrigerator and faced the giants.

  “I was just asking her that same question, hon.” First John wrapped an arm around his petite wife’s waist and tucked her into his side.

  An ugly part of Maxine wanted to wriggle between them, but it would’ve taken a crowbar. Manna had catered the launch of First John’s debut novel. When Mama Ruby had taken sick, she’d sent Vivienne in her place. They’d moved together like interlocking gears since the moment Vivienne discovered John knew that Elena Ruiz wasn’t a person, but a Cuban sandwich—and that he made his with the traditional strawberry jam instead of cranberry sauce. And not only did he appreciate Vivienne’s Cuban heritage and food, but he loved dancing, travel, and late-night talks—things she rarely convinced her first husband to do. And she and First John both adored Maxine, or so Mother often said.

  A gangly, white, former college basketball player who let his written words speak for him, John Owens was almost everything Vivienne’s first husband was not. He was content being the sturdy underpinnings of their family wagon—the axle, hub, and undercarriage—while she sat ready at the reins, with her hands on the brake and the lariat.

  As she stared at them, Maxine recalled the night the new Mrs. Owens had returned to resume motherhood, gushing, “I never thought I’d find love again, but not only did I find it, I found myself, my true self.”

  That’s what I want. To be me and let someone else see it, hear it, love it.

  “What are you lookin’ at, Maxine?”

  Maxine readjusted her scarf as she focused on her mother’s face. “Um . . .”

  “No. The truth, girl. Don’t tell me something easy on the ears. What?” Vivienne lobbed this last question in John’s direction as he squeezed her waist.

  Maxine tried to smile. “I think First John is suggesting you lighten up, Mother. Isn’t it a little late for full-court press?”

  “Well, isn’t it a little early for dessert?”

  Maxine pictured Celeste saying rejoinder and almost laughed out loud. She crossed her arms. “I’ll replace it.”

  “That’s not the point, and you know it. Is it JD you’re worried about? Celeste told me about y’all meetin’ today during her rehearsal.” Vivienne smoothed her husband’s spikes.

  Maxine snorted. “JD who? Actually, I need your help with Teddy. Reverend Atwater wants us to spend time with three other couples, and you and First John top the list.”

  Vivienne kissed her husband’s cheek and disengaged from his embrace. She walked around the island, opened the freezer, and withdrew the hotly contested frozen treat. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I’m not sure. He just talked about the impact of family and friends on our relationship and sent us on our merry way. We’re supposed to spend at least half a day with three different couples over the next six months. Are you game?”

  Vivienne licked a spot of ice cream off her lip. “Sure. We can go to church and have dinner together on one of Manna’s slow weekends. What do you think, John? I can make steak and gravy and fry some chicken wings.”

  He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Sure, sounds like a plan to me. I’m sure I can find a game for us to watch.”

  “Uh-uh, no TV watching. Twelve to twenty-four hours of interaction, by the pastor’s orders. And no need for two different meats, Mother.”

  “Girl, you know that’s my usual. Even if you don’t cook that way, Theodore can count on his mother-in-law throwin’ down in the kitchen.” Vivienne discarded the empty carton. “Well, now that we’ve settled that, are you ready to tell me why you can’t sleep? It’s not because you’re trying to fill up your social calendar.”

  Maxine’s mouth worked for a second, but no words squeezed through.

  “Maxine, if you want me to leave so you can talk to Viv—”

  “You’d better sit right there, John!” Vivienne pointed at him with her spoon. “This is a family matter. If this girl is losin’ sleep, it’s her own fault and our business.”

  “So you’re saying it’s wrong to worry about Celeste. You agree with that, First John?”

  “Well—”

  “John, stay out of this.”

  “Wow, Mother. You rescinded that invitation to the club before he had a chance to open the envelope.”

  “Child, hush, and answer my question.”r />
  Maxine glared at Vivienne.

  Vivienne’s lips pursed. “Have you reached any decisions, Maxine?”

  “About?”

  “You know what about. The girl dreamin’ of butterflies and marigolds upstairs in her room. What are we going to do?”

  Maxine’s hands flew to her chest as if to protect her sister-child by osmosis. “You can’t mean to tell her now, after all those tests on her heart! That’s just selfish. Just because I can’t sleep . . .” Now, however, Maxine felt she could curl up under a blanket on the hardwood floor and hibernate by the stove for forty years.

  “What’s selfish is holding this back, Maxine. Maybe it was right before JD came back. But you need to stop pretending this is about respecting his privacy or out of fear for Celeste’s health. Livin’ in the woods don’t make us a tree.”

  “If I may interrupt.”

  Both Maxine and Vivienne seemed surprised to find John still perched on the stool in the kitchen. Yet there he’d hunkered down, patient as ever, looking more alert and unruffled than when he’d first stumbled into the room. Maxine imagined his fingers lightly resting on the keys of his ancient Royal typewriter, ready to compose.

  First John drew in a breath, eyes on his wife and stepdaughter. “Max, you’re right. We’re all concerned about Celeste’s short-term physical health. Viv’s got a point, too. We can’t forget Celeste’s long-term, emotional well-being. But you see . . .” He interlaced his fingers as if he were playing “Here’s the church and here’s the steeple.”

  Yet Max failed to see any open doors, even as he continued.

  “. . . the two views intersect. They don’t contradict each other or rule out the other.” His eyes beseeched the older woman first and then the younger.

  Vivienne seemed to deflate.

  Maxine blew up. “Exactly! That’s my point exactly, First John.”

  Vivienne moved closer to her daughter and enfolded one of her hands in both her own. “Sweetie, we can’t keep lyin’ to Celeste. That in itself can do more harm than good. What do you know about JD?”