by Leanna Ellis
“We have to make an appearance. It would be rude not to.” Mother closes a cabinet that stands ajar. “Come help me pick out what to wear. What do you think would be appropriate? All things considered.”
“You want to dye your clothes black like Scarlett O’Hara?” It occurs to me this whole scenario of a make-believe funeral is exactly like something the heroine of Gone with the Wind would do. The first time I saw the movie, I cried when Bonnie Blue Butler died after falling off her horse. I thought it was cruel of Margaret Mitchell to kill off an innocent child. Now I realize it was probably a good decision. I know what it’s like to grow up with a mother like Scarlett.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Mother says, walking past Mike and through the den. She raises her voice to combat the clatter and swoosh of the hockey game. “But I also don’t want to seem too colorful. If you know what I mean.”
She’s colorful all right. I refrain from rolling my eyes and follow her to her bedroom. “So where are you going? What barbecue?”
She steps into the large walk-in closet. Along the baseboards her shoes are lined up in straight rows. Once upon a time Mother split the closet with Daddy. She took the left side, he the right, like a bride and groom at the altar, she told me once. But I notice there isn’t one male-looking belt or jacket, not one pair of jeans, not one tie. Has she already gone through his things and taken them to Goodwill in Austin? I wouldn’t put it past her. Or did Daddy pack everything when he left? Which leaves me once again sympathizing with Mother. When Mike left, he simply packed one bag. His closet held for me at least a tiny flicker of hope for his returning. But if Daddy had packed everything, then what was Mother to think? What was she to do?
I run a hand down the row of Mother’s blouses, feeling the silky and starched material against my fingertips. “Where are all of Daddy’s clothes?” I ask.
She sifts through the color-coordinated shirts and skirts.
Most of her collection is bright and colorful; Mother has always liked standing out in a crowd. Maybe that’s why I prefer subtle tones of beige, gray, black, and white.
“Oh, he moved his things into the guest bedroom closet years ago.” She pulls out a pearl-gray pantsuit that lacks her usual flair, holds it up to her. “I bought this last year for Mildred Schumacher’s funeral.
“Didn’t I see her at church this morning?”
“She made a comeback. But for a while we thought she was a goner.” Mother looks disappointed she didn’t get to wear her suit. “This will work.”
“It’s a bit dressy for a barbecue, don’t you think? Maybe you should stay home, Mother.” Not get yourself in any more trouble. “After all, you’re supposed to be in mourning. Several people commented this morning about how surprised they were to see you at church, how most new widows would stay home from church. Or any other social gathering.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “What ninnies! What does everyone think, that I’m going to pick up a man or get roaring drunk? Or just curl up my toes and wither on the vine?”
I clamp my lips closed. There’s no talking to her when she’s like this. Frankly I just want to call it a night, climb into bed, pull the covers up over my head and wake up when this nightmare is over.
She gives me a look that I recognize as not measuring up to her specifications. “Aren’t you going to get ready?”
“You want us to go with you?”
“Well, it would look odd if I were to go alone.”
“So we’re your chaperones? In case any old widower decides to hit on you?”
She sighs. “Everyone in Luckenbach knows you’re here. In fact, I’m sure it will be mentioned in Linda Lou Hoover’s column tomorrow morning in the Fredericksburg paper.
Everyone will expect my family to gather around me during this difficult time.”
There’s no use arguing with her. I know the routine. “I’ll go round up the boys,” meaning Mike and Oliver. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to go to a party where they don’t know anyone but my mother. I realize I still don’t know where we’re going, but I no longer care. Mother has a way of killing curiosity, whether it be in a cat, a two-year-old, or her own daughter. “I’ll be waiting in the car,” she says. She checks her hair in the mirror, dabs the corner of her mouth.
I refrain from mentioning that it could be a few minutes, not to mention it’s hotter outside than the biblical lake of fire. While I prod Oliver off the couch and hand my husband a Diet Coke for a quick caffeine surge, I silently work on my own attitude. What does it mean to honor one’s parents anyway? Doing what they say? Always? If so, Moses never met my mother.
