The House on Persimmon Road

by Jackie Weger

  Lottie drifted onto the porch and sat gently next to the rag doll. For some minutes she observed how Judy Ann played the game. The rag doll’s name was Mrs. Pratt. When it came the doll’s turn again, Lottie lifted a tiny teacup to its mouth. Do have some tea, Mrs. Pratt, she said. It’s all the way from China.

  Judy Ann gaped.

  “Mommy! Mommy!” Judy Ann shrieked in panic.

  Chapter Six

  Justine awoke early as usual, her dreams fading the moment she opened her eyes. The air was still, which made for an eerie silence about the house and the fields beyond. Murky morning light filtered into the bedroom.

  She turned on her side and observed Judy Ann. The child had had a troublesome night, tossing and turning, whimpering during dreams, which probably accounted for Justine’s own edginess. Whatever the reason, she knew she could not lay abed.

  She moved off the mattress, then rearranged the blue eyelet coverlet over Judy Ann. At the moment, her daughter’s face was serene. But the searing imprint of its panic-riddled expression of yesterday stayed with her. The child had been almost incoherent, babbling that one of her dolls had lifted a teacup on her own.

  Perhaps the deeper trauma of the effects of the divorce were only now emerging. It was a terrible truth to realize that your father no longer cared for you, or even if he did, selfishly went his own way.

  In small ways, Judy Ann had taken her father’s departure harder than Pip. She was at that age when daughters fell in love with their fathers, learned innocent flirtation, began to experience the power of being female. Judy Ann now had no sense of boundaries, no sense of where she fit in the scheme of life, no sense of security. Like me, Justine thought sadly.

  But knowing that about both of them did not make it easier to cope with the problem.

  Oh, she thought, so much has been lost. Lost!

  She padded over to the window and drew down the old yellowed shade against the pale light and slipped out through the doors onto the porch.

  It was a bleak and sunless day, the sky a limitless gray. A lone cardinal, the only splash of color on the landscape, cruised above weeds dressed with dewfall.

  Justine had never before been aware of such silence. It was as if the earth itself was hoarding sound, awaiting some signal from nature before bursting into life.

  As she retraced her steps she took several deep breaths of the humid, leaden air. Damp or not, the air had the taste of an invigorating earthy freshness. On impulse she bent down to touch her toes. Her back crackled. Age thirty-six, she scolded herself, is too young to be falling into disrepair. If she wasn’t careful, she would end up as unsteady on her feet as Agnes.

  Quietly and with haste she dressed in shorts and shirt, and carrying her tennis shoes, made her way down the wide hall into the kitchen.

  Finally there was a path of sorts in the hall. Boxes and crates of still-unwrapped ornaments and unending hundreds of books were ranked along the walls. Still the house was taking shape, becoming homey and comfortable. She supposed it had lost some of its strangeness by the simple virtue of having familiar furniture in place, old favorites unpacked and placed now to her convenience.

  The kitchen easily accommodated the cherrywood dining ensemble. Oddly, though purchased for a more formal setting, the table and the chintz-covered chairs did not look out of place.

  One wall of the kitchen was given over to open shelves. She had stacked dishes on the lower shelves. Those higher than she could normally reach she had arranged with basketware, cookbooks, and the ever-growing assortment of knickknacks that seemed to just collect of themselves. Beneath the shelves was a sturdy wooden cabinet, a work station in earlier years, she surmised, as it contained bins for potatoes, flour, and sugar.

  The only light fixture in the old kitchen was the bulb hanging on a wire from the ceiling. Justine had placed a small Tiffany lamp on the countertop near the microwave. She switched it on and the kitchen took on a welcoming glow.

  The light also revealed a can of chili, opened, its contents undisturbed. The lid still clung to the magnet on the can opener.

  Pip after a midnight snack? Impossible. He’d returned from Tucker’s almost green from stuffing himself on fish and hushpuppies. Not Agnes. Chili was too spicy for her.

