Lookin' Back, Texas

by Leanna Ellis

  “Jake, this here’s my daughter, Suzanne, and her husband, Mike Mullins.”

  The bartender, who looks like he’s exhausted from cleaning up after the Saturday night partying, gives me a nod. “How do.” Then he shakes hands with Mike. “Nice to know you.” Jake grins, a big gold tooth shining in the front of his mouth.

  “You all go ahead and talk. I gotta get ready for the lunch crowd.” He ambles back toward the bar, picks up a broom, and begins sweeping the floor. “You want some music?” he calls.

  “That’d be fine,” Daddy calls back then turns his attention back to Mike and me. “Jake’s a good friend. Known him for years. Place ain’t open for business this early. But I needed a private place and knew Jake wouldn’t mind. Thought it’d be better than over in Luckenbach. Your mother might have turned everyone against me there.”

  I hook a hand through the frozen mug’s handle, wait for the foam to die down. “Daddy, what started all this? Why’d you leave?”

  He looks at me from under bushy gray eyebrows. “You know your mother, right?”

  Over the jukebox comes the loping melody of Johnny Cash singing “Cry, Cry, Cry.”

  “But,” I feel my features tightening in a frown, “Mother hasn’t changed. You’ve put up with her antics for forty years. So what did change? What made it suddenly unbearable?”

  Daddy shifts his mug from one hand to another. The mug slides along the puddle of condensation like it’s doing a smooth two-step.

  “Another woman?” Mike voices my fear.

  Daddy looks up quickly, then down again. “What did Betty tell you?”

  “Nothing really, Daddy. She was pretty vague about everything.” Other than the graphic description of his death by impalement and decapitation.

  He takes a drink of his root beer. A bit of foam remains on his upper lip. I dab it with a napkin. Not knowing what else to say, I sip my drink too. The bittersweet flavor is hard to swallow.

  I feel the pressure of Mike’s shoe against the edge of my sandal, feel the weight of his gaze. When Mike walked out on me, I felt lost. I didn’t react the way my mother has, but I did react in a desperate way. Ever since Mike came back, he has made it clear he will be true to his wedding vows. And I have been true. Our marriage survived much worse than what Mother and Daddy are going through now. Although Mike doesn’t know that I had already broken my vows to him, and I pray he never will. But if we could survive, then I’m confident (sort of) Mother and Daddy’s marriage can be saved.

  “Mother drove you to this,” I say, my heart as heavy as the glass mug in my hand.

  “Now, Suzanne, we all make choices. Your mother is your mother. I’ve known how she is since the day I met her.”

  “Crazy.”

  He shakes his head. “No, she’s not crazy. She’s hurting. She’s trying to live up to something that just can’t be.”

  “It’s pride.” That’s the reason I couldn’t call friends or family when Mike left.

  “Some of it, sure. But it’s more than that.” He shrugs, as if uncomfortable with his new position, his eyes downcast. His thumbnail digs into the edge of the table. “I made a decision. For better or worse, I’m stuck here. Well, at the Hockheim Inn.”

  “Why don’t you call Betty?” Mike suggests. “Try to go back to her?”

  He gives a shrug of one shoulder, his shirt pulling to one side. With a finger he makes a trail through the water on the table. “I don’t know that I want to.”

  Disappointment presses on my chest. I’m not sure Mother wants him back either. She obviously prefers her husband dead. Not a good foundation for a marriage. “Divorce happens all the time, Daddy. But that doesn’t mean it has to happen.” Something inside me sharpens. “If we can stop things from escalating, maybe we can find a way, get Mother to change. If she did, would you be willing to stick it out?

  “Maybe. You think your mother could change?”

  “Miracles do happen.”

  “Until papers are signed,” Mike adds, “remember, nothing is official.”

  “Until the lawyers show up, right?”

  “Something like that. Look, Archie, I made a mistake once. I left Suzanne. This isn’t news for public consumption. I tell you this because I hope it will help you and Betty Lynne.” Mike’s gaze is steady as it locks on me. “But that doesn’t mean our marriage couldn’t be fixed. Suzanne forgave me. And I bet Betty Lynne will forgive you.”