There’s a difference between love and aiding and abetting. So if I encourage Mother, side with her rather than Daddy, am I not also lying? Or if I swing my support to the other team, to Daddy, then aren’t I encouraging the abandonment of one’s commitments and responsibilities?
Fifteen minutes later I shut the door to my parents’ house and try to maintain a neutral posture. How can I side with either parent? Neither is a good option. Neither seems right. But it doesn’t seem right to stand up and publicly announce my father is alive and my mother is nuts.
“But where are we going?” Oliver drags his size eleven feet.
“I don’t know. Just get in the car.”
Mother sits in her Cadillac with the air conditioner blasting full on. She sits in the passenger seat and indicates that she wants Mike to drive.
“Can I?” Oliver volunteers, perking up at the possibilities.
“Not tonight.” Mike relieves us of that stress. My nerves are worn already. The last time I closed my eyes happily, blissfully, was in California.
“What is this thing we’re going to?” Oliver asks as he pours his long frame into the back seat beside me.
“An anniversary party for some old friends,” Mother says, “Patty and Joe Ward. They’ve been married fifty years. Doesn’t seem possible, but it’s true. True enough, I suppose.”
“What do you mean?” Mike makes the mistake of asking. “Are they not really married?”
“Or just pretending like—”
I elbow Oliver to put a stop to his next statement.
“Their actual wedding date is the end of July. But their feed mill is seventy-five years old this week. Joe’s father started it. So Patty and Joe thought they’d kill two birds with one stone.”
“They’re killing birds?” Oliver asks with a gleam of sarcasm.
“It’s an expression.” Mother’s words are slow, the way she speaks when annoyed by a question.
“How do you do that? Kill two birds with one stone?” My son tends to be literal, but at the moment he is about to take off with Mother’s leg that he’s pulling. “Does the stone ricochet off one? Go through one and hit the other?”
“Oliver,” Mike says.
Mother decides she’s above such nonsense and sticks to directions. “Turn right. Slow down. There’s a stop sign ahead.” She places a hand on Mike’s arm. “Always watch along this road. We often see deer and armadillos.”
“Armadillos?”
“I forget you haven’t been here much.” Her dig is pointed straight at me but is deflected by my cavalier attitude. I’m too tired from stress and lack of sleep to care about much at this point.
“Oliver,” Mother twists around to narrow her gaze on her grandson, “you’ll be a junior next year. What are your plans?”
“Sophomore.” He glances at me. “Plans?”
“For college,” I interpret.
“USC. Marine microbiology.”
Mother blinks as if assimilating that information. She lets out a tiny huff, not of approval but reluctant respect. “Not sure how you can make a living doing that. Or maybe your daddy is making so much money that you don’t need to work.”
Mike laughs. “Oh, no, he’ll work.”
“He’s very good at science,” I add, unable to keep the pride from my voice and not understanding how this very different creature came
from my own body. “Always has had an affinity for critters in the ocean.”
Mother glances from Mike toward the road, then back at Oliver. “What classes are you going to take this fall?”
He lists a stream of classes that make my brain hurt. But I know he can handle it.
“Here.” Mother shifts back to her role as navigator. She taps the steering wheel. “Turn right.”
Mike looks at her but doesn’t say anything. The car slows then jounces over the half-paved, half-gravel parking lot of the Luckenbach dance hall. It’s jam-packed with trucks, cars, and motorcycles.
“Why didn’t you just say we were coming to the dance hall, Mother?” But I know the reason. It all has to do with control.
“Remember,” Mother says as Mike swings the Cadillac into a spot big enough for a Volkswagen, “try to avoid the tragic reason you’ve had to come to Texas. This should be a joyful celebration.”
“Of cattle feed.” Mike looks back at me and grins.
“Don’t forget poultry, swine, rabbits, and llamas,” I add to the list of feeds, not to mention all the fertilizers the Wards sell.
“And marriage,” Mother adds.
“How could we forget?”