  Pauline was the culprit. Of course. Her mother would have considered getting the can open a major accomplishment. But warming it up was probably beyond her. Or perhaps she feared the noise of rattling pots and pans and waking the household. Justine sniffed the food. Waste not, want not. She spooned it into a bowl and put it in the fridge.

  Next, Justine put coffee on to perk. She wanted a cigarette, if only to calm the creeping anxiety she felt. She decided against it. She would have one cigarette—and only one—with her coffee.

  That virtuous decision made, she went into the dining room. It was dim and gloomy, her desk and the crates with her equipment loomed in shadowy disarray. She hit the light switch. The bulb was weak, seemingly throwing deeper shadows into corners. She turned the light off. She was not ready to face that task yet, not before breakfast.

  Damn! But her nerves were on fire. She seldom succumbed to headaches, but the tautness at the back of her neck coupled with lack of sleep suggested one was trying to surface.

  Had she been back in Virginia, she’d be out the door by now on her way to the spa for a workout, maybe take in a class of jazzercise or a lap around the school athletic field.

  Shoes in hand, she moved back down the hall and out the front door. She had no idea how far beyond the house the dirt road meandered. Surely it was as good as any athletic track. A ten-minute run, she decided, and sat down on the steps to lace up her shoes.

  Swinging her arms, she walked at a brisk pace the first several yards. Sensing her tension beginning to wane, she moved into a trot.

  The road narrowed until the overhead foliage began to converge in a canopy above her head. Shadows grew deeper at the verge. The only sounds were those of her feet slapping the dirt and her own breathing, loud and uneven.

  A deer leaped across the road in front of her. Startled, Justine gasped and stopped in her tracks. Another deer followed the first, a doe with her fawn running nimbly at her side.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

  Justine squawked and spun about.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” said Tucker.

  “For crying out loud! Where did you come from?”

  “Behind you. Saw you ahead of me. I was pacing you.”

  “Why didn’t you call out?”

  “Figured you’d see me when you turned around at the dead end. Anyway, I’m not much for conversation at daybreak.” He kept moving, running in place and, Justine noticed, not a bit out of breath.

  She put her hand on her heart. It was racing like a metronome out of sync.

  “Okay?” he asked.

  “I will be,” she answered, trying not to display her awareness of his lean and fit body. He wore a shirt with the sleeves torn out, a pair of cutoffs, hightop running shoes and a green sweatband on his head.

  In the shadowy light his features appeared sensuous, his body powerful.

  And she had left the house without running a comb through her hair. Damn! She waved her hand. “You go on.”

  “It’s only a quarter mile to the dead end.”

  “I’ll walk it. I’m out of shape.”

  He grinned. “Not by my lights. C’mon, push a little. It’ll do you good.” He headed down the road backward, to keep her in view. “The whole run is only two miles. If you fag out, I’ll carry you back.”

  He offered just enough challenge for her to accept. “If I fag out, as you say, I’ll just lie down by the side of the road until I’m recovered.”

  They ran side by side. He was a strong runner, moving powerfully like the deer and as fluidly. Pacing him, Justine felt awkward in mind and body. She was certain he was holding back in order not to out-distance her. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of the tattoo on his bice
p. It was glistening with sweat.

  Tucker was aware of her fleeting inspection, knew the exact moment she stopped thinking of him and began to concentrate on her own body, the pace she had set for herself.

  He was also very much aware of the sleek figure she presented. She had more than just a pair of nice ankles. Her legs were sensational. Toward the end of the run, she was a little wobbly on them. He stayed close. The salty-sweet smell of her sweat was laced with the scent of shampoo and soap. Heady stuff for a man who’d been too long without a woman. Proceed with caution, he warned himself.

  When she peeled off at the path that led up to her house, she raised her hand. “Coffee? It’s perked.”

  He curved back to follow her. “A quick cup.”

  Raising a trembling arm, she indicated the table and chairs on the side porch.

