“What’s your marriage like now?” Bayronne wondered.
Cotton shifted his glance. This was another thing he hated; this nosy prying. What damn business was it of theirs what Jake’s marriage was like now?
But Jake wasn’t insulted. He said they had a great relationship. Kathy tells everyone she has her boyfriend back. She means after eight years living with a mean-ass drunk, I’m back to being the nice guy she fell in love with.”
“That’s sweet,” Patty said.
Diane T. wondered if Jake had kids.
“Two,” he said. “Boy and a girl. They’re teenagers now,” he added.
“Well,” Diane squirmed a little in her chair, “I’m real new; this is my first sober month in two years, so maybe this is stupid, but shouldn’t you consider how telling your wife about your affairs would affect your children?”
She looked around the table. “I guess I’m wondering because I have sort of the same problem. About a year ago I stole a lot of cash from my kid’s grandmother. I’m afraid if I make amends now and tell her how sorry I am, my daughter’ll find out and I’ll lose the ground I’ve gained with her since I finally sobered up, not to mention if she tells her dad--we’re divorced--he could make a thing out of it, drag me back into court and fight me some more about custody.”
Patty reached over and patted Diane’s arm.
“Maybe you and Jake could find other ways to make amends.” This remark came from a woman Cotton didn’t recognize.
Sonny said anyone looking to make amends had to really have a think about what they were after, what they really wanted. “When some folks say they want to make amends, what they really mean is they want to be forgiven. It’s not the same.”
“Yeah,” Frank W. said. “If it’s going to break Jake’s wife’s heart all over again, why go there? She’s happy. Who’s it going to help if she knows now, after all this time? I say leave it alone. I think I feel the same about your situation too, Diane.”
“Me, too,” Patty agreed. “Find another route.”
Sonny made a joke. “If it’s confession and forgiveness you’re after, there’s a Catholic church down the street.”
Jake laughed. Everybody did.
What if you killed somebody? Cotton wondered. Would the answer be the same? Could he just go to a priest and confess?
#
His mother was sitting on the back steps when he got home. Waiting for him, Cotton thought. He recognized her even though it was dark. He knew her shape, her profile, and both were clearly identified in the light from a full moon. And it was stupid, but to see her there, to imagine that she had come outside to wait for him, pleased him. He gave her a little wave and said, “Hi,” as he approached her. But she didn’t respond, didn’t acknowledge in any way that she’d heard him. She was looking toward the back fence, looking so hard that Cotton looked too, hair rising on the back of his neck. “Mom, what is it? What’s wrong?”
She didn’t answer.
He touched the cap of her shoulder. “Mom?”
She turned her head then, tipping her chin up, and that’s when he saw the blood dried under her nose, smeared across her chin, the splotches of it on her shirt, and his heart wallowed. He sat beside her and took her hand and the smell hit him in the base of his skull, the metallic odor of blood was mixed with vomit and the sick, sweet familiar stench of gin.
Cotton’s head dropped. “Mom, goddamnit,” he whispered.
“Scotty?” Her voice floated all light and flirty.
“No! Scotty’s not here and he’s not coming here, because he doesn’t give a damn about you, okay?” Cotton stood up, went into the yard, ranting. “Where did you get it?” he demanded. “Max? Did Max bring you the gin?”
Delia didn’t answer.
Something unnatural in the silence made him turn. She was slumped now, against the porch rails and that quickly, he was yanked out of his rage. He went to her, digging in his pocket for his cell phone, flipping it open, sitting beside her again. He pulled her against him, to support her.
She touched his knee. “Don’t,” she whispered.
He looked at her.
“No doctors, not again. Please. Cotton.” She worked his name out of her mouth. He could see what it cost her, but she recognized him. At least in that moment, he was certain that she did.
The call went through; Cotton gave the 911 operator the information and he set the phone down, but he kept his arm around his mother. Her head slid from his upper arm to just below his shoulder. He felt something warm soaking his shirt in front and he looked down to see a great gout of blood spew from her mouth.