13
The earthquake and Daddy’s funeral seem to be the only two topics of conversation going around the barbecue, and I’m tired of both. I’m beginning to relate to Scarlett O’Hara—if I hear “earthquake” or “funeral” one more time, I’m going to go in the house and slam the door, fiddle-dee-dee.
I’m exhausted from giving a tight-lipped smile and saying “Thank you” when told how much someone thought of my father. It’s hard to hide my disappointment, my concern, my fear that my family is falling apart. Maybe to others my worry looks like mourning. But I’m not sure what the discomfort of having to lie for my parents looks like. Like my slacks are too tight? Perhaps like my arm is twisted behind my back, but I’m not sure who is holding me hostage. Mother? Daddy? Or my own guilt and needs?
On this occasion the lights strung along the rafters glimmer bright and festive. Usually the hall is open for visitors and tourists. Five dollars at the door will get you a glimpse of an unknown singer and the opportunity to two-step. Occasionally Willie Nelson will show up with his band. But tonight it’s a private function. Still, there’s a band with a banjo, guitar, and fiddle.
“Don’t worry.” Josie surprises me. She’s wearing skintight jeans and a racy red top that dips low enough to reveal a bit of her lacy bra.
“About what? Another earthquake, or my mother going on a killing spree?” My joke is a poor attempt to regain my sense of humor.
She laughs, tipping her head back, her teeth gleaming, her neck arched like a wolf baying at the moon. “Think the two could be connected?”
“Like how?”
“Like some deep, dark secret is coming to the surface, something so big the earth can’t contain it.”
“You should write for the movies.”
“Only if I could get my hands on Johnny Depp.”
My smile falters and my gaze veers away, searching for my husband who Josie ogled only this morning. “Good luck with that one.”
“Maybe I’ll come visit you in California.”
“Sure,” I say, but I’m not sure the invitation is as open as it was just a day or so ago. Her flirtations are natural for her but problematic for me.
She leans in close, her hand on my arm, her heady perfume wrapping around me, twitching my nose. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”
My spine stiffens like an electrical shock has been shot along its length. I try to forget the look on her face when she met my son and made the connection between him and Drew. Inwardly I cringe at my defensiveness, my own anxiety twisting in me, just as Mother’s has been working in her. I should say, “Thanks, Josie, for your discretion,” but I don’t. And I won’t. Pride comes before a fall. Was that Humpty Dumpty’s problem? Am I sitting up on a high and mighty wall, about to tumble to the hard, unforgiving ground?
I can’t stop myself from saying, “I didn’t know I had one.”
Josie’s eyes narrow. In that moment secrets we shared in high school come burbling to the surface. I told her about my first kiss. She told me about her first love. I told her about my mother and father’s difficulties. She told me her mom drank. A lot. I told her when Drew asked me out, when we kissed, when he took me to Makeout Flats in his father’s truck. She told me about her mother’s boyfriends, the ones who looked her way and came into her room after her mother passed out. Guilt is swift and sharp. Regret is slow and blunt.
“I see.” Her mouth tightens then she gives me that hold-onto-your-hat smile. “Well, maybe you don’t have any secrets then.” She hooks her thumb through a belt loop. “You sure do have a nice family, Suzy Q.”
Is there something in her eyes? Some glint of her intent? Or is it only humor at my expense?
“Thanks. I, uh …” I search for a way to move away from her or reach toward her. I’m not sure which. “I better go find Mike.”
“You do that.” She winks, her lashes weighted with thick black mascara. “I’ll let you know if I find him first.”
Before I can respond, she’s off, swinging her backside, her red boots scooting across the wooden floor.
* * *
“DID YOU HEAR the news?”
Linda Lou Hoover, at it again, eyes me carefully and sips her lemonade.
The air is thick with the smell of smoke and tangy scent of barbecue. The honored couple, the Wards, who own the feed mill that employs my dad, assured me when we arrived, “We’ll miss your father.” Patty patted my hand. “No one knows our feeds the way he did.” She tsked. “Such a shame. He was on the road so much.”