  As soon as she was inside the front door and out of his sight, she bent over double and gasped, sucking air into her burning lungs. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” she rasped, and didn’t straighten up until she had reached the bathroom, splashed water on her face, dried her face and neck and run her fingers through her tangled hair. She did several quick knee bends to alleviate the spasms in her calves.

  Thus composed, she served the coffee-filled cups and condiments off a wicker tray.

  Tucker took his coffee straight. After a tentative sip, he said, “Looks like we’re going to have a gully-washer before the morning’s out.”

  “I like rain. I work better when it’s dreary outside. If the sun’s shining I want to be out in it.”

  “Your mother said you do some kind of computer work.”

  “I write software.”

  “I’m impressed. You’re a smart lady.”

  She had listened for any derision in his voice and found none. It had been a long, long while since she had favorably impressed anyone. A pleasant tremor passed through her.

  “I hope I am.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a minute.”

  “Considering you barely know me, I’ll accept that as flattery.”

  “Hold on. I know more about you than you might think.”

  “Oh?”

  “Maybe only a little about how your mind works, but I sure as hell can see what you’re up against. A lot flows from that.”

  “What do you want me to say? That you’re perceptive?” Her sarcasm was light but there all the same.

  “Now you’re trying to pick a fight.”

  Justine bit on her lower lip. “I know. I don’t know why I do that.”

  “I’m no grass-roots philosopher, but I’d say… Ah, never mind, it’s too early in the morning to spout psychology.”

  Justine leaned forward. “Don’t tantalize me like that. Say what you were going to say.”

  “You’ll toss me out.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “Your word pretty good?”

  “It’ll hold until you finish your coffee. Will that do?”

  “I’m just a redneck country boy. What do I know?”

  “How would you like to wear this coffee?”

  “Violent, too? I knew you had a mean streak.”

  Justine made as if to get up. “I’m going into the house. Enjoy your coffee.”

  “Okay. Sit down. But remember, you dragged it out of me.”

  Justine kept silent, sipped her coffee, watching him over the rim of the cup.

  “What it is…is, I get the sense that you drum up hostility to warn people off. Or maybe it’s just to warn me off? Want to think about that for a minute?”

  His eyes met hers. She felt the force of his gaze, but did not look away. “I don’t need to think about it. You’re right. It’s just… I used to know where I fit in the scheme of things. Now, I don’t. My husband left me to become a monk, for crying out loud. Tell people that and they look at me as if I have three noses or something. You made fun of it, too. Remember?”

  “It does have a bit of shock value.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Ever think about hanging around to hear what else those people might say about it?”

  “What could they say?”

  “Maybe they’d say the guy had to be off his marbles to leave you, to forsake his kids. I’d say it was his loss.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “Forget him. You’re one hell of a good-looking woman, you know.”

  His words made her feel warm all over. “Thank you.”

  He gave her a winning smile. “You don’t need to protect yourself from me. I’m harmless.”

  Her eyes flashed. “That’s the last word I’d use to describe you.”

  “Tell me some of the first.”

  “Perceptive.”

  “Very cute. How about, handsome?”

  She pursed her lips. “Maybe…in a way.”

  “Sexy?”

  “More like…helpful.”

  “What about sexy?”

  “Good-natured.”

  “You’re not making my day.” He drained his cup and stood. “Get yourself a sweatband by tomorrow. I’m gonna run your socks off in the morning.”

  “Oh, but I just—”

  “Do unto others, I always say.” He stepped off the porch. “Gotta go. Work beckons.” He loped off.

  “Tucker. Wait! I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  He stopped at the line of persimmons and clutched at his chest. “I’m crushed, undone!”

  Justine turned away from his antics. Sure you are, Mr. Highsmith. You look about as undone as a caliph with a harem.

  She picked up the tray and carried it back to the kitchen, poured herself a second cup of coffee and, standing at the counter, lit up a cigarette.