  My heart aches at the truth of his words but at the absence of something else. Mike has never forgiven me. But only because I never gave him the chance. That is the one thing that stands between us.

  Daddy coughs.

  “If we word an apology carefully—”

  “Did you know what happened to Maris Cavannaugh?” Daddy interrupts Mike. “Have you heard that story?”

  Mike leans back against the wooden booth. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Suz, do you remember?”

  I give a slight nod.

  “She was on several committees with Betty Lynne at the church. You know how ladies are, they have to have their committees. Our families did all sorts of things together. Trips to Oklahoma. Colorado. Dinner. Picnics. Babysitting for each other when our kids were little. Luther, Maris’s husband, was a nice fellow. Maris, she was real sweet. But she went against Betty Lynne on some silly decision. Can’t remember now what it was. Wasn’t important then, ain’t important now. But Betty Lynne and Maris went ’round and ’round. Then Betty Lynne gave her the cold shoulder. Believe you me, that can be a mighty frigid arctic blast. Betty Lynne managed to turn others in the church and community against Maris. She’s got quite an influence.”

  “What happened?” Mike asks.

  “They finally moved to Arizona. They said it was for a job Luther couldn’t pass up, but I don’t think so. They had deep roots here. Deep. But living in Betty Lynne’s shadow can be mighty uncomfortable.”

  “Why didn’t the preacher step in and do something.”

  “He was scared. Can’t blame him there.”

  I fold my hands together. We need a battle plan. “Then we have to do something about Mother. Get her to let go of this notion about being a widow.”

  “She’s gunning for me, huh?”

  “Archie,” Mike leans forward, elbows braced on the table, “she’s already killed you.”

  Daddy starts to laugh, then stops. Emotions flicker across his face like an old black-and-white movie. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re dead, Daddy. She killed you off and is planning your funeral.”

  Daddy looks from me to Mike who nods the truth of the situation.

  “You’re arriving at the church tomorrow afternoon all dolled up in a casket.”

  Daddy falls back against the seat, his face white as if he’s already a ghost.

  I reach for him. “I’ve never seen Mother so determined.”

  “What has Betty Lynne done? What was she thinking?”

  “She says you told her you were moving far away. Leaving town. And that you told her she could say you were dead for all you cared.”

  “I did?” He shakes his head as if trying to jar loose a memory. “In the heat of the moment, maybe I did. I don’t know.

  I was gonna …” He clears his throat. “My plans changed.” He runs his fingers through his thinning hair. “Well, that explains it then. This morning I saw Flipper. He nearly flipped out— looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

  11

  You can take a sinner to church, but can she ever truly be restored? At one time I would have thought so. Now I’m not so sure. Can you go too far? Push too far?

  I don’t like Mother’s deception, but I also don’t feel as if I should make the late-breaking news public. I’m still not sure which way to lean, who to support, who to challenge. My father was wrong to leave. Wasn’t he? My mother was wrong to declare him dead. But what is the right answer now? How can we meet in the middle and settle this family feud?

  The accordion music sw
ells around me. But it can’t block out the thoughts churning around my mind. I glance at my son, who’s slouched on the wooden bench beside me. He’s accustomed to an electric guitar and drums, not a polka-sounding hymn. On the other side of him is his grandmother. On my right, within reach, is Mike.

  My parents’ church is really just the Luckenbach dance hall. The dance hall is built like a barn. The outside windows are propped open to allow a breeze to filter through. The courtyard outside is shaded by giant trees and is only a hop, skip, and a jump away from the Luckenbach store and bar. That’s pretty much the whole town of Luckenbach. It’s one of a kind.

