The House on Persimmon Road

by Jackie Weger

  Pip vanished. Judy Ann lingered. “Where’re you gonna be?”

  “Right here in the kitchen. I’m not going to disappear on you, sweetie. Stop worrying.”

  “Daddy did.”

  Justine cuddled her daughter into her lap. She never seemed to have the right words ready to soothe Judy Ann’s fears. “I’m not Daddy, sweetheart. I don’t want to live without you. Where I go, you go. Where I live, you live. Even if you don’t see me, I’m here. I love you. We all do,” she added, lifting her head to include the grandmothers.

  “Right!” said Pauline. “You’re our special girl.”

  “Especially mine,” said Agnes.

  “See? We’re all here for you. Now go play, ride your bike around that big old tree out front. I’ll bet that squirrel will be so curious, he’ll come right down the trunk and watch.”

  The child slid off her lap. “But promise you won’t go anywhere without me.”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “I don’t think I like Philip doing that to Judy Ann,” said Agnes once the child was out of earshot.

  “Ooh-la-la. Listen to that,” crooned Pauline. “The overprotective mother has finally admitted a flaw in the greatest son in the world.”

  “I never said he was perfect.”

  “Only about a thousand times.”

  “I believe we have a house to put to rights,” said Justine. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  “I’ll go make my bed,” said Agnes.

  “I think I’ll bypass the great room for today and arrange my bedroom, too,” said Pauline.

  “Wonderful!” said Justine. “That leaves me with the kitchen, the hall, the other bedrooms, the bath, and my office.”

  “I’ll cook supper if that will help,” volunteered Agnes.

  “Don’t allow it!” Pauline insisted. “We don’t know where the nearest hospital is yet.”

  Agnes thumped her cane as she began her exit. “At least I try, Pauline. That’s more than you can say.”

  Justine dropped her head onto her folded arms and began to mutter a satisfying string of expletives.

  The elder women exchanged a glance before making hasty retreats. Two seconds later Pauline poked her head around the doorjamb.

  “Now, I remember who Tucker reminds me of.”

  Justine lifted her head. “You’re wrong if you think I’m going to ask who.”

  “I’m telling you anyway. The Marlboro Man—if Tucker wore a Western hat—”

  “He can remind you of Gandhi, Churchill, and John Wayne all rolled into one, for all I care. I prefer you don’t mention his name in my presence ever again.”

  “Your bed is put together. Why don’t you take an aspirin and lie down. I’ll keep an eye on the children.”

  “I don’t need a nap and I told you I’d do my own bed. I don’t like the idea of that man handling my things.”

  “You always were one to cut off your nose to spite your face.”

  “It’s called having principles.”

  “Same thing,” said Pauline. “Oh, by the by, the unmentionable person isn’t married. Never has been.”

  “Maybe there’s something wrong with him.”

  Pauline fingered the pearls at her neck. “He told Pip that he’s thirty-six. That he’s had obligations to meet that kept marriage out of the picture. To me, that makes for a right-thinking man. Your father was almost forty when we married, and there was certainly nothing wrong with him. Not in the way you mean. Which brings me to this—of late you’ve seen only the worst in people. Had you had that kind of attitude a dozen years ago, you wouldn’t be in the predicament you’re in now.”

  “You’re deliberately rubbing salt in my wounds, Mother.”

  “Salt is an antiseptic, isn’t it? Helps to heal?”

  “Go make up your bedroom.”

  “I do love you, Justine. You’re my only child. I want to see you happy.”

  “I’ll get there. Eventually.”

  Pauline smiled slyly. “I do believe you-know-who was quite taken with you,” she said on her exit, getting in the last word.

  Justine inhaled, counted to nine, and exhaled on ten.

  “I’m capable, sane, and in control.” Saying the words aloud convinced her.

  Tucker Highsmith taken with her? Really? In the finest sense of that word? What a lot of drivel. The man just wanted an arm piece—or more.