“Oh God. Hang on, Ma, geezus god, hang on.” He looked out over the darkened yard, the scrappy, dust bowl of a yard where he and Scott, as children, had tumbled like monkeys, as teenagers had wrestled like hogs. “Hang on,” he begged. “Please, please don’t do this.”
But he felt her slipping in spite of his pleas, felt her leaving even as the EMT’s got her strapped on the gurney. He could see the reality mirrored in their expressions.
Out at the street, before she was boosted into the ambulance, she caught his hand and the firmness of her grip surprised him, encouraged him. She said his name again, “Cotton?” and he went loose with relief.
He bent toward her.
“You talk to that man, Latimer, you tell him what you told me. Do you hear me? It’ll be all right then, if you tell him the truth.”
“Don’t talk, Ma.”
“No, Cotton, listen. Promise me you’ll do as I say.” Her gaze locked with his. “Promise me,” she insisted.
“Yeah, all right. I will.” He didn’t move; he couldn’t. Her eyes wouldn’t let him go. A pair of headlights swept by, slowing briefly for a moment, illuminating her features, the whiteness of her brow drawn down in pain, the glittered slits of her eyes. The cords of her neck were rigid with the effort of breath, speech. Cotton blinked, swallowed.
Her grasp tightened, tugged at him. She wasn’t finished with him. He bent lower.
“I should have . . . I wish . . . .” Her mouth closed, opened, clapped shut again. She wanted to say more. Her eyes were crowded with it. He’d seen the same look in Joan Latimer’s eyes. The same panic. There was other stuff: Regret, he’d think later. Futility, he’d guess. Apology? Was his mother sorry?
Finally?
He’d never know.
He backed away. The ambulance doors closed.
“Goddamnit, Ma.”
#
He intended to call Scott from the ER waiting area, the same one where he’d sat with Livie, but then he didn’t. He paced in front of the row of molded plastic chairs. He tried Anita, left her a voice mail. Then Sonny. No answer on his cell phone either. Cotton got coffee from the machine. It burnt his tongue and he started to get pissed. He could feel the heat knotted in his shoulders, behind his eyes. He wanted a drink. But no. He set the coffee down. He could be angry later. Get pissed as hell at the waste later. But not now.
“Cotton?”
His back was to her, but he recognized Penny Hoffman’s voice and he turned, saying, “I’m glad it’s you,” feeling the lift of a smile, a burgeoning relief, that faded when he registered the look on Dr. Hoffman’s face.
Her eyes were loaded with compassion. “We did everything we could.”
Cotton stared at the doctor feeling his skin cool, his knees soften. A sound bolted through his teeth, a kind of grunt. He clenched his jaw.
“Sit down,” Dr. Hoffman said, taking his elbow.
“It’s my fault,” he said. “I shouldn’t have left her alone.”
“We already talked about that. It was her decision to drink again. She wasn’t a stupid woman. She knew the consequences.”
“You think she did it on purpose?”
“Who can say? I guess addiction of any kind is a sort of death wish.”
“Can I see her?”
“If you want to, of course.”
Cotton looked at the floor. Did he? He
rubbed his eyes. “Maybe I don’t,” he said.
“That’s fine, too. It’s not required. There’s some paperwork,” Dr. Hoffman said. Her name was announced over the PA. She sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said, standing. “I’ve got an ER full. Chrissy, at the nurse’s station, can help you.”
Cotton stood too; they shook hands. He thanked her.
She told him he could call if he had questions later.
He nodded, thinking: None you can answer.
#
Before he left the hospital, he tried Scott and when his voice mail picked up, Cotton bit down on an urge to say: Hey, asshole, your mother’s dead. Instead he said Scott should return the call as soon as he could. “Doesn’t matter how late.”
Cotton left the same message for Sonny and after a moment’s hesitation, he dialed the Latimer’s number and closed his eyes when Wes offered condolences.