  Smiling, she stared at the column of smoke as it spiraled ceilingward. She felt better about herself than she had in months. Amazing what a bit of exercise will do. The column of smoke registered on her brain. She stubbed out the cigarette. Run my socks off? Hah! Think again, neighbor.

  — • —

  Tucker soaped himself and sang in the shower. He was happy with himself, his life… Hell! Even his problems appeared manageable for a change.

  The old man had been in a mellow mood on the way to the nursing home last night. They parted without a single reference about being stashed in old folk’s storage for the week. He’d only left Tucker with specific instructions for Pip on taking care of the fishing pole.

  The boy, Pip, was good for the old man. The mother was good for him.

  Tucker felt invigorated. As if he could walk a fence or write tens of dozens recipes—if only he had the time.

  He debated calling in sick, taking the day off. He had some sick leave coming. Better not. Better save it. Now and again the old man went into depression and he had to take a day off to sit with him, or get him out of Iron Bottom’s clutches, even if only for a few hours.

  Anyway he’d see Justine again tomorrow morning. He’d bet his last fifty cents that she’d be waiting for him at the top of her driveway.

  Gettin’ a little cocky, ain’t you old son? came a tiny voice at the back of his mind.

  Sure am, he answered. I like it, too.

  He closed his eyes as he shampooed his hair. Thinking of Justine, he remembered watching her tie Judy Ann’s hair ribbon. Then his thoughts turned to memories of their run. He could see Justine’s legs pumping, could see her soft white inner thighs.

  He felt a sudden rise in his groin.

  Now that feels good. Warm soapy water cascaded over his body enhancing the sensation. Damnation. He couldn’t run around like that all day.

  He reached for the faucets, turned off the hot and turned on the cold.

  — • —

  Lottie rocked back and forth, her thoughts as dark and brooding as the morning sky. Things were not going well, she mused glumly.

  In the first place she was miserable. Second, she hated herself. She couldn’t comprehend how she had misjudged like that. She had only wanted to make friends, let the tenants know she was
around. Why, she could be such a help! But, no. They were so unaccepting.

  Hot amorphous tears came up behind her lids and streamed down her face and splashed in her bony lap. Oh, if only Elmer were here. He always knew the done thing, knew how to wring a problem out until it dried up and blew away. Times like this she felt like giving up, just going on over to the other side without squeak or squawk. She would find Elmer and join up with him.

  An inner resistance stopped her thoughts in that direction. It seemed a shame she had come this far only to backtrack. She may not have flesh as yet, but she had fiber as stout as a length of good hemp rope. That’s what made folks what they were—fiber.

  Anyhow, she couldn’t be certain of Elmer’s whereabouts. She had no doubt about which direction she herself was going when the time came—she’d been good-hearted and God-fearing her entire life. Howsomever, Elmer had a tendency to curse a blue streak and thunder at the Lord when weather went against him, soil washed away or tobacco worms devastated tender shoots. He had favored strong drink, too. Could be he was still atoning and had been thwarted on his final upward journey.

  It wouldn’t do to get ahead of Elmer. He had firm ideas about a woman’s place—which had made for a fair amount of bickering between them. That forward thinking she’d been, even in those days.

  Lottie shifted in the rocker.

  Last night she had not dared to traipse beyond the kitchen, had taken little joy from trying out Justine’s gadgets.

  Recollecting how she had frightened Judy Ann put a cloud on even that small pleasure.

  Mayhap, she thought unhappily, she ought to just stay in her attic for a while, let things below quiet down.

  She could keep busy straightening up. She’d been neglectful of her things ever since the newcomers’ arrival, hardly touching dust rag or broom. Why, she’d been so intent on learning about the new family that she had ignored all manner of dust and web. More than that, whilst she’d been below last night a possum had sneaked into the attic and left droppings from one end t’other. No doubt the flea-ridden critter was curled up in a nook somewhere sleeping, just waitin’ for dark to crawl out and make mischief.

  Lottie brushed away her tears and began to scurry about.