  “Look, Mommy,” Judy Ann said breathlessly, entering the kitchen on the run. “I found a bucket.” She began at once to gather luncheon leftovers. “I’m gonna feed the chicks. They’re so cute.”

  “All right. Just don’t disturb Mr. Highsmith.”

  “I can talk to him, can’t I? He likes me.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I can tell.” She puffed out her little chest importantly. “He talks to me like I’m a person.”

  “I talk to you like you’re a person.”

  “No, you don’t, you boss me.”

  “That’s what mothers are for.”

  “He laughs. You don’t laugh anymore.”

  Justine winced. Agnes had made that same accusation not five hours earlier. She suffered a twinge of jealousy that Judy Ann was fascinated by Highsmith, enthralled even, and had compared her to him.

  “I’m going to start laughing again soon. I promise. But I need something funny to get me going. What do you say I take a break and we go ride your bike? I’ll put you on the handlebars.”

  “The chain’s off. Anyway, I want to feed the chicks.”

  Justine hid her disappointment with a smile. “Okay, another time. Scoot.”

  Judy Ann went, but made a quick turnabout, rushing up to Justine and throwing her free arm around her neck.

  “I do love you best, Mommy.”

  “That’s the grandest news I’ve heard all day. I love you, too.”

  “Then it’s okay if I talk to Tucker?”

  Justine sagged slightly. Manipulated in the name of love—again. She followed Judy Ann onto the back porch. “Only if you see him outside.

  She watched her daughter skip down the back steps and race toward the persimmon trees, the rusty pail swinging gaily from one chubby fist.

  Justine’s eyes suddenly stung with hot tears. The love and attention she gave to her children was not going to be enough. They were already hungry for a surrogate father.

  There was no surrogate for a husband. Either you had one or you didn’t. Dear God, but she felt so lost—so single! She missed the intimacy, the sharing.

  At one time there had been love between she and Philip. She had to believe that. But, while she was thinking there was still hope for their marriage, he had ended it cruelly.

  On his fortieth birthday.

  After the successful party.

  After they’d made love.

  It was better that way. So he had said.

  Knowing she could not permit herself to break down, Justine took control of her emotions and turned back into the house.

  The disarray made her sniff. No doubt her ex-husband was at that very moment being waited upon by exotic Balinese dancing girls who wore elegant jewels in their noses and little else. He was a shirker in all respects. It was time to put him out of her mind; failing that, at least out of her daily life.

  She surveyed the kitchen with a critical if not practiced eye. There was a wealth of cupboards and shelves and a pantry off to her right. It was deep and dim and had no light fixture, but it would be useful for storage.

  If she went at it with a vengeance, she could have the kitchen orderly by dusk.

  And if she applied the same tactic to her life, she could have it orderly by… She swiped furiously at a tear.

  Her life was in much more disarray than the old kitchen. Maybe it’d take a bit longer. So what?

  An exact image of Tucker flashed before her mind’s eye.

  She lifted her head suddenly. It was the first time since her divorce that she’d had total recall of a man—the s
hape of his face, his nose, the size of his hands, the manner in which he carried himself.

  She was recovering from disaster.

  She filled one of the deep sinks with dishes. The spigot belched rusty water. She let the water run until it cleared.

  She could do the same with her life, just let it run on until it cleared.

  She poured in dish detergent and plunged in her hands.

  Right. The analogy fit. She’d just plunge in and go with the flow.

  And if the flow included Tucker Highsmith? asked a tiny interior voice.

  Don’t worry, it won’t, Justine told it. She had just suffered through a catastrophic lesson in the only serious relationship in her life, one that left her weighted with enough responsibilities to sink a ship.

  Highsmith had yet to reach his fortieth birthday. She wasn’t about to suffer through a second man’s mid-life crisis.

  One in a lifetime was enough.

  Chapter Four

  Lottie inhaled deeply, exhaled, and watched the smoke spiral upward like a spindle then waft out the dormer window.