“I guess I won’t make it up there tomorrow,” Cotton said, “but I’ll be there on Thursday for sure unless--”
“God, Cotton, how many times do I have to tell you, never mind about the work, man.”
“I know, but Nikki’s party’s on Saturday and there’s still some stuff to do, touch up painting. Those window things--”
“The Roman shades. I can hang those. Look, what’s left is cosmetic stuff. Nikki and I can handle it.”
Don’t worry about us. Take care of yourself. Let us know if there’s anything we can do for you. . . .
Geezus. Cotton got into the Mercedes, keyed the ignition. Why couldn’t Latimer be an asshole like Scott?
#
He was in downtown Houston, driving aimlessly beneath a sagging roof of neon-washed clouds. Occasionally, heat lightning flashed off the corner of a high rise, or he caught its reflection in a wall of windows. He didn’t know why he’d come here from the hospital. What was he looking for? Company? Booze and a hooker?
He turned on the radio, got static and slammed the dash with his fist. The sound died.
The radio was as dead as Delia.
Fuck.
Why did he care? Why did he have to do this alone?
Why hadn’t she let him help her?
He wondered if she’d ever cared about him. If it had mattered to her that he’d come home.
Scotty. She’d called him Scotty. Cotton’s vision blurred and he wiped furiously at his eyes.
So much for amends.
It was bullshit, like all the rest of the AA garbage--
His cell phone rang and he made a ferocious grab at it. It might have been his mother’s neck, or his brother’s, or a life raft. Or his salvation. It was Anita and he went weak with relief, thinking, Good as. . . .
“I’m so sorry,” she said after Cotton told her.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “Is there anything I can do?”
Come. The word appeared in his brain and it surprised him.
Anita asked about funeral arrangements.
He said he didn’t know. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Some drunks just can’t handle sobriety, Cotton. They can’t take the world. Even the light against their eyes hurts. Everything hurts.”
He didn’t say anything.
“You couldn’t fix her.”
“No. I know that,” he said, but he wondered, did he?
Anita said, “Where are you going now? Have you called Scott? Sonny? You should be with someone, somewhere safe.”
Safe? What did that mean? He hunted in his mind for context, found none. Home was safe, but he didn’t have a home. He would never again think of that place where he’d been raised, where he’d spent time watching his mother kill herself by degrees, as home.
“Like a bar?” He tried for a joke, but the jolly came out sounding cracked, unsteady.
“Cotton, no. Don’t do it.”
“Relax,” he said, as he made a U-turn and headed back toward Smitty’s. When he’d passed it, he’d seen the door was propped open as usual; inside it was packed. “You think after what I just went through with my mom I even want a drink?”
“Yeah,” Anita said. “I think a drink is exactly what you want.”
“I can’t believe you don’t trust me,” he said. “That hurts, you know it? That just cuts me to the bone.”
“Oh, Cotton, don’t go all cocky on me now. Stay with me, okay. Let’s keep talking.”
But he said no, he couldn’t. He was losing her. . . .
Chapter 17
She was meeting Joe for dinner at Mamacitas, a Mexican food restaurant near the freeway on the north side of Hardys Walk. He offered to pick her up, but she didn’t want to obligate him, to give the impression that they were having a date.
“Why not?” Kat asked.
“You’re having the man’s baby, for heavens sake,” her mother said.
“All the more reason to stick to business,” Livie replied.
She’d thought of wearing a suit, but she didn’t own one. Instead she was wearing flat sandals and a dress, a pale blue cotton sundress. A date dress, she thought, catching her reflection in the restaurant’s mirrored vestibule. Not the right thing at all. Why hadn’t she worn jeans?
Joe slid from the booth when he saw her. She thought he must have been there awhile, long enough that they’d brought napkin-wrapped bundles of silver for two and a basket of chips along with bowls of Mama’s famous red and green salsa.
Plus guacamole and chili con queso. Good heavens.
And two huge frozen margaritas.