  Trucks and motorcycles have assembled outside on opposite sides of the crack that now runs through the center of town. Here it’s more of a sliver than the wide ravine north of town. Inside the dance hall, a small congregation of cowboys and motorcycle enthusiasts settles down as the service starts. Overhead, along the rafters, are strings of white lights which are used when the dance hall is in action. But they’re dull and milky white this morning. The choir, a handful of people I’ve known my whole life, like my fifth-grade teacher Mrs. Piles and the barber who used to cut my hair, files in. They don’t wear traditional robes of blue with scarlet stoles but are dressed simply in their blue jeans and leather.

  “So what did Grandpa say?” Oliver presses his shoulder against mine.

  Mother clears her throat and leans forward to grab my attention, then gives us a look that says, Talk later when no one can overhear any confessions that might reflect poorly on me.

  Mike gives her a polite nod.

  Oliver bumps my shoulder. “Can I see him?”

  Mother thumps him on the knee.

  I give him a nod, then glance guiltily toward Mother. Her profile is stern, her jaw inflexible. “We’ll work it out.”

  Of course, there’s the minor matter of Mother’s declaring Daddy dead. Hard to hold a family reunion that way. And so there we are again. Stuck. Between a rock and a hard place. Mother and Daddy. Stubborn to the end. And who in the middle will be crushed?

  A man in front of us turns and glances back. It’s Al Bertron, my biology teacher from high school. I had to dissect a frog in his class. His stern expression shifts into a thin-lipped smile that is as wide as a frog’s. “Suzanne Davidson.” He uses my maiden name. “Good to see you!”

  I pat him on the back. “Good to see you, Mr. Bertron.”

  The choir begins to sing. Their voices warble and waver around the notes. “In the hour of trial, Jesus plead for me …”

  Doubts shift and lurch inside me. I know what I would stand trial for. Besides this weekend’s deceit and fraud against the whole town, which of course I’m not exactly responsible for, but I haven’t righted the wrong either. Oh, no, I have my own transgression. One that is all my own.

  Josie’s shocked look from this morning haunts me. How could she so readily guess? Josie is always suspicious, always searching for what lies in secret. She could easily follow in Mrs. Hoover’s footsteps one day. Except Josie doesn’t like to share dirt. She likes to keep it to herself. Knowledge, she says, is power.

  Even now, I watch Mrs. Hoover lumber up the crooked aisle between the benches and tables. She hunches over, talking to one last person, before she scoots her way along the row in front of us, stepping on toes, bumping heads with her purse and elbows.

  “Excuse me. Sorry!” Her whisper is a normal tone for others.

  Mr. Bertron lets out a whoof of air and tilts forward sharply toward Mrs. Hoover’s backside.

  “Oopsie daisies! So sorry, Al. Did I hurt that bunion of yours?” Finally, she reaches an empty space in the pew, turns, gives Mother an obligatory nod, then me.

  This church where I grew up is far different from our church home in California. Of course, our building is actually a church building, built for that purpose. It’s a modern construction, from the simple lines of the worship center to the rocking beat of worship songs. The attire is California casual, not relaxed, kick-your-shoes-off casual like this one. Church is usually a place of comfort for me. But here my nerves feel as stripped and bare as the wooden walls.

  I have long avoided coming home. Now, ensconced in my childhood room, surrounded by old neighbors and childhood friends, I find myself wrapped in the expectations and dreams I thought I had left behind and having to face my inadequacies and weaknesses. Pain swells up inside me, pressuring my heart.

  I’ve made my place in California. I’m comfortable there. I feel safe in the cocoon Mike and I have built. But now … Is it all an illusion? Is it a ramshackle building on a faulty foundation, like the Luckenbach store?

  I glance out the open window at the store and wonder if the earthquake has tilted it off center. A couple of bikers were wondering the same thing when we arrived. Or maybe it’s just my perspective that is off.

  Mike puts an arm around my shoulders and I meet his gaze, try to smile. “Do you think Mother’s crazy?”

  He presses his mouth to my ear and a delicious tingle races down my spine. “Prideful. But there is good news.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your dad still loves your mother.”

  “Maybe. But how’s it going to play out?”

  “He may have to become Lazarus.”

  “Lazarus wasn’t decapitated.”