  The smoke seemed to fill the empty space in her chest, swelling inside her with a wonderfully satisfying volume. It made her feel … she searched her mind for the right word … substantial. Ah! That was the word, in the sense there was more of her than met the eye. Now, that was a truth she couldn’t argue with, by tar!

  She made herself more comfortable on her bed and propped nebulous elbows on the window sash.

  She had filched the cigarette from Justine’s purse after everyone had gone to bed last night. It was a good, mild tobacco. Not as fine a broadleaf as she and Elmer had once grown, but the taste paled in the face of discovering she could pull the smoke into herself.

  She had known for years that she hadn’t explored all the facets of her present state. Likely it was the stubbornness for which she had been so well known that had kept her from delving into her extra abilities. She hadn’t wanted to get used to doing things spiritually so to speak, lest she convince herself that the essence of being herself was better than being of bone and flesh.

  Bone and flesh was better. One got noticed. And if one didn’t get noticed, why one could just thwack a body upside the head. Folks paid attention then.

  Puffing away, she mused on the previous night’s entertainment. She’d had a wonderful time. The best night of her life in decades. She had rooted through boxes, suitcases and chifforobes, sniffed elegant soaps and scents, tried on earrings, and slipped on one of Pauline’s dresses of fine silk that was a lovely shade of gray. The chifforobe mirror hadn’t given back her image. Howsomever, that was of no account. She knew a good fit when she felt it.

  The chest of drawers in Agnes’s room had given up nothing but purple and more purple. However, she had discovered a pair of worn black pumps that, once polished, would do nicely. They had slipped right over her bunions, too.

  The dress and shoes now reposed nearby in her cedar trunk, awaiting the day. She’d arrive back in style, by tar!

  Just the thought of how good she’d look made Lottie smile and gaze lovingly about the attic.

  All of her things were up here: her good linen, the crystal that had been her grandmother’s, the hand-carved bedstead built by a furniture maker in Mobile, Elmer’s solid brass spittoon. Elmer had brought everything up after there had been talk of Union soldiers looting fine furniture and silver from homes as they swept terrifyingly across the South. Elmer had buried all their silver and money before he himself was called up to serve. Cleverly done, too. To this day, it hadn’t been discovered. Once she was back to normal, she’d retrieve it. She had begged not, but Elmer had buried her wedding ring. She had felt naked without it all these years.

  Lottie frowned.

  Another item that hadn’t been discovered was her bones. She didn’t like to recollect how she had gotten into the state she was in, but it had happened on the steps behind the secret door. Her bones had lain there on the bottom step for she didn’t know how long, with nary thought nor prayer said over them. Which she considered now, might be why she had remained in such a fitful condition all these years.

  At first she had prayed hard and steadily to the Heavenly Supreme Being to guide friend or foe to her remains. But as she got used to her condition, and the idea of returning took hold, she said her prayers in whispers so as not to draw attention to herself. At war’s end, she’d thought it a shame that no one had come to collect her bones. Now, she knew it was just as well. She would most certainly need them again. The idea of returning to normal only to discover herself with less backbone than a limp newt didn’t sit well with her at all.

  Eventually she had tired of having to traipse around bones every time she’d gone downstairs and had propped them up in her solid oak rocking chair. She had spent years sitting in the chair with them—in hopes of a miracle, she supposed. So far, just sitting on them like a broody hen hadn’t done any good.

  Suddenly Lottie cocked her head and listened. The folks below were stirring. Best she got down there to keep an eye on things. She took one last drag off the cigarette and carefully stubbed it out in Elmer’s spittoon.

  — • —

  Cheerful noises beckoned Justine from sleep like slow enticing music. The sounds came through the window into the room. Birds trilled and chirped, chickens clucked, wind soughed in the trees. A woodpecker’s tat-tat-tat seemed to set the cadence, underlining nature’s cacophony.