Her worried gaze rose from the drinks. She had forgotten how tall Joe was and hadn’t remembered that he’d worn his hair slicked back. There was a cut beneath his chin. From shaving, she guessed. He swung his hands as if he didn’t know what to do with them. She didn’t know how to greet him either. She had the impression that if she didn’t do something, he would kiss her and she sat abruptly, swinging her legs under the table, and she was grateful when he resumed his seat across from her.
“I ordered margaritas,” he said unnecessarily.
“I see that,” she said.
“I assumed you liked them.” He was tentative. “I mean when you recommended this place, you mentioned how good they were so I figured. . . .”
“It’s fine,” she said, even as she nudged the glass a little away from her. “The margaritas are excellent here, but what Mama’s is really known for is the tamales.”
“Right. I remember you said--”
“People come from Dallas, they come up from Galveston to get them.”
“They must be really good then.”
“Yes. The fajitas, too. They’re to die for.”
“Really.”
She met his gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m a little nervous.”
He grinned, pushed his hand over his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Me, too.”
She settled her satchel next to her.
He asked about her mother and sister, her sister’s children, by name.
Livie looked at him nonplussed. She realized they must have covered this territory the first time around and her face warmed. She sipped her water and said everyone was fine. “What about your family?”
Joe drank his margarita and said, “You don’t remember one damn thing we talked about that night, do you?”
Her face heated again.
He grinned and said it was all right, and then he said, “You know how men are. We love nothing better than to talk about ourselves.”
She laughed outright at that and her heart eased. “You’re a veterinarian. You live in Navasota. I think I remember that you said something about growing up on a Christmas tree farm in Uvalde?”
The waiter came and they ordered tamales, rice and refried beans. Livie asked for a glass of iced tea and waited for Joe to question her about her untouched margarita, but he didn’t.
After the waiter left, he said he didn’t know too much about Christmas trees, that he was pretty sure it was cattle and not trees his folks raised on the ranch. He was grinning, teasing her
, obviously having fun with party-girl Livie.
Livie didn’t like it. She didn’t like him either. She hated him. She wouldn’t tell him about her baby, she decided. Her baby. Not his. Mary wasn’t the only one who could have an immaculate conception.
He sobered, apologized. He said he wasn’t laughing at her. “God knows what I might have told you that night. For all I know I could have been swinging through the trees.”
“How did you end up in Navasota?” Livie asked primly.
“My brother had a veterinary practice there. I took it over when he died last year.”
“Oh.” The syllable popped out of Livie’s mouth.
“Please don’t say you’re sorry. We’re doing entirely too much of that here.”
“But it must be so hard.”
“Harder on my sister-in-law. Hank and Kirsten have-- He left Kirsten with three little kids, the oldest, Ryan, is five, Andy’s three and Madison, Maddie, is just over a year old. She’s a doll. We call her Stinkerbelle.” Joe’s smile warmed his eyes, suffused his entire expression with affection, joy. Livie could almost see him with his arms full of his niece. He would be the sort to blow raspberries on Maddie’s bare tummy. He would dance a girl child over wood floors on the tops of his feet.
Livie didn’t know how she knew this; she just did. She dropped her gaze. Joe’s life was full of family responsibility already.
“They’re a real handful, though, you know?” Joe bent his weight onto his elbows. “I try and help Kirsten out as much as I can. She’s a fantastic mom. I don’t know how she does it. I can’t imagine being a parent at all, much less the single parent of three kids under the age of five. Can you?”
“No,” Livie answered faintly.
“Sometimes I think all Kirs has got to go on is adrenaline.” Joe toyed with his empty margarita glass. It was easy to see that he worried about the situation. Worried about Kirsten.
He didn’t need more worry in his life. And suppose what was between Joe and Kirsten was more than worry? Suppose worry had given way to some deeper attachment? Livie was abruptly convinced that it had, that Joe cared for Kirsten.
She pushed her margarita toward him making a wet trail across the polished plank table.
The Ninth Step Page 18