  “Neither was your dad.”

  “It still took a miracle,” I argue.

  “And so will this,” he agrees, kissing my cheek and joining in the chorus of the hymn.

  12

  The crack along the ceiling in the kitchen has lengthened to at least three feet. Beneath it, Mike works on his laptop while I help Mother clean up after lunch and sort through the food the neighbors have brought. Oliver vegges out on the couch in the den, watching some game on ESPN 1, 2, or 25. How many channels do they need for sports anyway? Sunday afternoon passes as slowly as the weathering of a rock. Conversation is impossible, as there isn’t much to say without getting a mouthful of grit.

  Mike and I have tried to talk Mother out of her foolishness, but determination is one of her strengths.

  All my life I’ve watched my mother pull off events or tasks that would seem impossible to any ordinary woman, like myself. If someone said, “It can’t be done,” my mother would say, “Stand back and watch.”

  Someone on the PTA once said, “It won’t work. No one will buy tulip bulbs.”

  “Get out of my way,” Mother said to the woman in charge of the fund-raiser. She convinced the whole community that they needed tulips. The PTA raised more money that year than in any previous year. Telling my mother something can’t be done just makes her dig her heels into this hard-packed Texas dirt, roll up her sleeves, and make a draw-a-line-in-the-sand stand.

  It can be a wonderful asset when Mother is on your team, helping you. And she is a wonderful helper. Any one of her friends or neighbors would say so. She is the first to take a casserole, homemade and delicious, when a family member is in the hospital or has passed away. She knows how to jump in and get things organized and moving in the right direction when there’s been any sort of disaster. She’s a natural leader. Others look to her and are grateful for her help. But that wonderful can-do attitude can backfire on the people she loves.

  Mother’s favorite catchphrase when I was growing up was, “If you can imagine it, you can make it happen.” She liked to say that right before she stripped the upholstery off the couch and recovered it to her liking. I try now to imagine Mother and Daddy married, happy, together until death parts them. But naturally. Not this staged death.

  But Mother’s determination to kill off my father has become a molehill the size of Enchanted Rock. It’s supposed to take only a little faith to move a mountain, and I’m not sure I have enough. At least her imaginative plan doesn’t involve my father’s Winchester or the Wolfgang Puck knives she bought on the shopping network.

  What’s surprising to me is that she actually seems to enjoy playing the grieving widow. Although she does
n’t exhibit much grief. Every time a friend rings the doorbell and brings another pineapple upside-down cake or tuna casserole, Mother recounts with the acting skills of Joan Crawford the ghastly tale of my father’s demise until her current audience is cringing and gasping at the horror of it all. I must say she’s clever in that she makes Daddy out to be more heroic than a victim of his own stupidity, which she could easily have done. It gives me a glimmer of hope that somewhere deep down she still loves him.

  Until her anger subsides, though, there is really nothing to discuss.

  “What if she pulls this off?” I asked Mike in the guest bedroom when we had a moment alone after church. “Are we going to have to pretend every time we come home that my father is dead?”

  “We don’t come here often, Suzanne.”

  I refuse to cave in to guilt or entertain the idea of continuing this farce years into the future. “What will Daddy do? Leave town? Find a new job?”

  “I have a feeling she’s going to dig her own grave,” Mike whispered against my ear, “not your dad’s.”

  Jarring noise from the television, the clacking of hockey sticks, the roar of the crowd, grates across my nerves. But I know it’s really the silence that stretches like a bubble of pink Bazooka that has extended my nerves to their breaking point. I’m wondering just how far it will all go and, when it pops, who it’ll stick to.

  “Just look at that time,” Mother says, folding a dish towel and hanging her apron on the hook behind the door. “Time gets away from me sometimes.” She finger-curls her hair back from her temples. “We’re going to be late if we don’t hurry.”

  Frankly I’m tired of checking my watch, her clock, wondering if time moves slower in Luckenbach than in La Jolla. “Is it time for another meal already?”

  “The barbecue.”

  “What barbecue?”