  Pajama-clad and barefoot, she padded over to the French doors which were a feature of every outside room in the old house. She tugged them open and stepped onto the side porch. The foundation plantings on the east side of the house were of azalea. A pair of butterflies flitted among the leaves, searching for late-blooming buds.

  Her world was condensed into this place. It wasn’t bad. The sky was blue, sun trickled through moss-draped limbs, and in the distance she could hear the sound of a tractor motor, a farmer in his fields.

  The wind carried with it the pungent summer odor of foliage, earth, and moldering leaves. A hint of smoke mingled with the old mustiness of the house.

  Smoke? She sniffed. Not wood smoke, Not leaves burning; it was cigarette smoke. Yet, she was the only one of her household who succumbed to that dreadful habit. She walked the length of the porch to the front of the house and spied Pip crouched among a tangle of bushes. She leaned over and parted them.

  “Good morning.”

  Startled, he shot out of the greenery.

  “Mom! You scared me.”

  “What’re you doing hiding down there?”

  “Grandma Gates sent me to find some flowers for the table.”

  “So?”

  “It’s a sissy thing to do, Mom.”

  “That’s debatable, horticulture is big business. What else were you doing down there?”

  “Nothin’!”

  “Nothing? As in smoking one of my cigarettes?”

  “No! Why’re you accusing me? I’m not messin’ up my lungs.”

  “Come up on the porch and let me smell your breath.”

  He began backing away. “No.”

  She pinned him with her eyes. “You were smoking, weren’t you?”

  “I wasn’t! Why don’t you believe me?”

  “Because I smelled the smoke and you’re here.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me!” he yelled, voice cracking and sounding betrayed. “You blame me for everything!” Without a backward glance he dashed out of the azalea and took off around the corner of the porch.

  Justine watched him go. He looked all arms and legs and feet. Damn it! She had handled him all wrong. He was growing up. That meant confusion, rebellion, and experimenting. It meant sorting the mixed messages received from adults, an idealized image of perfection, exploring the senses, especially taste and touch. Smoking, drinking, drugs, sex! Oh, dear God! How did a mother get a child from age ten to twenty and end up with a healthy happy human being?

  Growing up was the second hardest task in the wo
rld!

  The first hardest, she decided, was being a parent. Which reminded her there were two others of her kind in the house, both of whom she’d have to speak to concerning Pip. She could see that a wealth of patience and understanding were going to be demanded of all of them.

  Though she had told Pip and Judy Ann that it had not been their or her fault that Philip had left them, buried deep in her psyche was the notion that she had been at fault. She had failed in her marriage, had failed as a woman.

  She was not going to fail as a mother.

  With a sense of urgency that she had not hitherto experienced as a parent, Justine gathered up her clothes, scrounged a towel from her partially unpacked suitcase on the floor, and hurried off to the ancient bathroom to bathe and dress.

  Fifteen minutes later she was searching for Pauline and Agnes. “Where is everybody?” she called.

  “Out here,” came her mother’s voice. Pauline stepped through the double doors into the dining room-cum-office. “We’re just having our coffee, dear. Come join us.”

  Pauline’s tone was so sugary, it was instantly suspect.

  Justine looked askance at her mother. “We? Who’s we?”

  “Agnes and myself. Who did you think? Isn’t this lovely?”

  Justine took in the card table draped with a wrinkled pink cloth. On it sat her mother’s silver coffee service, cups and saucers; the crystal bud vase nearby stood empty. Used dishes and cutlery had been stacked to one side.

  “One of you cooked breakfast?” she said wonderingly.

  Pauline smiled. “Agnes and I did it together.”

  “Once we’d figured out the stove,” Agnes said. Her pasted-on smile made her thin lips appear even thinner.

  Justine sat down and looked from her mother to her mother-in-law. Pauline, as usual, was elegantly clad in a simply designed shift that belied its cost. She was fully made up, not a gray hair out of place. Not for the first time Justine noted that her mother had the carriage and suppleness of a much younger woman.