Joe nodded, his Stetson shading his eyes. “Ain’t nobody like Archie.”
Hearing those words, I felt my chest tighten. My father is well loved.
Now, the band cues up with a fiddle and a mandolin playing a lonesome-sounding song that makes me think of infomercials selling Boxcar Willie CDs. The noise rakes across my frayed nerves, as rough and irritating as Mrs. Hoover’s question.
“What news?” I ask, knowing I shouldn’t.
“Well, I don’t want to upset you now.”
Of course she does. She’d love to upset me, so then she’d have something more to put in her weekly column. I take a long, slow breath to prepare myself. Over Mrs. Hoover’s shoulder, I watch two men lifting a table and moving it over toward the wall. A folded chair that was leaning against the table tumbles over, smacking against the wooden floor.
Mrs. Hoover screeches. “What was that?” She grabs my arm. “Did you feel that? We’re—”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Hoover.” I wipe a splash of lemonade off my arm. “It was—”
“An aftershock!” Her eyes are suddenly wild as she looks toward the exit. I imagine her elbowing me out of her way to get someplace safe.
“It was a chair,” I explain. “Really. It’s okay. Nothing to worry about.”
She rests a hand against her heaving bosom. “Oh, my! It’s so unnerving. Waiting for aftershocks or another quake. I could never live in California. You’re so calm. You must be used to this.”
“Not really. But that wasn’t an aftershock. Just a chair.” I turn her toward the men who are pushing the table into place and picking the chair up off the floor. “See?”
“Well, they should be more careful! Everyone is on edge from that earthquake last night. I wouldn’t be surprised if those weak of heart don’t—”
“Mom?” Oliver steps up beside me.
Mrs. Hoover frowns at the interruption, then schools her features and leans closer as if she might grab another morsel of gossip. She gives my son a thorough examination with her beady eyes. “You must be Oliver. Well, my, my. I don’t know why I expected such a little boy. All of your grandmother’s pictures are of you as a little boy. Suzanne, you really should get your mother new pictures of your son. Why, you’re practically a ma
n now!”
With a tight smile, I make quick introductions.
“You don’t look a thing like your daddy. Guess you take after your mother. But whichever, you couldn’t do badly going either way.”
My nerves split like a dry, cracked nail.
“Did you feel the earthquake the other night?” Mrs. Hoover inquires.
“No. Dad and I hadn’t arrived yet,” Oliver explains.
“Oh, well, you’re lucky. It was horrific. The most frightening thing I’ve ever felt in my life.”
“What did you need, Oliver?” I touch my son’s arm.
“You know,” Mrs. Hoover continues as if I haven’t spoken, “I’ve known your mother a long time. Your grandmother too.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Oliver often wanders through social gatherings we have at home for Mike’s law firm. He’s learned over the years to be polite and patient.
Unfortunately my manners are faltering. “What did you—”
“Why,” Mrs. Hoover touches a hand to her wide middle, “I remember long before she met your daddy, she dated the bad boy in town. ’Course that—”
“Mrs. Hoover—”
“Oh, now, come, come, Suzanne. Surely you don’t mind your son knowing you had eyes for another, someone other than his father. Of course that was long before you met that handsome attorney you married.”
I put my hand on Oliver’s shoulder. It still amazes me that I have to reach up to do so. “I don’t think it’s—”
“Well, that bad boy is now the sheriff.” She pauses for effect as if eager to push whatever button she can. “Can you imagine that?” She laughs, arching her head back and mouth open so wide I can see her silvery fillings. “Life is sure full of twists and turns. ’Course back then, your momma was just in high school. We all thought she’d marry Drew. Now, don’t fret, Suzanne. We all thought that. Thought you’d change your mind about going so far away to school. We sure did. The bad boy and the goody-two-shoes.”
“Goody-two-shoes?” Oliver eyes me speculatively. It’s not often he thinks he has me cornered.
It’s easier for him to think that about me than to know the truth that hardens my stomach like a fossilized lump. “Yes, well—”